14.
Counterparts

"You coming?" Buffy called from somewhere down the connecting hallway.

Angel stepped from the elevator. He knew that she'd gone right, so he followed. When he reached the t-intersection, he turned left without pause. All of the rooms were to the left, only the staircase lay to the right.

Buffy waited for him in front of an open doorway about midway down the corridor, Willow still cradled against her chest. She went inside as he started toward her. The crosses nailed to each of the doors were excellent motivators. He traversed the distance at a pace just short of a run. Buffy was quicker. By the time he reached her, she was standing in the doorway again, blocking his way, having already deposited Willow on the bed.

He could hardly blame her for wanting to care for Willow more than she cared to deal with him. He was intruding—that much was plain from the impatience worn on her face—but it seemed like more than that. The entire situation had an undertone that suggested Buffy was protecting Willow. That struck him as strange. She's already made it clear that she doesn't see me as a threat. It doesn't get much clearer than her marching into my cell and letting me go without saying a single word. She wouldn't have done that had she felt they had anything to fear from me, yet she's still protecting Willow, like I might hurt her.

He stared so intently past Buffy into the room that it startled him when she spoke, "We didn't."

We didn't what?

He hadn't said anything, so it threw him even more when Buffy picked up on his confusion and started to explain, "Remember the question you asked earlier? It hasn't been that long ago. I kinda though 'I don't know' wouldn't cut it, so…"

Even this vague annoyance bothered him coming from her. He nodded, hoping to smooth things over.

She scarcely seemed to notice. "We didn't have anything to do with releasing your soul. It was Wesley and—" Her brow pinched at the point between her eyes. "Wolfram and Hart groupie, pretty with the clashy, tragic fashion sense of a fourteen-year-old boy—concerning women, I mean—blue hair, tight red leather…"

Angel thought he had time to fill in, "Illyria."

But Buffy picked up again, talking over him, "Stuff no woman in her right mind—" Surprisingly, she stopped. "Yeah, I guess." Recognition came into her eyes, belying the wondering hesitation in her voice. She'd heard the name. "Whatever. They sort of splatted in the lobby, so it seems like a fair guess. Giles knows more about it than I do. Why don't you go ask him?"

When she fell silent, Angel saw that what he'd been taking for impatience or indifference was clearly fatigue. She's exhausted.

"Of course," he said with a bow that only affected his head. His selfishness had just been made palpably plain. I suppose it's no wonder. She performed a miracle tonight, swatting the whale's nose to gain my freedom. Willow had no small part in that herself. Then in the middle of the night while they were both recovering, they had more of my nightmare dumped in their laps. And here I am asking even more of them.

He turned away, only thinking to say, "Thanks," as Buffy shut the door. Maybe she heard him. Maybe she didn't. It didn't matter either way. He couldn't bother them again.

Angel had no idea where to begin to look for Giles. He decided to check downstairs. That was about the only place he could go without disturbing anyone else's sleep. Besides, the press of cross-after-cross nailed to door-after-door was giving him a headache. He got clear of them as quickly as possible.

Once he was on the stairs and able to think, it occurred to him just how unfair some of his earlier thoughts had been. Of course the people I've victimized would shut me out or try to hurt me. They hate me almost as much as I hate myself. That's how it should be. But that isn't the case here. It isn't fair for me to think of them that way. For whatever reason, they've given me a pass. I suppose for Willow that makes sense. I think she understands too well for her to blame me.

The reek of harsh cleaners hit Angel as he entered the lobby, causing his stomach to roil. For some ungodly, unknown reason someone had mopped that night—not all over, just in one spot. He dodged it, ducking down the hallway beside the intake desk. The lights were out. It was too quiet. But hints of a very human odor tinged the air, competing with the cleaner. Someone had made coffee.

The smell grew stronger as he followed his nose to the room where the coffee maker had been when he'd lived there. Nothing had changed. It was still in exactly the same place. Unfortunately, the room was vacant. He touched the carafe. It was empty, but warm. I must've just missed whoever was here.

Well, I guess that's that. There's nothing left for me to do, but wait.

