The library fell into silence. Xander looked at F-Xander with wariness. Buffy and Willow looked at each other with a sense of dread. Giles looked at Xander and made up his mind that Xander was to do no more research for awhile.
"Wait, he can't possibly be me!" Xander blurted out with conviction, pointing at the imposter.
F-Xander blinked and put on a stunned expression. "Why do you say that?" he asked, genuinely confused.
Xander set his jaw. "I mean, look at him." F-Xander spread his arms and glanced down at his body. Loose black jeans and a form-fitting white shirt with an unzipped black winter jacket over it. "Those clothes match. I never match. And the body—just look." It was true; F-Xander was definitely taller, with broad shoulders and muscles, the kind of build that Angel had. "Honestly, would I turn out like that? And the face is completely different." The face *was* different, almost nothing like young Xander's, but the one thing that was the same was the eyes. Those were Xander's eyes, definitely. But Xander wasn't about to admit that.
This was just too damn weird.
"And the accent," Xander finished with bravado. "I'm not British."
The other Slayerette's turned imploring eyes to F-Xander. He just looked back at them. "You don't expect me explain myself, do you?" When there came no answer, F-Xander turned to Willow. "Willow..."
Willow took a protective step behind Buffy, afraid to look F-Xander in the eye. Buffy looked at him warily, not sure whether to wait and see if he would calmly and peacefully tell her why they should believe his claim, or whether should she force it out of him.
F-Xander sighed. "Why should I expect anything else?" He moved back to the computer desk and sat on the edge where there was room. He held out his hand and began to tick off the things he said on his fingers. "A: Today was a lucky day. I dressed in the dark—again—and the clothes actually matched. My family was very proud of me.
"B: I grew up. Rather well, don't you think? And I work out. Physi—um, much working out is done." He swallowed uncomfortably as an unpleasant surfaced from the recesses of his mind. "And the face...I had a car accident. It got bashed up pretty bad." His hand reached up halfway to his face, as though he were going to touch it like a tangible reminder of the doctor's work, but then laid his hand to rest. "And as for the accent—I'm always quizzed on that, I don't know why, it's not even that noticeable. I spent four and a half years in England. Never went away. But I don't say 'bloody this' and 'bloody that', or drink tea or eat crumpets, and I don't wear tweed. Ew. Never had a thing for crumpets, and god knows how many times I was made to eat those back in Britain."
At that, F-Xander smiled, and the skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled in their tell-tale Xander way. Xander's already wide eyes looked like his eyeballs were going to pop out right on the floor, and Willow muffled a gasp. This really was Xander.
"If you are who you say you are," Giles said, getting over the shock, "then we'll have to return you back where you came from immediately.
Was it just him, or were they treating him like his younger self had brought home a puppy from the streets and an annoyed parent was casting the dog out again? "I was just about to say that," F-Xander said, keeping the question to himself. "But the word of the day is—how?"
"W-well," Giles started, moving a hand to reach for his spectacles.
"Research, huh," F-Xander said dejectedly. His shoulders slumped further. "I hate the library."
It was the night of the Winter Solstice, and she should be out there with Echo right now, right in that beautiful, empty, magick-filled prairie that had made them choose to live here in the first place, celebrating the birth of the Sun King. Unfortunately, most of the members of the White Rose Coven were spread out around North America, and they had had a hard time getting together this year. The coven was planning to celebrate together some time around the new year, in the ballroom of some unsuspecting hotel in a city that it was snowing. Possibly Chicago. MoonRaven had always had a yen for Chicago.
A quiet shudder ran up the spine of Willow's back. Chicago...she remembered the last time she had been in Chicago. Hellmouth had been touring just after their first CD, and Willow was freshly scarred from that ordeal with her parents and still trying to get over from what had happened only three years ago. Her therapist was back in Florida, and both Oz and Echo had been a bit shaky on the decision to let Willow tour. Willow said she was ready, though, and that she could handle it. So off she went.
She still remembered the scene. She and Echo were at the mall, window shopping because they had left their purses at the houses and hadn't felt like going back, since they discovered that little setback halfway to the mall. Their stomachs had been growling loudly, so they stopped by the food court, where they mooched off a ton of test foods. They were just coming out, licking the food from their fingers and giggling widely, when a wild eyed man in his late thirties had stopped them.
"Have you seen a little boy?" he had asked them frantically, his hands flipping nervously at his sides. "He's about up to here—"he put his hand somewhere by his hip—"and he has shaggy blond hair and the sweetest blue eyes." He reached out and gripped Willow's arm, his eyes half-crazed. "Please, I've lost my little boy. You've got to help me find him."
Echo had gently peeled the man's hand off of Willow's and dropped it, but Willow's arm was still heavy with it's feel. "I'm sorry, we haven't seen your son," Echo had said sympathetically, and then began to walk away, dragging a motionless Willow behind her.
"Will you tell him to come back, if you see him?" The man called to them, his voice filled with despair. Willow couldn't help but look back. "If you see him, tell him to come back. I can't lose my little boy..."
Obviously, something was wrong with this man's mind, but Willow was stung by his words nonetheless. Emotions had been hard to handle for her lately, and people were always in some state of depression or hunger or sorrow or despair or grief...she just couldn't handle it. That's what Echo and Oz had been so hesitant about permitting her to tour. And that's why she had fainted right then and there, and had to be taken to a hospital because she was having seizures, brought on by her fragile mental state. And that's why when Hellmouth toured, Willow always stayed in the hotel room. And that's why the only people she ever made contact with was fellow band members, close friends, coven members, and the occasional chip and cheery reporter. That's why she didn't like to be around people.
So now she was standing on the balcony, hand and hand with Oz, staring at the horizon where the sun, in just a few minutes, was sure to make it's appearance. The sunrise was not only symbolic to the holiday, but a very romantic setting. Too bad that she was being plagued by unwanted memories.
Next to her, Oz mistook her internal shiver for external cold, and took off his jacket and draped it around Willow's shoulders. It wasn't really cold, but the air conditioner that whirred away inside was blowing quite a current of air throw the open French doors (Echo had them installed: "Ooo, aren't they just gorgeous, guys? I want French windows in every apartment we're gonna live in!"). She knew that Oz was a bit chilly, what from him coming out with a jacket and all, and snuggled against, returning the little gesture.
"Who needs a jacket when I have you," Willow said dreamily, closing her eyes for a moment as she listened to the beat of Oz's heart.
It raced. "I was just thinking the same thing," Oz said, smiling and holding her close. He casually encircled his wife's slim waist with one hand and stroked her beautiful long hair with the other. He loved her hair, loved playing with it, loved touching it, loved seeing the light reflect off of it. It was his most favorite part of her...well, that and her lips. {And her heart}. "Same thing."
Willow's smiled widened and blushed deeply, something she still did around Oz, even after all these years of being married. The sun was close to rising—she didn't have to open her eyes to know that the nighttime sky was already an array of deep oranges and pinks and blues. She could sense the magickal energy, like a train of power coming at her. It was a wonderful feeling—almost as wonderful as Oz's love.
Almost.
Oz was stroking her face now, ever-so-tenderly as though she were made of china and he was afraid she would break. "I love you, Willow," he whispered, and then rested his head on her chin, something that Willow's father use to do when she was a little girl. Her father was her big protector and hero when she was young; now that she was older, Oz was her hero, her protector. And so much more.
"Oh Oz, I love you so much," Willow said, snuggling closer to...a rock?
Willow opened her eyes wide and pulled away in terror. She didn't give a glance to her surroundings, just looked at what she had just been hugging. A marble angel, a beautiful piece of artwork that stood on top of a gravestone.
Now Willow looked around, wide-eyed. She was in a graveyard. And not just any graveyard. She recognized this place.
Sunnydale City Cemetery.
"Oh darn," Willow said meekly, hugging herself and looking around wide-eyed. Graveyards creeped her out. Graveyards were spooky. She hated graveyards.
Ok, so she was in Sunnydale. She could...perhaps, deal with that. She was a stronger, healthier person, but this was bad. Despite the fact that she had just been magically transported to Sunnydale, this was not Sunnydale, 2013. No, Willow knew that the city cemetery was most definitely burned to cinders. Yet, the cemetery which she beheld with her own eyes was most definitely *not* burned down to cinders. It was very non-cinder-y.
