9.
White Noise

The door swooshed closed, whipping the wisps of hair that framed Buffy's face around. They tickled annoyingly, adding to the chills that ran down her spine.

Pushing the irritation down, she surveyed the lobby. It was spacious and glossy with centrally located elevators and enough glass to provide windows for more than a dozen suburban homes. Not that she expected anything less. This was downtown L.A. after all. Creating an illusion of airy openness while doggedly pursuing some nefarious hidden agenda was something the movers and shakers in this city excelled at.

Evil-me might've had a point. Entering L.A.'s very own tower of Berry-door probably isn't the smartest thing I've ever done.

No, that isn't it. Is it? Barrow-doer? Borrowed-door? Something like that.

Dammit, Xander. Seven hours of my life gone. And for what?

Buffy stepped aside to dig out the day planner that was wedged into the side pocket of her oversized, overstuffed handbag. Both floors of the lobby bustled with activity. It was close to five thirty, so that made sense. Various people slipped past, though the exit, without paying Buffy any notice. They were the majority of the hold up—Wolfram and Hart's human employees—the more of them that left, the better this worked for her. She busied herself by unzipping the day planner and leafing through its pages.

Eh, Will might find that funny…if it wasn't for me putting myself in the admittedly uncomfortable position that inspired the association in the first place. She enjoyed those movies way more than I did.

But yeah…she was in the same camp as the vamp. When your worst enemy and your best friend agree on something, the smart thing to do is listen. Yet, no surprise, here I am.

Every page Buffy glanced at was blank. Her every action part of a game. She feigned interest, pretended to read and even 'found' what she was 'looking for' with reasonable efficiency.

Xander did have a point. Big flamy eyeball guy was so much cooler than the First Evil.

What she was actually after was a piece of heavy clear plastic stuck at the back of the binder. Willow had called it a 'window.' She said that Wolfram and Hart was like the Fort Knox of the magical world. This would allow her to 'break in.' That much made sense, sort of. The rest of what she'd said had been complete gibberish, full of terms Buffy didn't know or care to learn.

One side of the 'window' was covered with wax paper to preserve all of the intricate little squiggles Willow had drawn. None of them were visible now. The ink she'd used was this clear, goopy stuff. It had smelled too bad for Buffy to stay interested for long. She peeled the wax paper away, careful not to get any of the 'ink' on her fingers. The plastic square wasn't much bigger than her hand. She palmed it and reached back to stick the 'window' to the window.

The lobby was still a busy place. Not nearly enough of the human contingent had gone, but she'd stalled long enough. She'd just have to be careful. Her heels clicked against the white marble floor as she made her way to the reception desk. Stashing the day planner back in her bag kept her hands busy. Not that that mattered. By all rights, she should've had a major case of the creeps—there were enough baddies under this chic, postmodern roof to kill her fifty times over—but she didn't. She was still too grumpy for that.

The dress she'd found had been perfect. It was gorgeous, just the right mix of elegance and flirtatiousness, but it had had a halter top and she'd taken a catnap that morning. Being sunburned wasn't even the bad part. Yeah, she was draggy and sore, but that wasn't it. The great big leaf that had been resting over her right shoulder was. It'd left the worst, most messed up, ugliest tan line she'd ever seen in her life.

And just for kicks, Willow had been 'disappointed in her.' Not 'mad,' but 'disappointed.' It kind of went without saying that feeling like the biggest screw-up on the planet had made things a little worse. Only I could be so pathetic. Why she ever agreed to go along with this—whatever this is—I'll never know.

Seeing Harmony Kendall's smiling face put the perfect ending on a perfectly wretched day. Buffy didn't give up. Between the wide-brimmed hat Willow had picked out and the sunglasses she'd picked out, she thought she might stand a chance. The rest of her act was purely inspired, off-the-cuff smartassery. She put on her most winning smile, looked Harmony in the eye, and drawled in a thick, mocked French accent, "Oui, Miriam Blaylock to see Monsieur Angel. I have a six o'clock appointment."

The accent wasn't half bad in her opinion. The dress however was. She'd settled for something so lugubrious it brought out the best horror movie kitsch in her. It looked like something Drusilla might wear, if she dressed like she lived in this century. Normally I wouldn't be caught dead in something like this, but—

Harmony hmmed in mock contemplation. "I'm not showing you on the schedule, Miss Blaylock." She didn't even bother to look up.

That was fine. Perfect actually. "Miz," Buffy corrected, deciding to work the snob angle for effect. At least it's not floor length. I may not die because of a crappy dress.

