6.
Yoko Rides Again

Giles slumped, stymied by what he'd just witnessed. He felt as though his head had only hit the pillow moments before. Yet somehow, between the time that had happened and now, a great many things had transpired. For one, morning had arrived. As for the rest, he wasn't quite sure what to make of them. He removed his glasses to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

By simply leaving his room, he'd managed to land himself in the middle of an unpleasant situation. Not that he expected anything less, given the cacophony, but this had turned out quite different from what he'd envisioned. He was trapped, not literally, but by obligation. He couldn't very well leave Willow to manage on her own. Nor could he speak to her; she was far too distraught. Even looking to where she sat opposite the door seemed impolite. So, with his glasses back in place, he peered into the shadowy emptiness of the lobby at the hallway's end, piecing together what he could about the altercation.

The open door behind him suggested that Buffy and Willow had been in there. That room was one of the few with a terrace that were vacant. Perhaps they went there to be outside without leaving the hotel?

He could almost see them together, addressing each other with the same casual familiarity they had in years past. Had Kennedy come upon them at an inopportune moment, she could've quite easily taken it poorly. She is sensitive young woman. Perhaps, however, what I cannot understand is how that might lead to such a violent outburst on Buffy's part. The door to Kennedy's room looked as though magic was the only thing holding it up.

The Buffy Summers that I recall wasn't given to such behavior. I'd like to believe that it would take a great deal to drive her to such a vulgar display, though the reality is that the person I'm with familiar with is gone. Even after all this time, the thought curdled his stomach. He pushed the discomfort aside. This new person, who shares her physical features and at least some of her memories, could be capable of most anything. As tempting as it is to view her arrival optimistically, I'm still not entirely convinced that no harm will come of it.

One detail brought him some small measure of comfort: Willow had changed her clothes. The dress she had on might even be fetching; though posed as she was, bent and hugging her shins, it was impossible to tell. That hardly matters. This sense of hopelessness has taken a toll on us all. It's been months since I've seen her in anything other than a tracksuit or a housecoat or some combination thereof. I had hoped that Buffy's influence would have some positive effect. Though small, this is an example of that.

Satisfied that he'd surmised all he could, Giles rapped gently on the open door. "Is there some way I might be of help?" His offer, though heartfelt, was entirely too premature. Willow merely sobbed. His hand fell to his side. He felt useless for a time, until it occurred to him that hovering by the door wasn't the best of ways to reach out. He approached her. When she made no moves to protest, he smoothed his housecoat beneath him as he sat down on the floor beside her.

The French door's facing where he found himself wasn't the most comfortable of places to rest his back, but he didn't want to impose himself on her. Several moments passed before he tentatively touched her shoulder. He allowed several more for her to shy away. Finally convinced he wasn't intruding, he put his arm around her. She leaned into his embrace. Her arms wrapped around his middle.

The gentle shudder of her fretting lulled him. He stared at his own old house shoes, the legs of his pajamas, the floor that stretched out before him and the bottom of the broken door. Time crept idly by. He rubbed her back, as much to soothe himself as her. He could've very easily napped right there on the floor, however he remained vigilant to some extent, listening, expecting to hear something. He heard nothing.

When Willow had settled down enough to perhaps be responsive, Giles said, "I'm not entirely certain that Buffy showing up the way she did has been for the best." It was a gamble, one that was met with a harsh rebuke.

"How can you say that?" Willow pulled free of his embrace.

Though she appeared quite aghast, Giles met her eyes and pressed on, "I believe that her presence stands to cause more unrest. Look at this morning's events." I should be ashamed of myself for being so indelicate, especially when I'm not entirely certain how I feel. This is simply the most effective way to provoke a response.

Unfortunately, it was only so effective. The wind went out of Willow's sails. Moreover, she was instantly and utterly shamefaced. That seemed an outlandish reaction. Giles puzzled as he waited, hopeful for some reply. At the very least, I can take away the knowledge that she doesn't view our guest as a threat. In fact, I believe it's safe to say that Willow holds herself responsible for the disturbance. I don't see how. Though I suppose if I knew that, it would hardly be necessary—

"That wasn't her fault." Willow's answer merely confirmed what he'd already suspected.

