Willow wants to look away, but she can't.
There is something magnetic in the horrible scene before her, something tragic and beautiful, of course, as all truly tragic things are at their core. She can't quite make her eyes obey her brain's command to look at her shoes, or the star-sprinkled sky, or the shadows that engulf the edges of this strange landscape—anywhere but there. At him—the grief-stricken vampire crouching in the middle of the dark cobblestone alley with a limp figure cradled in his arms and one at his side. She knows those figures well, loves them well, and even as the shock and grief begin to crash over her as they did on some other terrible day (Your shirt…), Willow fights to rein in the emotions and force rationality. Order. Control.
It surprises her when she finds it, when the calming realization clicks into place and she can form a coherent thought that doesn't involve turning her pain and rage at the injustice of it outward, making someone pay. She almost laughs with giddy relief at her ability to remain … well, Willow. And at the other truth she is beginning to grasp.
Order. Control. Rationality.
First and foremost, this isn't real. Spike is not kneeling there rocking a crumpled, lifeless Dawnie in his arms, and Buffy, sweet battered unbreakable Buffy, is not lying dead on the ground next to them.
A spell. There was a spell. There is a spell, she amends—she can feel the tingling sensation prickling the back of her neck in that old intimate way that means power and feels like teetering on the brink of self-destruction.
She must do damage control. Restore him to his own senses, figure out why they are here, what this means, what to do about it. She kneels next to him, almost touches him. Doesn't. Somewhere in the dusty recesses of memory she hears him threatening to push a broken bottle through her face if she doesn't cooperate, and, infinitely worse, to kill Xander if she fails. That's not who he is anymore, she knows that, but forgetting is so long.
"Spike," she says softly, and he flinches away from her, and God, he's crying as if that brand new soul has been ripped to shreds. One of his hands clutches the part of Buffy's hair that is still shiny and golden, fingers carefully avoiding the blood-matted roots. The other hand is tangled in Dawn's long brown tresses, grasping desperately. Willow can't look at them, even knowing what Spike doesn't. "This isn't real."
"I killed them," he chokes out, the words muffled in Dawn's still shoulder.
"No, you didn't," Willow argues automatically. "Drusilla did." Wait, that's not true either. She shakes her head, tries again. "Besides, they're not dead. I mean—they are," she says, nodding toward the two limp forms with a wince. "But the real Buffy and Dawn, they're fine. This is an illusion, Spike. We're not even really here."
He turns a fierce, naked blue gaze on her and for just a moment she draws back in fear because there is something of the old Spike in those eyes. Something single-minded, driven, lovesick and broken, something that wants bloody vengeance for those he believes he's lost (and who knows that feeling better than Willow?).
She steels herself and continues. "We did a spell. We're in the spell now, I think. We're supposed try to figure out what's wrong with you."
He laughs at that, a harsh, wretched sound. "What's wrong with me."
"Spike. We don't have time for this." Willow's tone carries an impatient edge. "I don't know how long we've got, but I do know we need to hurry. I can feel that. Buffy and Dawn are fine. You didn't kill them. No one killed them. They're back in the basement waiting for us to finish this and come back with answers. So snap out of it and help me."
Slowly, as if waking from a dream, Spike raises his head and looks at Willow. "They're all right?" he asks, and she feels a pang of pity at the earnestness in his eyes, the cautious need to believe what she's telling him.
"Yes, I'm sure they are."
He glances back down at his lap, and sees nothing. Where Dawn's pale body had been is empty space, the ground beneath his knees. The hand that held Buffy's hair is also empty, and he turns to see that she has disappeared as well. He feels like crumpling to the street with the sweet agony of relief.
Willow stands up and dusts her pants off. "Let's go," she orders.
He raises his eyebrow questioningly, still reeling and not at all certain he's not going to pass out. "Where d'you suggest, Red?"
"It's your mind," she says, shrugging. "Lead the way."
xXxXx
"How long are we gonna let this go on?" Dawn asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice. "Where is that blood coming from?"
No one answered her. They had all stopped answering her fifteen minutes ago, when the ceaseless, increasingly hysterical stream of questions had reached fever pitch. Frustrated by the lack of response, she suddenly started forward, approaching the circle.
"Dawn, get back!" Buffy snapped, darting over to catch her sister's arm and yank her away from the glowing red globe of energy that had swallowed Spike and Willow. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Someone's got to stop it, Buffy! This can't be right. Are we just going to let it keep going? What's the matter with you?"
"Dawn, please," Giles said, and his studied tolerant tone was decidedly more strained at the edges. "Your hysterics are not helping the situation. If you can't control yourself, go upstairs and wait for us to finish."
Dawn glared daggers at him across the room, and he avoided her gaze, rubbing wearily at his temples. "Finish what? You're not doing anything! They are; they're doing something pretty damn intense from the looks of it, and I can't just sit by and watch—"
Stepping between her sister and her Watcher, Buffy placed her hands on Dawn's shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Dawnie, I know this is scary, okay? We don't know what's going on either. But Giles thinks it could be dangerous to try to break the spell now. So we're doing the best thing we can do for them. Just try to calm down."
"Yeah, like it's that easy," she said contemptuously, but she held back her questions for a while.
Several long minutes passed, and then Xander spoke for the first time since the spell had begun. "I've seen Willow do scarier stuff than this," he said. "She made it through then, and she will now."
"Are you going to tell the yellow crayon story again?" Anya asked. At Xander's irritated glance, she amended, "Because that never gets old."
"I don't mean Black-Haired Willow's Reign of Terror. That was bad, yeah, but on the freaky-mojo meter, there was one that topped it."
"Oh, are you talking about the spell we did to bring Buffy back from the dead, when Willow coughed up a snake and we all got distracted by those motorcycle demons and left Buffy to dig herself out of her own grave?" Anya nodded wisely. "That was worse than this. And in retrospect, a bad idea all-around, since Buffy was in heaven and didn't even want to be brought back."
"Thanks for the recap, An," Xander sighed.
Anya smiled. "You're welcome."
Inside the eerie red light, Spike and Willow remained locked together, the pool of blood between them spreading over the cement floor like an oilslick. Checking to make sure no one was watching her, Dawn edged a little closer.
xXxXx
"I don't know where the bloody hell we're supposed to be going," Spike grumbles. "You telling me this is your brilliant plan, to wander the streets until we stumble on something that makes a damn bit of sense? So far nothing does, Red."
"For the hundredth time, we are in your mind, Spike. We keep walking, we're bound to catch a clue." She frowns. "Besides, what's your brilliant plan? Track down Drusilla and catch up on old times?"
He shoots her a glare. "Bite your tongue. Seen all of that one I can stomach for one night." His brow furrows. "Tell me, was she always quite so looney? I mean, I know she was a little off, but—"
"Actually, she seems way more lucid in your brain than she ever did in real life."
"Huh. Funny, that." He suddenly stops, flinging an arm out so that Willow walks into it and comes to a halt beside him. She looks at him questioningly as he tilts his head, listening hard. "Down here," he says, pointing to an alley off the main cobblestone path they've been following. She opens her mouth to ask what's going on, but he grasps her elbow and steers her along beside him until they are safely ensconced in the shadows between two buildings. "Quiet," he whispers fiercely. "Something's coming."
xXxXx
Please let me know if you're still interested and would like me to keep this story going. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed or sent me PMs so far, especially the Anonymous people who I can't reply to personally. Always happy to hear from you!