He sat down without bothering to turn on the lights. His mind was behaving as badly as his stomach. It churned through a decoupage of events, places, people—no fragment substantial enough to provide more than a flash impression.

Eventually his mind calmed enough to hold onto a thought: Vampires don't just become human. Not and keep their powers. Either Buffy's found the best cheat in the magical world, or she isn't who she claims to be. Not exactly. She has to be from somewhere else.

He sniffed a soft snicker. But where? Another reality? The thought of another round of 'musical persons' almost made him laugh. His smile held a measure of mordancy. Not because of her, but because of how the world seemed to work for them. Against them. Maybe she's the product of some magical mishap? That's never happened before.

He had no real way of being certain of anything other than that there were two. It was the most reasonable explanation he could find for her sudden, inexplicable humanity. And if that's true, there's no reason for her to feel anything about me all. Though, in fairness, if she is from another reality, there's no telling what my alternate self has done to her. There's no telling whether he even exists.

No, she knew me. She knew me well enough to recognize the changes without the usual cautious observation and questioning.

Either that or she knows Willow well enough to follow her cues.

But who she is doesn't really mean anything. What matters is what she's done. Even after everything that's happened, she still doesn't hate me. She did everything in her power to help me. They all did.

He fell into a lethargic, angst-riddled haze, head in hand, staring blankly at the tabletop, wondering at their kindness. Untold time passed before someone broke through his bemusement.

"Where is Wesley?"

That Angel didn't flinch spoke volumes to exactly how absorbed he was. Her approach had been so stealthy he hadn't heard her. It was easy to tell from the pain promised by her tone that it was Illyria.

Her tone didn't matter. Her question did. It shook Angel from his stupor by inches. It was an extremely good question, one that made him feel foolish. He didn't look up for fear that his discomfort might show.

What was it Buffy said? 'Splattered?' 'Splatted?' Neither thing sounded graceful, but they didn't sound fatal either. What they sounded like is the sort of minor accident Wesley used to have all the time. If that's all that had happened, he should be here. I assumed he was.

But Buffy didn't tell me to go find Wesley. She'd said go find Giles. And someone cleaned—

Illyria demanded, "Where did they take Wesley?"

Angel countered, "Was he hurt?" Irritation came through in his tone. Had Illyria cared, he might've explained that he was displeased with Buffy's lack of disclosure.

She didn't seem to notice. "He had been shot."

Angel was on his feet before her statement was finished. He headed for the door, explaining the obvious, "He's at the hospital," though it must not have been obvious to Illyria. He brushed past her. "Let's go." This was something he could do.

The rain had stopped. All of the grayness had been wrung from the sky by golden, peachy light. At any other time that would've been wonderful, but right now it meant nothing. Willow had returned to the spot she'd abandoned on Kennedy's arrival. Her eyes were closed in concentration. It might've been hailing, or blowing up a blizzard and she wouldn't have noticed.

She was too focused on the overwhelming tangle of new ideas, experiences and desires that raged like a maelstrom inside of her. She'd taken the remaining light into herself instead of simply snuffing it out. Not just Kennedy's power, but everything she ever was. With the other vengeance demons, Willow hadn't cared. This time she'd cared too much. She'd had to know what Kennedy knew and it cost her dearly.

At the forefront of the clamor, agonizing pain intermingled with terror, raw and brutal. Willow's own anxiety made her so susceptible that it was nearly impossible to shake completely free of its effect. Kennedy had been trying to teleport away. Willow had stopped her without intending to. Her reaction had been involuntary. The idea that she hadn't been in complete control of her power added to her fear and doubt, which in turn eroded her control. The whole thing was nice and vicious cycley.

I can't lose it. Must keep a grip on reality, not to mention me—the me that was me before—

I won't see my way through this if I can't do that.

Umm…

Semi-cogent thought led to reason, then to recognition. Something prickled the edges of her consciousness. It was a weirdness so subtle that only its dissonance made it stand out.

'Dissonance' was exactly right. Like two notes struck on either end of an instrument, one sharp, one flat. The sounds were so enduring, so dissimilar they set her teeth on edge.