Willow took a step back, and realized that her bare feet were digging into soft, fresh soil. She looked down and saw that her feet were covered in the dark brown stuff. Willow pulled her feet out one by one and shaked them free of dirt, stepping into the clean grass to the right of the grave. Then she leaned over to read the tombstone, one hand on the angel's wing to steady herself.
She definitely needed the angel's support. Willow leaned heavily on the wing, her mind dizzy, her head spinning, her heart racing, and a cold pit of fear replaced what was once her stomach.
This was too much to be bargained for.
As Willow fainted across the grave, a shaft of moonlight from the almost-full moon above trickled unto the gravestone, shedding light on the marker. It read:
~Shelley Shovanak~
January 1st, 1974 – December 19th, 1998
~May her guardian angel guide her to peace and eternal rest~
Uh-oh.
She was so tired. She'd been on the road for so long, in that truck of hers (well, the truck driver that she had taken it from didn't deserve it, after what he'd tried to do to her) which had broken down about a mile from where Buffy lived. She had walked all the way to the Daly {god it's so hard to accept that Buffy's married} house in the rain, probably catching a cold, and to top it all off, had to fight a vampire. And now, when she was in a nice, comfy room in a nice, comfy setting, the air between Buffy and her was not the only thing uncomfortable. The damned leather couch was pretty uncomfortable, too.
Ok, ok, so she'd sleep on anything, but something was really wigging her out about this place. Not the actual place, just this house. She knew how to sense mystical forces, and they were very near to here, however dormant. For a second, she wondered if this Hollywood suburb was on a Hellmouth.
"Wouldn't that be interesting," Faith said wryly, propping her head up on the arm of the couch and stretching her legs. She wondered if she could watch TV here, since she was just itching to see the picture on the enormous DigiTel.
The energy she sensed grew louder. The prophecy that her Watcher had warned her of flicked through her mind. Could it...no way. Faith shrugged the thought away. In the morning, when Buffy came back down to shoo her out of the way of her husband and daughter, faith would bluntly drop the information on her, and then leave. She didn't want to stay *here* for too long.
She was just leaning over to reach the remote, precariously balanced on the sofa's edge, when she felt as though her body had been dipped in ice-cold water. The shock ran like needles throughout her whole body, gripping her mind in a state of panic. She screamed—
—and gasped in surprise as water flooding into her mouth and choked on her closed passage.
Faith's eyes widened, and then sensation turned into an image around her. She in the water, blue-green water, and the sunlight was playing all over the sand by her feet. *Sand*. And the water that had gotten to her mouth was salty—sea water.
Oh god, she was drowning in the sea.
Faith did a scissors kick, reaching up vainly with her arms towards the sunlight that was visible above. She was never a good swimmer, and she had always swum in rivers or really, really peaceful lakes. Oceans were big. Oceans were unpredictable. Oceans were scary.
The fact that she was strong and hadn't had to float all the way down to the floor had done her good. She had broken the surface in just under a few minutes, gasping for breath and trying to clear the hair out of her eyes while keeping afloat. She blinked, trying to get the stinging feeling out of her eyes. She rubbed them, but it only made it worse.
There. A strip of shore. Beach. Sand. Land. Faith remembered a long time ago, when she was 13, and the really cute instructor was trying to teach her how to swim. "I want to swim just like those Olympic people," she had told him, and he had taught her the move with her hands, the butterfly or chest something-or-other. She couldn't remember the name, but for the life of her she'd better remember how to do it.
God she was freezing, and her legs were aching. *Deal* Faith told herself angrily, and began to swim towards the bit of shore.
Did she mention how the ocean was unpredictable? She didn't feel the large wave come up behind her, hardly noticed the little ripples that proceeded it. Then she was up in the air for a brief moment, carried on the lump, and then she was dashed down into the water like a stone, suddenly losing all sense of where up or down and left or right were. Her brain, not knowing how to deal with being cut off from everything, pumped adrenaline into her brain. She kicked furiously, driven by the frenzy created in her veins, but she couldn't match the swirling waters of the wave, and she let her body go slack as the wave tossed her like a rag doll towards the shore...
As Faith groggily came back to awareness, the first thing she noticed was that she was freezing cold, and that while her mouth was not moving, her teeth were on the verge of chattering frantically. The next thing that she noticed was the small bit of water that kept soaking her hair, and then disappearing. Waves. The third thing that she noticed was that she was lying on sand, rocks jabbing uncomfortably into her spine, bits of beach caked to her bare arms and legs. The final thing she noticed was the warm, cozy body that was snuggled next to her.
The hell...Faith opened her eyes wide and was greeted by a starry night sky, gorgeous if she had been star gazing instead of being the victim in a game of Pickle between waves. She sat up, pain wrenching in her back as she realized that the rocks were also in her shirt, not just on the sand which she had been lying on. Then, blinking the sting away from her eyes, she turned around to her side.
Curled up in a ball was the shivering form of Giles, Buffy's dog. "Gripes, could this get any weirder?" Faith asked, wondering if she should kick the dog awake. Instead, she just reached over and nudged his head a little.
Giles' eyes instantly flashed open, and with one look at Faith, bounded up. Her earlier appearance of being dead had frightened him very much, and now he was overjoyed that he had a friend in this strange place that he had been dropped off in. He barked happily, and then placed his front paws on her stomach, trying to reach up and lick her face, but Faith shoved him away.
"Stupid dog, let me find out what kind of mess we're in here!" she reprimanded him. She was never fond of animals, except for Xander the beagle. Eventually, though, she had given Xander the beagle away for adoption, because beagles weren't the ideal pets for travelling conditions. Maybe she'd get a husky and name it after Willow or something, considering the dog was female.
She was thinking about that as she surveyed her surroundings. She was on a little strip of beach, very, very tiny, and surrounded by thick walls of the kind of grass that grew around the beach. Grumbling, she began to climb the walls, noticing that Giles was eagerly falling in step.
"When I find out where we are," she told the dog as they climbed, "the second thing I want to know is how the hell you got here. Then I'll ask about myself."
In return, Giles sneezed. Had the dog gotten sick? He didn't look wet, but she didn't look that wet either and she had gotten a good dunk in the sea. After she found out where they were, they should find shelter and dry themselves off. Possibly with a towel lying around, one that some beach-going freak had left behind.
God, why did people go to the beach? The sand always got in everything and anything, the sun was a killer, and the ocean was always after you. Not even counting the man-o-wars and jelly fishes and sharks and all those other things in the deep. Faith had never been scared of anything; she'd always been the tough girl, never believing in monsters under her bed, never afraid of confronting the beyond. But the ocean was another thing entirely—her one true childhood fear that had carried itself onward into her adulthood.
When she got over the ridge, she recognized nothing. This land, these buildings...all foreign to her. She peered closer, using her enhanced sight, and spotted a couple nuzzling each other on the other strip of beach. As Giles nudged her in her side, she pushed his head away and climbed out of the hole, dragging the golden retriever along with her as she made her way towards the couple.
When she got there, the boy was busy sticking his tongue down the girl's thorat, and Faith had to clear her throat several times before they noticed she was there. The girl, who was topless, quickly wrapped a beach towel around her upper self as the boy jumped up with a flashlight and shined it on Faith's face.
"Who are you?" he demanded, the fright in his voice not enabling him to sound in charge of the situation.
"Your conscience," Faith snapped, not the best of moods. She put her hands on her hips and passed a look between the couple. "How old is that girl, anyway?"
"Fifte—hey, why do you want to know?" he said angrily, cutting himself off before he revealed that he was with a minor. The flashlight was still in Faith's eyes, and she shielded her gaze with one hand.
"I told you: I'm your frickin' conscience. And I want to know where the hell we are. Mind telling me?"
The boy seemed hesitant to answer, but the girl, wanting very much to get rid of this woman, quickly spoke up. "Sunnydale Public Beach," she said in a small voice, embarrased at being caught mid make-out session.
Faith's icy glare crumbled into an expression of unbelieving shock. "No way," Faith said immediately, shaking her head furiously. "No way is this place still open to the public. No one's allowed anywhere near Sunnydale, or even the surrounding towns. Jeez, do you know what risk you guys are taking, being here on the beach and all that??" Faith was goggle-eyed.
