CHAPTER 9: CLOSER

The angry boy, a bit too insane,
Icing over a secret pain,
You know you don't belong,
You're the first to fight; you're way too loud,
You're the flash of light, on a burial shroud,
I know something's wrong,
Well everyone I know has got a reason,
To say,
put the past away

            ~Jumper, Third Eye Blind
______________________________________________

Willow looked around at the small group gathered together in Xander's apartment, feeling her stomach tighten in anticipation, a small tingle of excitement and apprehension growing within, and she smiled wryly at the old familiar feeling of nervousness. She didn't feel it very often these days, but when she was younger it had been her constant companion, her ever-present nemesis, always getting in her way and making her trip over her own tongue. Taking a deep breath, she collected her wits and steeled her nerve, willing her body to relax, determined not to babble her way through this. She had to stay strong for all of them.

"We haven't been able to find the Buffy-bot anywhere," she began, her eyes touching on each of them as she spoke. "We're going to have to give her up for lost."

"Can't say I'm sorry about that," Xander said, leaning back on the couch. His eyes were flat, expressionless save for the glimmer of sarcasm … he hadn't been handling this very well. Willow was actually surprised by that. She'd thought Xander would want Buffy back more than any of them, but so far he had been the toughest opposition in the group.

She fixed him with a look of annoyance, and then looked down again at the glass of the coffee table. "I think I've found a spell," she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her resolve.

Everyone stilled, freezing in place, seemingly shocked into silence. For a moment, it seemed no one even breathed… then, Xander sat forward, his eyes questioning, and Anya closed her fashion magazine, deep brown eyes focusing on Willow for the first time. Only Tara sat quietly, her eyes seemingly glued to the floor.

"A… a spell?" Xander asked, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Willow nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet.

"Then… we're ready? To do this?" he asked nervously.

She frowned, knowing she didn't have the answer he and the others would want. "No…" she began hesitantly. "Actually, I've found two spells. One is heavy on the bargaining, but relatively safe. The other is…less safe…"

"Then I'm going with door number one," Xander quipped sardonically.

"It's not that easy," Willow hedged, her shoulders tightening and seeming to shrink.

"Then we don't do it."

"We have to do it."

"Will," he said, the very word a plea. Hesitating, he forced himself to look at her, knowing he had to say something. "If there's a new Slayer—"

"There will always be a new Slayer," she countered angrily. "There's only one Buffy."

"I know," he said softly, trying to calm her. "And I love her as much as you do. But it just doesn't seem right."

"So if it's safe, then we do it, but the slightest bit of risk and you're running for the door?" she demanded hotly.

"Yes—no!" He sighed, the confusion in him growing. "I don't know."

Silence reigned for a moment, resentment festering in its presence, and then Tara spoke up softly, her voice soothing the moment like a cool cloth against fever. "Tell us about the spells."

Disconcerted, Willow nodded, trying to re-gather her thoughts. This wasn't going at all like she'd planned… she'd barely even gotten out of the gate and already Xander was trying to shut her down. Closing her eyes and pressing her lips together, she forced her anger back into the deep well of her mind, burying it with all the other slights and hurts she'd accumulated over the years. It went with reluctance, but it went, and a moment later, she regained her train of thought.

"The safer spell requires a ritual which will test the caster—me—to the limits of endurance. If I'm found worthy, the request will be granted and Buffy will be returned."

"That doesn't sound very safe," Xander commented. "What if your endurance comes up short?"

"It won't," she said sternly, meeting his gaze fiercely. Then she looked away, seemingly wistful. "But it doesn't matter… I don't have all the components the spell requires."

"What do you need?" Anya asked. She was as uncertain as Xander about casting a spell of this sort—more so, even, since she'd seen the outcome of a few—but when it came to supplying magical items, she took pride in being a procurer of the rare and difficult to come by.

"An Urn of Osiris," Willow replied sullenly.

"Oh," Anya said knowingly. "So much for that. What's the other spell?"

