Title: So Wild a Dream
Author: Kat, a.k.a. KallieRose
E-mail: [email protected]
Rating: FRAO (fan rated suitable for adults only)  
Pairing: Many pairings, including Willow/Angel, Willow/Spike, Gunn/Illyria, Dawn/Xander 
Disclaimer: I acknowledge Joss Whedon as god of gods. All the characters in this story are his creation, along with Fox, the rest of the Mutant Enemy Crew, and whomever else wants to lay claim to them. I'm merely killing time by putting them in totally unrealistic situations :-)
Summary: Willow finds herself in Los Angeles a little while after the end of NFA.  Why is she there, and who sent her? 
Spoilers: Spoilers through both series finales.  

So Wild a Dream

Prologue

Spring, 2004

A soft rain fell as the battle raged on around them.  The drops soaked into clothing and skin, making maneuvering a precarious business, at best.  Angel winced as he saw Gunn start to fall, catch a hold of a passing Grenlock demon, and right himself again.  A swift blow to the fragile neck of the demon sent that being to its final rest, but another quickly took its place.

He felt twin emotions, annoyance and pride, as he watched his childe fight his way through the demon horde, his attention drawn and held by the dragon.  Angel had wanted to kill it himself, so of course Spike couldn't resist the challenge to do it first.  Faster.  Better.  For Spike, everything between them seemed to be a contest.

Angel fought without emotion, as if there were two separate beings at work within him.  His motions were almost automatic; parry, thrust, counter, stab, his hand and sword were both slick with the blood of a hundred different demons, and still they continued to come at him.

His mind, however, was considering, analyzing, worrying, and even saying good-bye, becoming resigned to his not-so-eventual death.  He had no doubt that they were already dead.  Their bodies hadn't given up the fight yet, but in his mind it was starting to become clear.

A flash of blue caught his eye; he found Illyria fighting against a half-dozen demons of indistinguishable lineage.  The former god seemed to be faring slightly better than the rest of them; her costume acted as a carapace of sorts, deflecting many of the blows that otherwise would have drawn blood.  She wielded her sword with a cold precision, matched by the look of utter indifference in her eyes.  Perhaps she welcomed death as a final release from this world, a world that had been such a disappointment.  Angel wasn't sure if she was truly capable of dying, but he suspected that tonight he would find an answer to that question.  If he lived long enough.

Oops, careful Spike, that one almost got you, he thought.  Cut a bit of a gash into you, didn't it? 

Angel knew that it was only a matter of time.  The enemy seemed to have unlimited resources; all they needed to do was wear out the vampires, give them a swift decapitation, and then tackle Illyria.  Gunn was merely a footnote.  He wouldn't last much longer, either way.  Blood streamed steadily from several wounds, and he looked as if a strong wind would blow him over right now, making him easy prey.

A break in the fighting gave him a clear view of Spike, swaggering up to the dragon as if he actually had a chance in hell of killing it.  Angel cringed, then felt his blood freeze in his veins as another Grenlock demon snuck up behind Spike, stake in hand.  "Spike," he yelled, decades of anguish and suppressed emotion poured into the word.  

The blond either didn't hear him, or was ignoring him, and Angel watched in horror as the Grenlock brought his arm up, briefly measuring the distance between the stake and its target, then brought it down onto Spike's back, behind the heart, and then –

Nothing at all—the demons just disappeared, as if they had never been there.

They stood in the empty alleyway, water dripping from the sky, blood dripping from multiple wounds in each of their bodies. 

Gunn fell to the ground without a sound, and Illyria hurried to his side, checking his pulse, heartbeat and breathing in a clinical manner.  "He is very weak," she told them, her voice expressionless, her features following suit.

Spike and Angel were further away, but made their way to the fallen man with as much speed as they could manage.  Spike limped somewhat, while Angel tried not to think about the dislocated shoulder he was pretty sure he had, along with the dozens of other more inconsequential cuts and bruises that were easier to ignore.

Just as they reached their fallen friend, a bright light descended from the grey sky, and the four of them clustered together.  Strength in numbers.  Or something like that.

The light was pure and white.  But it didn't burn; instead it captured the eye, leading it inevitably to the being encased within.  "Doyle," Angel breathed, his mouth open in shock, as he gazed upon his long-dead friend.

"Alonna?"  Angel heard the tortured word come from Gunn, as if he had forced all of his saved energy into the effort to speak.

"Mum?" Spike whimpered.

Angel shook himself from his own astonishment, shooting each of them a quick glance, taking in their stunned recognition of the figure before them.  From the sounds of their awed words, they each saw someone different.  Someone they trusted; someone who was dear to them.

Doyle's mouth opened, and the words poured through it, in his friend's lilting accent.  "As I'm sure you've discovered, I appear differently to each of you.  It is a foolish vanity, I admit, but I prefer to wear a form that is familiar to you.  It makes such things easier."

The words were not condescending, although if his tone had been different, they could have been interpreted as such.  Instead, they were oddly familiar, and infinitely comforting.  And completely unlike anything that Doyle would ever have said.  That fact, more than anything, convinced Angel that the being in front of him was not actually his friend. 

In the bright light, the pains and injuries he had sustained in the fight seemed to melt away, leaving him feeling strong in body, if not in spirit.

"I know, I know," the being continued, "You are injured, and beyond weary.  And you have questions.  That is natural."  The being that was Doyle/not Doyle dipped his head in acknowledgement, an impish smile playing on his lips.

"Who—what are you?"  When they came, the words came from Spike, but they could have been said by any of them.  

The vision smiled at Spike, a look that held many secrets, and few answers.   "Someone who just saved your life," the being answered smartly, and then winked at him.  Angel watched with amusement, as Spike had no immediate reply.

"Why?" Illyria shot the question out, still leaning over Gunn, who was looking much better.  Angel could only guess that that was the work of the being before them.

The creature gave Illyria a considering look, before answering her in the same brusque tones.  "Because I need every warrior for the light that I can find.  When I can…affect an outcome, I will."

"Why now?  Why *this* outcome?  Why could you not have started earlier?"  'Why couldn't you have saved my Wesley?'  The last question was not said aloud, but it hung in the air accusingly, nonetheless.

"Because I am not all-powerful.  I grow weary—" the image wavered for a moment, as if ripples of water ran down his body, "I can only do so much.  But it was necessary.  You," he said, sweeping their faces with his eyes, "are necessary."

"Necessary for what?" Angel challenged, bringing the other's attention back to him. 

"For the ongoing battle, of course.  I am the First Good.  I am locked in an eternal struggle with the First Evil, he who commands Wolfram and Hart, among thousands of other beings of unspeakable horror."  A shudder touched the image, and Angel *felt* it roll through him as well.

"Neat parlor trick," he told Doyle's image, smiling when the being frowned slightly.  "But what do you want from us?  I'm assuming there's a quid-pro-quo deal going on here."

Doyle studied him as if he were a bug squashed under a microscope, and Angel suddenly felt very small and impudent.  "Stop it!" he growled, guessing that it was yet another manifestation of power over them.  "You're pretty damn powerful.  I get it."

A sneaky smile that was purely Doyle touched his lips, making Angel wonder how their benefactor had managed to get it so very right. "I’ll not tell you now," he stated, smiling at Spike as he rolled his eyes, "but when the time is right, you will know."

"Vague enough for ya, Peaches?" Spike grunted, and something in the body language told Angel that his childe was ready to strike.  A subtle nod, and both vampires rushed the figure, colliding heavily with…each other.

Deep laughter filled the alley, and their eyes rushed to its source, standing a couple of feet away.  "Silly children," he mocked them, shaking his head ruefully.  "I saw the idea in your heads before you even knew it was there yourselves."

The two vampires glowered at him, and then at each other, for good measure, before looking to the ground. 

"There will be one who comes to you, to help.  It may not seem like much—she may not seem like much—but you need her.  And when the three of you are ready, it will happen."

"What will happen?" Angel asked, but even as he asked the question, he realized he would receive no answer.

"One last thing, my old friend," Doyle said, coming to stand in front of Angel. "There is something you've been longing for, and I have it.  I hope it gives you all that you think it will." 

A gentle heat radiated through Angel's body, from his heart, through his torso, finally ending with a tingling sensation felt in his fingers and toes.  "You know what it is; use it wisely," the being whispered in his ear, before turning and walking away.

"I must go.  Be ready…" the words faded away, as did the bright figure.  Soon all that was left were four wet, weary warriors for the side of good, alone in a dark, empty alley.

Spike touched Angel's arm, smirking at the start his sire gave.  "What was that all about?"

Angel stood silently for a moment, his eyes far away and dreamy.  "My heart's desire," he whispered, the look on his face one of complete happiness and contentment.  And for the first time in years he *could* be perfectly happy without worrying about the consequences.  Because the gift that Doyle had given him was a his soul. 

Giving him an odd look and a shrug, Spike walked away, heading over to see how the other two were faring.

Illyria helped Gunn to his feet, the handsome man giving her a nod of thanks, before concentrating on the two vampires.  "Don't know about you all, but I could sleep for a week."

"This body too, it wearies."

"Well, Blue, let's find ourselves a little hidey-hole.  I could bleed a couple of cows dry, and then sleep.  Or whatever," Spike added, trying to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at Illyria, who ignored his come-on completely.

"You coming, Angel?"

Angel stood staring at the spot where he had last seen Doyle's apparition, lost in thought.  "Yeah, I'm up for that.   Got a place in mind?"

"The Hyperion?" Gunn suggested, moving slowly, as if not trusting his recently healed body.  "Nobody's been there in ages; and there are plenty of rooms."

"Never been there." Spike admitted, "Anywhere but Wolfram and Hart sounds good to me.  Lead the way," he commanded, with a silly wave of his hand.

"Think that we're safe for now?  Or does Wolfram and Hart have more up its metaphorical sleeve for us?" Gunn asked curiously.

"Hard to say, Charlie.  Hard to say.  Best to keep on our toes, I suppose.  In this town, you never know what will happen next."

End of Prologue

Chapter 1

London, Fall, 2005

A small redhead lay quietly in the rather ordinary-looking nursing home bedroom.  White walls, decorated with prints of happy puppies and cheerful clowns, spaced with almost military precision, matched the white starched sheets and blanket that covered the single bed.   Machines of all sizes and shapes stood guard over the woman underneath the covers.  Her breathing was regular and steady, but other than that, the room she inhabited was silent, save for the small pings and dings made by her electronic companions.

A nurse bustled in, pushed her long brown hair out of her eyes, and ran a practiced eye over the numbers and letters on the faces of the machines.  'Such a pretty young woman,' she thought.  'It's always sad to see someone in a coma, but when it's someone so young…'

Her thoughts drifted away as her attention faltered.  There was always so much to do here.  Rooms to tidy, people to help, decisions to be made…it was her job, and she loved it, but sometimes Allison wished she did something less challenging, more mundane.

A job where she didn't have to look at a girl young enough to be her daughter, and know that her life was almost certainly over.





London, Fall, 2006

A week quickly became a month, and a month became a year, and still Willow Rosenberg lay silent.  Friends continued to visit, to tell her their news and share their lives with her, but even the closest ones had become discouraged by her lack of progress.  People who had initially visited daily, now only came once a week, or less.  And yet they still held hope in their eyes as they gazed at her.

Allison still kept an eye on the girl, Willow, visiting her when she needed a break from the constant craziness in the rest of the nursing home.  The nurse found the quiet room a blessed oasis, and often passed the time by making up fanciful stories about the girl, her life, and how she had gotten to this place.

When questioned, her friends, and there had been many, would only say that she had been like this when they found her, lying on the floor of her second story flat in Chelsea.

The older gentleman had confided awkwardly that Willow had been working quite a bit more than she should lately, but other than that, she had seemed in perfect health; she was almost the stereotypical young American expatriate, living in London, perhaps on a lark, perhaps for work.  It had never been explained, and no family members had come to the hospital to collect her, but friends had eventually arranged to have her transferred here.

The door opened unexpectedly, and Allison quickly composed herself, turning from the wool-gathering stranger into the competent nurse they expected.  She gave a smile to the young couple that came into the room, watching sadly as they turned hopeful eyes towards the bed.

The young man looked to be about the age of the girl in the bed, while his companion was maybe a couple of years younger.  The way that they looked at each other and held hands convinced the nurse that they were in love.  It was so obvious, and looked so new, that she suspected they had come to share the news with their friend.

She nodded to them as she left the room, leaving Willow with the young couple.

"Hi, Willow," Xander called out, striving for cheerfulness, as he sat down on the chair next to Willow and grabbed her hand.  He held it for a moment, squeezing tightly, as if to send his energy coursing into the redhead, and then relaxed his grip, holding her hand loosely.

Dawn stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder, watching sadly as the light in Xander's eyes slowly dimmed at Willow's lack of response.  It was always like this, she thought.  Every time he came into this room, he hoped that she would be better, or at least different.  And every time Willow disappointed him, something inside Xander faded a little bit.

"Hey, Willow," Dawn said with a gentle smile, going through the motions because it made Xander feel better.  Sure, she had heard the same things Xander had; had read the same pamphlets.  Sometimes people in comas *did* hear the things that people said to them while they were unconscious.  But after six months or so, Dawn had finally accepted the fact that Willow wasn't going to get up and greet them when they arrived, or suddenly open her eyes because Xander had told her some really funny joke.

Xander just wasn't quite there yet.

"So Will, um, Dawn and I have something to tell you," he said, looking into the other woman's eyes quickly, and seeing the love and excitement reflected there.  "It's kind of a big something, and it's a good something.  At least *I* think it is.  And I hope you'll think it is too."

Dawn grabbed his free hand, squeezing lightly as her eyes fell on the matching rings that they both wore, a remembrance of the day they spent shopping together at the Portobello Market. 

"Willow," Dawn said, her voice soft and hesitant, "Xander and I, we're, well, we're a couple."  She paused for a moment, stopping to share a smile with Xander.  "I hope you're okay with this.  I figured you would be.  And we wanted you to know.  To see that there are things out here that are worth waking up for."  She closed her eyes for a moment, willing the tears that were forming to stay hidden for just a little longer. 

Crying was inevitable, but Dawn had hoped that she could get through at least the first ten minutes without tearing up like a child. 

"Yeah," Xander agreed, a note of pleading entering his voice, as his eyes started to shine with tears of his own.  "I think you should wake up now, so you can help us plan the wedding.  And, well, so that Dawn can tell you all those girlie things that she's just bursting to tell someone.  'Cuz it's just not the same when she tells me, you know?"

"And Buffy, well, if she were still here, she would have been all weirded out about the whole me and Xander thing," Dawn confided sadly. "I mean, yeah, there's a little bit of an age difference, but it's not *that* big of a difference!  I mean, look at everything she and Angel went through.  That was a WAY bigger age difference, right Xan?"