The couple looked at her, and then laughed. "You're crazy," said the guy, flicking his flashlight off. "We live in Sunnydale, lady. We can definitely be where we are."
Faith eyes widened even more. The only things that lived in Sunnydale were, well, *things*. And these people, *people*, were not things. They were very much human, and very much not afraid, and very much confusing her.
"Ok, what's going on?" Faith said. "Have I, like, been suddenly transported to another dimension or something? Back in time? What? What year is this?"
They continued looking at her like she was a loony. Maybe she was. "1998, lady," said the guy, fingering his flashlight again. "And now that you know that, can you leave?"
1998? Huh? *What* was going on? "Uh," Faith managed, and then composed herself. Obviously, this had to deal with that prophecy her last Watcher had vaguely told her about. "Gimme a towel."
"Lady, the one towel we got is on my date over there." The guy jerked the flashlight over to his date, who was blushing and pulling the towel up higher to conceal cleavage. "Why the hell are you swimming without a towel? And why the hell in your clothes?"
"Don't ask questions," Faith growled. "You'll exhaust yourself. Just give me the towel and ask your kiddy date to cover herself with that t-shirt of hers that is lying around *somewhere* were you guys tossed is away in the throes of passion. And if you give me that towel, I won't report you to Sunnydale Police." Yeah, if they were telling the truth and if there still *was* a Sunnydale Police Department.
"Here," the girl said quickly before her date could speak for her. She tossed the towel at Faith and then covered herself with her arms. Faith took the towel and started to walk away, drying her hair and mumbling thanks to the strange couple.
"Hey, wait!" called the girl. Faith turned around. "Where's your dog?"
Faith's jaw dropped, and then she looked to her side and around everywhere. Giles was no where to be seen. "Damn," she cursed, gritting her teeth. Then she set out at a fast pace towards Sunnydale, and she would hopefully run into that mutt along the way.
He couldn't get that day with Buffy out of his mind.
It was a Christmas miracle, truly. He had planned to kill himself, planned to totally annihilate his worthless, evil being, but the sun had not risen because of snow. Snow in Southern California. Obviously, there was some otherworldly intervention in this.
So, as he did his own nightly rounds around Sunnydale, he thought about how he had spent that day. It was wonderful; whenever he saw Buffy, it was only for that short period of time during the night. Now, he had the opportunity to spend the whole day with her, and they enjoyed it to the fullest. Nothing like playing in the snow to cheer any suicidal person up.
Now, though, they were staying apart, swearing there would not be another day like, holding hands and being together and contemplating kisses. No, it was dangerous to be tempted like that, to dangerous to ever fall in love again. It was very clear as to what the consequences would be.
Buffy...completed him. Made him feel human. Made him feel whole. Every day of his undead life was plagued by thoughts of her, and he was almost certain that Buffy was experiencing the same thing. Could they deny their passion? Could they keep away from each other, even if they knew the consequences? Could they not...
Angel didn't finish that sentence in his mind, though very clear memories of that night flashed through his mind. It was his most happiest moment—he shivered with happiness just thinking about it. This was dangerous. This could no longer continue.
He kept *telling* himself that...
Suddenly, his hyper-sensitive, preternatural hearing picked up a soft moaning sound. Moving like a shadow between the tombstones and the grave plots, angel quickly hurried to wear the moaning was coming from.
There was a figure, a figure dressed in a long red nightgown, strewn across a freshly dug plot. For a second he thought she was a vampire, and then Angel realized that he did not sense her as one of his kind. She was very human, but with a strange...scent, of sorts. At least to him.
Since she was human, she was most likely in trouble. Angel leaned over and brushed her red hair out of the way, exposing her neck. He was expecting bite marks, but there was nothing. The neck was clean.
Even stranger. Angel slid his hand under the woman's body, grabbing a firm hold around the waist. Gently, in case she had any broken bones, he turned her over. Her long red hair still covered her face. Angel gently brushed it away, and the female stirred.
Angel would have drawn his breath in sharply, if he had breath. Instead, he mimicked the motion as he stared at the face. The recognizable face. "Willow?"
The woman stirred once more at the mention of the name. Angel looked on in amazement as she opened her eyes and looked up dreamily into his face.
"Where am I?" she asked, reaching up to rub her eyes. Then she frowned and looked up. "You're not Oz..." she said quizzically, yet not really grasping what she was saying. Then she recognized the face that was staring back at her.
"Oh joy," Willow said, her eyes rolling up in her head once more, and she went limp in Angel's arms.
He wasn't sure he should go in. He wasn't sure about anything anymore.
God had it hurt when he saw Willow with Xander, kissing each other on the bed like that...his heart had broken into a million little pieces. What was worse, though, was not being together with Willow. He missed her...half of him had gone with her, the part of him that could love, leaving an empty, cold shell behind. He needed that half, and he needed Willow. He thought, perhaps, that having her back would fill that emptiness.
It didn't fill it at all; all it did was show Oz how wide it was. Whenever he looked at Willow...he saw not the girl that he had loved so deeply, but the girl that he could no longer trust as deeply. He still loved that smile, he still loved her touch, and he still loved her kisses, but to know that she had given the same exact pleasure to Xander made him jealous. He had been jealous before...but now he had reason to. And dammit, he was.
So now he stood outside the library, hands hovering next to the thin piece of metal that when pushed, would open the door. Open the door to the library. The place where he and the other Slayerette's had gathered so often, chatting about how they were going to revert the next day's apocalypse. Except now there was an apocalypse of a different kind.
Oh well. Tomorrow was the beginning of his days as a werewolf, and he wanted to spend this night with Willow. Perhaps try and fill the void that stood between them like the Grand Canyon. Try to reach out to her...try to reach out to her without instinctively drawing back, afraid of being hurt like that again.
He didn't want to be hurt like again. Pain was not the top emotion on his favorite's list. Heck, it wasn't even on there.
{Sooner or later I have to go in} Oz thought to himself. {If I'm going to do it, now is as good as any other time}.
Slowly, he touched the door. Then, the hinges creaking, he opened the door softly.
Everyone turned to him with a surprised expression, as though they were expecting someone else. "What?" Oz asked, feeling a little out of place. Then he noticed the stranger sitting on the computer desk, staring at him with a cocked head.
Oz was wondering what he was staring at when the doors opened behind him. Angel came in, carrying a woman in his arms who's face was covered in hair. Her red nightgown was stained with dirt, and her slightly pale and willowy frame hung limp in Angel's embrace.
Oz was forming the word "what" again when the man sitting next to Xander rose and strode quickly towards the vampire, scowling all the way. Angel looked just as confused as Oz did, and was startled when the man grabbed the woman out of his arms. Muttering curses, the strange man lay the strange woman down on the table, clearing a bunch of books out of the way first.
Oz moved closer to Buffy, as much to get away from Angel as to figure out what was going on. "What's up?" he whispered in her ear.
"What would you say if I told you that that man right there was Xander, fifteen years into the future?" Buffy asked pointedly, taking her eyes off from watching the man for just a second to gauge Oz's reaction.
Oz was pretty cool about it. "Well, I'd guess I'd believe you, because everything else has happened here in Sunnydale, and I don't think I have much choice in the matter."
Buffy nodded and turned back to F-Xander, who was sucking on his teeth and cradling the woman's head, whispering something softly in her ear.
"I-I think she was waking up when I brought her in," Angel said, for the lack of having anything else to say that sounded remotely intelligent.
F-Xander muttered something very vulgar under his breath and then reached up with one hand to the side of the strange woman's neck. He grabbed a bit of flesh and then pinched her, really, really, hard.
The woman let out a gasp and she rose with a shriek, facing her stunned audience. Shivering either from shock or cold, she put two trembling hands towards her face and parted her long red hair.
The others were not completely surprised by the sight, except perhaps maybe Oz and Angel. Since F-Xander had come back from the future, and Willow had felt the magic, then it was completely possible that she would come back too.
Besides, which *other* Slayerette had red hair?
What the gang *was* shocked at was the face. F-Willow seemed not to have aged a day beyond her seventeen years. The smooth, pale, oval face was still the same, and despite the increase in her, ahem, chest, this pretty much looked like young Willow, frail form and all. Pretty blue eyes blinked at the troupe, not recognizing their surroundings.
Then she turned around, looked at F-Xander, looked back at everybody again, and then back to F-Xander. She uttered a moan and prepared to faint once again.