"It's much simpler, it doesn't require anything difficult… it's just…" Willow faltered, scrunching up her courage. "Just… dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Xander asked abruptly, his voice sounding panicky. "Are we talking 'Mission Impossible' dangerous, or 'Night of the Living Dead' dangerous?"

She took a deep breath. "The spell requires that each of us give up a portion of our own life-essence in order to give life to the person being resurrected. Kinda—kinda like giving blood," she added lamely, not able to look at any of them.

"That sounds like both, with a little Hellraiser thrown in and no popcorn," Xander retorted darkly.

"Xander—"

"No!" he exclaimed loudly, leaping up from the couch. "I'm not letting my soul get siphoned off like gasoline! This is crazy, Willow!"

"It's only a little, Xander," she pleaded. "And it's temporary. Like blood. It replenishes itself."

"Oh, so I'll only be a little soulless! That's comforting. That puts me somewhere just above N'sync on the evolutionary ladder."

Anya blinked at him in confusion. "But you like N'sy-"

"Anya, important moment here!" he interrupted loudly and frantically.

Willow looked away, her heart heavy. "I need all of you for this to work. I need everyone behind it and willing one-hundred percent."

"Hey, here's a novel idea," Xander said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Why don't we let the new Slayer do her job and let Buffy rest in peace? I say she's earned it."

"She's not at peace, Xander," Willow sniped back, her eyes falling on him accusingly. "She fell through a portal that was the doorway to thousands of worlds. Her soul is probably trapped in one of them, or in some other horrible place."

"Like a world ruled by bunnies?" Anya asked fretfully.

"Like hell," Willow answered, her face and voice solemn.

"There could be a world ruled by bunnies," Anya defended herself, frowning, mistaking Willow's answer for a contradiction.

"No. I meant Buffy could be in a place like hell," Willow said slowly, painstakingly pronouncing every syllable.

Xander sighed and fell back on the couch, covering his face with his hands. "Okay." He sat up, letting his hands slide down his face to grab his cheeks, dragging the skin down with them and exposing his lower eyelids. "Okay."

"I—I could look for an Urn," Anya spoke up after a moment. Then she shrugged, going on matter-of-factly, "After all, someone on e-bay sold a Holy Grail a few weeks back, so it's possible an Urn could turn up."

"An, honey, there's only one Holy Grail."

"Oh please," Anya said with a snort. "You think the ancient's didn't know the value of mass production?"

"Finding an Urn will take time," Willow tried one last time, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"I don't think Buffy's going anywhere," Xander countered with dark humor.

Willow looked back at him, their eyes locking in silent communication for a long moment. She'd known him all her life, and she knew enough to know when he wouldn't be pushed. She didn't like it—in fact, she hated it. After all, hadn't they put her in charge? Didn't they trust her judgment? She knew what they needed to do… unfortunately, she needed all of them to back her up on it in order for it to work, and she could see that just wasn't going to happen. Not right now, anyway.

"Okay," she agreed finally, reluctantly, throwing up her hands. "If you're all opposed to the spell, I guess we'll have to try the Urn or something else."

"I just love it when you're forceful, honey," Anya said, beaming at Xander. "Are we done here?" she asked, looking at Willow. "Because I'd like to take Xander away to the bedroom now. We just got these leather—"

"Anya…" Xander said, holding his head in his hands.

"What?" Anya appeared confused. "They're lesbians. They probably use sexual aides all the time, right?" She looked at Willow and Tara with sincere curiosity.

Tara looked up and smiled faintly.

"We were just, uh, leaving, anyway," Willow said uncomfortably, rising quickly to her feet. Anya's candor usually annoyed her, but tonight she was glad to have an excuse to be away from the apartment. Her plans had all fallen apart, despite her careful calculating, and she needed time to think.

There was part of her that agreed with Xander, but that part was buried deep beneath another part of herself… the part that knew the longer they waited to bring Buffy back, the more chance they had of losing her forever.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Angel sat before the lighted fireplace, brow creased in concentration, book balanced carefully on his lap. He had spent most of the last few days poring over the ancient texts, and finally, he was beginning to decipher the language.