"Well yeah, plus there was that whole thing where he was a vampire, and had to drink blood every day."  Xander peered at Dawn in mock horror.  "You're not hiding something from me, are you?  Like, you're not secretly a vampire, right?  Because if you are, I’d have to reconsider the whole wedding thing."

"Hey, remember when you guys used to give him a really bad time because all his girlfriends were either demons or ex-demons?  Or, well, Cordelia?  Well, now he's got a real live human girlfriend.  Okay, technically speaking, I used to be a mystical ball of energy," she conceded, frowning slightly, "but I think I'm human now, don’t you?"

Xander smiled, and the pure happiness on his face was wonderful to see, Dawn thought.   A year and a half ago he had been depressed, lonely, mourning the loss of his eye and the death of Anya, the only woman he thought he would ever love.  But somehow he had managed to overcome all of that, and she hoped that she had played some small part in bringing about the change.

She giggled as he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly, slowly, as if the two of them were the only people in the world.  The feel of his lips turned her knees to jelly, as often happened these days, and without another word, she let go of his hand and plopped herself down on his lap. 

"Oof!" Xander protested, before settling back in the chair and putting his arm around her shoulder to keep her balanced.  "Yes, I think you're definitely human now," he agreed.  "No mystical ball of energy could be *this* heavy," he teased, grinning as he watched her face darken a bit in the pretense of anger. 

He turned to look at Willow, searching for any sign of life on her peaceful face.  It had been so long since he had heard her laugh, or seen that uncertain smile; what he wouldn't give to have either of those right now.  Even if she hated the idea of him and Dawn together, which he knew she wouldn't, he still wanted her there, in his face, telling him exactly what she thought.

But instead, she stayed still, eyes closed, looking exactly like someone who was just taking a nap.  A nap that had lasted for over a year now, he thought sadly.

Dawn gripped his hand tightly as they left the nursing home, weaving their way through traffic as they headed for their car in the visitors' parking lot.  There was so much that she wanted to say to him, but it seemed like the most important thing in the world was to simply hold onto him, as if the simple touch could fight off all of the despair he was feeling.

"You've been a good friend to her, you know that," she finally said, hoping that it would be enough.  "You visit every week, sometimes even more.  But maybe her waking up—maybe it's just not meant to be."

He made a strangled choking sound, and she saw the tears that he had tried to hide earlier sliding slowly down his face.  They reached their car quickly, ducking inside and facing each other on the long bench seat.  "We--we were everything to each other.  I know, I know, we're older now, and it's not quite the same as when we were young.  But I guess…I guess I still feel like if I try hard enough, then she'll wake up.  That she's just waiting for me to say the magic word, and suddenly she'll wake up, laughing, and everything will be back the way it should be."

"Xander," Dawn's hands went to his face, running lightly over his cheeks in an attempt to comfort him.  His skin was wet with tears, and her hands slid easily down his face.  She pulled his face to hers, touching their lips together in a soft caress that she hoped would calm him.  "You've done everything you could, honey.  If it's meant to happen, it will.  But it's up to Willow now, not you.  Not you," she repeated quietly.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting her hands run up and down his arms, soothing him, reminding him that there was more in the world than what had happened in the nursing home today.  He had a good job with the Watchers' Council, a wonderful fiancée, and more friends than he could ever have imagined he would have. 

And yet, in spite of all of that, he doubted that his life would ever feel complete again; not unless he could find a way to bring Willow back into it.





London, Spring, 2007

It was midnight, and Rupert Giles pushed away from his desk wearily, watching as the walls of his well-appointed office seemed to close in on him.  It was at times like this, he acknowledged sadly, that he missed Willow the most.

And not just for her skills as a first-rate researcher.  There were other things, little things, like the way that she would lighten the mood with a silly joke, or raise his spirits by simply resting her hand gently on his arm. 

A night like this brought those memories back in full force, and he wondered if he would ever get over her loss.

They had labored side by side since her return from Brazil, working with the new Slayers and the handful of remaining Watchers, in an effort to rebuild what they could of the Watcher's Council.  It was hard, arduous work, but it left him fulfilled and eager to face the day.  And judging by the confidences that Willow had shared with him, she had felt the same way.

The scene of her discovery still haunted him; it was mind-numbingly painful even after all this time.  Willow, lying on her side on the floor of her flat, dressed only in the oversized T-shirt she used as a nightgown. 

He had rushed to her side, searching frantically for a pulse, relieved to find that she still had one.  Once the paramedics had been called, he had torn her room apart, desperate for clues.

But in all of his looking, and the months of research that followed, he had never come up with a reason for her condition.  Not even a hint.

At first, Giles had suspected her injury was mystical in nature.  Xander, Buffy, even Oz had been tracked down to help in the effort to discover a cause.  But nothing had ever been found. 

As almost a last resort, they had called in medical specialists; men known for their wisdom and understanding of the human body.  And again, they had come up empty.

All roads led back to Willow.  She, alone, could rouse herself from the slumber into which she had fallen.  The unfortunate fact was, the longer it took, the less chance there was that it would ever happen.

And yet he still held out hope, as futile as it might seem.  At least once a week he visited her.  Sometimes he would talk quietly, trying to coax her from her slumber.  Other times he would yell and rage, stomping about the room in such a manner that it brought the nurses running, in hopes of pulling her to consciousness by sheer force of will.

But none of it ever worked.

He would visit her tomorrow, he decided.  Tell her how much she had been on his mind lately; and how much he missed her.  Not that he had any hope that it would bring her back.  Not anymore.  But even in slumber, he found Willow to be a comforting companion.

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2

London, Spring, 2007

True to his word, the very next day Rupert Giles entered the nursing home, a handful of daisies held uncomfortably in his hand. 

The flowers were an afterthought.  He saw a vendor selling them in the lobby, and Giles remembered a day spent with Willow, back when they were both in England, during her, 'I almost ended the world, please let me die,' phase.  It had been a harrowing time for both of them, but it had also brought them closer together in ways he could never explain. 

It wasn't merely the fact that they had spent so much time together, but an understanding that there were some things, some emotions, that spanned the gap of years that separated them; emotions like love, loss, self-loathing, and regret.  Giles had been astounded by the depths of her feelings, in spite of her very young age.

On that day, so long ago, Willow had confessed, in her shy, hesitant way, that she had always loved the simplicity of a daisy.  They weren't flashy, or romantic, or sexy, but they had a simple elegance that reminded her of sunshine and fields, and a time when things were much less complicated.

Giles thought secretly that they had also reminded her of Tara, who had displayed that same simple elegance and uncomplicated nature.

"How beautiful," the nurse cooed, eyeing the flowers as he entered the room. 

He wondered what the staff here thought of them.  They were a rather unusual group of people who, even after more than a year, still visited their young charge with surprising regularity.  Did they hold the same opinion of Willow's condition as the doctors did: that she would probably never wake?  Or was their opinion a bit more optimistic, as was his own?

"I—well, she always liked daisies, and I decided…" he let the thought drift off, suddenly wondering if the gesture had been a silly waste of money.

"I'm sure she'll love them," she agreed.  "I'll just find a vase for them; I'll be right back."

"Thank you," he said, lapsing back into his memories. 

The nurse left, and he turned to Willow once again, his eyes dreamy.  He saw her not as she was now, a pale figure framed by crisp white sheets, but as the powerful/suffering/evil/good walking contradiction that she had been before, when he had taken her to England to heal.

It had not been easy, bringing her back from the edge of darkness.  She had had to re-learn so much; he blamed himself, in part, for not being there in Sunnydale when she needed him.  His reckless pursuit of a 'real life,' had left her alone, without a spiritual or magical guide.  How he could have failed to notice that fact was something that still puzzled him.

Sometimes people saw only what they wanted to see.  He was just as capable of falling into that trap as anyone else, apparently.  And it had been Willow who had paid the price.

"Willow, you must wake up now," he murmured absently, running his fingers lightly over the back of her hand.  "We need you.  I need you."

He sighed dispiritedly when he received no reply, no sign of recognition from the redhead. 

The nurse came bustling back into the room, tearing him away from his thoughts.  She carried his daisies, comfortably ensconced in a simple, clear glass vase.  "These will definitely cheer up the room," she commented somewhat awkwardly.

Giles looked up at her from his chair, his weariness showing in his face.  "You don't think she's ever going to wake up, do you?" he asked quietly.  It was more of a statement than a question, and Allison could tell.  He wanted reassurance, something that she was not able to give him. 

"I honestly don't know," she admitted, pulling up another chair to sit beside him.  He was a nice-looking man; scholarly, even fatherly, and she felt a surge of compassion overtake her common sense.  Surely it couldn't hurt to talk to him for a moment, help him accept what he so obviously didn't want to believe.

"Was she a fighter before?  Someone who stubbornly refused to give up, even when the odds were against her?  Sometimes that can make a difference."

The man chuckled, a warm, kind sound, and nodded his head vehemently.  "Oh, yes, our Willow is definitely a fighter.  Even when everyone tells her something is a lost cause, she will fight to the end.  Especially for a friend."  He remembered her steadfast insistence that she return Angel's soul, back when he was Angelus.  Even when the first attempt put her in the hospital—in a coma, in fact—she insisted on trying again.  And with her dogged determination, she had succeeded. 

Had she been doing something like that, something dangerous, for a friend, when tragedy had struck?

"How--how long have you known her?"

"Oh, we go back years.  I was the librarian at her high school, actually," he remembered.  "Even then she was precocious.  A natural student, but she would never get so deep within her studies that she wouldn't stop to help someone else.  And so smart.  Razor sharp.  Book smart, yes.  But Willow also had—has, I mean, a sort of intelligence that doesn't just come from reading or studying.  She observes and learns.  You can't present her with a problem she can’t solve."

"She sounds like she was a joy to teach."

"Oh, she was.  I think," he stopped for a moment, considering the truth of his next assertion, "yes, I do think that if things had gone differently, she would have become a teacher herself."

He sighed, something akin to frustration showing in his voice.  "It's not that she was some perfect woman.  Willow did have her faults.  She was so shy sometimes that it was almost painful to watch.  And insecure as well.  She felt things deeply, which I suppose can be good and bad, but sometimes she made choices, when in the throes of deep emotional upheaval, that had far-ranging consequences."

The look in his eyes told Allison that his thoughts were far away now; back in the past, when the young woman next to them was alive and vividly active.  She could almost imagine it…the red hair would have shone with the light of the sun, her lips always smiling, or maybe an embarrassed blush covering her cheeks.

She shook her head at such fanciful notions. They were doing nothing to help her charge, or the man who had come to visit her.  "I'll leave you two alone to catch up," she said finally, getting up and leaving the room in silence.

Giles watched her go, relaxing slightly once he and Willow were again alone.  In some ways this was harder than losing Buffy had been, a little over six months ago.  At least with his Slayer, it had been final.  A sharp knife slash across the throat had severed her hold on life, which, for a long time, had been tenuous at best. Killed by a human while trying to break up a bar fight, her death had been meaningless and ordinary.  Certainly not the expected ending for the council's longest-living slayer.

And there was plenty of blame and self-condemnation to go around.  He should have been there, should have gotten her to a doctor, should have stopped the world so that she would not die.  There would always be those types of thoughts.

But with Willow it was different.  She still lived, even though it was a mockery of life.  She breathed, her heart beat, but even with all of that, it was as if she was dead inside.  The very things that made her 'Willow' were gone, leaving him with a doll that looked just like his friend, but would never be her.  The hope that the situation engendered was cruel beyond belief.

"Willow, dear, please open your eyes.  It's spring here, you know.  Wet and windy and nasty as only London can be.  I remember you saying once that it was the anti-Sunnydale, and that that was why you loved it so much."  He reached out to touch her face, running the back of his hand gently down the soft skin of her cheek. 

"Well, it's all right outside there, waiting for you, just the way that you left it.  All you need to do is wake up.  Please."

Giles hadn't really expected any response, but his eyes searched her face for signs of…well, anything.

And he was disappointed once again.

He stayed a while longer, telling her the news of the week, about co-workers and friends, demons and their defeat at the hands of the Council. 

Finally, when he was all talked out, he rose, bending to give his friend one last kiss on the cheek.  "Be well, Willow," he choked out, before turning and leaving.

Fall, 2007

Allison sat comfortably on the windowsill, letting the stillness of the room wash over her, cleansing her of the struggle of day-to-day life.  Through the large window, she watched the clouds chase each other across the dark night sky, obscuring, and then revealing, the twinkling stars.

She enjoyed watching it—from inside.  Outside it was cold, windy, and more than a little damp, and those were things she didn't enjoy at all.

Savoring the silence, she let her mind wander, her thoughts flickering from one topic to another like a butterfly.  Did the garden get too much rain this year?  Would she need to replace the rickety old shed, or would it survive the elements for yet another year?  Where would she and David go on holiday this year?  Italy was nice, but expensive.  Perhaps France? 

Something, and she would never know what, drew her eyes to the bed, surprise showing in their light blue depths.  What was that?  Had it been her imagination, or had—

Willow's finger had moved.  Just an inch or so at most, but Allison was positive she had seen it.  This was not fancy or the result of an active imagination.  There had been movement. 

She stood anxiously, running to check the readings on the various machines.  A shimmering smile settled on her lips, trembling a bit because of the tears she fought to suppress. 

She would have to look for a new place to go when she wanted to find her cherished peace and quiet.  Because, somehow, despite the opinion of all the 'experts,' Willow Rosenberg was waking up.

"You were just sitting there watching her?  You didn't do anything else, touch anything else?" the doctor asked Allison for what seemed, to her, like the tenth or eleventh time.  Fighting the urge to scream, she answered calmly.

"Yes, I was just sitting here, taking my break.  I wasn't even really watching her.  It was just—something, I don't know what, but something made me look in her direction.  And her finger, it was moving.  I went to the machines and checked the readings, and then I called you." 

Doctors were always puzzled, almost never relieved.  Allison tended to focus on the miracle of the awakening, while they always wanted to know the 'why.'  She supposed that that was why they were doctors, and she had never wanted to be anything other than a nurse.

She looked back at the redhead, still unconscious, but improving.  There was almost an overload of brain activity, according to the machines.  The organ seemed to be on overdrive, as if hoping to make up for the lost time in one blinding burst.  But nobody knew exactly what it meant. 

"We should call her people.  Get them in here, have them talk to her.  Could you take care of that?"  Dr. Swan didn't even look back to verify that his instructions were being followed.  He was completely immersed in his task, murmuring vague words about 'stimuli' and 'activity' as he touched the woman in the bed, his hands moving from one hand to the other, his clinical eyes watching for any sign of change or reaction.

