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The days passed with increasing urgency. Temperaments were running high, there was an air of distinct… failure. All involved were cursed with a heavy, empty feeling at each days' end.

…And Buffy still didn't like Sirius Black.

The Scoobies had adapted quite well to the Newcomers, though it would admittedly be highly impossible to shock them anymore, lest Willow were to do something crazy, like end up on some vengeance-fueled murderous rampage.

Yes, everyone had fallen well in with one another, and it became routine to congregate at the Magic Box each day to discuss plans and ideas. Or, more accurately, try for 10 minutes, get frustrated, cry, give up, and trade stories.

Giles watched this each day, more and more irritated. Buffy still hadn't divulged to the Marauders that the secret to their return home had been destroyed before any of them had been born. Before Spike had ever been born.

Giles stood behind the counter fiddling with the cash drawer and watching his companions carry on like ticking bloody hormonal time bombs. He huffed and scrubbed at his spotless lenses incessantly, as even Anya, usually so devoted to earning her paycheck, sat in Xander's lap, flipping idly through a bridal magazine.

He huffed again, rather more loudly than he meant to.

Buffy, nearby, looked up from Sirius' repertoire of 'look at this scar' stories, and chuckling, asked,

"Something the matter?"

Embarrassed and irritated, Giles hesitated, then responded.

"Well you know, now you mention it, rather a lot's the matter. This plan? This sit-around-and-chat-each-other-up plan? It-it-well, it sucks!" His brain had begged him to shut up before he ever spoke, but his mouth was too stubborn, it seemed.

Buffy, armed and dangerous, stood from her chair.

"Oh?" she asked in the tone the Scoobies had learned to fear. The room stiffened.

"Well—I just mean…we're sitting around, not researching…playing footsie?!" He gestured to Xander and Anya, who violently jerked away from one another. "We should be trying to find ways to fix this! Problem solving! I don't know- praying? Buffy, there's a war waging, and we're sitting here planning a wedding!"

"Hey!" Anya protested, affronted. "You did us already! Stiffly criticize someone else now!" She was ignored.

Buffy narrowed her eyes into slits, and a brow raised in what Giles recognized as a challenge.

"Hmm. You want to tell them then, Giles?" The onlookers exchanged nervous glances, but they too were ignored. "Go ahead. Tell Lily that we can't get her back in time for her to bring that baby to her own home, in her own world—that her home may not even exist when and if we get them back. Pull out your charts, and-and your texts. And tell these people that if they ever do make it back home, it'll be to a wasteland of broken and bloodied loved ones."

Giles closed his eyes in regret, and wished to himself that he hadn't spoken at all.

"I…I only meant…we've been in these situations before. Some hopeless something or other comes along, we panic, and we cry, but we've always been able to sort it out. Just…we could be trying harder. …Is all."

Buffy calmed then, her face softened.

"Well then please. Tell me where to look."

She turned back to the table, conversation terminated, Giles knew.

He hated that she knew he was out of ideas…superfluous. Ineffective. He'd forgotten to consider the Marauders, he realized. He faced them now.

Lily sat with unspilt tears in her eyes. James, whose expression was unreadable, was comforting her. Remus sat silent, stunned, his mouth hung open. Sirius however, looked merely amused. He turned in his chair, and crossed his legs casually.

"So Buffy…"


They met again the next day, as per usual, but there was a nearly tangible change in the once comfortable atmosphere.

The Scoobies seemed sheepish, though they all knew that only Buffy and Giles were guilty.

The Marauders, usually friendly and open and genial, sat secluded, distrusting…in mourning, Giles realized with a sickening lurch of his stomach.

James spoke first, cutting startlingly through the tense silence.

"Buffy. How could you have kept this from us?"

"Now, now. There's no call to lay blame. I'm sure Buffy and Mr. Giles thought it best for our safety," Remus cut it.

Buffy sighed, frustrated. "No. You're right. Blame, big blame. I'm blame gal. I'm sorry. It's just…it was so devastating. I just didn't know how to tell you. I mean…even if there is a way to get you back home, it could be months before we can find it. And by then, it might be…"

"…too late," Sirius finished, and patted her hand comfortingly. She looked confused, but only in passing. She pulled away and turned back to the conversation.

"Um…hello, morons?" Anya broke in, her own brand of ex-demony enthusiasm not even the slightest bit infectious.

Xander's eyes widened and he laughed forcefully.

"Honey?" he asked her. "You had something to add?...Politely?"