"Alright, so…" Harmony replied with a click of her mouse. "I'm sure there's just been a mix-up." She stalled by continuing to screw with her computer. Ditz is probably playing solitaire. "I'll get this straightened out. If you'll just have a seat over there, Miz Blaylock, Angel will be right with you."

Buffy couldn't have done better if she'd tried. In the space of a few short sentences she'd gone from 'forgettable' to 'contemptible.' This is almost like high school. Not only had Harmony stretched the title 'Ms' to absurd proportions, mid-instruction she'd gestured to a row of chairs on the wall adjacent to and partially hidden by her counter that looked like they might double as a torture device. Buffy glanced at them and seriously wondered whether there were retractable spikes hidden underneath the cushions.

Taking a seat might've been the better thing, but she just couldn't bring herself to do that. Though it would've made it impossible for Harmony to glance like she did as she chirruped, "Hi, boss," into the receiver. "Hey, uh, yeah, there's some woman named Blaylock here to see you. She claims to have an appointment." Recognition didn't register in her eyes, so that much was good, but really, none of it mattered.

This could only end one of two ways: either they'd wise up or Willow would get her act together. Whichever way things went, they were bound to turn ugly quick. Buffy's fingers threaded beneath the elastic band that held the second, outer pocket of her handbag tight against its bulging side.

Harmony mumbled, "Yeah, I know," still addressing Angelus. "There are no Blaylocks on our client list. Should I send her away?"

Getting into the pocket was too awkward for Buffy's taste. She'd wanted to turn the bag the other way to put it on the outside for convenience, but the tapered, cylindrical object the pocket held was just too obvious. She dug down, faux leather constricting her hand. It struck her as stupid that she felt better when her fingers met wood. One stake was hardly going to make a difference.

A door along the back wall of the second floor walkway opened. Angelus stepped out. He was probably just checking what was on the menu before he made his decision. The soup du jour wasn't showing nearly enough cleavage or leg to hold his interest. Colors were a bit drab too and Buffy knew it, but that didn't matter. She decided to dispense with the pleasantries.

Angelus stood transfixed as Buffy dashed across the lobby. The way she moved left no question she wasn't your average girl. She reached the midway point and leapt. Doubt scattered her thoughts as she flew through the air. His stare hadn't changed. Is he even watching me?

Willow's chest swelled as the spell manifested. A pretty, perfect, shimmering silver orb hung in midair for mere seconds before it zipped through the open passenger side window and disappeared from sight. She turned her head in hopes of watching it go, unsure whether what she was feeling was pride or relief.

The street beside her was gridlocked. She caught a glimpse of something shiny above the fender of the hulking S.U.V. that was parked alongside her, but that could've been the glint of sunlight on its slick black paint. She wasn't sure. It was time to move. Being stuck in traffic when Buffy returned would be bad. Willow started the car and flipped the turn signal on to indicate that she wanted to go. Not that that would do a lick of good. She'd be lucky to get out when the light changed.

For now she busied herself by cleaning up her mess. Buffy's seat was covered with all of the baubles and bits that it took to cast Delothrian's Arrow. It was a complicated spell. When Willow promised to help, she hadn't been sure she could still do it. It had been so long. The accomplishment made her feel for just a moment that there was hope.

The heavy, familiar taint of doubt returned as she picked up a sprig of secuda and placed it in a bag. What was I thinking?

For a short time that morning, as they lay in bed, she'd felt something she never dreamt she would again. Not just desired—though considering the company, that was amazing too—she'd felt needed. She'd felt that she was important. When Willow woke up trapped and alone, she'd believed that she'd imagined the entire thing. I should be used to it. Kennedy does that to me all the time. She locks me away for hours. I don't dare call out. I don't dare say anything.

Even after all of Buffy's apologies and explanations, her excuses and promises, the feeling hadn't rubbed off. It had bled over. Something was terribly wrong. Willow felt it in her bones. Pennies or pounds, days or decades, however this went, it would be too little, too late. More a fool's errand than a rescue mission. She was certain of it. As certain as she was that she was cursed.

The S.U.V. moved. She turned her head and saw the massive mirrored tower with its tiered levels, stacked like the building blocks of some monstrous child. But not all of the mirrors were perfect and shiny. Some of them were flawed, crackled, woven through with dark fractures.

Oh.

A light breeze ruffled the hair on her arm.

Oh no.