The sounds weren't sounds at all. They were energies. Two energies so alien, one to the other, that existing together they added to the madness, the feeling that leaping out of her skin might be preferable to trying to exist inside of it.

Her focus changed. She allowed everything else to go to hell, concentrating on one thing: the dissonance. What with everything else, it was a strange thing to have captured her attention. The fact that not feeding any more energy into the turmoil made it better was a merely pleasant side effect.

Maybe if the two resonances can be made to match, my other problems might get better, maybe even tolerable. It seems worth a shot.

The trouble was she didn't know how. Every meditation she attempted felt as unwieldy as trying to pick up a sheet of paper from a flat surface with a pair of salad tongs. It's like I just don't have the right tools. Which makes the effort seem useless, hopeless, but oddly enough I still feel better for trying. Maybe it's just the act of concentrating on something else that's helping. I don't know, but whatever the case, I need to keep going.

She did the same, simple visualization exercise with stubborn persistence, seeing the two things as congruent, willing them to sameness until she wanted to scream. Suddenly, things got better the same moment they got weirder. The temperature dropped ten degrees. A blustery wind swirled around her. White noise filled the clearing. She opened her eyes to the crackle of driving rain, the rolling clap of distant thunder. All of the warm peachy light was gone.

Her surroundings were the same, painted in hues of dishwater gray. The trees were the same sizes, in the same places with the same number of limbs. The same clusters of wildflowers bent to the beat of raindrops that beaded on them, in them, muting their colors, making them glisten. Okay, so, it's raining. No big.

But there was no preamble. No gradual temperature drop. No gusty winds. No light pitter pat. The storm started as if by a switch.

Something this wiggy might be excusable if I had 'oops, poofed' somewhere different, but I haven't gone anywhere.

So, what was it? Some kind of weird 'time dilation' thing? Did I conk out? I mean, I get that I haven't exactly been keeping track, but this is a little ridiculous.

She sprang to her feet, whirling around, trying to find the sun, pinpoint the time, and found that she wasn't in the same place at all. This was the same glade down to the last detail—every detail except for the ones that mattered. There was no house, no driveway, no sign that people had been there at all.

For several moments, it was all she could do to collect herself. Her heart ran frantic in her chest. Her breath heaved like a bellows. Imagined insects skittered over her skin. She put her hand to her head. Though the rain still left her untouched, her brow felt clammy.

On second thought, being somewhere else without actively going anywhere else might be the worst flub of my life. Teleporting isn't easy. It takes huge amounts of self-control and more focus than just about anything else I can think of. Pan-dimensional teleporting is—

Umm…

I don't even want to think about it. But either I 'oopsed' myself or the house. Of the two, I'll take myself. Disappearing a whole house would be—without even thinking about it—

Yeah, 'myself' is the better choice. Better careless than insane.

Like that 'better' is that much better. Oopsying myself to who-knows-where is a terrible sign to rival all other terrible signs, an omen to make some brat with a triad of sixes scribbled on his scalp look idiotic. Not that that particular image was all that scary to begin with. It was pretty silly. This isn't.

This is bad. Very, very, very, very bad. I need to get all my cookies in the same jar or this is going to end badly. Very, very badly. As badly as anything ever has. And that includes all of the oldies but goodies from the Torah. A little rain of frogs will seem like child's play.

Suddenly self-conscious, Willow looked up. Clouds boiled overhead, black and foreboding. Just facing into the driving rain was hard, despite her weird immunity. She found a light spot she felt must be the sun and flopped down. I'm being so overly, vulgarly melodramatic. Reality check. If that spot's right, it's the middle of the afternoon, which is weird, but—

She peered intently into the forest where the house had been, down the hillside she knew was there just beyond the tree line. I'm not in Kansas anymore.

Conviction swept through her like a drug. Instead of making her woozy, she felt solid, grounded, lucid, good…

The thing about gods—hell or otherwise—they might seem horrible set loose in our world, but they're never as bad as they could be. They're limited by the rules—fun stuff like all those wonderful physical laws. They're effectually hobbled by them in ways we'd never see if we saw them on their home turf.