"Oh-oh," F-Xander muttered, catching her as she fell into his arms. "*No way* are you fainting again. Wake up, Will, c'mon. Everything's ok. Just deep, even breaths."
F-Willow opened her eyes quickly and sat up woozily. "Ok? Everything's *ok*? Xander, clue into reality here." She pointed to her younger self, and let her finger roam around the library. "*This* is not ok. This is definitely not ok. This is not even *close* to ok here. This is very far from ok. This is bad. This is bad and wrong, wrong, wrong. You can't get any farther from ok than this, even if—"
F-Xander grabbed her shoulders and clapped one hand around her mouth. F-Willow looked suddenly very frightened as F-Xander spoke with deadly calm that he sometimes used in his line of work. "Willow, you know I hate to do this, but you're babbling. Your *really* babbling, and we don't need this right now. What we need to do is to be stop babbling and be cooperative, and find out from them how to get back where we are." He leaned forward and looked into F-Willow's eyes. "Do you understand, Will? Get what I'm saying?"
F-Willow nodded, eyes wide in panic, but they were drooping to regular size. When F-Xander removed his hand, F-Willow took one look around the library, laid her eyes on her younger self standing next to Giles, and found just the right spot on F-Xander's shoulder to cry.
As F-Xander awkwardly wrapped her in a hug and patted her on the back, Oz felt a surge of anger and jealously flow through him. *What had gone wrong?* After everything, Willow did end up with *Xander* after all? Was the universe up to slapping him upside the head every time the shiniest bit of happiness was in his life. I mean, there he was when he was five, the perfect family, when his dad decided to run off with the postwoman. Later, after moving to Sunnydale and all that, he had hooked up with Dingoes Ate My Baby and looked towards the bright future of getting signed...and then nothing. Willow entered his life, and everything seemed like bliss...until she started smooching and who-knows-what-else with Xander behind his back. Oh, yeah, and the werewolf thing was pretty bad too, although he was dealing with it well enough and the only thing bad was that he regularly missed Dingoes gigs. But this certainly topped the charts.
You couldn't tell that Oz was angry on the outside, though. His expression remained the same, if just a bit stonier, and his clenched fists were shoved in the pants pockets. He hoped to God he wasn't made to say anything, because then he'd surely blow.
Willow and Xander were surprised themselves. They looked at each other, blushing until their faces were the color of F-Willow's dyed hair. {How did we end up together} Willow thought to herself. {How could I have let go of Oz?}.
Oz. Willow snuck a peek at him. He seemed perfectly fine, if not a bit tense. {But I just know he's so not ok with this} Willow thought, her emotions so confusing that she wanted to burst into tears like he double.
"Um, I think this may be a bad time," Angel said, clearing his throat, "but what's going on?" He looked imploringly at the Scooby Gang.
"*Very* bad time, Dead Boy," F-Xander growled, shooting a glare at the vampire while continuing to sooth a very disturbed F-Willow's hair. Angel took a step back, obviously recognizing the nickname. The vampire mouthed "Dead Boy" silently, and then his eyes lit up as he understood the connection.
"Xander?" the vampire asked, wondering what the Hellmouth had done this time.
F-Xander ignored the question and instead tipped F-Willow back so that she had to look at him. "Do you think you're ok now?" he asked softly, wiping a tear away with the side of one finger.
F-Willow smiled weakly. "As ok as I can possibly get at this moment." She slid off the table and regained balanced on her two feet. She then turned to look at Giles, her bottom lip quivering at intervals.
"Um, alright...since something has obviously happened, does anybody mind explaining to me how this anomaly came to pass? Or has no one found out exactly how yet?" F-Willow brought one delicate fingernail to her lips and began to chew away her nail polish. Her eyes turned away from Giles and flicked back to Xander.
"Um," Giles said, unsure of how he was going to explain this over and over again to all of tonight's "visitors." "Xander was overlooking a book that contained a spell, and he must have intentionally cast it, because you are here, and in all cases, it must be connected to the spell. I don't believe that everyone's future selves would just back if they had not a push."
"Well, it's not everyone," F-Xander pointed out. "Last time I counted, it was Past: 4 and Future: 2. Our side's missing some players." F-Xander glanced at F-Willow, and she nodded enthusiastically. Then F-Xander turned back to the group.
Oz couldn't stand this. They both were being so...affectionate. He wondered if he was red, or green, or some other color that your skin was not suppose to be when you didn't feel like killing somebody because they'd stolen the girl of your dreams—twice. Why was he still standing here?
Buffy blinked. "Um, uh, do you have any ideas as to how we could get you guys back..." Buffy, making the matching motions with her hands. She raised her eyebrows, not even wanting to look at the three very tense, very awkward-feeling people around her.
"An idea..." F-Willow closed her eyes and sighed loudly and sharply. "I suppose I could divine something, only I wish Oz was here with me. Ever since we had our handfasting our ability to wield magick has worked so much better together."
"Oz?" Willow asked, the voice coming out as a high-pitched sound. She covered her mouth self-consciously, but she then drew it quickly away. "Oz?" she asked, everyone understanding it now.
"Oz, yes, handfasting, husband..." F-Willow trailed off, and her eyes flittered to the three people. "Oh, no way." She turned to look at F-Xander and for a moment something silent passed between them. Then they both started to laugh.
"You didn't think...us?" F-Xander asked as F-Willow giggled cupped her hand over her mouth. "No way, we would never..." Then he stopped mid-sentence and mentally backed up. He grabbed the back rung of a chair and leaned a bit heavily on it. He remembered what year it was, what month it was.
"What's wrong, Xander?" F-Xander turned to look at her, and then she got it. "Oh...*oh*." She stopped laughing. "Sorry for laughing," she whispered softly. Then she slumped down into the seat that Xander was still attached to.
Willow shot a glance towards Oz, and he gave her a weak smile. Willow took that as a sign that he was able to stand her now, and she slowly inched next to him.
"Ok, let me look at the spell that, um, uh," F-Willow looked up at F-Xander, "Xander did, and I'll see if I can undo it and send us back—"
She was interrupted by the sudden sound of raucous barking coming from outside. The whole group turned, puzzled, towards the sound.
"The hell is that?" F-Xander asked.
He was soon answered as the double doors burst open and a dirty, wet, seaweed-covered dog came bounding into the library. The dim lighting shone off it's golden, shaggy coat, and it skidded to a stop right in the center of the decorative floor-tile pattern, letting out another sharp bark. Then, tongue lolling out of its mouth, it turned to where Angel was still standing. It's matted fur bristled up, and it's mouth pulled up in a snarl, showing it's long, white, sharp teeth.
Angel backed considerably to the doors. He was getting no answers as to what was going on, the people in the room weren't exactly his best buddies, and the dog was ready to rip his preternatural being apart. Time to go.
Yeah, time to go if the woman had not burst into the room, tripping over her tow and falling head first into the floor. Despite the fall, she rolled herself into a tight ball and hit the floor on her back, somersaulting next to the dog. Then, grunting, she pulled herself up again and grabbed the dog by the nap of it's neck, lifting the large animal off the floor.
"Damn dog," she growled, and then realized where she was. She dropped the dog to the floor, and then started to edge near where F-Xander and F-Willow were, her large, expressive black eyes rolling around.
"Faith?" F-Willow asked, her hands curling up to her neck, cradling herself.
F-Faith turned to look at her, and nodded. "What on the Hellmouth is going on here?" Faith asked, jerking her head towards Buffy & Crew.
"We're trying to figure that out right now," F-Xander answered. Then he grinned, sizing her wet, ragged-looking self. "Talk about all washed up," he added, not able to resist.
He ducked as a stake-turned-missile came flying at his head. "Not in the mood, Harris," F-Faith growled, giving him a glare that made vampires cower. F-Xander gulped and just grinned lopsidedly.
F-Faith, content at shutting up Xander, put her hands on her hips and turned to look at everyone. "Ok, so..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed that the dog was still growling. "Shut up, Giles," she told the dog, kicking it in the side. D-Giles didn't even notice, staring straight at Angel. F-Faith turned to see what he was looking at.
The next thing Angel knew, he was pinned against the wall, F-Faith with a good grip on his neck and a stake held high in her right hand. "Goodbye, Angelus," she told him sweetly, bringing her arm back and then swinging it towards his heart. Angel squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the End to come.