Impulsively, he prompted, "Would you mind sharing what has led you to believe that?" The effort was futile, if not entirely daft. He already knew the answer: obviously she did mind. Nothing further was offered, so he rose to his feet and held his hand out to her. "I appreciate that this must be difficult," he amended, feeling quite the fool. "My apologies. Would you at least allow me to offer you a hand?"

Willow met his eyes, thanked him and accepted his assistance. That was more than he expected, though helping her turned out to be something more like following her. Once she was settled, seated in one of the chairs, he asked, "I was planning to make some coffee. Could I offer you a cup?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

The coffee maker was making all of those wonderful wheezy, gurgling noises that led to warm, yummy beverages and semi-lucid thoughts. Buffy tracked the sound to its source past the clerk's counter through a maze of open doorways and dimly lit corridors.

She found Giles seated at the head of a large table in what appeared to be a modestly and agedly appointed conference room, or perhaps a break room. It did have a kitchenette with a counter and a sink which was typical of break rooms, though there was only the one table. Of all things, he was reading a musty old book. Imagine that.

Buffy put on a cheery smile as she drew his attention by entering the room. "What's up?" she asked, moving to join him.

"I could ask you that very same thing," Giles replied.

Her hands came to rest on the back of the chair to his right. She paused to look him in the eye before taking a seat. His expression read 'tetchy.' Intentionally she deflected to set him off, "You could, but I asked first."

It worked. As Buffy took her seat, Giles countered, "Don't play coy with me. Surely there was some point to your behavior."

Oh my. He thinks I misbehaved. That's just tragic. Keeping her expression neutral was a struggle. Buffy ended up the purest picture of innocence for her effort. She even batted her eyelashes.

The passive provocation worked. He snapped, "Do you often beat down doors with your bare hands?" His face was turning such a lovely shade of scarlet. "Must I remind you that you are a guest here? From what I've been able to assess, Kennedy did nothing to warrant your ire."

A bemused "Huh," just kind of slipped out. The word 'ire' was a bit too Gilesy, but that didn't matter, the slipup added to the image Buffy wished to project. "What do you mean?" she asked. "She's a horrible person."

"She can be somewhat brusque," Giles retorted, "but I'm afraid that I do not share your opinion."

The coffee maker had finished its happy burbling. This room, at least, no longer smelled like the set of a Mickey Spillane movie—or what Buffy imagined the set of a Mickey Spillane movie might smell like—with the dilapidation and stale tobacco smoke. The Hyperion was the sort of place the tobacco smells might never come out of. She was tempted to fix herself a cup, but she put that off to goad, "Oh, c'mon, Giles, don't tell me you're clueless."

Giles remained comfortably seated high aloft his horse.

Buffy paused dramatically to take that in before she exclaimed, "Oh my god, you are."

A chink in his armor appeared as she explained, "Willow's been going through hell and you've just been sitting around watching." Buffy stalled again to regard him reproachfully. "Not so good at the whole 'seeing' part of the exercise are you?"

Giles stiffened. He managed to slip an "I" in edgeways before she cut him off.

"Kennedy blames Willow for all the slayers that have died. She's been exacting her own special brand of revenge." All of the bluster had left him. And it only took was two little sentences. That wasn't quite enough for Buffy. She had to add insult to injury. "I can't believe it's been over a year and you haven't noticed."

She rose, poured herself a cup and left Giles to stew.

Kennedy found herself in the unpleasant position of believing that she had both every reason to be ashamed and none at all. Feeling that way wasn't doing her stomach any favors. She lay on her bed curled up on her side on top of the covers, brooding. None of this shit's my fault. All I did was hook up with a crazy person.

It sucks.

Willow was so amazing when I first met her. Now she's just pathetic. And I'm here being pathetic right alongside her…and them. But complacency's my only real sin. I have no reason to be ashamed. Certainly not around them. I did my part. I stuck around for the first act and the second. Skipping the third sounds like a plan.

