She couldn't sleep.
It had been that way for a while now. She always felt tired, until her head hit the pillow, and then she was wide awake. She thought that it might have been a side effect of her ever growing powers, but that's what she told her self, when she wanted to feel better. She knew that it was because there was no one in the bed with her.
Ever since Kennedy had left, she hadn't been able to sleep more than an hour a day, and it was never restful. She always seemed to wake up more tired than before, and dripping with cold sweat that reminded her of the terrors she had faced in that short time.
Tonight, however, she would get no sleep. She threw the sheets off of her body, and went to the closet to dress. She avoided mirrors now, and she knew that she could just will herself into different clothes, but there was something about dressing that seemed to keep her grounded, now that she had lost everything else.
The black dress that she chose had once been a different color, but she couldn't remember what that color was. She could feel the painful memory of where the dress had come from, waiting to rush through her mind, but she kept it locked away, not caring now. It was black, and it matched her hair.
She strode into the night, the chill in the air barely crossing her mind, and made her way to Wolfram and Hart. She could sense Angel's thoughts when they lingered on her, and she wanted to know what he was thinking about. She thought she knew, sporadic as they were, and full of angst.
The parking garage was full of Angel's cars, but she passed them and headed for the elevator, throwing the doors of it open with a thought, and making it rise as soon as she entered it. She was almost to his office/penthouse before the elevator realized it should shut the doors, and then she was there, standing behind his desk.
She could smell the blood.
There was no trail, she noticed, and that was good. The messier it was the harder it became to cover it up. When she reached the door to his bedroom, she found herself pause, and try to push the face of a redheaded teenager out of her head, who kept whispering, 'This is your fault'. For some reason, it took longer than the elevator doors.
She managed to get rid of the head, but the words still seemed to ring in her ears, but she pushed the door open anyways.
It looked like a massacre.
It always did on the first glance, but Willow soon recognized the tell tale signs of Angel's fury. Even in the moonlight, blood could be seen, but perhaps that was just part of her powers. Angel had sensed her coming, and he was curled in a ball in the corner next to the door. In the opposite corner, by the window, shining in the moonlight was the body, if it could be called that.
The corpse was ravaged, the throat torn out, the intestines spilled everywhere . . . Willow looked away.
Angel looked remarkably clean. He always did. The only sign of his work was the bow tie of his tuxedo, which was at an odd angle. That, and he wouldn't look at her face.
All of the sudden, Willow realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out. Relief flooded out of her lungs, but just as quickly, the vile smell of death rushed in. It almost made her eyes water, if there had been any water left in them.
Willow looked at Angel again, and then grabbed him by the arm, pulling him into the other room, where she could breath more easily. He didn't fight her, but whined as he was pulled away from the blood.
When the door to the other room was shut, and Angel was sitting in his chair behind his desk, he finally looked at her, standing a few feet away from his desk forlornly. "Willow." He breathed barely loud enough to hear, but she did.
Willow looked back towards the door, hearing the voice in her head, whispering, 'This is your fault'. Trying to cut it out, she spoke. "You should have called me earlier."
He grimaced. "I thought it would be different this time. It had been so long since . . ." He trailed off.
"Three months and sixteen days. I know, but you should have called me earlier." She repeated.
"I . . . I didn't want you to know." Angel looked away from her face, seemingly ashamed. "That was stupid, though. You always know."
'This is your fault' "So do you, though I haven't killed anyone in a very long time." She wasn't sure why she had expected that to cheer him, but it failed miserably. He closed his eyes, and grimaced, recalling all that he did. She took a step towards him, but stopped.
She wasn't afraid, but there were some things that you had to get through on your own. He didn't seem to notice her indecision.
He cleared his throat, and opened his eyes to look into hers, and in them she could see all that he had hoped for and all that he had lost, but it was gone just as quickly. "If you're ready, I'm sending you to another Dollhouse. I thought it might be nice to see an old friend."
"Besides Tara?" She whispered, but he grimaced as if he'd heard her.
"You will be using, Ms. Maclay's wedge for the demonstration." She sighed, but he ignored it. "Here is your ticket, and instructions, to be opened on the plane, you know the drill. Do you have any questions?"
Willow shook her head. She never did.
"Alright. I'll see you when you get back then." He said, standing up. His gaze fell on the door to his bedroom.
Then she was worried. "You'll be able to take care of that?" She asked. He nodded. She waited to see if his eyes told the same story, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Okay." She walked back towards the elevator, thinking about what she had seen in his eyes earlier, and then stopped and turned back to him as the elevator beeped open.
He was facing the door, his face a mask of fear, and she had no words of comfort for him, only, "We all want the release, Angel, but you can't have Angelus." She saw his head swing around, shock in his eyes, but she was already gone.