I don't know that, but I know that. It's like an inkling. I can't substantiate it, but that doesn't matter. I know that I'm as horrible as I can be because I am of this world. I might even be as horrible as they are. I don't know that either. What I do know is that trying to pretend that I'm anything more than a monster will—

Oh. It seemed insane to go from glowering to smiling in the space of a heartbeat. Insane or not, the first hints of understanding changed her. Huh. I get it.

Or I think I get it. Anyway, I have a theory. I didn't change 'nothing.' The hum's gone and that was definitely a 'something.' Kennedy hummed funny. It was her essence that was humming funny. The changes I made changed my hum, which changed my location. I did that—like on purpose and everything. It wasn't an 'oops.' I just didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what would happen when I matched my frequency to hers.

And how could I? It isn't like there's a beginner's guide to extra-dimensional travel.

Willow imagined a travel brochure called 'Dante's Escape.' Instead of a white sandy beach or some mountainous vista, the place pictured was closer to the surface of Mars. Something tells me that wouldn't sell very well.

Anyway, it isn't that it isn't a well documented subject. It isn't documented at all. A handful of godlike-scary creepy-cretins can do this by choice. They aren't talking. The rest of us are stuck using specific rituals to reach very specific places. The whole thing goes a bit like baking a cake, without the moist, yummy goodness. No need for frosting. Just a recipe. No clue how it works. This might be 'it.'

The whole great big, beautiful 'it' all in one minor fluke. I'll have to test my theory. I really need to test it 'cause if this is the cheesy 'it' at the end of the maze, I'm going to need to know exactly how it works to get Buffy home safe and sound. But—

She looked down, fixating on what she saw.

Umm…

So, clothing might be a good place to start.

That was a minor detail. The rest of the 'minor' was looking pretty 'major' to Willow, though her complexion probably didn't have anything to do with the flub. Whatever the case, she was afflicted with a pallor reserved for kabuki girls, all characters named 'Death' and the comeliest of fairytale princesses.

It wasn't so bad—not the nudity, the paleness—she'd never been Hawaiian Tropic model material, after all. It might've been totally forgettable if it wasn't for the luster that marked her as being something on the yonder side of human. Her body reflected the light—the little bit there was—as if it had been carved from the largest pearl ever. That was as closest comparison she could come up with as she examined her hand. That'll be fun in daylight.

The icing on the weirdness was her hair. It was as black as the cliché demanded. And that's always such a good sign.

The next weird thing that happened would probably be a total yawner for her. She stood on the threshold of absolute invulnerability to weirdness of all types, conjuring an illusion. A blue peasant dress with poofy sleeves and a lemon chiffon skirt beat the heck out of a raggedy black robe or a kimono. She even added the red hair ribbon just because. A dab of makeup, mostly to make her lips just that red, and Disney princessdom was totally her thing.

At least my sense of humor still works. That could be a good thing. The people who know me might be less wigged by my weirdness if they know I can still find the funny.

For several heart-stopping moments, Wolfram and Hart's security jackals remained hidden behind the shield of the open metal door. Then they spilled out, a wave of mercenaries in shades of black from the woven sheen of ballistic nylon to the cold matte of Parkerized steel.

Wesley fired into their numbers. They tumbled back, domino-like, tangling with each other in the narrow space. Wesley searched frantically for options as he inched away from them, toward Illyria. There were none. They'd sacrificed the only cover to the enemy's advance. He could only delay the inevitable. The thought leeched all moisture from his mouth. Time moved with such desperate languor as to slow the palpitations of his heart.

Men swelled through the aperture, like rats they scrabbled over the fallen, and Wesley prayed. He prayed that Illyria would have some idea how to proceed, that she might have some trick up her sleeve, some means of cheating fate.

Resistance was a finite thing, limited to eight thunderous claps, each one jarring. Wesley expended them, then wheeled and ran to the pulsing roar of return fire.