"Wait, he can't possibly be me!" Xander blurted out with conviction, pointing at the imposter.
F-Xander blinked and put on a stunned expression. "Why do you say that?" he asked, genuinely confused.
Xander set his jaw. "I mean, look at him." F-Xander spread his arms and glanced down at his body. Loose black jeans and a form-fitting white shirt with an unzipped black winter jacket over it. "Those clothes match. I never match. And the body—just look." It was true; F-Xander was definitely taller, with broad shoulders and muscles, the kind of build that Angel had. "Honestly, would I turn out like that? And the face is completely different." The face *was* different, almost nothing like young Xander's, but the one thing that was the same was the eyes. Those were Xander's eyes, definitely. But Xander wasn't about to admit that.
This was just too damn weird.
"And the accent," Xander finished with bravado. "I'm not British."
The other Slayerette's turned imploring eyes to F-Xander. He just looked back at them. "You don't expect me explain myself, do you?" When there came no answer, F-Xander turned to Willow. "Willow..."
Willow took a protective step behind Buffy, afraid to look F-Xander in the eye. Buffy looked at him warily, not sure whether to wait and see if he would calmly and peacefully tell her why they should believe his claim, or whether should she force it out of him.
F-Xander sighed. "Why should I expect anything else?" He moved back to the computer desk and sat on the edge where there was room. He held out his hand and began to tick off the things he said on his fingers. "A: Today was a lucky day. I dressed in the dark—again—and the clothes actually matched. My family was very proud of me.
"B: I grew up. Rather well, don't you think? And I work out. Physi—um, much working out is done." He swallowed uncomfortably as an unpleasant surfaced from the recesses of his mind. "And the face...I had a car accident. It got bashed up pretty bad." His hand reached up halfway to his face, as though he were going to touch it like a tangible reminder of the doctor's work, but then laid his hand to rest. "And as for the accent—I'm always quizzed on that, I don't know why, it's not even that noticeable. I spent four and a half years in England. Never went away. But I don't say 'bloody this' and 'bloody that', or drink tea or eat crumpets, and I don't wear tweed. Ew. Never had a thing for crumpets, and god knows how many times I was made to eat those back in Britain."
At that, F-Xander smiled, and the skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled in their tell-tale Xander way. Xander's already wide eyes looked like his eyeballs were going to pop out right on the floor, and Willow muffled a gasp. This really was Xander.
"If you are who you say you are," Giles said, getting over the shock, "then we'll have to return you back where you came from immediately.
Was it just him, or were they treating him like his younger self had brought home a puppy from the streets and an annoyed parent was casting the dog out again? "I was just about to say that," F-Xander said, keeping the question to himself. "But the word of the day is—how?"
"W-well," Giles started, moving a hand to reach for his spectacles.
"Research, huh," F-Xander said dejectedly. His shoulders slumped further. "I hate the library."
It was the night of the Winter Solstice, and she should be out there with Echo right now, right in that beautiful, empty, magick-filled prairie that had made them choose to live here in the first place, celebrating the birth of the Sun King. Unfortunately, most of the members of the White Rose Coven were spread out around North America, and they had had a hard time getting together this year. The coven was planning to celebrate together some time around the new year, in the ballroom of some unsuspecting hotel in a city that it was snowing. Possibly Chicago. MoonRaven had always had a yen for Chicago.
A quiet shudder ran up the spine of Willow's back. Chicago...she remembered the last time she had been in Chicago. Hellmouth had been touring just after their first CD, and Willow was freshly scarred from that ordeal with her parents and still trying to get over from what had happened only three years ago. Her therapist was back in Florida, and both Oz and Echo had been a bit shaky on the decision to let Willow tour. Willow said she was ready, though, and that she could handle it. So off she went.
She still remembered the scene. She and Echo were at the mall, window shopping because they had left their purses at the houses and hadn't felt like going back, since they discovered that little setback halfway to the mall. Their stomachs had been growling loudly, so they stopped by the food court, where they mooched off a ton of test foods. They were just coming out, licking the food from their fingers and giggling widely, when a wild eyed man in his late thirties had stopped them.
"Have you seen a little boy?" he had asked them frantically, his hands flipping nervously at his sides. "He's about up to here—"he put his hand somewhere by his hip—"and he has shaggy blond hair and the sweetest blue eyes." He reached out and gripped Willow's arm, his eyes half-crazed. "Please, I've lost my little boy. You've got to help me find him."
Echo had gently peeled the man's hand off of Willow's and dropped it, but Willow's arm was still heavy with it's feel. "I'm sorry, we haven't seen your son," Echo had said sympathetically, and then began to walk away, dragging a motionless Willow behind her.
"Will you tell him to come back, if you see him?" The man called to them, his voice filled with despair. Willow couldn't help but look back. "If you see him, tell him to come back. I can't lose my little boy..."
Obviously, something was wrong with this man's mind, but Willow was stung by his words nonetheless. Emotions had been hard to handle for her lately, and people were always in some state of depression or hunger or sorrow or despair or grief...she just couldn't handle it. That's what Echo and Oz had been so hesitant about permitting her to tour. And that's why she had fainted right then and there, and had to be taken to a hospital because she was having seizures, brought on by her fragile mental state. And that's why when Hellmouth toured, Willow always stayed in the hotel room. And that's why the only people she ever made contact with was fellow band members, close friends, coven members, and the occasional chip and cheery reporter. That's why she didn't like to be around people.
So now she was standing on the balcony, hand and hand with Oz, staring at the horizon where the sun, in just a few minutes, was sure to make it's appearance. The sunrise was not only symbolic to the holiday, but a very romantic setting. Too bad that she was being plagued by unwanted memories.
Next to her, Oz mistook her internal shiver for external cold, and took off his jacket and draped it around Willow's shoulders. It wasn't really cold, but the air conditioner that whirred away inside was blowing quite a current of air throw the open French doors (Echo had them installed: "Ooo, aren't they just gorgeous, guys? I want French windows in every apartment we're gonna live in!"). She knew that Oz was a bit chilly, what from him coming out with a jacket and all, and snuggled against, returning the little gesture.
"Who needs a jacket when I have you," Willow said dreamily, closing her eyes for a moment as she listened to the beat of Oz's heart.
It raced. "I was just thinking the same thing," Oz said, smiling and holding her close. He casually encircled his wife's slim waist with one hand and stroked her beautiful long hair with the other. He loved her hair, loved playing with it, loved touching it, loved seeing the light reflect off of it. It was his most favorite part of her...well, that and her lips. {And her heart}. "Same thing."
Willow's smiled widened and blushed deeply, something she still did around Oz, even after all these years of being married. The sun was close to rising—she didn't have to open her eyes to know that the nighttime sky was already an array of deep oranges and pinks and blues. She could sense the magickal energy, like a train of power coming at her. It was a wonderful feeling—almost as wonderful as Oz's love.
Almost.
Oz was stroking her face now, ever-so-tenderly as though she were made of china and he was afraid she would break. "I love you, Willow," he whispered, and then rested his head on her chin, something that Willow's father use to do when she was a little girl. Her father was her big protector and hero when she was young; now that she was older, Oz was her hero, her protector. And so much more.
"Oh Oz, I love you so much," Willow said, snuggling closer to...a rock?
Willow opened her eyes wide and pulled away in terror. She didn't give a glance to her surroundings, just looked at what she had just been hugging. A marble angel, a beautiful piece of artwork that stood on top of a gravestone.
Now Willow looked around, wide-eyed. She was in a graveyard. And not just any graveyard. She recognized this place.
Sunnydale City Cemetery.
"Oh darn," Willow said meekly, hugging herself and looking around wide-eyed. Graveyards creeped her out. Graveyards were spooky. She hated graveyards.
Ok, so she was in Sunnydale. She could...perhaps, deal with that. She was a stronger, healthier person, but this was bad. Despite the fact that she had just been magically transported to Sunnydale, this was not Sunnydale, 2013. No, Willow knew that the city cemetery was most definitely burned to cinders. Yet, the cemetery which she beheld with her own eyes was most definitely *not* burned down to cinders. It was very non-cinder-y.