But what am I gonna do, call my father? That'd go over well. I can just hear it. 'Dad, I checked into the Hotel California.' Insert sad story here. My dad would appreciate the reference—he always did like The Eagles—but not the irony. And of course, if I go there, my dad will call it like he sees it. And I'll have to admit that he's right. I screwed up.

Sounds like—

A light knock came at her door. Kennedy flinched, feeling the fool when Giles announced himself in hushed tones, like he even needed to. He could've just gotten on with…

"Please, I must a have a word with you." His turgid, 'cut-glass' accent was impossible to mistake.

Great. This is all I need. I'm barely over the queen of freaks trying to bash my door in. Now her royal emissary's come to smooth things over.

Please.

"I have nothing to say to any of you," Kennedy replied. There's no sense in wasting my breath. He's just going to side with her. They act like finding Buffy is some kind of miracle. Like she's the second coming. The only miracle I see is that she hasn't ripped their stupid faces off.

Kennedy shifted her position just enough to focus on the remains of her door as Giles prattled his reproach, "If you would please keep your voice down, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to do this in such a way as to not involve the entire household."

'Second coming'? You'd think, right?

"I'm not here to judge you. I simply want to hear your side of the story."

Well, there are two of them. Or so they claim. Kennedy sat up in bed. Giles wasn't going to leave her alone, so…

They obviously think I should be blown away. I'm not. Human or vamp, miracle or not—that doesn't change who she is. I'm sure they'll be very happy together. She's as fucked in the head as they are.

"Like I'd believe that," Kennedy grumbled as she crawled out of bed. She considered just saying 'no,' but Giles wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer.

"Well you should," he persisted. "Have you ever known me to make a rash decision?"

"Rash? No. Poor? Yes," Kennedy snarked on her way to the bathroom. She wanted more sleep, but there was just no way Captain Ahab was going to let her have that, not considering the histrionic catch of the day.

"Touché," he capitulated. And it would've been dandy if he'd stayed 'capitulated,' but—

"I'm not convinced that this woman…"

Blah, blah, blah…

Kennedy opted to concentrate on brushing her hair…and her literary metaphor. It had been flawed. Giles wasn't Ahab. Buffy was. And the First Evil, the Great White Whale. Giles was more like Starbuck, the faithful man who in the end has enough good sense to question Ahab's obsession. It was all that minus the musket.

Through a twist fate Buffy became the monster. Which actually bears a certain similarity to the original tale, but Ahab didn't abandon ship like Buffy did. Without her captain, the Pequod drifted. And we've been—

Giles said something else—something that might've been useful—something like: "Your assistance would be greatly appreciated." Something like that.

Kennedy put her brush down and turned on the water to wash her face. Whatever. He's been sitting here with his thumb up his butt for over a year, praying for some sort of miracle. He's no Ahab.

"First and foremost," Giles said, "I'd like to know why you believe she would wish to harm you." His voice blended with the babble of running water.

Kennedy pieced together what he'd said and came back with a biting retort, "She's a loony."

"Yes, well, that's hardly helpful," he replied. "Please open your door so we can talk. You have my promise that I will be fair. And if you are indeed innocent, I will defend you as best I'm able."

Kennedy stared at the mirror. It was bad. She hadn't gotten more than two hours sleep. Chilly water flowed into her hands as she pointed out, "That door's not going to close again if I open it." Giles does have one thing going for him. His faith has, at the best of times, been suspicious, but his integrity not so much.

"Well, then. Pack your things and we'll move you to another room."

His answer wasn't a bad one. At the very least, she'd be able to come and go as she pleased. "Alright, gimme a few," she replied. This could be the best chance I have of quietly sneaking out of this asylum short of diving out a window. I just need to play it cool. I've done nothing wrong.

The heat of a small sun radiated from Willow's face. She couldn't help it. None of it. Kennedy's door had come apart with a loud bang and bunches of clattering. It had been impossible to ignore. Feeling the need to investigate had been a mistake. A huge one. Maybe the worst. I'm too curious for my own good.