A brief flurry of finger movement, their actions awkward and uncoordinated, encouraged him greatly.  "Ms. Rosenberg?  Can you hear me?  I’m Dr. Swan.  It's time to wake up now.  You're very close.  We just need you to keep doing what you're doing.  Move whatever you can, open your eyes, speak, whatever you can do."  There was a tone of hopeful encouragement in his voice, as if he knew that it was only a matter of time before she would do as he asked.

The body and mind work in mysterious ways, he reminded himself.  There was still so much they just didn't understand…


End of Chapter 2

Chapter 3


Los Angeles, Fall 2005

Angel, Spike and Gunn entered the lobby of the Hyperion, weariness and a feeling of ‘home’ slowing their steps.  The discussion they had been having for several minutes continued unabated as they cleaned their weapons and put them away.

“The killer is human.  It’s not our gig.”  To Angel, the matter was as simple as that.  Spike nodded his agreement, which surprised Angel.  They didn’t agree often, and usually when they did, Spike refused to admit it.  But his concurrence this time just cemented Angel’s feelings on the matter.

“Yeah, I know,” Gunn said, his voice laced with barely-concealed impatience.  They were discussing the serial killer who was haunting Los Angeles.  His victims were all young women in their twenties and early thirties, and their bodies bore exactly twelve stab wounds as the apparent cause of death.  There was no sexual assault involved, just the dozen wounds to the chest.  The police didn’t seem to have the first clue as to the identity of the killer, if the newspapers were to be believed.  Five women had died so far, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

Gunn had been pushing the idea of their getting involved in the investigation for a couple of days, and still wasn’t any closer to making them see things his way.  It frustrated him, but he kept pushing.  They respected that, he knew.  Tenacity was something they appreciated.  Although slightly less when it was aimed at them.  “All I’m saying is, why not look into it a little?  We’re slow right now.  We’ve killed just about every vampire and evil demon this town has to offer at the moment.  ‘Cept Paris Hilton, of course.  Too much security there.  What I’m sayin’ is, we either need to branch out, or go on vacation and kill something new somewhere else.  Me, I’m thinking branching out is the answer.”

A look of resignation flashed between the two vampires.  Their friend wasn’t much good at just sitting back and taking the good times where he could find them.  If he wasn’t fighting something or solving a problem, he seemed rather at a loss.  They could respect that; each of them had had times in their lives when they felt the same. 

But things were quiet right now.  Demon activity was at an all-time low.  Wolfram and Hart, and those who pulled their puppet strings, had conceded the city of Los Angeles to Angel and his friends.  For now.  Things were sure to change sooner or later.  They always did.  So why not enjoy the good times while they lasted, instead of looking for more trouble?

The sound of footsteps on the stairway brought the three of them to attention.  All eyes flew upwards, settling on Illyria, watching curiously as she descended the grand stairway.

They were still surprised that she had stayed with them after the final battle.  Spike thought it was because they were her only link to Wesley, although the others each had their own opinion. 

Angel attributed her presence to nothing as prosaic as a lost love; he thought she stayed because this little band of fighters knew who she was and what she was accustomed to.  She might not still garner the worship of her people, but at least when she was surrounded by them—people who knew what she had been—she still received the treatment she felt she was worthy of.  They might not worship her, but they treated her with a cautious care that she felt she deserved.

Angel had observed how she reacted when other people out there, not knowing of her status as an ex-god, treated her as they would any young, slim brunette.  As nothing special.  He had recognized her mounting frustration, knew she wanted to lash out at them, demand their obedience, their recognition, their submission.

The three of them had watched her; waiting for her to break, to fall to pieces before them as her lack of importance in the overall scheme of things made her feel more and more angry and inadequate.

And then a funny thing happened.  Illyria began to accept it.  It was like she tucked that part of her that craved obedience and submission down inside her somewhere, where nobody would know it existed.  Oh, she still had her moments, moments where she railed against this world, and the weakness of her shell, and all the things she had lost. 

But with them, she could bring her own personal demon—her godhood—out to play.  The rudeness, the arrogance, the real Illyria could still exist.

At least that was Angel’s theory.

“Didya miss us, Bluebell?”  Spike loved to push Illyria’s buttons.  He would tease her, insult her with his insolence, and eventually she would reach the limits of her patience and smack him down, hard.  Sometimes she would use words to express her displeasure, and sometimes she would use her fists.  It didn’t seem to matter much to Spike either way.

He would sulk for a day or two, and then the whole process would start all over again.  Angel supposed it was a sort of game the two of them played.  Illyria always won, but that didn’t stop Spike from wanting to participate.  He was incorrigible, not to mention persistent.  Brain damaged was another possibility Angel was unwilling to rule out.

Angel was just happy that Spike’s annoying tendencies were aimed somewhere other than directly at him.

“Bluebell?” Illyria stared at Spike, wondering at the name he’d called her.  Her head tilted slightly as her cold, inhuman eyes focused on Gunn.  “Is this an insult?”

Gunn shrugged.  “Depends on the intent, I suppose.”  He liked to watch Illyria and Spike play, but not as anything other than an observer.  Illyria’s wrath could be…painful.  And since Spike was usually the one who provoked her, and on purpose, from what he could tell, well, it was every man for himself.

They watched as Illyria’s lips curved into a cruel smile that would have made Angelus proud.  “This one,” she said, nodding at Spike, “is insolent.  His intent is always to insult.  Have you not found it to be the same?” she asked turning to direct the question at Angel.

“Why’d you have to bring *him* into it?” Spike complained, his eyes settling on his grandsire.   “Not a word out of you, poof,” he warned, arm outstretched, his finger pointing directly at Angel.

“Or what?” Angel shot back, his eyes narrowing as they coolly appraised his opponent.  “I’ve taken you before, I can take you now.”  All movement in the room stilled as the challenge was issued. 

The other two watched curiously as the vampires faced off.  Suddenly the lobby became an arena, and they the audience to an argument that had begun over a century ago, and would probably continue until the day one of the vampires turned to dust.

These small skirmishes were generally quick and brutal, and usually ended with lots of broken furniture—and two very bruised and battered vampires.

“You break anything, it comes outta your salary,” Gunn warned them.  “No way I’m giving you any of my money to buy new furniture.  Again,” he added pointedly.

Strictly speaking, they were all quite rich.  As a parting shot at Wolfram and Hart, Gunn had managed to drain several of the company’s bank accounts, transferring the money into an untraceable account in Switzerland.  Monthly stipends were deposited into each of their personal accounts, while the rest of the money just sat there, building up interest.  Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they should all be financially comfortable for the rest of their lives.

Of course, unforeseen circumstances seemed to happen daily, so the smarter ones in their little band continued to live sensibly, setting aside a fair amount of their monthly salary for a 'rainy day.’

“Come, Gunn.  I wish to talk.  We will go upstairs.”

Illyria mounted the stairs, knowing somehow that Gunn would follow her.  They often disappeared together for hours, and although Angel and Spike were both curious about what was going on between them, neither had the nerve to ask Gunn about it.  They hadn’t had the opportunity to hear anything that happened between them, and neither smelled of sex.  Was it possible that they were really just talking?

The two vampires faced each other, each circling the other as they waited for a mistake or a weakness to manifest.  Suddenly a bright light burst forth, quickly filling the space between them, stunning and blinding them.  It was a white, pure light, reminding them both of something that had happened a year ago, in a wet, dark alley.

Even though neither could see well, their vision still impaired by the strength of the light, they closed ranks, standing together against whatever was to come. 

As suddenly as it began, the light faded, leaving in its wake the form of a young woman with a thick mane of long red hair that covered her naked body like a shroud. 

She seemed to be unconscious; her small body huddled in upon itself as if warding off an attack.  But there was not a mark on her, and her heartbeat thrummed strong in their ears.

They approached cautiously, as if concerned that she might somehow be a danger, or part of a ruse to harm them.   But nothing untoward happened, and after a half-dozen steps they were staring down at the woman who was lying still on the floor.

A glance was exchanged; “You do it,” Spike insisted.  It wasn’t that he was afraid.  More like, if it was going to be bad, he wanted Angel to take the brunt of it.  But that didn’t mean he was afraid; just smart.

Angel glared at him, but reached out a hand to touch the woman.  Her body uncurled at his touch, unfolding and lying on her back on the cool tile floor.  Her face still held the peaceful expression of a sleep, but at least now they knew who she was.

Willow Rosenberg.

Willow was fighting to wake up.  Her head felt muddy and confused, her thinking clouded, and waves of nausea buffeted her body back and forth.  With each attempt at movement, sharp stabs of pain tore into her head, making her want to cry out at the severity of it.

Okay, you can do this, she told herself.  Mental pep talks were usually fairly successful, but this time it wasn’t doing much good.  Then again, it was hard to get really excited and enthused about anything when all you really wanted to do was crawl away into a corner and die.  On second thought, with the way she was feeling right now, crawling might be a bit too much work.

Her eyes flickered, halfway between open and closed, but all that greeted her was a blinding light.  She tried to scream, but it seemed like too much work.  Then she tried to whimper and failed fantastically at that as well.  So instead, she let her eyelids drift closed and fell back into a dreamless oblivion.

Angel and Spike stared at the small figure lying on the floor of the lobby.  Of all the people who might have been dumped on them, she was the last one either of them would have expected.

Spike still remembered their desperate call to London.  The Watcher’s voice had been prissy and smug as he informed them that Willow would be unable to help them fight to keep Fred.  Something about an astral plane, he seemed to remember.

But it had been an excuse, pure and simple, and they all knew it.  Giles had decided that the Los Angeles group was evil, and he used that as his justification for refusing to help.  Spike was relatively sure that if that hadn’t worked, Giles would have found something else.  He didn’t want to waste any of his resources—his precious slayers—on the likes of Spike and Angel. 

But Willow…she had seemed like one of the decent ones.  He hadn’t expected that she would toe the party line like she had.  Yeah, they’d had their differences.  He’d threatened to kill her once or twice.  But that was ancient history.  Or so he’d thought.  Apparently she still held a grudge.

“She’s got a lot of nerve showing up on our doorstep,” Spike said.  He didn’t seem particularly angry; he was just stating the facts as he saw them.

“Hmm…” Privately, Angel agreed.  He shared Spike’s bitterness towards what he thought of as the Sunnydale social club.  No vampires allowed.  Oh, they’d let him stand on the edges of their little group, let him help when they needed him, but in return they had refused to help him when he’d really needed it, and for that he couldn’t forgive them.  She was one of them, one of the linchpins.  It still stung that she had swept them aside so easily.

And now here she was, obviously in trouble.  And she had come to them for help.  Angel had to wonder why.  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked Spike.

“That she’d look pretty good chained to my bed?” the blond asked, his eyes running over skin that was pale to the extreme.  She looked more or less like one of them, her skin so translucent that it almost shone.

The look that Angel gave Spike was one part incredulous, two parts disgusted.  “No, I was wondering what it was she was running from when she decided to come here.  And whether it will follow her.”  He paused for a moment, lost in thought.  “Although you do have a point.”

Spike snorted, his upper lip lifting slightly to give Angel a crooked half-smile.  “So adolescent fantasies aside, what are we do with her?”

Angel shrugged.  “Guess I’ll go upstairs and grab her some blankets.  You put her on the couch.”  He walked towards the stairs, stopping halfway and looking back down.  “Try to keep your hands to yourself,” he added.

Spike rolled his eyes.  “I’m bein’ a perfect bloody gentleman, I am,” he muttered, as he picked the redhead up and carried her to the sofa.

Willow had no idea how many hours had passed, but once again she was on the threshold of awareness, trying to decide whether waking up was worth the pain and suffering that were bound to follow.  Then again, she couldn’t continue like this forever.  Eyes would have to be opened and decisions would have to be made.

So once again she made the supreme effort to open her eyes.  This time, the blinding white light was gone, replaced by a murky half-darkness.

Something was different; she had been on a cold, hard surface before, but now she felt softness beneath her, as if she were lying on a bed or a couch.  Sure enough, when she ran her fingers over the surface of her resting place, the texture was flat and felt of canvas.  Definitely a couch.  Or a bed belonging to someone with really bad taste in linens.

Her eyes began to focus on objects in the room:  a bookcase here, a doorway there.  She had vague memories of having been here before.  If only the fog in her head would clear for a moment, she’d be able to figure it out.

“What the hell made you think you were welcome here?”

The words shocked her.  Anger filled them, but they held an undercurrent of pain as well.  Most shocking thing of all was the fact that they were spoken by someone who had been dead and gone for over a year.

“Spike?”

End of Chapter 3

Chapter 4

This had to be a dream, Willow thought.  It couldn’t have been Spike’s voice she heard.  He was dead.  Not just dead, but disintegrated, if Giles was to be believed.  There was no way he could possibly be here, in what she was coming to recognize as the lobby of Angel’s hotel.  Not unless someone was playing a very sick joke on her…

She turned her head to search the shadows, looking for the face to match the voice she’d heard.  As she watched, a figure came towards her from out of the darkness.  It was Spike.  She blinked, and then ran her hands over her eyes.  Yep, still Spike.

“How?”  It was all she could come up with at that point.  The word croaked out of her mouth, signaling her need for water.

The apparition stopped, staring at her, a slightly confused expression on his face.  “Was about to ask you the same question.  Might have added ‘why’ into the mix as well.”

His voice was cold, as if tightly repressed anger were coursing through him.  Important questions came to her, things she hadn’t considered before.  Things like, ‘does he still have a soul?’ and ‘would he bite me?’ and then there was the ever-popular ‘why am I naked?’

He continued to stare at her, the look he gave her akin to someone studying an insect they thought they might like to dissect.  Her nervousness increased, and her body began to shiver in response.  This Spike wasn’t the one that had been destroyed in Sunnydale.  That Spike wouldn’t have hurt her; heck, he wouldn’t have even made her nervous.  But this one was sending off bad vibes, and she mentally conjured up a half-dozen defensive spells, just in case.

“Why are you alive?  What am I doing here?”  She tried again, the words barely understandable.  But something in his eyes and the way that his posture relaxed just the slightest bit told her that he had gotten the gist of the questions. 

”Don’t know the answer to either of those.  Would like to know why you came here though.  Why you thought you’d get any kind of warm welcome, after what you did to us before.” 

The anger was evident again, in what he said, and in the way he clipped the words off.  His stance was aggressive, as if he expected a fight.  Surely he couldn’t expect her to put up any resistance; she could barely handle lying quietly without getting nauseous.  Standing up was out of the question.