The magnifying glass he'd gotten from Sneed was helping; the language appeared to be a strange derivative of Sumerian, but between his ignorance of the dialect and the slow learning curve inherent in the item, it was taking more time to puzzle it out than he would have liked.  Still, the symbols were finally beginning to make some sense to him… and he didn't like what he was reading, at all.

The door of the mansion creaked as it opened and he glanced up, already knowing who he would see.

"Hey, Angel," Faith called as she kicked the door shut behind her without turning. "How's the required reading?" she asked as she strolled up to him.

"It's… well…" He glanced at the text again, uncertain. "I'm not sure, yet," he hedged.

"Uh huh," she said, not believing a word. Crouching down before him she rocked back on her heels, glanced at the book and then back up at him. "So… what's it say? Great and terrible evil? The end of the world? Clearance: all items must go?"

"Nothing that exciting," he said, smirking. His eyes fell upon the pages of the book, and he seemed hesitant to continue. "All I can make out so far is that this book pertains to ancient rituals that tie into very powerful spells."

"Well, that's informative," she said with a dismissive toss of her head.

"The only other thing I can get is that all of these rituals revolve around blood and other life-essences… pretty heavy stuff."

"Blood?" she asked, frowning, suddenly reminded of her recent dream. She'd dreamed of the portal many times in the last month, but this past week she'd dreamt of Buffy twice more since the first time, and the dreams—nightmares, really—were only getting worse... and bloodier. She was getting pretty close to giving up on trying to sleep just to escape their terrifying grasp.

"Does that mean something to you?" Angel asked, studying her troubled expression.

Faith pushed to her feet and stood, shrugging with a cocky slant of her shoulders. "No," she said quickly, glancing at him and then away. "Why should it?"

Angel looked at her a moment longer, then set the book aside, giving her his full attention. It seemed to him as if she were challenging him, daring him to push her to talk about whatever it was she didn't want to talk about… almost as if she wanted him to. She'd been pulling away from him ever since the first night he'd gone with her on patrol, and lately she was beginning to provoke things to confrontation between them more often than not.

"If we're going to do this," he said quietly, "we're going to have to trust each other."

"Do what?" she asked, her voice taking on a hard edge. Was he saying he didn't trust her?

"You know."

All the tension, all the doubts, all the recriminations of the last few weeks bore down on her with all their weight, and she felt something snap inside her.

She tilted her head at him challengingly, dark eyes glittering like ice. "You mean this 'Slayer and Vampire Save the World Together' thing?" She gave a bitter laugh. "Come on, Angel, aren't you sick of that old routine yet?"

He said nothing, merely looking at her.

"You don't have to play the redeemer role anymore, Angel. You don't have to pretend to help me so you can feel better about a bunch of people you killed in another life that wasn't even yours." Seeing his expression, she sneered. "Aw, what's the matter? Did I spoil your fun? Ruin your little game?" She flung the words at him, sharp as a knife, meant to cut to the bone.

"This isn't a game," he said quietly, his eyes shadowed, deep hollows of black beneath his brows.

"Everything's a game," she contradicted with violent emphasis. "And if you're not here to indulge your Savior Complex…" she gave him a cruel smile, "…it must be to indulge your Slayer Fetish."

He gave a quiet snort of disbelief and turned his head aside.

"Why don't we just cut to the chase," she said, her voice taunting as she stepped toward him, tugging at the collar of her shirt, revealing the curving swell of her breast. "We can do it right here on the floor and get it over with! Then you can go back to L.A. and get on with your—"

He rose from the chair and grabbed her by the wrists so fast that she barely had time to register what had happened. His face was close enough to hers that she could have kissed him, and for a moment, she thought he was going to take her up on her offer—then he pulled her hand away from her collar, his eyes seeming to burn with intensity as they bore into hers.

"You know that's not why I'm here." His eyes flickered back and forth, searching hers for understanding. After a moment, he relaxed his grip on her and shook his head, still looking at her. "I know you want to try and sabotage everything, to push away anyone who might get close enough to hurt you… but you can't drive me away, Faith, no matter how hard you try."

She tore her gaze from his and spun away, wrenching her wrists from his hands. Still angry, she threw her arms over her chest, hugging herself as she paced away from him.