But there was supposed to be coffee and company, not contortionism and wallowing—literal wallowing—on the floor, in my nice dress with my ear to the register…

Snooping! I'm—I've stooped to—

Hearing Giles' voice again made her heart flutter, and not in the good and swoony way. "It has been brought to my attention that there are aspects of your relationship with Willow that might be—"

Lying on the floor was undignified, not to mention uncomfortable. It was hard and dirty and ouchy and cold, but she couldn't hear any other way. And they're talking about me!

"That is to say—and not to pry—this truly is none of my affair, unless it—uh…there might be things that you two do that aren't—that may be more rambunctious than what is—"

Giles might've been less flustered if Kennedy had taken him to a nudie bar. It was hard to say.

Kennedy tried to set him at ease. "Giles, chill. We haven't done anything wrong."

But Giles wasn't having any of it. "Please allow me to finish." Or maybe he was having some of it. Kennedy got her wish. He wasn't nervous anymore. His voice had that crisp vibrato of someone who was self-assured and loquacious…and maybe just the teensiest bit snooty. "It has been inferred that you blame Willow for some of the more disturbing events that have occurred since our arrival here. And that has been affecting your relationship with her."

Willow's mouth felt like she'd drank a bottle of Elmer's. The weird kids in school used to do that, or close. I was never quite that weird. But that didn't matter. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth…like that, or like you'd think that might be. And she was sweaty. There was actual sweat, but being on the floor was making her chilly. It was like all this talk of 'inference' was making her sick. Fluey sick, not nervous sick, though there was definitely some of that too.

It was Kennedy's turn to stick a knife in and twist. And 'oh boy' did she ever.

"Look, Giles, Willow has certain proclivities that you probably won't approve of. To me it's no big deal. She's just another screwed up girl with daddy issues, or whatever, who wanted me to slap her tight little ass. Her issues might be bigger, but everyone has issues. Girls like her are a dime a dozen."

Willow could've just died. She could've curled up in a tight little ball and—

"Yes, well. Whether I approve or disapprove is hardly pertinent. You need to understand that there are lines."

Positively giggly and giddy, Kennedy interrupted, "Yeah, okay. Y'know, it isn't hard to tell when they like it. There's a certain dewiness that comes from spanking."

It wasn't difficult to see why she was so pleased with herself. She'd shut Giles down in a few short, highly evocative, all-too candid words. And by doing so she'd also given Willow time to think. Reacting was fine. Horrible, but fine. She could just be humiliated beyond belief. That part was easy. She'd had plenty of practice. Stopping and thinking gave her a chance to dwell on the fact that Giles was right. Too right. Disturbingly so. So right that he had to have had help with his deduction. And the only one who could've helped was—

"I don't care what was asked of you. That isn't the issue. My concern is whether you did things you felt were wrong. People who are under great stress can feel that they know exactly what's best. But the reality can be—and I know this isn't fair—absolutes don't apply—but they can feel that something is right when the opposite is true. Willow has been placed in a terrible position, one which has surely caused her to experience a great deal of remorse. There is little doubt that that has colored her perception."

The entire time Giles spoke, Willow felt herself sinking. His timing was just too convenient. And he was too sure of himself. He didn't falter or stammer. There might've been a pause for a breath here or there, but not so much that she noticed.

Kennedy wasn't having any of it. "No. You've got it all wrong."

But Giles wasn't either. "You are a slayer, Kennedy." Maybe she'd tipped her hand. Or maybe he was just pressing to see if she would. "I know that I don't need to point out to you that you are far more physically gifted than the average person…and while Willow is quite gifted in her own right, she is still physically very much average."

Gifted? Yeah, at being a laughingstock maybe, the brunt of a cruel joke, hiding the truth…

Buffy was faced with a mystery. Mostly because the mystery was far preferable to—

"Think what you want. I've done nothing wrong." Kennedy was on a short fuse, but that made perfect sense to Buffy. Because overcompensating's never a sign of guilt.

So yeah…this patio of Will's is more of a courtyard, in the actual sense that there are four walls no roof. Unless she can fly, I don't see how vampy-me's been getting anything in and out of here, let alone big buckets of body parts. You'd think they'd be kind of cumbersome.

"I'm not suggesting that you have. I'm merely pointing out that perhaps you were more forceful than was prudent."

Gotta hand it to Giles, he's a credit to his profession. Who knew that doggedness could be such an art?

