Buffy bit her lip as Xander rolled out of the elevator. He was rail-thin, the yellow rayon shirt swallowing his torso. A cast encased his right arm; his eyes were surrounded by dark circles. He looked at the Slayerettes as they approached him. He started to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He swallowed.
"You guys," he said, his voice raspy, "have the worst poker faces in the world. Except Oz." Oz shrugged.
Buffy and Willow stared at him, choking on emotions too large to express. Xander stared back, his lips compressed into a tight line.
"What, um, what seems to be the prognosis?" Giles rode to the rescue.
Xander's mom shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Well, it's not good for my wallet. You see how his arm's broken, well, he's gotta have surgery on a knee because he's got some sorta injury like athletes get, which is about as close to athletic as he'll ever be, plus the doctor says he's got a concussion, so who knows?"
Buffy and Willow exchanged a glance; apparently Xander had more in common with Cordelia than expected, at least when it came to moms. Oz stepped forward.
"Here," he said. "Might be a good time for a sugar rush." He took the Milk Duds out of the gift shop bag and placed the box in Xander's good hand.
"Hey, thanks." Xander grinned, but his face was so drawn and pale that the attempt was shocking rather than comforting. "I see Will remembered the Duds."
The redheaded witch nodded. "Yeah, I did. Um, Xander-"
Xander swallowed. "Will, I can't really talk right now. I mean, I want to talk, I know I need to talk to you guys, but-" he blinked "-my head's still ringing a little bit."
"Oh, oh, yeah, of course." Willow reached toward him, then stopped, her hands fumbling in mid-air. Xander shifted his weight, grimacing slightly. Oz and Buffy came to Will's rescue as each took a hand.
"Yeah, I gotta get him home. It'll be time for his meds by the time we get there." His mom thrust the wheelchair toward the door.
"You guys can walk with us to the car," Xander said, his face brightening. "If you want."
"We want." Buffy cocked her head in his direction. "We very much want."
Only Xander's mother appeared unaware of the tension as they crossed the lobby. The silence was thick as they stepped through the sliding doors.
"God, look at this weather." Mrs. Harris looked up at the purple-black clouds roiling above their heads. "I can't even breathe in this. We gotta get home before this busts loose."
Xander looked at his friends as the back door to the car was opened. "I appreciate this," he said. "Especially after I made a world-class jackass out of myself. I meant what I said. I want to talk… I'm just too scrambled right now."
The Slayer started to throw a playful punch to his shoulder, then reconsidered. "Well," she said, awkwardly returning her hand to her side, "the brain thing might have been a pre-existing condition, so… we'll overlook it." She grimaced. "Sorry. That was bad. Whenever you're up to it, just let us know."
"And up to it we'll be, too," chimed Willow.
"Ah, Will." Xander groaned slightly as he slid himself from the wheelchair to the car seat. "Change don't you ever."
"Dammit!" Mr. Trick slapped the desk. "Could anyone tell me what's going on?"
"Uh, not sure, sir, but something is messing up the connections."
Trick eyeballed the vampire standing on the other side of the desk. His underling seemed to shrink in size under the glare. "What do you mean? Could you be more precise?"
"I'm sorry. It's not on our end. We've checked every connection, every server, run diagnostics backwards and forwards. Whatever's happening is not in our system."
"That is still not a good answer."
The tech vampire blinked as sweat ran into his eyes. "Our working theory is that it's related to whatever meteorological event is going on."
"The weather? You're saying that the weather is cutting off our communications?" Trick's lips pulled back from his fangs. "That sounds very, very weak."
"This, this is not just weather, sir. Something weird is happening in the atmosphere. We don't know what it is, but it's not a normal system." Tech vamp took a deep breath. "It's not even showing up on the NOAA site."
Trick frowned. "Explain, and do it quickly."
"The weather service isn't seeing what's happening here. The maps don't show any cloud cover over Sunnydale."
"That's strange, but we were hired to deal with strange."
"This is, this is different." Tech vamp grimaced. "We're monitoring CB chatter between truckers."
"We are reduced to depending on Kenny Chesney fans in giveaway caps for our intelligence?"
"It's what we have right now. I know it sounds primitive, but it is providing us with some useful information." When Mr. Trick looked skeptical, the lesser vampire hastened to continue. "For example, whatever this is, it's very localized. It seems to pretty much end at the city limits, almost like a wall."
Trick leaned back and stroked his chin. "Well, now, that is special." He made a shooing gesture as he looked at the computer monitor to his right. "This isn't weather. It's hoodoo. Okay. Keep digging. Let me know what you find. And keep trying to restore our service."