Being shot was inevitable. It was like everything he'd imagined and nothing like it at all. He knew it would hurt. That much was painfully obvious. What he couldn't foresee was the effect of the impact. It was like a great hand swatted him just below his ribs. Searing pain coiled out. The bullet a pebble forming ripples in the pond of his flesh. He spun like a coin, sent whirling with the flick of a finger. His legs crumpled. He fell.

The pain fell too. It fell away, dismissed as one burden too many by his addled brain. Anchored to physicality by only one wrist, he somehow bypassed impact with the roof. Something had latched on. It dragged him down. He blinked and his stability was gone. He plummeted into despair, to his death, toward the street below.

An eternity passed before light consumed him. His body bounced, not against asphalt. The surface he lay on was feathery soft. He twitched, dazed, too feverish and pained to comprehend. A milky halo suffused his world. A chill cut through his bones. His teeth chattered in blatant disregard of the truth: he was buried under so many blankets he could scarcely wriggle his toes.

Fingertips, chilly, but soft like rose petals, caressed his forehead, trailing down his cheek. Large hands—adult hands—but not as large or rough as Father's. These hands had never hit him. Hands this large meant comfort. Larger hands meant pain.

A film of sweat, not just moist but tacky, coated his skin. The touch, which was supposed to be soothing, dragged.

"There, there," his mother cooed. She leaned down, her face swimming into view, framed in frost, like a windowpane in winter. Her lips brushed his brow.

When she moved off, he saw past her to a cluttered desk. Books and papers rose stacked from its surface, a miniature city of information. This was his room. His books. It was always books.

A lithograph of a foxhunt, men on horses and hounds, rendered in watercolor hung against a frosty cerulean background to the left of his desk. He used to remember who the artist was, but for the life of him he couldn't dredge it from the haze. He puzzled, arriving at 'Henry.' But was that a first name or a last?

It was no use. That was all he had.

Light flared. A dizzying rush stole his equilibrium. The mattress remained firmly beneath him, yet he fell. His body jerked. He shut his eyes. The light remained, blinding him. Though he remained swaddled in blankets, the bed dropped away.

Someone had hold of his wrist. They were squeezing it so tightly, it hurt. It hurt so much. His back hurt worst of all. Pain radiated out, tendrils with claws, barbed wire pulled tight, lancing, tearing, shredding.

He fell.

A sudden, bone-jarring crash extinguished his breath. He wheezed. Everything burned, and then nothing. Everything faded to nothing.

Nothing.

Within the tenebrous depths of this place, out of place, chilled and muzzy, he heard voices. How long had it been? Some time had to have passed. There were people huddled around him now. He knew that, but their movements were as indistinct as their voices, like a buzz, muffled, muddled. It was as if the blankets had swallowed him whole. He lay nested, cocooned.

He struggled to isolate one voice—to discern what one of these people was saying. It seemed crucial that he knew. His fate hinged on what these men were doing. They were all men; all similar, throaty voices; each deeply resonant in their own way. They wavered in and out, one voice blending into another until all were indistinct.

He clung to the fragments that had filtered through. "Stat," an order, exigent in its simplicity. 'Make it quick.' 'Do it now.' "Blood," the thing he was "losing too much" of. His life leaked away. He knew this, but it was beyond his control. He trusted that these earnest men would do their best.

The men shook him, bumped him, prodded him. Each touch seemed an echo, breaking dimly through the cocoon, a construct of hypovolemia. Exsanguination. Sanguine. Hopeful. Optimistic.

Are my chances optimistic?

If not, what would these men call them?

Pessimistic? Gloomy? Sepulchral? Sepulcher. A tomb in place of a cocoon. Am I already dead?

Wesley summoned the strength to open his eyes. They fluttered. He fought. Flashes of color suffused the same frosty relief. A blur of navy and beige, sealed in rich, ruddy amber, like some exotic beetle.

Still, however small, this felt like a victory. He was alive. He could see, albeit not well. He perceived those around him in vibrant flashes, flickers of fire, until someone kicked him.

"Clear!" a voice rang out through the cacophony, reverberating in his head.

Fresh pain, hot and vivid, tore through his chest. He was alive.