Buffy's leg gave her hell as she paced the perimeter of her picturesque prison one more time, looking for a missed sewer grate or something. There has to be something. Anything will do. I'm not picky. I just want some other way out of this box.

There was nothing, just high walls; a couple sets of doors, both locked, boarded up and no doubt chained from the inside; brick steps; cast concrete benches and planters; raised, stonewalled garden beds; and a few storm drains that might work, if she was about the size of a rat. I could open the doors, but not without everyone in the neighborhood hearing me. The only other way is the way I got in.

Willow was blowing a gasket from somewhere else inside the hotel, probably her room given where the muffed, shouted, "Leave her alone," came from.

Buffy didn't care to hear that either. It made her feel just that much more desperate. The news that Willow had been cutting was plenty. That Kennedy had been beating her too was information overload on a level that made Buffy want to—

I'm not even sure. Just being far, far away from here would be a good start. Preferably before it happens. The inevitable. If Willow holds true to form, she'll defend Kennedy to her dying breath to hide her own complicity. And won't listening to that be fun?

There has to be some other way out of here.

Thinking of Willow as exemplifying a stereotype was impossible to reconcile, but there she was slamming doors and shouting, "This is none of your business. I don't see how you can feel that you have any right! This is my personal, private business!"

This whole show—every nightmarish second of it—is above average dumb. It's like they pulled out all the stops on worst case scenarios. I'm kind of over it. When they entered the room, why couldn't I just walk past them out the door like a normal, not-so-much guilty person? Like the cookie jar wasn't just a porch. I had no reason to feel guilty. All I wanted was to be outside.

That much I got. Wishes suck. I forgot to add the 'peace and quiet' clause. And the 'absence of any more shocking revelations' footnote. In short: I screwed myself.

Buffy continue to poke around. She was still no closer to finding a way out when Willow calmed enough to ask, "Who told you?" Not that she was actually calm. Not by any stretch.

At least it was a pretty courtyard with lot of plants and places to sit. There was even a fountain, which was kind of an obstacle in Buffy's new and brilliant plan.

And the drama just kept unfolding. Giles was mid-hem and pre-haw, being evasive, and all too British. "I'd rather not say."

It was past time to bail, but the second floor was a total bust. There are only three verandas. The far right one was Willow's based on where the sound of her voice had come from. The left one was where the current discussion that Buffy wanted nothing more to do with was taking place. The middle one was an unknown, but with the doors shut and the drapes drawn, it'd probably be a bust too. I'd just have to break the doors. Even if I even could, that'd just bring me back to 'noisy.' So, third floor it is. Pray I get lucky. This is gonna suck.

There wasn't a whole lot of room to run. Buffy got as far away as she could from where she wanted to be, sprinted and bounced. Her leg gave her grief, but she sucked it up, clearing the plants and avoiding the stupid fountain. And that was enough. Her leg almost went out from under her when she touched down on a concrete bench. She favored her good leg and sprung. Her timing couldn't have been better.

"It was Buffy, wasn't it?"

The accusation really screwed her up. Between that and her leg, she came dangerously close to doing a Wile E. Coyote-esque splat. She had aimed for the upper middle balcony and ended up way low and wide of her mark. It was all she could do to catch the bottom lip of the left third floor railing as she fell. With nothing to stop them, inertia carried her legs. The toes of her tennies almost tapped the ceiling of the second floor veranda. And of course, the obligatory, "Oof," just sort of came out.

As she dangled, swinging around to face the courtyard, Willow asked, "What did she tell you?"

Buffy was stunned by the question. She was sure that she'd made so much noise that everyone would come out to see what was what. It took her a second to catch up. Then it hit her, the accusation had come from Willow too. Hey! I didn't tell him anything. She was there. How can she—?

It was climb or drop. Buffy dropped. She landed in the very place she'd been so bent on avoiding. And nobody noticed. They were all too busy playing the recrimination game…of which she had somehow become a part.