For an instant the crash of falling glass blended with all of the other city sounds.

Oh dear. I didn't—

Sitting there, parked on the side of the street, Willow fell too. She kept falling. Her blood went icy.

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very, very bad.

Great gaping holes had appeared in the building's face. It was just the bottom two floors and only, like, every other pane, but—

They're bound to figure it out. And then they'll come. It's only a matter of time. They'll know I'm to blame.

A car behind her honked, nearly sending her out of her skin. She looked wildly around.

It's okay. Buffy will come back. She has to come back. And she'll bring Angel. Willow refused to think that Angel was Angelus and what they were really doing was opening their doors to another murderer. Thoughts like that would've really sent her fleeing for her life. Any doubts she had that Buffy would return were quickly dismissed as well.

The honk—that sound—it was just someone being nice. All they wanted was to get Willow's attention. The lights had changed and they had stopped short to give her room to pull out.

We'll make things right. We have to.

Her skin crawled. Or this could just go like everything else.

It took all of her resolve to do what was necessary. She put the car in gear, turned the wheel and crept forward into traffic.

If everything does blow up in my face, what will it matter? They deserve this.

They deserve more.

The glass railing that bordered the second floor walkway shattered when Buffy took hold. It should've held. She intended to use it to vault, to change direction. She should've been able to pitch her body sideways. Instead, she went tumbling. Her shoulder smacked the floor, then her hip. The stake slipped from her grasp. Her hat came off her head. She hadn't quite stopped when she gained control and sprang to her feet. Panicked shrieks rang out behind her. She turned.

In the time it had taken her to crash and burn, the lobby had fallen into chaos. Five of the story-tall glass panes that made up the build's face had shattered. Above them even more of the second story windows were missing. The effect was a strange, irregular checkerboard pattern. Though the missing windows, sunlight flooded the room.

Harmony Kendal ran screaming, blonde hair and teal satin flapping, flames lapping, fragments of glass crunching beneath her Prada pumps. She pulled wildly at one doorknob, then another, and another. Two guards and a man in a three-piece suit ran a similar ragged race. All four like chickens with their heads lopped off. Others scrambled frantically to avoid them. It was like the set of some disaster movie.

Buffy didn't hold out to watch the ashy finale. She turned to face Angelus, but he wasn't there. It was then that she saw it: the bull in the china shop. Only it wasn't a bull at all. In fact, it wasn't any different than any of Willow's other little glowy creations, except in color. It was kind of silvery, like a big glob of water, and about the size of a hummingbird. It moved like that too. It might've been something Willow had sent to watch over her, or that's what Buffy thought, until it tapped the window of Angelus's office. A spider web of fractures formed, radiating out from the point where it had touched. The second tap brought the glass down and it all became clear.

But she was talking about jelly jars. Jesus! Overkill much?

The impish little bauble zipped into Angelus's office. Seconds later, the door burst open and he damn near ran Buffy down. Plumes of smoke rolled from his leather trench coat as he hauled ass down the adjoining corridor.

She collected her stake and took off after him. Catching up was no big deal. Actually, she was tempted to help him along. He was getting awfully slow in his old age.

Stalling was fine too. She had a problem. There was an art to knocking a vampire out—what with the lack of blood flow. The whole thing was wonky. She'd done alright as a slayer. A couple of times she'd got lucky and put one down, but that had always involved a weapon. She hadn't tried since her Willow had made with the big improvements. And the last thing she wanted was to crush his skull, break his neck, or do anything else that might potentially render him dusty and boring. Decapitating the rescuee was generally viewed as being in bad form. The hero's handbook even said so.

It didn't take long for Angelus to get sick of being followed. About as long as it took for the sunlight to run out. He spun midstride, producing a blade from inside his coat.

The idea was for Buffy to run into it. Or that's what she assumed based on how he held it. She turned to diminish her profile and darted right. Her speed built as she whirled past him. He swung, his blade shadowing her.

Buffy snapped to a halt just out of reach, facing him. There was only about ten feet of hallway behind her. And the hallway itself was only about eight feet wide. This was going to be tight. He wasn't pressing in, so she took the opportunity to lose the excess baggage. The last thing she wanted was to get snagged by her handbag strap. She lifted it over her head. Her sunglasses went in a side pocket and she dropped the bag, shoving it against the wall with her foot.

Angelus twirled the knife, reversing his grip as he greeted her with a gracious smile, "It's been a long time, lover. Good to see you." The gesture was provocative in a way that had nothing to do with sex. But really, he was just buying time, like he expected her to get distracted and forget that she was deep inside the belly of the beast.