Willow took a step back, and realized that her bare feet were digging into soft, fresh soil. She looked down and saw that her feet were covered in the dark brown stuff. Willow pulled her feet out one by one and shaked them free of dirt, stepping into the clean grass to the right of the grave. Then she leaned over to read the tombstone, one hand on the angel's wing to steady herself.
She definitely needed the angel's support. Willow leaned heavily on the wing, her mind dizzy, her head spinning, her heart racing, and a cold pit of fear replaced what was once her stomach.
This was too much to be bargained for.
As Willow fainted across the grave, a shaft of moonlight from the almost-full moon above trickled unto the gravestone, shedding light on the marker. It read:
~Shelley Shovanak~
January 1st, 1974 – December 19th, 1998
~May her guardian angel guide her to peace and eternal rest~
Uh-oh.
She was so tired. She'd been on the road for so long, in that truck of hers (well, the truck driver that she had taken it from didn't deserve it, after what he'd tried to do to her) which had broken down about a mile from where Buffy lived. She had walked all the way to the Daly {god it's so hard to accept that Buffy's married} house in the rain, probably catching a cold, and to top it all off, had to fight a vampire. And now, when she was in a nice, comfy room in a nice, comfy setting, the air between Buffy and her was not the only thing uncomfortable. The damned leather couch was pretty uncomfortable, too.
Ok, ok, so she'd sleep on anything, but something was really wigging her out about this place. Not the actual place, just this house. She knew how to sense mystical forces, and they were very near to here, however dormant. For a second, she wondered if this Hollywood suburb was on a Hellmouth.
"Wouldn't that be interesting," Faith said wryly, propping her head up on the arm of the couch and stretching her legs. She wondered if she could watch TV here, since she was just itching to see the picture on the enormous DigiTel.
The energy she sensed grew louder. The prophecy that her Watcher had warned her of flicked through her mind. Could it...no way. Faith shrugged the thought away. In the morning, when Buffy came back down to shoo her out of the way of her husband and daughter, faith would bluntly drop the information on her, and then leave. She didn't want to stay *here* for too long.
She was just leaning over to reach the remote, precariously balanced on the sofa's edge, when she felt as though her body had been dipped in ice-cold water. The shock ran like needles throughout her whole body, gripping her mind in a state of panic. She screamed—
—and gasped in surprise as water flooding into her mouth and choked on her closed passage.
Faith's eyes widened, and then sensation turned into an image around her. She in the water, blue-green water, and the sunlight was playing all over the sand by her feet. *Sand*. And the water that had gotten to her mouth was salty—sea water.
Oh god, she was drowning in the sea.
Faith did a scissors kick, reaching up vainly with her arms towards the sunlight that was visible above. She was never a good swimmer, and she had always swum in rivers or really, really peaceful lakes. Oceans were big. Oceans were unpredictable. Oceans were scary.
The fact that she was strong and hadn't had to float all the way down to the floor had done her good. She had broken the surface in just under a few minutes, gasping for breath and trying to clear the hair out of her eyes while keeping afloat. She blinked, trying to get the stinging feeling out of her eyes. She rubbed them, but it only made it worse.
There. A strip of shore. Beach. Sand. Land. Faith remembered a long time ago, when she was 13, and the really cute instructor was trying to teach her how to swim. "I want to swim just like those Olympic people," she had told him, and he had taught her the move with her hands, the butterfly or chest something-or-other. She couldn't remember the name, but for the life of her she'd better remember how to do it.
God she was freezing, and her legs were aching. *Deal* Faith told herself angrily, and began to swim towards the bit of shore.
Did she mention how the ocean was unpredictable? She didn't feel the large wave come up behind her, hardly noticed the little ripples that proceeded it. Then she was up in the air for a brief moment, carried on the lump, and then she was dashed down into the water like a stone, suddenly losing all sense of where up or down and left or right were. Her brain, not knowing how to deal with being cut off from everything, pumped adrenaline into her brain. She kicked furiously, driven by the frenzy created in her veins, but she couldn't match the swirling waters of the wave, and she let her body go slack as the wave tossed her like a rag doll towards the shore...
As Faith groggily came back to awareness, the first thing she noticed was that she was freezing cold, and that while her mouth was not moving, her teeth were on the verge of chattering frantically. The next thing that she noticed was the small bit of water that kept soaking her hair, and then disappearing. Waves. The third thing that she noticed was that she was lying on sand, rocks jabbing uncomfortably into her spine, bits of beach caked to her bare arms and legs. The final thing she noticed was the warm, cozy body that was snuggled next to her.
The hell...Faith opened her eyes wide and was greeted by a starry night sky, gorgeous if she had been star gazing instead of being the victim in a game of Pickle between waves. She sat up, pain wrenching in her back as she realized that the rocks were also in her shirt, not just on the sand which she had been lying on. Then, blinking the sting away from her eyes, she turned around to her side.
Curled up in a ball was the shivering form of Giles, Buffy's dog. "Gripes, could this get any weirder?" Faith asked, wondering if she should kick the dog awake. Instead, she just reached over and nudged his head a little.
Giles' eyes instantly flashed open, and with one look at Faith, bounded up. Her earlier appearance of being dead had frightened him very much, and now he was overjoyed that he had a friend in this strange place that he had been dropped off in. He barked happily, and then placed his front paws on her stomach, trying to reach up and lick her face, but Faith shoved him away.
"Stupid dog, let me find out what kind of mess we're in here!" she reprimanded him. She was never fond of animals, except for Xander the beagle. Eventually, though, she had given Xander the beagle away for adoption, because beagles weren't the ideal pets for travelling conditions. Maybe she'd get a husky and name it after Willow or something, considering the dog was female.
She was thinking about that as she surveyed her surroundings. She was on a little strip of beach, very, very tiny, and surrounded by thick walls of the kind of grass that grew around the beach. Grumbling, she began to climb the walls, noticing that Giles was eagerly falling in step.
"When I find out where we are," she told the dog as they climbed, "the second thing I want to know is how the hell you got here. Then I'll ask about myself."
In return, Giles sneezed. Had the dog gotten sick? He didn't look wet, but she didn't look that wet either and she had gotten a good dunk in the sea. After she found out where they were, they should find shelter and dry themselves off. Possibly with a towel lying around, one that some beach-going freak had left behind.
God, why did people go to the beach? The sand always got in everything and anything, the sun was a killer, and the ocean was always after you. Not even counting the man-o-wars and jelly fishes and sharks and all those other things in the deep. Faith had never been scared of anything; she'd always been the tough girl, never believing in monsters under her bed, never afraid of confronting the beyond. But the ocean was another thing entirely—her one true childhood fear that had carried itself onward into her adulthood.
When she got over the ridge, she recognized nothing. This land, these buildings...all foreign to her. She peered closer, using her enhanced sight, and spotted a couple nuzzling each other on the other strip of beach. As Giles nudged her in her side, she pushed his head away and climbed out of the hole, dragging the golden retriever along with her as she made her way towards the couple.
When she got there, the boy was busy sticking his tongue down the girl's thorat, and Faith had to clear her throat several times before they noticed she was there. The girl, who was topless, quickly wrapped a beach towel around her upper self as the boy jumped up with a flashlight and shined it on Faith's face.
"Who are you?" he demanded, the fright in his voice not enabling him to sound in charge of the situation.
"Your conscience," Faith snapped, not the best of moods. She put her hands on her hips and passed a look between the couple. "How old is that girl, anyway?"
"Fifte—hey, why do you want to know?" he said angrily, cutting himself off before he revealed that he was with a minor. The flashlight was still in Faith's eyes, and she shielded her gaze with one hand.
"I told you: I'm your frickin' conscience. And I want to know where the hell we are. Mind telling me?"
The boy seemed hesitant to answer, but the girl, wanting very much to get rid of this woman, quickly spoke up. "Sunnydale Public Beach," she said in a small voice, embarrased at being caught mid make-out session.
Faith's icy glare crumbled into an expression of unbelieving shock. "No way," Faith said immediately, shaking her head furiously. "No way is this place still open to the public. No one's allowed anywhere near Sunnydale, or even the surrounding towns. Jeez, do you know what risk you guys are taking, being here on the beach and all that??" Faith was goggle-eyed.
The couple looked at her, and then laughed. "You're crazy," said the guy, flicking his flashlight off. "We live in Sunnydale, lady. We can definitely be where we are."