Then she tried to concentrate on the words he had spoken.  Why wouldn’t she receive a warm welcome here?  Sure, she hadn’t heard from Angel recently, but they were on good terms, as far as she was aware.  Had things changed?  If so, why?  And why did Spike seem to be under the impression that she had chosen to show up on his doorstep?  Or, at least, on his floor.  As far as she could remember, coming here certainly hadn’t been *her* idea. 

It was definitely past time to gain some clarity.

“You’re dead.  I mean really dead,” she told him.  “Remember Sunnydale?  Big crater, nothing survived, you and Anya ‘died’ while saving the world.  Any of that ring a bell?”  Her voice was becoming stronger, although each word still pained her like rubbing sandpaper over a raw wound.  “Could I get some water?” she asked.  “Talking hurts.”

Spike fixed her with a glare that clearly said, ‘and why should I care?’ but a voice from the stairs interrupted before he could say anything.

“I’ll get it.  Then we need to talk.”

Willow looked up to see Angel walking down the stairs, his arms full of blankets and his expression grim.  His voice held the same quality of anger as Spike’s did, and his body seemed to practically vibrate with the emotion.  Why were they both so angry with her?

“Hi, Angel.  Um, thanks.”  He nodded curtly, dumped the blankets on the floor next to her, and then headed to the kitchen.  Willow grabbed a blanket off of the pile, grateful to have something with which to cover herself.  Trying to avoid looking at Spike, she fussed with the fleecy cover, moving it this way and that, tucking it underneath her, until it covered her completely.  When that project was finished, she looked up to see Spike’s eyes still on her, his expression foreboding.

“Why are you here, Willow?”

The question was from Angel this time.  He was standing next to Spike, and for a moment their equally intense, equally angry expressions showed Willow a ‘family’ resemblance she’d never noticed before.  Seeing them like that made her want to laugh, but she knew that was a bad idea, so she merely filed the fact away for future contemplation.  Maybe she’d think about it when the screaming in her head quieted down a bit.

“I don’t know why I’m here, Angel.  The last thing I remember, I was…” she tried to think, to concentrate on the moments before she woke up there.  “I was in my flat.  Getting ready to go to bed.  I think…”  She took a sip of the water, feeling a gentle relief as the liquid soothed her aching throat.  “I didn’t come here on purpose.  I think I must’ve been sent here.  I just don’t know why.”

Willow watched as the vampires exchanged a look.  They knew more than they were saying, although overall they seemed just as confused as she did.  She wished she had some idea of what had been going on in L.A. recently. 

After the destruction of Sunnydale, Willow had left the U.S., and Angel and his friends, and hadn’t really thought much about them until now.  The work she was doing for the Council had been all-consuming.  She loved it, but it certainly didn’t allow her much time for keeping up friendships, or idle chit-chat.  Sometimes she missed her old life, but it all seemed far away and unattainable, just like the town she had grown up in.

Willow couldn’t tear her eyes away from Spike.  It was as if her mind still couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling it.  “How long have you been back?  And why didn’t you tell us?”  She tried to inject a little anger of her own into the words.  He had been one of them, albeit reluctantly.  They deserved to know that he was alive.  Or at least undusty. 

And what about him and Buffy?  Her friend’s reaction to Spike’s disappearance was still fresh enough in her mind.  Buffy had been deeply affected by Spike’s death.  Some nights Willow would hear her crying through the walls in the cheap hotel room they’d stayed in directly after they lost Sunnydale.  At other times, a far-away look in the blonde’s eyes would alert Willow to the fact that her friend’s thoughts were elsewhere and elsewhen.

But finding out that he was here, and hadn’t even bothered to tell them, was like being slapped in the face.  No, actually, it was more liked being clubbed over the head repeatedly with a two-by-four. 

Or maybe that was just the pain in her head talking.

Spike looked confused again.  Another quick glance at Angel, and then he replied:  “Of course I told you.  Not you personally, but Andrew.  He told Giles.  And I’m sure Giles called a meeting to let the rest of you know.  Giles was always big on the meetings, with the visual aids, and the charts and all that rot.  Probably gave you the news, then told you not to trust me,” he added morosely.

Willow frowned; there hadn’t been a meeting.  Or any mention that Spike had been alive, for that matter.  That was something she was sure to have remembered, no matter how muzzy her brain felt at the moment.

“I was in Brazil,” she explained slowly, trying to figure it out as she spoke.  “With Kennedy.  For that first year.  Then we had a—a parting of the ways.”  That was such an understatement, while still being technically the truth.  Kennedy’s betrayal, with one of the younger, non-witchy slayers, had hurt.  Maybe not as much as losing Tara had, but the pain of it had still been enough to send her scurrying back to London, and the relative safety of her friends.  Xander had returned from Africa when he heard she was back, and the whole gang had been together again.

Except Spike and Anya, of course.

Spike was still glaring at her.  Angel too.  Maybe she hadn’t made herself clear?  “I was in Brazil.  Nobody ever told me you were back, Spike.  If they had, I’d have…” She’d have what?  Baked him a cake?  Sent him an email?  What?  They hadn’t been particularly close, although they’d fought for the same side.  She wasn’t quite sure what she would have done, if she had known he was back.

“So I suppose you had no idea we were trying to get ahold of you, either, then?”  This time it was Angel who spoke, and from the tone of his voice, he already knew which answer she would give him.  Judging from the look on his face, he was also prepared not to believe her.

Circles within circles.  Nothing was making sense.  There was more going on here than she realized, and knowing that made Willow more than a little annoyed.  But it was better not to show her emotions until she had a better understanding of the situation.  Until then, she would continue to answer the questions as they were asked, and do her best to figure out what she was doing here. 

“No, I didn’t.  When was this?  Why were you trying to get ahold of me?  Fred had my email address; I told her I checked it two or three times a week.”

They flinched.  Something she said had actually made them flinch.  And now their faces were completely empty.  They wore the kind of blank mask that a person used when their true face held too much pain to show the world.  “What the hell?” she whispered.

“I want answers, and I want them now,” she said, pushing herself to a sitting position on the couch.  She regretted it instantly.  The world wobbled precariously, and whatever her last meal was, it was threatening to make the trip up north again, but she steadied herself and fixed the vampires with a stern look.  So maybe she didn’t look like ultra-strong wicca-woman, but at least she was upright-woman, and that was progress, wasn’t it?

“Fine, you want answers?  Well here they are.”

It was Spike who replied, and again he radiated the repressed anger that she had sensed before. 

“Angel called Giles.  Begged for your help.  And we never heard from you.  Not a word.  Saved the world for you bloody white hats, I did.  But all Giles cared about was whether Angel was still running Wolfram and Hart.  The minute he heard that he was, the pukin’ Watcher couldn’t hang up the phone fast enough.”

“You’re working for Wolfram and Hart?  Why?”

“That’s not the point!” Spike roared.  “We needed you to save Fred’s life, and you wouldn’t come.  She’s dead now, and it’s *your* fault.”

He took a step towards her, his face a perfect picture of murderous rage.  Willow’s fight-or-flight mechanism took over at what looked like an all-to-real threat, and she jumped to her feet, attempting to get away from him.  She managed one step, and then another, before she fell to her knees, dizziness and pain overtaking her again.

As if from far away, she heard Angel call her name, and then Spike’s.  Her eyes drifted shut, and she knew she was in danger of passing out.  But then she felt herself being lifted and placed on the couch, and a soft voice called her name again.

“Willow?  Can you hear me?  Can you open your eyes?”

And she found that she could.  Her eyelids fluttered open, Angel’s concerned face filling her vision.  He looked more confused than anything, she decided.  He seemed to have determined that maybe she wasn’t guilty of whatever it was they thought she had done, although judging from Spike’s angry glare, the other vampire wasn’t quite so sure.

Then his words came back to her.  “Fred’s dead?” she whispered.  She remembered the shy woman with friendly eyes, and a touch of Texas in her voice.  They had chatted and laughed together the last time she had come to L.A.  They had even stayed in touch for a while, in the long-distance way that people who had lots of stuff in common did.  She hadn’t heard from Fred for a while, but then again, that wasn’t too surprising.  Every couple of weeks she would resolve to write the woman an email, and then something would come up and distract her.  A couple of weeks would go by, and then she’d think of Fred again, resolve to write her, get distracted…it was a cycle that played out over and over again.

“What happened?” she asked Angel.  Then turned and looked up at Spike.  “I liked Fred.  I would have been here, if I’d known…”

Judging from his expression, Spike was unimpressed.  He seemed bound and determined to blame her for whatever had happened.  Angel, on the other hand, seemed like he was willing to consider what she had told him.  She concentrated on him.

“Tell me,” she insisted softly, watching the pain as it played across Angel’s face.  “I want to know.  What was it?  And how could I have helped?”

She heard Spike’s snort of derision and watched as he headed upstairs.  “You can waste your time with her if you want,” he called down to Angel, “but I’m going to bed.”

It hurt that Spike didn’t believe her, and in fact seemed just as angry as when she had arrived, but there was nothing she could do right now to fix that, so she just watched him leave. 

When only the scent of tobacco and leather lingered as a ghost of his presence, she turned to Angel, motioning for him to sit next to her on the couch.  Sitting up was easier this time than it had been earlier, and that fact reassured her.  Even though it didn’t seem like it, she *was* getting better.  Slowly.

“Now tell me what happened to Fred,” she asked again.  “And while you’re at it, don’t forget to tell me what the hell has been going on here for the last couple of years.  Including why you were working for Wolfram and Hart.”  She paused for a moment, giving him a sharp glance.  “You didn’t lose your soul again, did you?  Because I’m fresh out of orbs and way too damn tired to do another restoration tonight.”

Angel wanted to grimace and laugh, both at the same time.  Willow did that to him sometimes.  And the subject of his soul was something he *could* laugh about, now that the First Good had secured it for him.  In fact, he found himself laughing quite a bit more in general these days.

But first he owed her an explanation.  He would tell her most of it, but decided he would leave off the details of their encounter with the First Good.  In his experience, it was always prudent to have at least one secret.  Knowledge was power, and you never knew when you’d need a little.

“It’s a long story…"


End of Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Willow felt like she’d just gotten off a roller coaster.  Angel’s story had been full of twists and turns that had her heart beating double-time.  But the part that really got to her was when he told her about his phone call to London, where Giles summarily dismissed him, refusing to help in any way.

“It’s not that I don’t get his reasoning,” she admitted.  “I mean, evil law firm and all, it’s gotta make ya wonder.  Sorry,” she added, when she noticed Angel’s frown.  “I’m just saying…”

“It wasn’t like that,” Angel growled.  “We were making progress, changing things for the better—we were!”

“I know, I know,” she agreed, becoming more animated as she tried to explain.  “And I’m angry at Giles.  Really angry.” 

Her voice was eerily calm, but Angel could tell that she meant what she said.

“I mean, regardless of what he thought, the decision was mine.”  She nodded, as if to emphasize the point.  “He had no right to make that call, not without consulting me.”

“And what would you have done?” Angel asked.

She was quiet for a moment, obviously giving the matter some thought.  Angel was impressed that she was actually considering the question, instead of giving the knee-jerk reaction of saying “I’d have helped.”  Her hesitation gave her eventual answer the patina of honesty. 

“I’m not sure,” she finally answered, casting her eyes to the floor.  “I know I wouldn’t have ignored you, though.  Probably would have come out here to assess the situation myself, before giving you an answer.  Something like that.”

That was what Angel would have expected of her.  She was open-minded to a fault.  Heck, she had given him the benefit of the doubt when he had returned from Hell.  So it made sense to him that she would want to see what was happening before she passed judgment. 

He was surprised to realize that her answer made him feel slightly less bitter.  It was easier to heap all the blame and hatred on Giles’ shoulders.  It was the difference between one betrayer, and a half-dozen. 

So maybe that wasn’t a very logical argument, but who said emotions were logical?

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her suppress a yawn.  Obviously whatever had happened to her had taken a physical toll.  “Do you need some sleep?”

She nodded, her expression slightly uneasy, as if she was embarrassed at being caught in possession of such a human frailty.  “I’m still kinda tired,” she admitted. 

Angel made the calculations in his head.  If it was just now 3am in Los Angeles, it would already be 11am in London.  She had said earlier that she had been getting ready for bed when—whatever it was—happened.  He wondered when she had last slept.  “Get some rest.  We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“Thanks,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

And by the time he was halfway up the stairs, he could tell that she was already fast asleep.

Spike leaned back against the door to his bedroom, wanting to punch something.  Anything. 

Suddenly he wished Illyria was with him.  A long round with the Mistress of Pain would be just what he needed right now.  Someone to hit, someone to hit back…there was an even exchange of violence.  It was almost like poetry in motion.

Anger threatened to consume him.  Anger at Willow, and Buffy, but most of all, at Giles.

Because if what Willow said was true, it was Giles who had betrayed them, Giles who had ignored them, Giles who had…

Giles who had condemned Fred to death.

But did he really believe Willow?  That was another important question.

Sure, she was the mature one, the responsible one.  But mightn’t she, if push came to shove, tell a little lie in order to get herself out of a tricky spot?  She could blame Giles for everything, and be reasonably sure that they would not go to the trouble to track him down and demand the truth.

Another possibility occurred to him:  maybe all of this was just the backlash of a spell gone awry.  There had been plenty of those in the past.  Or maybe she was here on orders from Giles, checking out the ‘big evildoers,’ making sure that they weren’t a potential threat to the White Hats and the new Watchers Council.

A couple of years ago he would have trusted her almost unconditionally.  Would have trusted most of the Sunnydale crew, really.  But things had changed.  He had changed.  Maybe it had been because of the loss of Fred, and then Wesley. 

He had trusted Willow then; trusted her to do the right thing and help them.  And where had that gotten him?

Well, he wasn’t going to give her the chance to let him down again.  This time he would watch and listen, and see what she was up to.  If her story turned out to be true, he would accept her.   But until then…

He would have to tell Gunn, Angel realized.  How on earth would he be able to explain this to Gunn in a way that didn’t have the man bounding down the stairs, eager to kill Willow?  Or at the very least, hurt her badly?

There was an alternative, one that was looking relatively pleasant, although he had to admit that it was a bit of a cop-out.  He *could* stay quiet, and let Gunn discover Willow on his own. 

But in the end that would only lead to bad things happening.  Most likely, to Gunn. 

Sometimes he could forget that Willow was a badass witch.  Her easy smile, unassuming demeanor, and soft voice made her seem like nothing more than a typical young woman.  Scary-smart, but still normal enough. 

People tended to forget that she had once flayed a man alive. 

Not that he hadn’t done worse in his time.  Willow’s dark period had been over in a day or two.  Angelus’ had lasted over a century.