"How did I end up involved in this?" Buffy asked, sounding genuinely confused, because she was. She had to give Kennedy props for not being half as dumb as she thought. The bed squeaked and no more Kennedy. A door down the hallway slammed as Buffy stepped into the room.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt…" Somehow she'd become the target of Willow's glare. She had to look away. "…or eavesdrop. I just wanted more time outside. But you have to believe that whatever you think I did, I didn't do it. Unless it was eavesdrop. I did do that, but I sure didn't want to. I would've given—" she puzzled, trying to come up with adequate sacrifice, but nothing came to mind "—almost anything to miss this." That worked. It was sufficient…and mostly true.

"Yes, well, I believe I've seen enough," Giles said, turning to leave.

Buffy was all over that. "I couldn't agree more," she mumbled.

The moment he was gone, Willow spat, "How could you?"

"You're not hearing me," Buffy replied, "I didn't."

It was too late. Willow marched out of the room in a huff.

Willow had decided that her plan contained equal measures of irony and justice. The idea pleased her. It's interesting how often those two things come together. But the honest-to-God truth is that, for all its elegance, it also contains a heaping helping of desperation. This is an endgame. There's no way around that.

She'd agonized for hours over finding another way. There just isn't one. This is it. I've done the research. I've taken my medicine. There's only one thing left to do. I need the power of a vengeance demon, or five. So, I can either become one or…

This is where the irony comes in…and the justice. D'Hoffryn should love this.

She stood in the foyer of a pub. The place had a rustic charm despite its urban setting. Yeah, so…it's now or never. She approached the focal point of the room, a behemoth of a bar crafted in darkly stained wood. An attractive blonde was seated in at a table in a dark alcove opposite its end. Carefully, Willow reached out to the various patrons just to be sure her instincts were correct. Yeah, that's her.

"You know what I wish?" Willow asked as she approached the table, meeting the other woman's eyes. She isn't a woman at all. Not in the traditional sense.

The demon took notice of Willow too. Like she could resist, I'm singing her favorite song.

"Tell me," the demon replied in a subtle, almost seductive voice.

Willow flashed her best flirty smile. That was a smokescreen to cover the movement of her left hand. The demon didn't flinch when Willow touched her chest just below her throat. Her fingertips trailed down, caressing warm, smooth skin. Willow's smile didn't falter, nor did the intimacy of her touch. Only her words betrayed her intentions, "I wish you'd die." Her hand pressed into the fleshy surface, passing through the demon's sternum as if through water. It felt to Willow more like warm pudding, if pudding was tingly.

The horror of the moment caught up, reflected in the demon's eyes. Willow seized her viciously, sensing her attempt to teleport away. "Oh no, you don't," she murmured. Her eyes closed in concentration. The demon's essence burned through her. Each second that ticked by took ages. When nothing remained but an empty shell, Willow allowed it to fall to the floor.

What she'd just done had started to register with the pub's patrons. Barstools clattered and people chattered. Willow focused her power. There would be dozens of witnesses, each with a story more outlandish than the last. Lightening arced from her body when Willow let go. The lights went out. People were knocked to the ground as they fled. More importantly, the security cameras were left smoldering. She gave them one last zap just to be sure she fried the DVR.

When Willow was sure that no one had been hurt, her focus changed. She could feel the other vengeance demons now, just like she'd hoped. She concentrated on the nearest one. Going from something to nothing and back to something was really disconcerting. But it wasn't quite that simple. There was always something. It was just a different sort of something. She got over it and looked around the rain-soaked street to get her bearings. There was work to do.

"Keep in mind, D'Hoffryn, you were the one that wanted me 'in the vengeance fold'," she murmured. A wicked smile curled her lips. "Be careful what you wish for." I've always wanted to say that to him.

The coven's pull was so-much-less an issue now. Willow set off down this new street—whatever street this was—there wasn't any sign—dismissing the other witches as she might a nagging prickle in the back of her mind. 'I know how this looks, but it's necessary. You have to believe me,' she broadcast, like that might reassure them. 'Why don't you make yourself useful by trying to figure out where Buffy is instead of bugging me?'

D'Hoffryn paced the edge of the pool. "Well, that was unexpected," he mumbled to himself. "I hope you know what you're doing, Miss Rosenberg. That's a slippery slope you're on."