Faith eyes widened even more. The only things that lived in Sunnydale were, well, *things*. And these people, *people*, were not things. They were very much human, and very much not afraid, and very much confusing her.
"Ok, what's going on?" Faith said. "Have I, like, been suddenly transported to another dimension or something? Back in time? What? What year is this?"
They continued looking at her like she was a loony. Maybe she was. "1998, lady," said the guy, fingering his flashlight again. "And now that you know that, can you leave?"
1998? Huh? *What* was going on? "Uh," Faith managed, and then composed herself. Obviously, this had to deal with that prophecy her last Watcher had vaguely told her about. "Gimme a towel."
"Lady, the one towel we got is on my date over there." The guy jerked the flashlight over to his date, who was blushing and pulling the towel up higher to conceal cleavage. "Why the hell are you swimming without a towel? And why the hell in your clothes?"
"Don't ask questions," Faith growled. "You'll exhaust yourself. Just give me the towel and ask your kiddy date to cover herself with that t-shirt of hers that is lying around *somewhere* were you guys tossed is away in the throes of passion. And if you give me that towel, I won't report you to Sunnydale Police." Yeah, if they were telling the truth and if there still *was* a Sunnydale Police Department.
"Here," the girl said quickly before her date could speak for her. She tossed the towel at Faith and then covered herself with her arms. Faith took the towel and started to walk away, drying her hair and mumbling thanks to the strange couple.
"Hey, wait!" called the girl. Faith turned around. "Where's your dog?"
Faith's jaw dropped, and then she looked to her side and around everywhere. Giles was no where to be seen. "Damn," she cursed, gritting her teeth. Then she set out at a fast pace towards Sunnydale, and she would hopefully run into that mutt along the way.
He couldn't get that day with Buffy out of his mind.
It was a Christmas miracle, truly. He had planned to kill himself, planned to totally annihilate his worthless, evil being, but the sun had not risen because of snow. Snow in Southern California. Obviously, there was some otherworldly intervention in this.
So, as he did his own nightly rounds around Sunnydale, he thought about how he had spent that day. It was wonderful; whenever he saw Buffy, it was only for that short period of time during the night. Now, he had the opportunity to spend the whole day with her, and they enjoyed it to the fullest. Nothing like playing in the snow to cheer any suicidal person up.
Now, though, they were staying apart, swearing there would not be another day like, holding hands and being together and contemplating kisses. No, it was dangerous to be tempted like that, to dangerous to ever fall in love again. It was very clear as to what the consequences would be.
Buffy...completed him. Made him feel human. Made him feel whole. Every day of his undead life was plagued by thoughts of her, and he was almost certain that Buffy was experiencing the same thing. Could they deny their passion? Could they keep away from each other, even if they knew the consequences? Could they not...
Angel didn't finish that sentence in his mind, though very clear memories of that night flashed through his mind. It was his most happiest moment—he shivered with happiness just thinking about it. This was dangerous. This could no longer continue.
He kept *telling* himself that...
Suddenly, his hyper-sensitive, preternatural hearing picked up a soft moaning sound. Moving like a shadow between the tombstones and the grave plots, angel quickly hurried to wear the moaning was coming from.
There was a figure, a figure dressed in a long red nightgown, strewn across a freshly dug plot. For a second he thought she was a vampire, and then Angel realized that he did not sense her as one of his kind. She was very human, but with a strange...scent, of sorts. At least to him.
Since she was human, she was most likely in trouble. Angel leaned over and brushed her red hair out of the way, exposing her neck. He was expecting bite marks, but there was nothing. The neck was clean.
Even stranger. Angel slid his hand under the woman's body, grabbing a firm hold around the waist. Gently, in case she had any broken bones, he turned her over. Her long red hair still covered her face. Angel gently brushed it away, and the female stirred.
Angel would have drawn his breath in sharply, if he had breath. Instead, he mimicked the motion as he stared at the face. The recognizable face. "Willow?"
The woman stirred once more at the mention of the name. Angel looked on in amazement as she opened her eyes and looked up dreamily into his face.
"Where am I?" she asked, reaching up to rub her eyes. Then she frowned and looked up. "You're not Oz..." she said quizzically, yet not really grasping what she was saying. Then she recognized the face that was staring back at her.
"Oh joy," Willow said, her eyes rolling up in her head once more, and she went limp in Angel's arms.
He wasn't sure he should go in. He wasn't sure about anything anymore.
God had it hurt when he saw Willow with Xander, kissing each other on the bed like that...his heart had broken into a million little pieces. What was worse, though, was not being together with Willow. He missed her...half of him had gone with her, the part of him that could love, leaving an empty, cold shell behind. He needed that half, and he needed Willow. He thought, perhaps, that having her back would fill that emptiness.
It didn't fill it at all; all it did was show Oz how wide it was. Whenever he looked at Willow...he saw not the girl that he had loved so deeply, but the girl that he could no longer trust as deeply. He still loved that smile, he still loved her touch, and he still loved her kisses, but to know that she had given the same exact pleasure to Xander made him jealous. He had been jealous before...but now he had reason to. And dammit, he was.
So now he stood outside the library, hands hovering next to the thin piece of metal that when pushed, would open the door. Open the door to the library. The place where he and the other Slayerette's had gathered so often, chatting about how they were going to revert the next day's apocalypse. Except now there was an apocalypse of a different kind.
Oh well. Tomorrow was the beginning of his days as a werewolf, and he wanted to spend this night with Willow. Perhaps try and fill the void that stood between them like the Grand Canyon. Try to reach out to her...try to reach out to her without instinctively drawing back, afraid of being hurt like that again.
He didn't want to be hurt like again. Pain was not the top emotion on his favorite's list. Heck, it wasn't even on there.
{Sooner or later I have to go in} Oz thought to himself. {If I'm going to do it, now is as good as any other time}.
Slowly, he touched the door. Then, the hinges creaking, he opened the door softly.
Everyone turned to him with a surprised expression, as though they were expecting someone else. "What?" Oz asked, feeling a little out of place. Then he noticed the stranger sitting on the computer desk, staring at him with a cocked head.
Oz was wondering what he was staring at when the doors opened behind him. Angel came in, carrying a woman in his arms who's face was covered in hair. Her red nightgown was stained with dirt, and her slightly pale and willowy frame hung limp in Angel's embrace.
Oz was forming the word "what" again when the man sitting next to Xander rose and strode quickly towards the vampire, scowling all the way. Angel looked just as confused as Oz did, and was startled when the man grabbed the woman out of his arms. Muttering curses, the strange man lay the strange woman down on the table, clearing a bunch of books out of the way first.
Oz moved closer to Buffy, as much to get away from Angel as to figure out what was going on. "What's up?" he whispered in her ear.
"What would you say if I told you that that man right there was Xander, fifteen years into the future?" Buffy asked pointedly, taking her eyes off from watching the man for just a second to gauge Oz's reaction.
Oz was pretty cool about it. "Well, I'd guess I'd believe you, because everything else has happened here in Sunnydale, and I don't think I have much choice in the matter."
Buffy nodded and turned back to F-Xander, who was sucking on his teeth and cradling the woman's head, whispering something softly in her ear.
"I-I think she was waking up when I brought her in," Angel said, for the lack of having anything else to say that sounded remotely intelligent.
F-Xander muttered something very vulgar under his breath and then reached up with one hand to the side of the strange woman's neck. He grabbed a bit of flesh and then pinched her, really, really, hard.
The woman let out a gasp and she rose with a shriek, facing her stunned audience. Shivering either from shock or cold, she put two trembling hands towards her face and parted her long red hair.
The others were not completely surprised by the sight, except perhaps maybe Oz and Angel. Since F-Xander had come back from the future, and Willow had felt the magic, then it was completely possible that she would come back too.
Besides, which *other* Slayerette had red hair?
What the gang *was* shocked at was the face. F-Willow seemed not to have aged a day beyond her seventeen years. The smooth, pale, oval face was still the same, and despite the increase in her, ahem, chest, this pretty much looked like young Willow, frail form and all. Pretty blue eyes blinked at the troupe, not recognizing their surroundings.
Then she turned around, looked at F-Xander, looked back at everybody again, and then back to F-Xander. She uttered a moan and prepared to faint once again.