His footsteps slowed as he reached the door to Illyria’s quarters.  The day of the final fight against Wolfram and Hart, Angel had ‘liberated’ all the money he could get his hands on.  And as well as evil paid, that was a lot of money.  He figured that if they made it through that day, they would probably need it.

Since they had survived, although not without losses—his thoughts turned briefly towards Wes—he had decided that a renovation of the old Hyperion might not be a bad idea. 

So now they all had their own private suites, several times the size of the previous rooms the hotel used to boast.  And well furnished, to boot.  There wasn’t any rule that said the warriors for good couldn’t be comfortable in their spare time, after all.  Besides, wasn’t it better that the money went for something like this, than towards the subjugation of all mankind?  He was pretty sure that if he’d left it where it was, it would have ended up doing no good at all.  Literally.

Illyria had shown little interest in shopping for items for her rooms, so Spike had taken care of it, merely buying two of whatever he wanted for himself.  As a result, Illyria’s suite reminded him more of Spike than her.  But she seemed happy enough with the result.  As far as anyone could tell, at least.

Angel hesitated as he stood at the threshold.  He wasn’t quite listening, he told himself, and yet he wasn’t knocking either. He chalked it up to uneasiness about what he had to tell them.

“You may enter,” came Illyria’s voice, as imperious as ever.

Well that was interesting.  Apparently she had sensed him outside, somehow.  Although he was curious about how she had done it, he was also a little alarmed that this ability of hers was something he hadn’t been aware of before.  What else could she do that he had yet to discover?

He turned the knob and pushed the door open just a bit, waiting for Illyria’s regal nod before entering the room. 

Gunn and Illyria sat at the dining room table, hunched over small pieces of wood, and a large-ish laminated playing board.

They were playing Scrabble. Whatever it was he had been expecting to find Gunn and Illyria doing, it certainly wasn’t this.

And, judging from the number of tiles on the board, someone was actually fairly good at it.  Words like quaver and xylan littered the board, along with more conservative choices such as vanquish and device.  He suspected that the more unusual words belonged to Illyria.  She talked like she had eaten a dictionary every now and then.  And considering some of the things Angel had seen her do, he wouldn’t put that past her.

While he was slightly disappointed that he hadn’t interrupted something a little more risqué, at the same he was relieved that they were both clothed.  Occasionally Angel’s memory would tease him with the gentle curves of Fred’s body.  He and Fred had enjoyed a ‘look but don’t touch’ type of relationship.  Well, maybe ‘enjoyed’ wasn’t quite the right word. 

But now Fred was gone.  And Willow was here, her presence like salt rubbed into an open wound he thought had healed.

“Okay,” Angel said, clearing his throat uneasily.  “We’ve, um, got a bit of a situation.”

Gunn shot a cheeky grin at Illyria.  “See, it’s always ‘there’s a situation.’  How come it’s never, ‘how are you?’ or ‘are you having a nice evening?’  Start out with something nice, then work your way up to the big nasty stuff, okay?”

Angel glared at him.  “You done yet?”

Gunn crossed his arms over his chest and gave Angel a grin.  “I’m good.”

Par for the course these days, the conversation wasn’t going the way he had planned.  He started again.  “Spike and I were…”  Were what?  Were replaying the quest for dominance they’d repeated over and over again?

“Fighting like small, annoying children?” Illyria offered, in an attempt to be helpful.

Fine, whatever worked.  “We were talking,” he ground out.  “And then this bright light blinded us.  It was kind of like…”

Gunn was frowning. “Like in the alley?  The First Good?”

“Yeah.”  Trust Gunn to cut to the chase.  It was a quality that Angel appreciated.

”Huh.”  Gunn was quiet for a moment.  “So how’s that a situation?”

“Well, because this time the First left behind a little present.”

“Is it dangerous?  Should I smite it?”  Illyria still tended to think in terms of black and white, friend or foe, ally or target. 

“Actually, it’s…Willow.”

“Willow?  As in a tree?  That is not a worthy present.”

Illyria hadn’t met Willow, obviously.  Angel wondered what she would think of the witch.  And vice versa.  He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

The beginnings of anger stirred in Gunn’s eyes.  “Willow?  Little Miss I’m Too Busy to Save Fred’s Life?  That Willow?”

Yeah, this was gonna be fun.  “There’s more to that story than we thought, apparently.”

Gunn’s raised eyebrows were Angel’s cue to continue.

“Giles never told her that I called.  She had no idea that we needed her.  Or so she says.”

The skeptical expression on Gunn’s face didn’t surprise him much.  His own thoughts went right along those lines.

“Do you believe her?” Gunn asked finally.  “Or do you think this is just some convenient excuse she’s come up with, now that she needs our help?”

Angel sighed.  “Honestly, I don’t know.  I will say that I don’t think it was her choice to come here.  I mean, she seemed pretty out of it.  I’m thinking that maybe she’s as surprised to be here as we are to find her here.”

“What does Spike think?”

“I don’t think he buys it.  He took off before we had a chance to talk.  He and Fred…”  Spike and Fred had been friends.  And Spike didn’t make friends easily.  Conquests, yes.  But friends—true friends—not often. 

“This Willow would not help the shell when it was in trouble?”  Illyria’s eyes narrowed slightly as if she were trying to decide whether to be insulted. 

“This Willow would not help the shell when you were killing her,” Gunn growled, glaring at Illyria.  He was no longer constantly bombarded with images of Fred when he looked at Illyria, but there were times when memories of her came to him unbidden, and this was one of those times.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed his bitterness down and concentrated on Angel.  “What are we going to do?  You got some plan?”

Angel shook his head.  “Nothing yet.  She’s downstairs sleeping.  When she wakes up, maybe we should talk to her.  Decide if we should just put her on a plane back to London.  I don’t know.”  He ran a hand across his forehead.  It had been a long night, and the morning was looking to be pretty nasty as well.  But mostly, he was just tired.

“I’m going to get some sleep.  Just…don’t do anything yet.  I think we should all be there when we talk to her, okay?”

Illyria shrugged; it didn’t really matter to her.  Gunn nodded, but he didn’t look terribly thrilled.  That was fine; Angel didn’t need him to be happy.  He just needed Gunn to lay off Willow for a few hours.

“Okay, meeting downstairs at noon.”

After Angel’s departure, the silence between Gunn and Illyria stretched uncomfortably.  Gunn seemed deep in thought, staring at the game tiles before him blindly.  Illyria was, in turn, studying one Charles Gunn.

“You are angry with me.”  Her flat tone made the words a statement, not a question.

“I’m—no, I’m not.”  Gunn shook his head, then frowned slightly.  “Maybe I am.  I’m trying not to be.”

Illyria speared him with that cool, level gaze meant to intimidate.  “Why is it so important to you?  You and the sh—you and Fred were no longer intimate.  The connection between you was not the same as the one between Fred and my Wesley.” 

Even in death, Gunn would never be able to forget that it was Wesley that Fred had turned to in her last days.  Some part of him hurt with the knowledge, but the wound wasn’t fatal.  He tried to explain it to her.  “There are connections—relationships—other than the type of one that Fred shared with Wesley.”

Her blank gaze spurred him on.

“There’s friendship, and there’s acquaintances, and there’s family.  Those are the main ones, but there are lots of others.  Each is different, and complicated, in its own way.”  And how did he get himself roped into this discussion, anyway?

But even as he thought the words, he knew the answer.  She expected nothing of him; he was simply Charles Gunn, a way to pass her time.  He was nothing more to her, and the simplicity of it was surprisingly relaxing.  He didn’t have to be a hero, or a lawyer, or a fixer of problems.  He could just sit here and play with little wooden tiles on a piece of laminated cardboard.

“I understand those relationships.”

And the thing was, she believed that to be the truth.  Gunn shook his head.  “No, you know the definition of those words.  That’s a whole different thing.”

She was silent for a moment, studying him, and probably replaying the conversation in her mind.  He suspected that she did that often; sometimes, out of the blue, she would throw his own words back at him hours or even days later, demanding an explanation.

“You will teach me the difference.”  She seemed unconcerned with his opinion on the subject.

The thing was, he figured she was probably right.  Oh, he could complain about it, deny it, rail at fate for this role he seemed to play in her life.  But when it came down to it, he was all she had.

She certainly wouldn’t learn anything from Spike or Angel.  Their relationship was…just too weird for words.  And certainly not anything like the human relationships of friend or lover.  Although he supposed that elements of each were present.

The tapping of her fingernail against the playing board brought his attention back to the game between them.

“It is your turn,” she told him. 

Gunn carefully marshaled his thoughts, pushing the serious contemplations away for now.  He had just the tiles he needed to spell quixotic, and it was on a triple word score.

Hot damn, he might actually win this game.

End of Chapter 5

Chapter 6

It was quiet when Willow woke, and the pounding in her head was, thankfully, gone.  Since she was still alone, she took the time to look around the lobby of the hotel.  It had changed since the last time she had visited. 

Small touches that spoke of money carefully spent, made the lobby look comfortable, yet professional.  The couch that she had slept on last night was evidence of that.  It was nearly new, and quite comfy.  But the colors were neutral, probably chosen because they weren’t splashy or eye-catching.  It was that whole ‘understated elegance’ thing that she’d heard about, but never quite understood. 

To Willow, fashion was all about color.  The flashier the better.  A sunshine yellow shirt with a pair of bright green shorts was a fashion statement.  Plus, you’d never get hit by a car wearing an outfit like that.  Any driver would see you coming from a mile away.

Speaking of clothes…a look under the blanket confirmed her still-naked status.  A quick glamour took care of that for now, but sooner or later she really should get actual clothes to wear. 

A trip to the bathroom was needed, Willow decided.  Her teeth felt like they were wearing fuzzy little sweaters, and other needs were making themselves felt as well.  She had been to the hotel twice; if she remembered correctly, there was a small guest bathroom right off one of the offices.

She was grateful to see that her memory wasn’t completely useless; the bathroom was there, right off what seemed to be Angel’s office.  Casting a quick look around the room, she made her way into the bathroom and took care of what she needed to.  Five minutes later she emerged, feeling slightly cleaner, although she suspected that her breath probably wasn’t as minty fresh as it could have been.  Too bad Angel hadn’t had any toothpaste in that bathroom.  Maybe when one was a vampire on a liquid diet, brushing one’s teeth wasn’t quite as important.

On the way back out, she took a moment to study the office.  Even in the near-dark, she could tell that it was elegant and well furnished.  Everything in there, from plush carpet, to the tranquil scenes in the framed paintings on the walls, seemed to project an image of calm competence.  An Orb of Thessulah, resting on a pile of papers, caught her eye, and she picked it up, feeling the comforting weight of it in her hand. 

She wondered why Angel kept it there.  Was it a ‘just in case’ type of thing?  Or maybe it reminded him of how tenuous the dividing line between Angel and Angelus truly was. 

Willow put the Orb back down and turned to leave.  As she did, she noticed a flicker in the depth and quality of the shadows.  Before she could move—hell, before she could even *think* about moving, she was pinned against the wall by a cool body that vibrated with tension.  Angry eyes, blue with flecks of gold, bored into hers. 

“Doing a little spying, are we?  Want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”

Spike.  It was only Spike, she told her heart, which was beating at breakneck speed.  Spike was chi—wait, no, Spike *wasn’t* chipped anymore.  But he still had a soul.  He wasn’t evil.  She clung to that thought like a drowning woman would clutch at a life raft, as his body pressed hers against the wall of Angel’s office.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice deadly quiet.  He hadn’t trusted her last night, and he certainly didn’t trust her now.  Especially since she seemed to be snooping around Angel’s office, poking into things that were none of her business.

“I’m—I’m not spying!” she exclaimed, twisting and pushing against him in attempt to dislodge his body.  “I was just using the bathroom.  Fuzzy teeth!”

He frowned at her words.  It had been a couple of years since he’d had to decipher her nervous babbles and obscure references.  “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.  In L.A.,” he clarified.

She looked up at him, and he was surprised to see the confusion in her eyes. 

“Don’t know what I’m doing here.  Didn’t Angel tell you?”

She sounded alone and slightly scared, and for just a moment Spike felt guilty.  Then another face replaced hers:  Fred’s.  He saw her face as she futilely fought the pain and misery as Illyria killed her in bits and pieces.  Any remorse he felt towards Willow died then and there.

“Don’t care what you told him.  I want the truth.  Did Rupert send you here to find out what we were up to?  Things get a little slow in London, so he figured he’d send you around and yank our tails again?”

Willow shut her eyes to his angry gaze and tried to ignore his accusations.  She was still having trouble believing that Giles had done what he had, but everything Angel had said, and now Spike as well, seemed to lead her to one inevitable conclusion:  that Giles had lied to her.  He had lied by omission, but that was just as much a lie as any other kind. 

“The sooner we get you back on a plane to London, the better.”

Spike’s words triggered something deep inside her, and a dark terror flooded her system.  She couldn’t go back.  Not now.  She didn’t know how she knew, but something inside her told her that if she went back now, the results would be horrific.  The panic raced through her body, controlling everything, until all that was left was the fear.

“Can’t go back,” she gasped out, eyes wild.  “Don’t send me back, don’t!”  The terror continued burning through her as she tried desperately to get it under control. 

She twisted and pushed against Spike in her panic, and the blond found himself studying her dispassionately.  The odd thing was, she really did seem to be terrified by something.  Words and actions could be faked, but scents, in his experience, could not.  At least, not by a human, who had absolutely no idea what fear smelled like.  Even if the witch *could* come up with the correct combination of scents, there was no way she would be able to gauge how strong it should be or how long it should linger.  It would take a vampire to figure out those subtle touches.

He finally let her go, watching curiously as she dashed from the room.  Once she made it to the lobby, she looked around the room, as if wondering what she should do next.  Whatever strong emotions had touched her earlier seemed to be winding down, though.  The scent of her fear, which had pleased his demon so, was no longer quite so overpowering.

“Care to tell me what that little display was all about?” he asked, following her into the living room. 

Her eyes still bore traces of her earlier panic, he noted.  She looked around nervously, and he wondered what she was searching for.

“I was scared,” she confessed, obviously uneasy about admitting to a weakness. 

“Yeah,” he drawled, “got that part.  What I was wondering about was the why?”

She glared at him from across the room, hands on her hips.  “I don’t know why.  I just suddenly…I was terrified.  About going back to London.”  As she voiced the words aloud, the fear surged back through her.  But this time she was able to push it down.

“You were scared of…nothing?”  His skepticism was obvious.

“Have you ever had a cat?”

The question caught him off guard, and he frowned at her, wondering what the point was.

She shook her head in bemusement.  “Of course—kitten poker.  You’ve been around them.”  Tired of standing, she flounced over to the couch and sat, regarding him cautiously.  “You know how they do that thing, where they stare out into the distance, like they can hear something—or see something—that makes the hair on their backs go straight?”