"Well, yes. Yes! Because I am a useful member of both society and the Scoobies." She beamed. "See…remember when Buffy went to hell? A-after she brutally murdered the only man she'll ever love and ran away to escape reality. Not when she sacrificed herself for the good of mankind and we ruthlessly yanked her out of what we believed to be unspeakable torment, when really we took away her omniscient peace and utter happiness, love and warmth."

"You're coming to a point soon, right?" Willow prompted.

"I already did! God, do you need like, a helmet?"

"An…Honey…"

"I know. It's just—ugh. Well time works differently in different dimensions, of course!"

"Ah," Giles began, and pulled his glasses off to clean again. "Yes, Anya, that's an excellent point." (She beamed again.) "However, there's no way to be certain at what speed time would work in their dimension, as compared to ours, and even if we could, what could be done about it?"

"Oh!" Willow shouted. The table gaped, startled. She flapped her arms, and said, "Sorry! Just…excited. There's—there's a spell! W-we can do! To…to figure out the speed time would move there! A-and maybe alter the speed!"

"Mm, I've heard of that. Kali's Strife, isn't it?" Anya asked knowledgeably.

Giles looked worried.

"Willow—that spell is extremely dangerous. It slips into the indefinite places between time and the dimensional walls. You—you could get stuck there. Not to mention it borders on extremely dark magics that may start you down a path from which no one could possibly return."

"Ugh! I can do it, Giles! I brought Buffy back from the friggin' dead!!"

"Hey!" Xander whined. "I helped!

They argued for another half an hour, until Buffy was fed up.

"Willow, no. It's too dangerous."

"No, Buffy, listen. I can do this! It's complicated, and-and risky, I know that. But I think I've more than proven myself. Why don't you trust me?"

Anya perked up.

"Um…how about because a few weeks ago you cast a spell that made me believe I was in love with Old English." (Giles opened his mouth to protest, but Anya carried on despite.) "You nearly got Spike and Buffy killed. And you had your greasy gay paws all over Xander!"

"Oh thanks for your support, Miss Summons-My-Ex-Boyfriend-God-of-the-Trolls—"

The meeting dissolved into chaos. Giles could scarcely hear his inner-English turmoil and as he opened his mouth to speak, he heard something altogether more alarming.

"Quiet! Please!" Remus shouted, red-faced and shaking. "Now," he stood." We've been silent spectators up to this point. But we're talking of our families. Willow is willing. Eager, even. Our loved ones, Lily's baby, they're innocents. They've got no choice, no chance. No protection. If Willow is willing to risk the danger, please. We are begging you to let her."

Willow mouthed a silent thanks to him, and turned back to Buffy, who also got up from her seat to speak.

"Remus, you're new here. You don't know how things work, so we'll work this out amongst our own. Thanks." She trampled over his gasps of shock. "Willow- if you want to risk your life before we've even looked for another option, fine. Whatever. But when you get stuck in the inter-dimensional time sphere? Call someone else to rescue your ass." She turned to leave. As she was exiting, she heard Sirius guffaw.

"Oh-ho! Girlie didn't get her way. Like I said…adorable."

Willow's mind was made up; she was going to do what she could to help. She had sat by, utterly useless, for six years. She was ready to prove her worth. She wasn't arguing- she ignored Xander's protests as she collected the ingredients in stock at the Magic Box.

Anya's dissent, however, was decidedly harder to ignore.

"Willow!" she'd barked. "You'll die! And you heard Buffy! We're not allowed to rescue you!" She shook herself mentally, forcing herself to shut out the tremors of fear.

Once at the cemetery, Willow fell into her own. She felt the familiar sense of power buzzing through her veins, the sensation that came before any powerful spell. She was no longer nervous; she simply knew that she would be successful. There was no question, no other option.

She seated herself in what felt like the center of the graveyard, lit the traditional candles and herbs, chanted the chant, cut the throat of the sacred blood pheasant she'd imported and bled it over fresh grave dirt as the spell dictated, and entered easily into the trance-like state that came with dimension hopping.

Spike gathered up his coat, cigarettes, and shopping list, intending to head to the open-late convenience store for a few necessities. He shut the door to his crypt behind him, and immediately became aware of the muted, dreamlike quality the atmosphere took on whenever some big nasty was attempting something too big and nasty for their like.

He closed his eyes in the stillness, allowing his senses to overwhelm him, shifting this way and that through town. Finally he found the cause of the disturbance. He was and was not shocked as he dropped his shopping list and hauled off to the cemetery.