"Oh-oh," F-Xander muttered, catching her as she fell into his arms. "*No way* are you fainting again. Wake up, Will, c'mon. Everything's ok. Just deep, even breaths."
F-Willow opened her eyes quickly and sat up woozily. "Ok? Everything's *ok*? Xander, clue into reality here." She pointed to her younger self, and let her finger roam around the library. "*This* is not ok. This is definitely not ok. This is not even *close* to ok here. This is very far from ok. This is bad. This is bad and wrong, wrong, wrong. You can't get any farther from ok than this, even if—"
F-Xander grabbed her shoulders and clapped one hand around her mouth. F-Willow looked suddenly very frightened as F-Xander spoke with deadly calm that he sometimes used in his line of work. "Willow, you know I hate to do this, but you're babbling. Your *really* babbling, and we don't need this right now. What we need to do is to be stop babbling and be cooperative, and find out from them how to get back where we are." He leaned forward and looked into F-Willow's eyes. "Do you understand, Will? Get what I'm saying?"
F-Willow nodded, eyes wide in panic, but they were drooping to regular size. When F-Xander removed his hand, F-Willow took one look around the library, laid her eyes on her younger self standing next to Giles, and found just the right spot on F-Xander's shoulder to cry.
As F-Xander awkwardly wrapped her in a hug and patted her on the back, Oz felt a surge of anger and jealously flow through him. *What had gone wrong?* After everything, Willow did end up with *Xander* after all? Was the universe up to slapping him upside the head every time the shiniest bit of happiness was in his life. I mean, there he was when he was five, the perfect family, when his dad decided to run off with the postwoman. Later, after moving to Sunnydale and all that, he had hooked up with Dingoes Ate My Baby and looked towards the bright future of getting signed...and then nothing. Willow entered his life, and everything seemed like bliss...until she started smooching and who-knows-what-else with Xander behind his back. Oh, yeah, and the werewolf thing was pretty bad too, although he was dealing with it well enough and the only thing bad was that he regularly missed Dingoes gigs. But this certainly topped the charts.
You couldn't tell that Oz was angry on the outside, though. His expression remained the same, if just a bit stonier, and his clenched fists were shoved in the pants pockets. He hoped to God he wasn't made to say anything, because then he'd surely blow.
Willow and Xander were surprised themselves. They looked at each other, blushing until their faces were the color of F-Willow's dyed hair. {How did we end up together} Willow thought to herself. {How could I have let go of Oz?}.
Oz. Willow snuck a peek at him. He seemed perfectly fine, if not a bit tense. {But I just know he's so not ok with this} Willow thought, her emotions so confusing that she wanted to burst into tears like he double.
"Um, I think this may be a bad time," Angel said, clearing his throat, "but what's going on?" He looked imploringly at the Scooby Gang.
"*Very* bad time, Dead Boy," F-Xander growled, shooting a glare at the vampire while continuing to sooth a very disturbed F-Willow's hair. Angel took a step back, obviously recognizing the nickname. The vampire mouthed "Dead Boy" silently, and then his eyes lit up as he understood the connection.
"Xander?" the vampire asked, wondering what the Hellmouth had done this time.
F-Xander ignored the question and instead tipped F-Willow back so that she had to look at him. "Do you think you're ok now?" he asked softly, wiping a tear away with the side of one finger.
F-Willow smiled weakly. "As ok as I can possibly get at this moment." She slid off the table and regained balanced on her two feet. She then turned to look at Giles, her bottom lip quivering at intervals.
"Um, alright...since something has obviously happened, does anybody mind explaining to me how this anomaly came to pass? Or has no one found out exactly how yet?" F-Willow brought one delicate fingernail to her lips and began to chew away her nail polish. Her eyes turned away from Giles and flicked back to Xander.
"Um," Giles said, unsure of how he was going to explain this over and over again to all of tonight's "visitors." "Xander was overlooking a book that contained a spell, and he must have intentionally cast it, because you are here, and in all cases, it must be connected to the spell. I don't believe that everyone's future selves would just back if they had not a push."
"Well, it's not everyone," F-Xander pointed out. "Last time I counted, it was Past: 4 and Future: 2. Our side's missing some players." F-Xander glanced at F-Willow, and she nodded enthusiastically. Then F-Xander turned back to the group.
Oz couldn't stand this. They both were being so...affectionate. He wondered if he was red, or green, or some other color that your skin was not suppose to be when you didn't feel like killing somebody because they'd stolen the girl of your dreams—twice. Why was he still standing here?
Buffy blinked. "Um, uh, do you have any ideas as to how we could get you guys back..." Buffy, making the matching motions with her hands. She raised her eyebrows, not even wanting to look at the three very tense, very awkward-feeling people around her.
"An idea..." F-Willow closed her eyes and sighed loudly and sharply. "I suppose I could divine something, only I wish Oz was here with me. Ever since we had our handfasting our ability to wield magick has worked so much better together."
"Oz?" Willow asked, the voice coming out as a high-pitched sound. She covered her mouth self-consciously, but she then drew it quickly away. "Oz?" she asked, everyone understanding it now.
"Oz, yes, handfasting, husband..." F-Willow trailed off, and her eyes flittered to the three people. "Oh, no way." She turned to look at F-Xander and for a moment something silent passed between them. Then they both started to laugh.
"You didn't think...us?" F-Xander asked as F-Willow giggled cupped her hand over her mouth. "No way, we would never..." Then he stopped mid-sentence and mentally backed up. He grabbed the back rung of a chair and leaned a bit heavily on it. He remembered what year it was, what month it was.
"What's wrong, Xander?" F-Xander turned to look at her, and then she got it. "Oh...*oh*." She stopped laughing. "Sorry for laughing," she whispered softly. Then she slumped down into the seat that Xander was still attached to.
Willow shot a glance towards Oz, and he gave her a weak smile. Willow took that as a sign that he was able to stand her now, and she slowly inched next to him.
"Ok, let me look at the spell that, um, uh," F-Willow looked up at F-Xander, "Xander did, and I'll see if I can undo it and send us back—"
She was interrupted by the sudden sound of raucous barking coming from outside. The whole group turned, puzzled, towards the sound.
"The hell is that?" F-Xander asked.
He was soon answered as the double doors burst open and a dirty, wet, seaweed-covered dog came bounding into the library. The dim lighting shone off it's golden, shaggy coat, and it skidded to a stop right in the center of the decorative floor-tile pattern, letting out another sharp bark. Then, tongue lolling out of its mouth, it turned to where Angel was still standing. It's matted fur bristled up, and it's mouth pulled up in a snarl, showing it's long, white, sharp teeth.
Angel backed considerably to the doors. He was getting no answers as to what was going on, the people in the room weren't exactly his best buddies, and the dog was ready to rip his preternatural being apart. Time to go.
Yeah, time to go if the woman had not burst into the room, tripping over her tow and falling head first into the floor. Despite the fall, she rolled herself into a tight ball and hit the floor on her back, somersaulting next to the dog. Then, grunting, she pulled herself up again and grabbed the dog by the nap of it's neck, lifting the large animal off the floor.
"Damn dog," she growled, and then realized where she was. She dropped the dog to the floor, and then started to edge near where F-Xander and F-Willow were, her large, expressive black eyes rolling around.
"Faith?" F-Willow asked, her hands curling up to her neck, cradling herself.
F-Faith turned to look at her, and nodded. "What on the Hellmouth is going on here?" Faith asked, jerking her head towards Buffy & Crew.
"We're trying to figure that out right now," F-Xander answered. Then he grinned, sizing her wet, ragged-looking self. "Talk about all washed up," he added, not able to resist.
He ducked as a stake-turned-missile came flying at his head. "Not in the mood, Harris," F-Faith growled, giving him a glare that made vampires cower. F-Xander gulped and just grinned lopsidedly.
F-Faith, content at shutting up Xander, put her hands on her hips and turned to look at everyone. "Ok, so..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed that the dog was still growling. "Shut up, Giles," she told the dog, kicking it in the side. D-Giles didn't even notice, staring straight at Angel. F-Faith turned to see what he was looking at.
The next thing Angel knew, he was pinned against the wall, F-Faith with a good grip on his neck and a stake held high in her right hand. "Goodbye, Angelus," she told him sweetly, bringing her arm back and then swinging it towards his heart. Angel squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the End to come.