That had happened to Spike on more than one occasion; he nodded his understanding.

“So you see the cat do that, and you know it senses something out there, and it’s freaking you out.  And even though you can’t hear or see anything yourself, you’re afraid nonetheless.  Afraid of something you can’t see, can’t hear, and can’t even put a name to.  It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t make you fear it any less.”

“Not afraid of anything,” Spike muttered, although he understood the metaphor.

“That’s not the point!”  She sighed, turning in her seat and doing her best to ignore him. 

The sound of footfalls at the top of the stairs alerted Willow to the fact that they had company. 

“Hi, Gunn,” she called out, frowning slightly when the other man didn’t reply.

"Didn’t realize I was late to the party,” he said, shooting a curious glance at Spike as he made his way down the stairs.

Willow’s eyes widened as another figure came into view at the top of the stairs.   She was a study in blue; blue hair, blue skin, and, most likely, blue eyes. 

As Willow watched, the blue woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Fred, walked down the stairs with a grace and precision that the other woman had never exhibited.  Fred had been all gawkiness and angles; Illyria—for Willow understood that that was who this must be—carried herself with a regal posture and a comfort with the body she wore that Fred had never possessed.

Willow rose to her feet as Illyria approached her.  It seemed the thing to do when greeting royalty for the first time, and that was how Willow felt.  She realized that it was nothing but her own odd fancy; Illyria was no longer a god.  But Willow felt a strong need to make a positive impression on this being, for whatever reason.

“You have power,” Illyria said, stopping abruptly a few feet in front of Willow.

“I’m a witch.  It kind of comes with the territory.”

Illyria cocked her head to the side, unabashedly studying the redhead.  “You will help us.”  As if this settled the matter, Illyria turned and left the room, walking with purpose towards the kitchen.

“That was…different,” Willow muttered under her breath.

“She’s like that.  Very straightforward.  Cuts to the chase.  Kinda like that about her,” Gunn admitted.  “You always know where you stand.”

“Good, we’re all here.” 

Angel’s familiar voice relieved Willow somewhat.  He seemed to be the only one who wasn’t out-and-out hostile towards her, although she wasn’t naïve enough to think that that meant he wasn’t angry with her.  It just meant that he was the only one who bothered to hide his feelings towards her, whatever they might be.

“Hi, Angel,” she said quietly, taking a step towards him, before checking her unconscious movement.

“Willow.  Spike, Gunn.  Let’s go into the dining room.”

The dining room turned out to be a small room next to the kitchen.  It contained a long, plain wood table, and wooden chairs that were big on wood, but not so much with the comfort, Willow could see.

She perched on the edge of one chair, watching as the others joined her.  The continued noises from the kitchen told her that Illyria would not be joining them.  Despite many other, more pressing matters, Willow took the time to wonder what exactly Illyria would consider a good meal.  Did she share Fred’s near-legendary fondness for tacos, or did she prefer something else?  And just how long would it take her to try all of the assorted foods life had to offer?  Or did she even care much about the taste, as long as it provided sustenance?

There were lots of questions she’d like to ask, if she was given the opportunity.

“So, why are you here?” 

Skip the preliminary and cut to the chase.  Gunn seemed to emulate Illyria when it came to that.

“I don’t know.”  At the skeptical glares she received, she elaborated.  “You don’t like that answer.  I get it.  But I don’t have a better one.  I was in my flat, and one minute I was getting ready for bed, and the next thing I knew, I was here, and everything in my head was screaming.” 

“Riiight,” Spike drawled, once again showing his skepticism.  “You sure this isn’t just another of your spells gone wrong?” he asked.  “S’not like that’s never happened before.  If I develop the irresistible urge to suck face with Peaches here, I’ll stake you myself, never mind that you’re not a vamp.”

Willow felt her anger beginning to build, but did her best to keep herself calm.  “That happened once, Spike.  A long, long time ago.  Get over it.”

“Whatever,” he dismissed it.  “So why don’t you explain again why you didn’t come to help us when we needed you.”

He and Angel had heard this story already, so Willow concentrated on telling Gunn.  “Giles never told me.  If he had, I would have tried to help.”

“So why didn’t he tell you?”  Gunn’s tone gave nothing away.

“I’m not sure,” Willow admitted.  “Probably, judging from what Angel says, because he was afraid you were evil.  And with my,” she paused for a moment, “checkered past, maybe he was afraid that I’d—that I’d go evil too.”

“It’s a pretty story.  It absolves you of all responsibility, and puts the blame on someone thousands of miles away.”

“It’s also the truth,” she shot back, beginning to feel her earlier anger return.  “I don’t like it—knowing that someone I knew, someone I cared about, is gone.  But that’s a risk that we run.  We fight evil.  It’s what we do.”  She looked around the table, her eyes boring into theirs as she made her point.  “We fight, and sometimes we die.  But those that are left behind still keep fighting.  I would think that Spike and Angel in particular should get that.  You’ve been able to experience evil from both the supply and the demand sides, after all.”  She wasn’t above using a couple of well-placed barbs of her own.

They seemed surprised by her eruption. 

Finally, Gunn replied:  “Fred was special.”  A lot went unsaid with that simple statement.

Willow grimaced.  “So were Jesse, and Jenny,” she shot a pointed look at Angel, “and Kendra, and Tara, and Anya, and…” the list went on and on.  She hadn’t even touched on all the lives lost during the final battle in Sunnydale.  This wasn’t a contest, after all.  “You’re not the only ones who have lost people,” she repeated sadly, all of her fight leaving her suddenly.

“She could have been saved,” Spike challenged.

“You don’t know that!  I might have gotten there and been completely unable to change *anything*.  You had every resource available at Wolfram and Hart on your side.  That’s a whole lot of evil working for you, and lots of smarts as well.  What could I have done that they couldn’t have?

“Besides, they *all* could have been saved.  If only I were faster, or smarter, or at the right place at the right time.”  She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath.  “Life is a matter of inches, when it comes right down to it.”

Nobody said a word.  Her tirade had given them something to think about, but she wasn’t sure if it had made one bit of difference as to their frame of mind.  Did they still hate her?  Or would they be able to get past it?

“I’m staying in L.A.  And if you guys want to wallow in your anger and your insistence that it was all somehow *my* fault, then go right ahead.  I’m not going to stop you.  I’ve told you the truth, but I can’t force you to believe it.” 

Again she was greeted with resounding silence, save for the occasional noises Illyria made in the kitchen.

“All right, then,” she said, standing up and heading for the door. “I’ll just be on my way.  Don’t worry; I’ll be out of your hair.  I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

Vulnerability and a hint of desperation laced her voice, and it touched something in Angel.  He understood that she was a creature who was basically gentle and good-natured.  Having them all angry with her, over something that he was starting to believe was not her fault, was probably pretty difficult.

“Stay,” he said quietly.  Spike and Gunn were obviously not happy with him, and would no doubt show their displeasure later, but it was his hotel, and they were, technically, his employees.  So the decision was his.

The sheer volume of relief that shone in her eyes surprised him.  But he would consider the reasons for that later.  “C’mon, let’s find you a room.  And you’ll probably want to call home and arrange for your things to be sent.”

Only Spike was quick enough to see the panic in her eyes, quickly covered, at the mention of calling home.


End of Chapter 6

Chapter 7


Willow examined the room that Angel had given her, inviting her to do whatever was necessary to make herself comfortable and at home.  Calling it a ‘room’ was a bit of a misnomer.  It was more like a suite of rooms.  They were large and bright, the neutral colors and high ceiling giving the impression of even greater space.  The living room boasted four tall narrow windows, and the first thing Willow did once Angel left was open the heavy curtains, flooding the room with a bright afternoon glow.  She stood in the sunlight for a moment, enjoying the warmth where it touched her skin.  

It was so different from the dreary, perpetual twilight of London.  Not that she didn’t enjoy that as well.  But the gentle warmth was comforting, and she craved that.

From the doorway she could look straight ahead through the dining room and into the kitchen.  The living room was directly to the left, and at the far end of that was a doorway that led to a bedroom and bathroom.  She wandered towards the kitchen, finding a glass and filling it with water, and then drinking it down quickly.  She was especially thirsty; probably some sort of odd side effect from her translation here the previous evening.  

Her immediate need filled, she wandered into the living room, lying down on the couch and curling her knees to her chest.  There was so much that she didn’t understand, and it was maddening.  Someone was playing games with her life, positioning her here in L.A. as if she were a piece on a chess board, and that made her angry, and more than a little frightened.  

“I can’t go home yet.”

She whispered the words aloud, as if saying them would help her resign herself to the fact.  The fear swept through her again at the thought of home, but she was getting better at controlling it.  At least that was something, right?

A wave of homesickness rolled over her, mingling with the panic, leaving her feeling alone and uncertain.  What did Giles and the rest of them think of her sudden disappearance?  Were they worried about her?  Were they, right at this very moment, looking for her?

She thought about calling them, leaving a brief message, or doing something to alert them to the fact that she was okay, but the feeling of fear intensified and she knew that she would not be calling them.

Instead, she tried to concentrate on the future.  Her future.  A future that involved…clothing.

The glamour she was using to simulate clothing was a low-level spell that would work indefinitely, but if she ever got distracted and forgot about it, the results would be embarrassing, to say the least.  

Here she was in Los Angeles, one of the great clothing meccas of the world, and yet the thought of going out and buying a whole new wardrobe, an idea that would leave other women breathless with anticipation, left her completely cold.  

Maybe she should ask Illyria to go with her.

She dismissed that idea immediately.  One of the few things worse than going shopping for a new wardrobe would be going shopping for a new wardrobe with a complete stranger.  Nope, she was on her own.  

And just how did she expect to pay for these new clothes?  Willow had a small amount of money in a savings account at a local bank.  It was ‘forgotten money,’ money she had intended to move to her London account, but she had never gotten around to it.  Now, for once, procrastination had worked in her favor.  The only problem was, she didn’t know whether she could actually get them to give her the money, since she had no official I.D.  There was also the additional concern that taking money out would disturb whatever purpose she was supposed to fulfill here.

It was strange, but she was starting to wonder if maybe her fear might be a form of self-defense.  As if there was something locked deep inside her that knew more than she did, and it was generating this fear—panic—whatever you wanted to call it, to keep her from doing something unsafe, or that was in conflict with whatever had brought her here.

She thought about taking money out of her account, but felt no onslaught of terror, so apparently using her own money was acceptable to whoever—or whatever—was pulling her strings.

It was probably just as well.  The thought of going to Angel in order to beg for money was something she didn’t even want to consider.  She would rather take her chances with a long-term glamour.

It hadn’t been easy to convince the bank teller that she was indeed the same Willow Rosenberg who had an account there, especially since she had no I.D.  At the first branch she had failed entirely.  So she tried another branch a couple of miles away, and was lucky enough to find a teller who was busy and distracted.  With a little help from her goddess, she was able to “convince” the teller that she was who she said she was, and that issuing her a new debit card was not going to break any rules. 

It had reminded her of one of the many times she had seen Star Wars with Xander, when Obi-Wan Kenobi had done the Jedi mind trick.  Score one for the rebels, she thought happily, as she walked out of the bank.

She had even started the ball rolling to transfer a larger amount of money from her London account to this bank.  It would take several days, but for now she had enough to cover her immediate needs.  Including the much-dreaded clothes shopping.

In the end she decided to make it simple, purchasing a half-dozen blouses and pants, all in the same style, but different colors and patterns.  There was nothing terribly imaginative or interesting about any of them, but at least she was able to wash her hands of the matter and call it a day.

On the way home she stopped at a grocery store, buying enough food for a day or two.  She could go back later and get more; her arms were full of bags as it was.

And finally, just before she reached the hotel, she stopped at a liquor store and splurged on a bottle of white wine.  

As much as she had hated the shopping, she dreaded going back to the hotel even more.  Hostility hung in the air, oppressive and discouraging, and Willow needed a little something to help her pass the night, since there wasn't much chance she would be invited to spend time with any of her “roommates.”

One of the first things she would do when she got more money was buy a computer.  If she was going to be stuck alone in her room, the least she could do was surf the web.  Until then, she would just have to make do with the newest Sue Grafton mystery.

Spike was brooding.

Oh, he wouldn’t admit it aloud.  If anyone were to ask, he would call it, ‘considering the past.’  But if he saw Angel doing it, Spike would have accused him of brooding.

And just like his sire, the subject of his ruminations was one Buffy Summers.

It had been hard for him to accept the fact that she knew he was alive, and yet had never made any attempt to get in touch with him.  It was even more painful to believe that she preferred to live it up in Italy with the Immortal.  

Andrew had made it clear that she didn’t want—or need—him or Angel in her life; that it was already full and pleasant and everything that she wanted it to be.

But with Willow’s arrival, and her strange tale, everything he thought he knew had vanished.

He found himself wondering now.  Did Buffy really know that he was alive?  If Willow was to be believed, probably not.  Andrew, under orders from Giles, had probably lied.  Repeatedly.

Spike certainly wouldn’t put it past the little shit.  The last time he had been in Los Angeles, the self-important bugger had stolen the insane slayer from them at gunpoint.  Well, technically no weapons had been used, just a lot of Slayers, posturing and glaring menacingly.  Andrew had played the part of the affable, but buffoonish, buddy to the hilt, and then crossed them, leaving quickly with the prize he had sought.

But, on the other hand, could Spike really trust Willow?  

Her fear earlier today at the thought of calling home had strengthened his suspicions.  Was she afraid that Giles would deny her claims, or was there something bigger, something as yet unknown, at work here?

When it came right down to it, his choice was simple:  refuse to trust Willow, and continue to believe that Buffy didn’t give a fig whether he lived or turned to dust.  

Or he could accept Willow’s story and come face-to-face with the realization that Buffy wasn’t aware he was even alive.

And what would he do then?  Run off to Italy and profess his undying affection?  Sweep her off her feet and drag her back to L.A. with him?  

Or stay right here in Los Angeles and pretend that none of it made any difference.

The fact was, staying in L.A. was easier.  Cowardly, but easier.  He had accepted the reality that Buffy didn’t care for him.  At least, not in the way that he cared about her.  It had been painful, sure.  But he had gotten through the pain and his life had gone on without her.

Did he really want to open himself up to the possibility of all that pain, all over again?  Did he want to be love’s bitch—hell, life’s bitch—one more time?

Did he really want her *that* badly?

The fact that he was even having these thoughts, the fact that he wasn’t right now on a plane to Italy, made him wonder if he really did anymore.

Maybe too much time had passed, and too many things had happened, for him to jump back into the tentative relationship that they had begun to explore.

Or maybe part of him had finally come to accept the fact that she would never love him, not the same way that he had loved her.