The Reverend's lips twitched and writhed, periodically drawing back over his teeth into a grimace. Cords stood out in his neck as he cocked his head as though listening for some whispered instructions just beyond the range of his hearing. Coyne entered the room, wiping his hands on a towel.
"I have never seen weather like this," he growled.
"That is because it's not weather, you fool." The Reverend's nostrils dilated. "This is great and powerful. This is… old. It is beyond us." He shook his head violently. "It's elemental magic. We must step carefully."
Coyne nodded. "I don't think anyone is feeling hungry tonight anyway."
Buffy turned up the collar on her jacket. It was a miserable night; the darkness was oppressive and the usual winter chill was exacerbated by the clammy humidity that let the chill seep into her bones even as it made her coat feel stifling. Low rumbles of thunder rolled in the distance, or (the Slayer turned her head from side to side, trying to locate the sound) from high… above? She glanced up as if to find the source of the sound, and a chill raced through as an impression of clouds roiling above her, black against black and somehow… twisting… searching?
"Gross. This is totally creepsome." Her lip curled as she scanned the open lot. "At least the trouble boys are all off the street."
Willow snuggled against Oz's side. "I feel kind of guilty for letting Buffy patrol by herself."
Oz stretched back against the pillow, his arm encircling Willow. "I'm trying to, but, honestly, I just can't find it."
"You're terrible." Willow sighed.
"Phrasing," he said as he kissed the top of her head. "And timing."
Willow giggled, then suddenly turned serious. "You know, I've been thinking. Do you think the wolf has any effect on… you know?"
Oz shifted onto his side to face her. "Willow, I'm going to kiss you now, because this conversation is headed in a very Dr. Moreau direction, and kissing you is the best way I can think of to end it."
Willow grinned, her eyes sparkling. "Well, then, you'd better be quick because I've got a couple mmmmphh-"
The kiss lasted for a while, then segued into other activities, then conversation was impossible because both of them were out of breath.
"Whew," Oz said at last.
"Double whew." Willow pushed her hair back from her face, and rolled to her side to face Oz. "I am so happy right now. Nothing can spoil this."
A patter of raindrops hit the roof.
The Slayer was half a block from home when the sky opened. One moment it was cold and humid, then four or five fat drops of rain hit her shoulders, and then she was enveloped in a wall of water. By the time she reached the porch, her hair was plastered to her skull, her coat was drenched and heavy, and her feet were squelching in her shoes. She looked over her shoulder. Rain pounded down with such force that water rebounded nearly knee-high off the pavement. She turned and went into the house. The living room was dark.
"Buffy?" Joyce flipped on a lamp and rose from the armchair in which she had been seated.
"Mom!" The Slayer jumped. "Are you trying to scare me to death?"
"Look at you, you're soaked. Just, just stand there." Joyce hurried into the bathroom and came back clutching a robe and towels. Before Buffy could protest or defend herself, her mother was briskly stripping off the wet clothes, roughly toweling her dry, and wrapping her in the thick, fluffy robe. The Slayer could do little more than blink. When Joyce stepped back, Buffy stood on the rug, her sodden clothes in a pile, her hair askew, her eyes dark-ringed where her mascara had run or been wiped off. She shook herself.
"That was some ninja-level momming there," she said.
A small smile played around Joyce's mouth as she shook her head. "I just didn't want you dripping on the floor. It must be pouring if you got that wet that quickly."
Buffy nodded. "It's not a fit night out for man or demon."
Xander stared at the ceiling. The cast on his arm was cumbersome and a dull ache throbbed in his skull. If he moved his head too quickly, sparkling flashes erupted in his vision. His knee, propped on pillows, did not call much attention to itself as long as he stayed very still. Even in the basement, he could hear the roar of the rain pounding on the roof and pecking at the window high on the wall, although the painkillers in his system made the sound seem very far away. As he drifted into fitful sleep, a nagging thought crept into the edges of his consciousness: You are underground. You are buried.
Cordelia was grateful for the storm. The lashing of rain at the window and the thunder of the downpour on the roof muffled the shouting from downstairs. The fight had been going on for quite some time. She wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her head on her knees.
"Why," she whispered to herself, "don't you leave? Why do you stay? Why doesn't one of you do something? Why do we go through this over and over again?" She fell over onto her side, curled into a fetal ball, the pillow pulled tight to her head to cover her ears. She fell asleep and was unaware when the harsh voices subsided.
The first death was just after midnight, so it was technically Monday morning, not Sunday night. It was a simple hydroplaning accident; the car missed the curve, jumped the curb, and hit the streetlight post and flipped over. Not a bad accident, but the driver's neck was broken in the tumble; he didn't believe in seatbelts.
It seemed like just a sad, random mishap.