"Bet you're just loving this," she spat contemptuously. "Saving me from myself… is that how you get your rocks off?"

"I can't save you from yourself, Faith. You're the only one who can do that."

"You know, people keep saying that!" her voice was sharp with anger and sarcasm. "Funny. I don't see any of you telling me how to do it."

"That's because you have to figure that part out for yourself, too."

"Great." She uttered an exasperated, bitter chuckle and shook her head.

He took a step toward her. "That doesn't mean I can't help you, or be there for you. I can, and I will."

"Right." She laughed again, still shaking her head and looked skyward, as if she were helpless, as if she were at a loss. He saw her shoulders lower, heard her sigh. "Why do you do it, Angel? It can't be the money," she said cynically, her back still to him.

"It's what I do," he said simply, and she could almost hear him shrug.

"Every good deed is its own reward?" she asked, sarcastically.

"That's what my mother used to say."

She snorted and rolled her eyes moving toward the door and reaching for the handle—

"Before I killed her."

She hesitated, her hand falling away from the knob.

"What did the blood make you think about, Faith?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, started to say something, stopped, put her hand on the knob, and paused again. "Dying," she said, letting the silence hang between them for a moment, then she turned the knob and went out into the night.

Steely eyes followed her.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

The vamps had gotten the drop on her.

She'd been coming off one of the side streets, turning the corner to a row of shops, and a door had flown open into her face, sending her stumbling backward. That vamp had hardly paused; carrying several books in its arms, it had glanced down at her and taken off running in the other direction. She'd bounced to her feet, confident she had it, when the vamp that'd been playing lookout slammed into her from behind. She'd gotten tangled up in its clothing, and it took precious moments for her to stake it. By then, the other four vamps had exited the shop and were circling her like wary animals, edging forward then back, each of them antsy for the other to make the first move.

She'd launched her stake at one and spun to kick another, the other two lunging for her. She heard her first target disintegrate with a satisfying pop and sent the second staggering back several paces to land on its butt. She'd reached to the small of her back for her second stake, preparing to leap on the downed vamp—

A hand had closed around her seeking arm like an iron band, superhuman strength yanking it up between her shoulder blades so hard that she'd heard something in her shoulder crack. The world had wavered red for an instant, and then she'd reached for the stake with her other hand, drawing it forth and stabbing out to the side on instinct. The vamp that had been coming up beside her had squealed in fury and then turned to ash. She'd been about to launch the stake at the vamp getting up off the ground, but the one holding her had recovered from the surprise of her lightning quick reflex, and he'd clamped his other hand around her wrist, squeezing until she couldn't hold the wooden shaft anymore. With a grimace of pain she'd let go and heard it clatter to the sidewalk, and there was no time to mourn its loss, because the vampire she'd kicked was coming up on her fast.

Both arms now pinned behind her back, she tried to kick him again, but he sidestepped, fanged maw splitting in a mocking grin. Cautiously, he came up beside her, distorted face perilously close to hers, and she could smell the rank odor of old blood as it spoke.

"So you're the new Slayer," he said, looking her up and down. "I heard you were tough. Don't look like much to me…. Pretty though. Maybe I'll keep your head for a trophy when I'm done." He gave her a lewd smile, then opened his jaws wide, incisors easing forward…

She struggled wildly against her captor, kicking backward with her feet and thrashing her head violently back and forth.

The vampire reached out and grabbed her face between its hands, stilling her motion and turning her head to the side. "Now, now," he said, looking her right in the eye. "You don't—"

She head butted him as hard as she could. She heard the sharp crunch as their foreheads met, then—surprisingly—the familiar pop of rushing air behind her, and suddenly she was free.

Instantly she dropped to the ground, grabbing the stake as she rolled to the side. She had barely risen to her feet when she heard another pop, and the final vampire vaporized.

"Angel!" she exclaimed in surprise, seeing his trench coated form still kneeling where he'd killed the vampire. "I thought you were…" she trailed off as he rose to his feet and turned to look at her.

It wasn't Angel.