A knock on his door broke him from his thoughts.

“Meeting downstairs, ten minutes.  Dress casual, it might get messy.”

Angel’s voice was a welcome respite from his all-too-confusing thoughts.  And the idea of a messy kill?  Like music to his ears.

“Death and destruction, here I come.”

“So here’s the deal,” Angel began, once Gunn and Spike had joined him in the lobby.   “Just got a call from a member of the City Council over in Encino.  Seems there’s been a couple of sightings of a Fyarl demon around town.  Of course, most of the people there don’t really know what they’re seeing, just that it’s big and scary, and not too concerned with hygiene.  But judging from the description, that *is* what we’re facing.”

Encino was a fairly well-to-do community, populated mostly by families and older couples.  Something like a Fyarl demon would certainly tend to stick out like a sore thumb.

“Should be pretty easy to find,” Spike allowed.  “Strictly slice ‘n’ dice once we do.  Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

“Should be,” Gunn agreed.  “Almost not worth our time.”  He sounded disappointed, as if he were expecting something a bit more challenging.

“Hey, you never know.  Maybe he’s got some friends.  Could be a whole herd of ‘em in the area.  I doubt the good people of Encino could tell one Fyarl from another.”  Spike’s comments brought a glare from Angel, and an encouraged grin from Gunn.

“Yeah, man, maybe you’re right.  It’ll give me a chance to use my new broadsword, too.”  He pulled a wicked-looking sword from the cabinet.

Angel ran his hand over his face, trying to hide his grimace.  “Inconspicuous is the key here, guys.  Small weapons.  Not too much noise.”  He paused for a moment, then raised his eyebrows, “Discreet.”

“I’ll ‘discreet’ the hell out of that demon,” Gunn agreed, smiling.  

Spike’s answering smirk made Angel more than a little nervous.  He felt discreet slipping further and further away.  

He just hoped that the City Council wouldn’t expect them to pay for whatever they damaged.  It was hard enough to find someone willing to insure Angel Investigations as it was.  

“Should we take Blue?  Just in case we run into a bit more trouble than we’re expecting?”

Angel shook his head.  “I think we can handle this one ourselves, gentlemen.  Illyria might be a bit…”

“Indiscreet?” Gunn asked with a snicker, turning and smirking at Spike.

Angel frowned.  Some days he felt like he was not just the boss, but also the one and only adult in their little band of fighters.  “Could we just go now?” he sighed.

“Sure, Peaches.  Let’s get this over with.  Got me a hot date tonight.”

Somehow Angel doubted that.  Spike didn’t date.  Didn’t even really go out much.  Just stayed inside and played those damned video games, and plotted ways to make Angel’s life a living hell.  

Maybe the next time Illyria smacked Spike down, she’d do it hard enough to knock that smug smile off of his face.

He could always hope.


End of Chapter 7

Chapter 8


“Well, do you think that was ‘discreet’ enough, Angel?” Gunn asked, throwing Angel’s earlier request for caution back in his face.

“Yeah, I don’t think folks in Encino are gonna forget tonight for a long, long time,” Spike predicted.  

“A little blue-haired ex-god would have been commonplace compared to what they saw tonight,” Gunn agreed, his weary grin just serving to egg Spike on.

Angel was willing to admit that the evening had not gone exactly as planned.  Not even remotely close, really.

First off, there had been three Fyarl demons.  Not just one.  And a couple of Chaos demons, as well.  All now deceased.  But not before they had made quite a mess at the local mall.  And then again at a huge two-story Cineplex.  He had a feeling that there were several ten-year-olds who wouldn’t want to see another Harry Potter movie for quite a while.

All three of them were covered with mucus and blood.  The Fyarls had a paralyzing mucus they could shoot through their noses, as Spike reminded them—after they were hit with it—and they had *mostly* been able to steer clear of that.  

But the Chaos demons had been another matter entirely.  

Their mucus was just gross.  And by the time they had killed the slippery buggers, all three of them were covered from head to toe.

Which led inevitably to the fact that they were *not* in the best of moods, for which they blamed Angel, specifically.

“How the hell was I supposed to know that there was more than one Fyarl?  No one told me that he had friends.” Angel said, clanking his small axe at his feet.  “It’s not like they’re known for playing well with others.”

“You’re the boss, mate.  You ought to be thinking of all the angles.  Like, you know, the unexpected.”

“Look, it’s late,” Gunn said, doing a quick recap.  “I’m tired, stinky, and sticky.  You two want to argue this one all night, that’s fine.  Me, I’m going upstairs.  I’ll come back later and clean off the knife.  Right now—ugh.”  And with that, he propped his knife against the wall and headed up the stairs at top speed.

“Yeah, guess Gunn's got a point,” Spike reluctantly agreed, following Gunn upstairs and disappearing from view.

Angel moved to follow them, stopping suddenly as he passed the coffee table, a picture on the front page of the newspaper catching his attention.

“Another girl murdered,” Angel murmured to himself as he gazed at the photo.  “There’s something about her…”

Something about her was familiar, although he couldn’t put his finger on it.  The girl didn’t look like anything special; blonde hair, hazel eyes, a secretive smile resting comfortably on her full lips.  She looked like a girl who had smiled a lot.

Angel shook his head, trying to clear it of extraneous thoughts in order to jar the memory loose.  But other than the cheerful fresh face of the young girl in the picture, nothing was familiar.

She reminded him of Buffy.  Not physically, really.  They did have the same basic characteristics, but it was something else that caught his attention.  It was more like…like maybe she’d been someone he saw when he was helping them, or someone who had gone to school with Buffy.

He would have to remember to ask Willow about it tomorrow.  Maybe she would have an idea who this woman was.  Or rather, who she had been.  Now, she was yet another victim of the serial killer who was terrorizing the city.  How many did that make now?  Five?  Six?  He knew that Gunn still wanted to pursue the matter, but there really wasn’t much they could do.  The police had better resources, better contacts, and first shot at all the evidence.  Besides that, history told him that they would not welcome any help from amateurs.  And in their eyes, anyone who didn’t have a badge was an amateur.

Angel made his way to his suite, stopping briefly in front of Willow’s door.  He toyed with the idea of knocking.  He could kill two birds with one stone; see how she was settling in, and ask her to take a look at the picture in the paper.

But the scent of Chaos Demon mucus was beginning to turn his stomach.  And he certainly didn’t want to track it into Willow’s rooms as well.  No, he would be much better off taking a shower and slipping into bed; the girl in the paper could wait until tomorrow.

It wasn’t like she was going to go anywhere.

Willow slept better than she’d thought she would.  It was always difficult, the first night in a new place, but for some reason she felt more comfortable here than she would have thought possible after such a short amount of time.

A brief commotion had woken her in the night—people moving through the hallway outside of her room—but soon enough sleep had stolen her away again.

And now it was early afternoon.  

Willow was bored.  She had napped, tidied, eaten, washed—both herself and the dishes—dressed, read, and then…and then what?

She felt cooped up, uncomfortable; there ought to be *something* for her to do, but she didn’t really know what.  She was here for a reason, after all.  Even if she didn’t know exactly what that reason was.

It wasn’t that she was afraid to go downstairs, she assured herself.  Willow Rosenberg was afraid of nobody.  Well, that wasn’t quite true.  But it sounded good.

Maybe she could just go downstairs and take a walk, get familiar with the neighborhood.  Take a little stroll.  That didn’t sound too bad.

She put an ear to the door, listening for the telltale sound of footsteps in the hall.  But all was quiet.  Easing the door open, she stepped into the hall and quickly made her way down the stairs and to the front door.

Freedom was within her reach.  And then she heard it.  Her name.

“Willow.”

She turned, feeling guilty, even though she knew that she had nothing to feel guilty about.  “Hey, Angel.  I, um, thought I’d take a little walk.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  An awkward silence, and then, “I’d offer to go with you but…you know.”

She gave a wry smile.  “Angel and sunshine are not mixy.”

“Something like that,” he agreed.  “Maybe when you’re done, we could talk?”

Her mood brightened immediately at the thought.  “Sure.  I’d like that.”

“Enjoy your walk.”

The neighborhood was…different.  The buildings on the Hyperion’s block were mostly rundown factories that had closed their doors long ago, but a couple of blocks over there were signs of life.

Willow strolled down the sidewalk of a residential street, observing the houses around her curiously.

It was a low-income neighborhood.  But the people who lived there were not the type to let that stop them from making a comfortable home.  Well-kept yards with large shade trees surrounded her, and the voices of children at play reached her ears as she slowly made her way down the street.

Kids raced in and out of a corner store, their bikes abandoned by the front door, eyes slightly wary as they watched her approach.

She was an adult, and therefore the enemy, she realized.  Children had their own rules of engagement, and she respected that.  She nodded and smiled, and then walked into the store, in search of something cool and wet.

The artificial chill of the air-conditioned store made her realize just how warm it had been outside.  Or maybe it was simply that she had become accustomed to the colder, damper weather of London.  The 100+ degree summers in Sunnydale had never slowed her down much, but the thought of going back outside into the heat was somewhat less appealing now.

Grabbing a cold Pepsi out of a refrigerated display case, she paid for it, and then left the store, continuing to wander around the neighborhood.  A small thrift store caught her interest, and she resolved to return another day to see what treasures she could find.

With each block she got farther and farther from the Hyperion, and less and less interested in returning.  It was as if she had discovered something here in L.A. that had been missing in her life in London, and she hated to let go of it just yet.

But all too soon the sun started to sink towards the horizon, and Willow knew that she would have to turn around and head back to the hotel.  So, with a glance of regret at her newest find—a small, hole-in-the-wall karaoke bar that seemed to scream ‘ignore me,’ she headed back towards the hotel.  It would take her a good hour to get back, she suspected, so she’d best start now.

It was dark by the time she got back to the Hyperion.  And apparently she had returned just in time, judging by the look on everyone’s faces.

“We were just about to form a search party,” Angel told her.

His voice was calm, yet she still heard a hint of concern.  The fact that he cared warmed her slightly.

Spike gave her an appraising look and a quick nod, then grabbed Gunn and headed for the door.  “Buy you a beer,” he said as they left.

“Sorry,” she told Angel, including Illyria with a quick glance.  “I didn’t mean to be gone so long; I was just enjoying the neighborhood.”

Angel motioned her over to the living room, and they both took a seat on the couch.

Willow had expected Illyria to either follow Gunn and Spike, or head back upstairs.  She was surprised when Illyria instead chose to sit on one of the wing-backed chairs that faced the couch.  Unnaturally blue eyes watched the two of them intently, first one of them, and then the other, as if studying their actions and reactions.

“You were gone for over three hours, Willow.”

It almost sounded like a rebuke, and while her first instinct was to bristle and challenge him, she pushed that reaction aside and apologized.  Again.  “I really am sorry, Angel.  It’s just, it was all so interesting.  So different.  From London, I mean.”

Illyria gave her something that Willow suspected was supposed to be a smile.  It sat on her face uncomfortably, as if it was an _expression she was not used to using.

“You are like a pet I used to have.  A gnagbee.  Small and deceptively meek.  But beneath the surface, you have…unseen defenses.  Very effective ones.”  She cast a quick glance at Angel, “You should not fear for her.  She can take care of herself.”

Willow wasn’t sure whether to be offended or flattered.  On one hand, she had just been likened to a pet.  On the other hand, Illyria had just told Angel in no uncertain terms to mind his own business.

“From her, that’s actually a compliment,” he admitted with a reluctant smile.

“Um, thanks.  Both of you,” she added.  “It’s a little weird, being here all alone.  I guess I just wanted some company, so I thought I’d go see what was outside.”  As soon as she said the words, she realized that they had the potential to be misunderstood.  And they were.

Angel frowned at her, his eyes cast downward.  “Give Spike and Gunn a chance.  They’re…they’re going through a lot right now.  Having you here kind of brings back some stuff that we were all trying to forget.”  He didn’t have to look at Illyria for Willow to get his point.  “It’s going to take them a little time to get over their anger.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Angel. I just meant—it’s different here.  Back in London, people constantly surrounded me.  Giles, Buffy, Xander, a couple dozen slayers, their watchers.  Even when I wasn’t working, I was still working.  You know?  So last night, being all alone, with nothing to do, it was kind of weird.”

“But you called them, didn’t you?  I would think that would help.”

Something indecipherable crept into her eyes and stayed, and Angel found himself studying her carefully.

“No, I didn’t call them.  I…I know this sounds weird.  But I just can’t.”

“Do you need to borrow a phone?  Are you unable to remember the numbers?”  

Illyria’s questions reminded her of an old comedy routine she had heard once, but one look at that serious face told Willow that laughter would be the wrong response.  “No, thanks.  That’s not the problem.  It’s just that,” she sighed, trying to find the words to explain it without sounding like a complete wimp.  “It’s like every time I think about calling home, or getting on a plane and going there, I’m—it’s—I can’t help it, I just get so scared.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed, trying to steady her racing heartbeat.  The terror had resurfaced again, but she was dealing with it.  She *was* getting better at it.

Angel contemplated her confession, turning it over in his mind.  He had not yet shared his suspicion that she was here courtesy of the First Good.  And if she was, then the First must have some sort of reason for keeping her from going home.  He couldn’t guess what it might be, but the smartest course of action right now was for them to follow their instincts.  

Remaining silent, Angel fought the urge to touch her and give comfort.  He considered the compulsion and saw nothing wrong with it, so he gave in.  His hand touched her shoulder, resting there lightly, and she leaned into the contact.  Some of the tension he’d noticed before seemed to slowly dissipate.

His eyes flickered across to Illyria, and he was surprised to see her studying them intently.  A frown touched her lips, and her head tilted slowly to the left as if she was trying to decipher some sort of code, the meaning of which eluded her.

The strange mood was broken by Willow, who pulled away from Angel.  “Sorry to fall apart like that,” she said, her _expression slightly embarrassed.  A shaky smile displaced her embarrassment, and she gave Illyria an apologetic glance.  

“There is no need to apologize,” Illyria told her.  “I am learning quite a bit.  There are not usually any women here to observe.  Only Charles Gunn, and the…vampires.”  

Angel noted that she had refrained from calling him and Spike half-breeds.  Was she learning something about tact, or merely widening her vocabulary?

“I’m—uh—glad I could help,” Willow said, seeming to take Illyria’s comments in stride.

“I will sleep now.  Good night.”

The abrupt good-bye caught them both by surprise, but Willow wished Illyria a good evening as she climbed the stairs.  

Angel got to his feet.  “I guess I’d better go do a quick patrol.  You, uh, want to come too?”

It wasn’t the most suavely delivered invitation, but judging from the way her face lit up, he didn’t think Willow minded.