From the pain, blackness spooled out. Spilled out. Swaddled in water, stygian in depth, impenetrable, like molten shadow, he drowned. His pain drowned. The light drowned. The sound drowned. The world died to him.

A sound broke through the leaden veil of sleep. Xander stirred. The sheets rustled with the movement of his legs. He relaxed, dozing. He might've given into the lull of pleasant warmth and comfortable bleariness had it not been for two upsetting things: Willow was mad at him, and then there were more funny noises.

The first thing felt silly in that vague, disjointed way that only semi-conscious realizations can. Even half asleep, he knew he'd never tattled on Willow. Not in school. Not to their friends. Not to her family. Not when it mattered. Not that he was some paragon of virtue, he just wasn't a rat fink. She couldn't possibly be mad at him for that.

Yet in his dream, she was miffed at him for some mysterious betrayal. The sheer absurdity of the accusation actually helped to rouse him, combined with the guilty, antsy, irrationally wiggy feelings the dream inspired.

The other helpful thing was more noise. Noise coming from a place that was always noiseless. No one here goes out there. Not at night. That'd be a great way to come to a sticky, icky, graphic end worthy of a George Romero film.

This wasn't a tiny noise. It was a great big thudding noise. A people-sized noise. The sort of noise that the small animals that might stray into the courtyard were incapable of making. The image of a rat with a rubber mallet that came to mind was straight out of a cartoon. Completely absurd, just like Willow's anger.

There's also that thing about cats—with the killing. Not that I am one, but the premise applies—what with me considering sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong.

Yeah, but if the rats are building something, I need to see it. And if it's a vamp, I'll stay on my side of the glass, they can stay on theirs. It'll all be good.

Xander hauled his stiff, grumpy butt out of bed. He went to the French doors that lined the back wall of his room, scratching the offensive stiff, grumpy part as he trudged. In spite of his having achieved and maintained verticalness, the brain/body barrier was still impressively erect, among other things.

His lips smacked when he licked them. The nervous tick was less than helpful. It brought another complaint to the forefront of his mind. A hamster moved into my mouth while I was sleeping. That must be it. After leaving behind a nice, even, absorbent layer of fur, it wriggled down my throat and set up shop in my belly where it's currently doing hamster aerobics.

That, or it could just be the coffee I drank before bed. Who knows what non-dairy creamer actually is? Besides gross. And the only thing we had.

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The fact that it stuck there seemed to encourage the hamster. He decided never to do that again, or at least 'never' until he'd brushed his teeth.

He wanted to go take care if his many mounting issues. Instead, he parted the drapes and peered through them. The hamster could wait. The pressing need to pay rent on the coffee could wait too. I need to see this—whatever it is.

At first it turned out to be nothing. Bad angle, limited view and bleary eyes, all stood in the way of his answer. With some blinking, contortions and a little cooperation from the people he was trying to observe, he saw more than he wanted to.

That's new. Snow White kicking the glitter out of Malibu Barbie isn't something you see every day. It's like Celebrity Deathmatch without the Playdough.

I could've used a cup of coffee, or five, before—

He puzzled over what to call this—whatever it was—for a moment or two before he gave up. It was useless.

A serious butt kicking. A seriously deficient, majorly one-sided butt kicking, like when the Kurgan stomped the snot out of Ramirez without even trying. Only this is way more hands-free. It's like Snow made a pitstop to roll the Evil Queen for her tricks before she got here. I haven't seen anything like this since Will Freddie Krueger'd me on that hilltop.

Oh.

He took a closer look, squinting his eyes, plastering his nose against the glass, and though his room wasn't exactly lighter than the courtyard, shadowing his face with his hands. Barbie was obviously Buffy, but considering the butt kicking she was getting, it was Snow White who really mattered. Eventually, the mysterious Snow cooperated. That's Willow.

But how's that Willow?

Oh, and huge props to whoever did her costume. That's pretty cool.

Huh.