"Bloody hell, Red…" he muttered around a cigarette.


"What's that? D'you feel that?" Warren's head snapped up from a book and he whirled around to his accomplices.

"Dude, paws off," Andrew replied, shoving Warren's clammy hand away. "Feel what?"

"The-the air. Everything's…quiet. Dulled. Something's up."

Jonathon looked concerned, prompting Warren to explain.

"Look, dude. Something big is happening. Okay? How can you guys not feel it? It—it's making my skin vibrate, my eyes swivel in their sockets. Oh, wait, no. The eye thing is me. But seriously. It's—it's like I'm underwater." He shut his eyes, concentrating. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"I've read about this, I think," Jonathon volunteered. "It's…it happens when someone close by does heavy, dark magic. It's like a veil. So that no one outside the loop can detect it. It's called like…Odeth's Mask, or something. But—"

"But nothing, shrimp cake! We gotta find it! And stop it! It's probably huge, right? Like Godzilla if he was a man-witch." Andrew, panicked, produced a small penknife from his pocket. Warren snatched it away.

"But—" Jonathon began again.

"You're right. We need weapons. This?" Warren waved the tiny, dull blade. "Ain't gonna cut it. And by it I mean Godzilla. And by cut, I mean…" He smiled.

"Listen! Guys, this is bad—"

Jonathon heard a gun cock. Warren had a rifle. He held a pistol to Andrew, who, brow shiny with nervous sweat, stuffed the weapon eagerly into his waistband and immediately adopted thuggish mannerisms.

Warren held a second pistol to Jonathon, who reached out or it, hesitated, and reached again. Instead of the cold metal of the gun, however, his hand found the penknife.

"More your style, Mini Me," Warren explained with a heady sneer.


When Spike finally found Willow, it was too late; she was deeply engrossed in the trance, and pulling her out now risked trapping her already unstable presence in the ether forever.

"Damn it, Willow!" He paced, awaiting the first signs that she was stable enough to be pulled away from the spell, and also keeping an eye out for any other baddies with intentions less noble than his own.

Finally, Willow's body ceased convulsing, the cries she emitted sounded less hollow, and Spike recognized that her consciousness had found its way back. She gasped awake to find a very irate vampire tapping his steel-toe-booted heel and staring at her sternly. She felt it inappropriate to mention how ill she felt, how unusually weak she was at the spell's end. Or how completely wigged this made her.

"I like your blood pheasant," he said, pointedly casual. "Those run kind of expensive, don't they? Seeing as how they're oh, endangered, indigenous to India, and HOLY."

"Spike, I--"

"No. Don't, Willow. This? You? Evil's not your look, pet."

"How'd you find me?"

"I went outside. I could feel something evil a-stirring. Followed my whatchacallit, spider senses or what have you. Only the big—and I mean BIG—bad can feel spells this dark. D'you know what you might've called here with this?"

Too many things happened at once for even Spike's hypersenses to keep up then.

Suddenly, all of Willow's dark magic implements were safely packed away, the witch had flown up from the dirt and had Spike pinned to a tree, seething.

"Buffy doesn't hear about this, understood? Buffy hears this, and Spike hears this." He felt a poke at his chest. She held a stake to his heart.

"Shove off," he pushed the witch away. "I'll keep your bloody secret. Pun quite intended." He flicked his cigarette in her direction, careful not to get it too close. "Only 'cause you're not as cute when you threaten lives. Especially mine."

Suddenly he was in the graveyard, quite alone.

This was short-lived, however. Spike threw himself behind a large, conveniently-placed tomb and awaited whatever was on its way.

He was disappointed, however, to find it was only Warren, Jonathon, and that other one—the "Trio." Spike scoffed and made to reveal his presence. He stopped short when he caught a snatch of Warren's self-indulged monologue.

"Shut up! It's—it's gone. The air thing—it disappeared. Damn it! I'm positive it came from here though."

Spike watched the Trio look around, gather clues in all the wrong places…except Warren, who seemed to sense exactly where Willow had sat performing the uberblack of magic not three minutes ago.

"I don't know, dude," Andrew said, lifting a large rock and inspecting the underneath side for a sign of the intruder. "I couldn't feel anything except a weird itchy sensation."

"Yeah well. That's what you get for leaving milk sitting in my Iron Man commemorative drinking glasses!" Jonathon snapped at him.

They were hushed by Warren, who made some offhand threat to their mothers, and they exited the cemetery.

Spike, a distinctive heaviness clouding his thoughts, followed suit.