“Let me just grab my purse, and I’ll be right back,” she called out, already halfway up the stairs.

 

End of Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Patrolling could be almost like a ritual, Willow thought.  There were certain times it was done, certain places you went, even very specific problem areas you checked out every time.

She remembered once, back when she was in high school, a fledgling had been crouching behind a crumbling tombstone.  She and Buffy had been walking and talking, not paying much attention to what was going on around them.  And before she knew it, the vampire had its arms around her shoulders and her head tilted to the side.  She had been seconds away from being a vamp’s version of a double Whopper combo with cheese. 

Fortunately for her, Buffy had been there.  She sized up the situation, and with a witty pun, had dispatched the threat.  Before Willow could say, “Am I dead yet?” she and her friend were brushing dust out of their hair and sharing “eww” looks.

But the upshot was, every time they went past that crumbling tombstone, Willow looked extra hard, just to make sure that no other vampire had gotten the same idea.

Angel seemed to do the same thing.  There were places that he examined carefully, even though common sense, and probably his vampire senses as well, told him that nothing was there.  

Maybe, some time in the distant past, there *had* been something there.  And like her checking that tombstone every single time, Angel checked these places too.

Spike slumped in his chair, knocking back another whiskey and pounding his glass on the bar.  Gunn wasn’t sure, but he suspected that was either number four, or number five.  Probably didn’t matter.  Vampire constitution and all that shit.  He indulged in a brief moment of petty jealousy, wishing *he* could drink for hours on end without waking up in the morgue.  Or, well, not waking up at all.

He replayed that last bit in his mind, searching for clarity.  Or at least coherence.  Maybe he’d had more to drink tonight than he’d thought.

“So what’s got you in such a snit?” he asked the vampire.  There was no reply, but to be honest he hadn’t really been expecting one.  Spike had been morose and silent the entire evening.  He just continued to stare out across the dance floor, as if something in that mass of gyrating bodies held great meaning for him.

Gunn’s gaze swept the room, lingering for a moment on a pair of young ladies who seemed to be at least slightly interested in them.  They weren’t really his type; they seemed impossibly young, even though they probably weren’t any more than a year or two younger than he was.  Still, there were worse ways to spend an evening.

Stuck with a broody vampire, for instance…

He decided to take one last shot before giving up and moving on to greener pastures.  “See, I’m doing the ‘friend’ thing now.  It’s new, and I’m probably not very good at it, but there you go.  I’m asking how you’re doing, showing my concern.  You know?  But I’m not getting anything back from you, and that’s making me wonder if I might be better off spending my time with those ladies over there,” he said, nodding in the general direction of the aforementioned ladies.

Spike’s eyes followed the gesture, summoning up a smirk and a wink for the benefit of the two females.  “It always comes down to a lady, doesn’t it?” he answered back, his words slightly slurred, although Gunn suspected that was more from suppressed emotion than alcohol.

Gunn considered Spike’s words.  They were the key to something, although he wasn’t sure quite what.  Spike and the ladies.  A lady.  Buffy, of course.   He shook his head in disgust.

“Oh, this is rich.  It must run in the family, huh?  First Angel, and now you.  Moping over Buffy.  You’d think there was only one girl in that entire town, the way the two of you fixate on her.”

Spike slumped over the bar.  He grabbed the empty shot glass and began to rhythmically clank it against the top of the bar.  

If looks could kill, the bartender would be doing twenty to life after the glare he sent Spike.  Making it clear that he was in absolutely no hurry, he slowly made his way towards the blond.

“Five more.  In fact, hell—just bring me the bottle.”

The bartender glanced at Gunn, who rolled his eyes.  “Give me the keys, Spike.”  He gave the other man a nod.  “I’ll drive him home.”

“Whatever,” he said, shrugging dismissively.  Pulling a full bottle from behind the bar, he put it in front of Spike.  “Cash first,” he insisted, appearing mollified when Spike placed two twenty-dollar bills on the counter.  He pocketed the money quickly and then high-tailed it back to the other end of the bar, and the buxom brunette there who seemed to hang on his every word.

“So explain this to me,” Gunn insisted, as he watched Spike sink yet another drink.  “What’s so irresistible about this girl?  I mean, I’ve seen her picture, and she’s pretty enough, but, hell, there are dozens of girls in this town that are just as pretty.”  He shook his head, “I just don’t get it.”

At first Gunn thought Spike was going to ignore the question.  He leaned back on his barstool, tilting it far enough back that Gunn feared a collision with the floor was imminent.  Vampire reflexes or not, the laws of gravity would still apply.  But somehow Spike managed to balance there, right on the edge of disaster.

“It’s like this,” he began, his voice suddenly soft.  “You ever hear that song?  About something so wrong, it’s got to be right?”  He returned the barstool back to all fours, and looked down into his drink for a moment, before raising his head and fixing his gaze on Gunn.  “It’s like that.  She’s everything that’s wrong.  She’s a Slayer.  An innocent.  She’s the epitome of all things pure and good,” he said.  “Our souls love her and want to protect her, and our demons long to corrupt her.”  He fell silent, his index finger tracing patterns on the top of the bar.

Gunn didn’t fully understand, although he thought he caught a glimpse of the truth.  “Part of you wants to be good enough for her, while the other part wants to prove that you’re so good that she’ll want you, no matter how bad you are.”

Spike raised his head and gave Gunn a respectful look.  “You’re smarter than you look, Charlie.  Hidden depths, and all that.”

His companion shook his head in dismay.  “My secret’s out.”  He grabbed the bottle and poured himself a glass.  “Just don’t tell anyone,” he added.

Illyria savored the quality of the silence around her as she sat on the couch in her suite.  She was alone, as she often was.  The vampires were out with their humans, hunting or playing, or…whatever they wanted to call it.  

And she was left alone with her thoughts.

This world was disappointing.  That much she had decided long ago.  But leaving was not an option.  Leaving would mean…sleeping.  More waiting.  Another kind of death.

And there were still things here she wished to feel, to…understand.  Things that she had not been able to experience in her other life.  Or at least, not in the same way.

There were things that these people valued:  friendship, beauty, freedom.  Love.  She wondered if she would ever understand why these things were so highly prized.  They didn’t seem all that special to her.  But maybe that was because you had to experience them in order to understand them.

Love, in particular, eluded and confused her.  What was it?  And would she know it if she found it?

According to everything she could see, it was the one thing that made life worth living.  She longed for a purpose, for a thing to hold on to.  Something that would help her make sense of this unstable world she was forced to inhabit.  Perhaps love would give that to her.  

Wesley had fit perfectly into a place inside of her that was previously empty.  Had that been love?

She considered the idea, cross-referencing it with the definitions of love that she had seen on TV and read about in books.  The problem was, no two definitions of it seemed to be the same.  And the closer she thought she got to it, the more slippery it became, falling between her fingers like grains of sand.

Sometimes love seemed to be about safety and security, and knowing that someone would be there for you until both your bodies withered away and died.  The older couples on the TV shows that finished each other’s sentences seemed to epitomize that.  

But then there was another type of love:  two people battling for control of their ‘love,’ each trying to make the rules that the other would be forced to follow.  It was like a contest for dominance, and yet in the end, neither one seemed to hold all the power.

In some ways, that reminded her of her relationship with Spike.  That need to fight, to control, to dominate.  She felt that whenever he challenged her.  But was that love?

And what connection did any of that have with the act of love—what humans called ‘making love?’  If it wasn’t there in the first place, then how would interlocking their bodies create the emotion?

She shook her head in confusion.  None of it made any sense to her.  And, as she always did when she was confused, she thought of Gunn.  

He helped her make sense of life.

It was as simple as that.  There was never any expected payoff on his part, no rules or constraints.  She would simply explain to him what confused her, and he would make sense of it for her.  He didn’t make her feel like he was laughing at her, or as if she were lacking in intelligence.

She was sure that, if she presented the question in the proper way, he would help her make sense of love, too.

Willow and Angel walked side by side through the quiet neighborhoods.  Patrol was mostly a formality tonight; they had seen a couple of teenaged boys trying to break into a car, but after a brief exchange of hard glances, the boys had run off, laughing with false bravado as they disappeared into the night.  Other than that, their walk had been uneventful.

The silence between them stretched on.  Willow wanted to say something, but she wasn’t quite sure what.  Idle chitchat didn’t seem to be Angel’s thing, and although she had lots of questions she wanted to ask him, they weren’t the kind of questions you could just ask outright.  She felt like she wanted to lead up to them subtly.  

“So, uh, are you getting settled in okay?  Is there anything you need?”  

So Angel *did* do chitchat, she thought.  Not very well, admittedly, but she was grateful to him for at least trying.  “Yeah, it’s really cool.  Thanks.  I still need to get a couple of things, like a radio, maybe, and some books.  More clothes, probably.  And candles.  Lots of candles.  Oh, and maybe some magic supplies.  Just in case, you know…” her babble trailed off when he stopped walking and turned to face her.

“You’re planning on staying for a while, then?”

His tone of voice gave her no clue to his thoughts on the matter.  Maybe he hadn’t meant for her to stay for more than a couple of days, she thought with a sudden jolt of alarm.

“I—if that’s okay?  I don’t think I can go home yet.”  Again the panic rushed through her at the thought of leaving.  Nope, she definitely couldn’t go home yet.  “It’s okay, isn’t it?” she asked again, feeling very small and alone.

Angel hastened to reassure her.  “Of course you can stay as long as you want.  I just…I wasn’t sure what your plans were.  The way you were talking, it—well, it made it sound like you were in for the long haul.”

She shrugged, frowning slightly.  “I don’t really know.  These feelings I get—they don’t give me a timetable or anything.  I think I’m just stuck here until whoever or whatever it is, decides to let me go back.”  

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Willow’s quick nod was her only answer.

Angel gave her a slightly guilty look.  “I think—maybe—I might have some light to shed on what’s going on.  Well, not much light.  But maybe a little…”

He looked uncomfortable, which made Willow wonder what he was hiding.  Because that was definitely what his body language was telling her, loud and clear.

“What?”  She tried to gather up some healthy indignation or an accusing glare, but try as she might, all she could muster was a bit of curiosity.

Leaving that tidbit of information dangling between them, Angel started walking again, leaving Willow to catch up with him.  Since he seemed to be on the edge of telling her something that might affect her situation, she decided that standing there and being annoyed at him would have to wait.

He smiled as she caught up with him, slowing his pace just a bit so that she could match it.  “I didn’t tell you everything when we talked earlier,” he admitted.  “I mean, about our encounter with the First Good.”  A sidelong glance at her face told him that he had her full attention.  “He made some rather vague comments about the future, and how someone might show up to help us.”

“Me?”

“Maybe.  Probably.”

“Why?  Why do you think it was me he was talking about?”

“There will be one who comes to you, to help.  It may not seem like much—she may not seem like much—but you need her.”  He repeated aloud the words the First Good had spoken to them. 

“Huh?”

“It’s what he said.  I think he was talking about you.  And when you appeared in the lobby, the light—it was like the light that accompanied the First Good.  So we thought, maybe the two things were connected.”

They walked in silence as Willow considered the new information she’d been given.  In all honesty, Angel’s news came as a bit of a relief.  If her sudden translation here was courtesy of the First Good, then at least she didn’t have to worry about some great evil thing that had conspired to get her out of London for its nefarious purposes.

On the other hand, it probably meant that some great new evil was brewing.  Because The Powers That Be were not in the habit of just sending people hither and yon purely for entertainment purposes.  If she was here, it was because something bad was about to happen.

“Anything else you want to tell me?” she asked, white teeth nibbling on her lower lip as she continued to think.

“Uh, well…”  

Angel looked nervous again.  And yet at the same time, she sensed something else.  A bit of—what—happiness, perhaps?  

“I also—he gave me a gift,” he answered, his voice quiet.  “He secured my soul.”


End of Chapter 9

“Closing time,” the bartender announced.  Since only a half-dozen people still sat at the bar, and most of them were already in the advanced stages of departure, Gunn figured the declaration was probably mostly for Spike’s benefit.

“Ready to go, grumpy?” Gunn asked, nudging his companion with his elbow.  He was doing his best to sound cheerful.  Which wasn’t easy.  The vampire seemed determined to bring his mood down to the same depressing level as his own.

“M’not grumpy.  Just sleepy,” Spike muttered.

Not for the first time that evening, Gunn cursed his decision to keep Spike company.  The women he had exchanged looks with earlier had left long ago, deciding to try their luck elsewhere.  For the last three hours, he had listened to good dance music going to waste, and Spike, who had set off on a long, rambling story about his life in Sunnydale.  

Spike had also proceeded to get himself slowly, but completely, drunk.  Gunn had always wondered whether such a thing was even possible.  With their constitution, and their lack of a circulatory system, it didn’t seem likely.

Apparently it *could* happen.  It just took a long time.  And several hundreds of dollars worth of alcohol.

“Fine,” Gunn sighed.  “Time to go, sleepy.”

“Where are my keys?  Someone stole my keys.”  

Spike made a show of clumsily searching his pockets in an attempt to find his car keys.  What he thought he’d do with them if he found them, Gunn didn’t even want to contemplate.  Driving in his condition would be like trying to thread a needle with a watermelon:  impossible, and messy.

“I’ve got your keys.  Remember, you promised to let me drive, if I promised to watch you get completely shit-faced?”  So, technically nobody had promised anything, but he considered it one of those unspoken agreements.

“Oh.  Yeah.  Hey, stop by the liquor store on the way home, okay?  Wanna get a little buzz going.”

Gunn stood and rolled his eyes.  Yeah, that was gonna happen.  

“C’mon, Spike.  Get your ass up.”  He pulled Spike to his feet, and then nearly fell over as the vampire leaned heavily against him.  They weaved and zigzagged their way out of the bar, barely making it to Spike’s old clunker before collapsing against it.  “Gotta see if we can get you some 1% fat blood.  Or maybe low-carb blood.  If you’re planning on me hauling you around anymore, you’re gonna have to lose some weight.”

The silence that greeted his pronouncement told him that Spike had finally passed out, a fact that made the rest of the trip home much easier.  

Upon arrival at the hotel, Gunn considered his options.  Leaving Spike sprawled in the back of the car was infinitely appealing, but sunrise was only an hour or two away, so that idea probably wouldn’t fly.  Waking Angel and asking for help was a less than an exciting idea.  So, in the end, he half dragged, half carried the vampire into the lobby and dumped him on the couch.  Sunlight couldn’t touch him here, and chances were that he’d wake up in the middle of the morning and wander up to his room.

His responsibility fulfilled, Gunn made his way wearily up to his own bedroom and fell fast asleep, not even bothering to undress or crawl under the covers.

End of Chapter 10

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