Something else was off, but he couldn't place it now. Buffy was way too distracting. It's a fair bet that she's the vampire. My Buffy. Not that I claim her, she just isn't the import. That's the only reason I can find that Willow might have her strung up by one ankle, without the string. The fact that she's flopping around, playing fish out of water but with more appendages, has to be about her. She's just that nuts. Willow's just restraining her. And who wouldn't?

Watching Buffy proved nauseating. She didn't move like anything even remotely human. It'd be nice if she'd restrain her more.

Yeah, so…now that that little revelation's out of the way, I think it's time to take care of the parts of life that are just life.

Five minutes elapsed before he was quasi-presentable. He'd put on his courage and summoned his robe, or something like that. He even stopped to pour a cup of coffee from the decanter he'd swiped too few hours before. He wasn't in a hurry. There were too many nagging 'what ifs.'

Willow recognized his approach a little too readily. She was looking expectantly up at him when he traipsed out onto the veranda.

Good thing he'd already thought of the right thing to say. Or at least, he hoped it was right. "I'm fresh out of Crayon stories, but I do remember something about a Sit 'n Spin." He got the words out, only stuttering once. His voice cracked a little. All-in-all I sounded like I was about as sure of that as I might've been about playing twenty questions with Anya.

Though that might've been safer. He considered the possibilities for a moment, adding, back in her 'men suck,' 'women never get a fair shake,' 'big vendetta' phase.

While he was reminiscing, Willow replied by saying his name like she was totally put out—at wit's end. He almost missed it, which was stupid on so many levels because another shade the other side of jokeiness and the correct response would've been panic and lots of running. He couldn't have been more relieved. Her irritation was totally playful, chiding in a good way. Weightiness lifted, cobwebs cleared. He felt alright.

"Whacha doin'?" he replied with a singsong lilt.

"Cleaning up a mess."

The standard answer would've been 'nuthin'.' He was tickled pink that she skipped the stock line. This was honest.

"And dabbling in landscaping," Xander offered, not trying to conceal his amusement. The thing that was 'off' was clear to him now. There was a new tree, a small cypress, the sort of gnarled shrub that looked like an oversized bonsai. It was close to the lobby entrance in one of the larger garden plots. It looked totally natural, blending in with the other foliage like it had been there all this time.

Willow smiled. It wasn't so much a cheerful smile. That made Xander uneasy. I should look on the bright side. Tickled, pink or otherwise, is way too much to ask with Buffy around. No screaming. No running. No compulsions to gouge out your own eyes. Those are lofty goals where encounters with her are concerned. Anything better is like a box full of Chocolate Hurricane bars.

Speaking of screaming, she's awfully quiet.

Yeah, and I should just keep right on counting my blessings and maybe move on to something that matters. Like say, Willow's freakish makeover. I mean, I knew she had a thing for Disney princesses when we were little, but really?

"So, like the new look. What's up with the tree?" he said, playing at nonchalance. "Oh, and not that I don't appreciate the quiet, but—umm…" Such games were pointless. He searched for something to say. I've got nothing.

Okay, so…how 'bout this? "Why?" He waggled his finger in Buffy's direction to indicate his meaning. Not bad. Simple. Effective.

Better yet. "How?"

I could add 'what' for old time's sake, but the 'what' is wearing a push up bra that—gravity being what it is—what with her upside-downness and ensuing tantrum—isn't so much 'pushing up' as 'falling out' now. Combine that with a scoop neck blouse and the 'what' is getting pretty hard to miss.

In fact, there could be begging. From me not her. She doesn't seem to be able to. And Willow doesn't seem to care. She's totally missing the show. Meanwhile, the ninety percent of my brain that's threatening to shrivel up from absent blood flow and subsequent hypoxia…

There could be begging.

Oh, and Willow's talking, like actually answering.

Or not.

Xander stared blankly. Willow stood rigid, her hands on her hips, meeting his gaze. Only she wasn't amused. She was miffed, seemingly at him. This is bad.

He thought of the wish. It was the only reason he could think of that Willow might be so mad. Does she know?

No, there's no way she could know. That didn't keep heat from rising to his cheeks.

It was a relief when Willow's attention turned to the vampire. "This thing," she said, heaving Buffy away from the wall into the center of the courtyard, "murdered a friend of ours tonight." Buffy turned upright, still moving in that 'look ma, no hands' trademark way of Willow's. "Not that that's anything new for her. She has quite a history of murder. Friends. Allies. Good people. All dead." Buffy's arms and legs splayed out and she began to rise. "I suppose there's a sick sort of irony in her turning out to be worse than Angelus."

As Xander watched her float upward like a balloon without a tether, the first traces of dawn showed in the graying sky. What Willow meant to do became clear as well. To his surprise he had mixed feelings about roasting Buffy. There's no doubt that it'd be justice, but it's also the death of hope. I think we all hoped, Willow most of all, that Buffy could be ensouled and go on to do some good.

I wonder what happened to change her mind.

His attention returned to Willow. He felt conflicted. Vampires were always so simple. They were bad. This is a gray area.

I suck at gray areas. This person is one of my people and I love her. If I actually bought my own spiel, I would've already grieved for her.

And I did. I guess I did. But this?

He glanced up. Buffy was high enough to be touched by the first rays of sunlight. She hung there, motionless and mute, waiting for it because she had no choice.

"Where were you Tuesday evening?"

Willow had spoken. Not only had she spoken, she'd asked the one question he least wanted to answer. His attention snapped to her. It was too late. He's given everything away in those few seconds. Though he schooled his face now, it was pointless. His jaw had been slack. His eyes had been wide. He was screwed.

"I know you know what I'm talking about," Willow said with unnatural calmness. "You're the only one who wasn't here that night. You came in with the cock's crow drunk as a skunk." A scornful laugh punctuated her accusation. Though he wished for all he was worth, she didn't retract her claws. "Seriously, Xander? I thought you'd know better than to pull a Simon Stimson." She laughed again, this time just a breathy snicker. "You didn't. Unfortunately, that makes you the prime suspect. So what did you wish for?"

Xander expected her to glare, to shout, to hurl herself at him. He understood now without being told. This wasn't his Willow. This was someone far more dangerous. He felt himself grow cold.

Instead of violence, she offered him melancholy. The vaguest trace of a smile curled the corners of her mouth. It lasted for only a moment before she asked her next question. "Has it turned out to be everything you dreamed of?" Her words were bitter. She didn't need rage to wound.

It's a wonder. I risked vulnerability to these creatures in order to spare one of their numbers.

Wesley stirred in his hospital bed. His eyes fluttered.

My gamble paid off.

Illyria really didn't need his feeble movements to tell her that. The machines around the room were doing an adequate job of reporting the continuance of his frail existence without any intercession. They all but drowned out her ability to sense his life signs.

Angel leaned forward, putting himself closer to Wesley, and subsequently blocking Illyria's view from where she stood by the door.

I have lost my mind. That must be it. That one of these swine means anything to me at all is unthinkable. Unconscionable. That I would risk myself to save any of them is irrefutable proof of my fragility.

I am a god! Curs such as these used to grovel at my feet. They used to prostrate themselves for the merest chance of receiving a scrap from my table.

Wesley was apparently alert on some level because the half-breed started to speak in redundancies, "You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

Yet now I find the knowledge that this human still exists somehow pleasing.

Without moving her feet, Illyria leaned out to see around Angel. Wesley didn't look as if he believed the vampire, so she filled in, "You achieved your objective. The half-breed is once again hopelessly conflicted."

"Thanks a lot," Angel snapped, casting a withering glance at Illyria.

She wasn't certain whether he was 'teasing.' That human behavior seemed to her insane. False or not, his scorn couldn't have meant less to her. She allowed that opinion to reflect outwardly.

"I'm so sorry you were hurt trying to help me," Angel said, pausing to consider. "By people employed by me no less." He sighed. "Thank you." His gratitude lay floundering in the bathos of its delivery.

"I rest my case," Illyria said.

A brittle voice offered assent, "He is rather difficult to stomach."

It hardly sounded like Wesley, but it must've been him, as Angel immediately protested, "Hey."