"Yeah, whatever," Buffy replied. Not gonna happen. "You're gonna try to kill me, right?" She cussed herself for not rushing him while the knife was in transition. It would've been so much easier to separate him from it right then. "How 'bout we get on with that?" In the heartbeat between her first and second statement, she closed the gap between them.

His knife swept up as he angled his shoulder back to avoid the downward thrust of her stake. Buffy blocked the attack. During the series of swift blows that followed, he bantered, "What brings you out today?" Palms struck forearms, her stake parried his blade.

Her blows were quicker and more powerful. "You," she replied, driving him back. "I missed you." While he was off balance, she snatched his wrist, leveraging the blade down. Angelus craned forward, his body bowing to avoid the knifepoint. For some ungodly reason, that made him cackle. Nervy sonuvabitch was actually having fun. As his wrist twisted from her grip, she followed with a brutal uppercut. The punch lifted him up and threw him back. He hit the floor so hard he bounced. That just made him laugh harder. He shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth.

Another crash came from the lobby as he sprang to his feet. Willow's little friend was still being a pest. Buffy half expected some smartass comment about insurance claims, damages, or whatever, but he followed up his previous question with another, "Call me curious, but I guess the better question would be: how are you out?"

"You remember the Gem of Amara?" Buffy replied, at the same time pressing her advantage. The side kick she delivered caught him under the chin and lifted him off his feet. Really, she just wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. He liked that. He'll love this. "Aren't you just kicking yourself for crushing that god-awful gaudy, all-powerful thingamabob?"

But she wasn't sure he heard that. He lay, unmoving. Considering the pool of sunlight and the smoldering, probably not.

Huh. Well, that wasn't as hard as I thought.

She grabbed his ankle and dragged him back into the shadows, then went to unpack her bag.

Giles was absolutely beside himself. Never in all of his years had he seen so grave a matter handled with such flagrant disregard. And by these women of all people, the very ones who had given so much of themselves once before under similar circumstances. Their inaction was unconscionable, unreasonable, inconceivable… He was utterly at a loss.

Having allowed anger to be his guide, Giles found himself standing in the open doorway of Elizabeth Harkness's chamber. He, himself, in that moment, was guilty of rashness. One of the very things he meant to raise issue with. That left him on unstable ground.

He hadn't even knocked when she granted him entrance in an aloof tone, "You may come in."

Giles did as he was bidden, feeling a fool as he shut the door behind him. Of course she knew he was coming. As also she was aware that he was upset. There was little that escaped her notice. Drawing on anger to temper his disquiet, he asked, "Surely you do not intend to stand idly by while Willow destroys herself?"

"What would you have me do?" she asked. His allegation barely warranted a glance.

He took no offense to her indifference, nor did he move from her threshold. A chilly reception was to be expected when one ignored the most basic rules of protocol. He would be seated if and when she saw fit, and the odds of that happening were very slim. He had come to speak his piece and that was all he intended to do. "It pains me to say this, but I believe we should stop her by any means necessary. On her present course, she will most assuredly bring ruin down upon us all."

Ms. Harkness set the document she'd been considering aside. Ever kind, she gestured for him to make himself comfortable. Once he was settled into one of the two chintz armchairs stationed in front of her desk, she asked, "How long have you known her?"

The question threw him. It took him a moment to reply, "Eight—" he reconsidered his response "—nearly nine years." It was difficult for him to believe that it had been so long.

A tea tray sat to her right in the same position most ordinary people would place their computer. Thankfully, Elizabeth Harkness was anything but ordinary. It amused him to see that there were two cups, along with the teapot and plate of biscuits. His hostess didn't offer, she merely assumed, pouring a cup for him as she asked, "Would you say it is true that, in the past when she made mischief, it largely stemmed from her doing the convenient thing?" She lifted her cup and saucer from the tray, placing it before her. On one of the two desert plates, she placed a biscuit for herself, then she half-stood to lift the tray to the leading edge of her desk.

"Yes. I suppose so," he replied. Her cordialness soothed his tattered nerves. He vowed to afford her the same courtesy she had shown him.

As he leaned forward to take his cup from the tray and move it to the end table beside him, Ms. Harkness remarked, "She is on the harder path."

Though the sweets looked good, he abstained. He would have a proper meal once their business was concluded. For the moment, he was intent on hearing her out. He sipped at his cup, giving her license to speak, which she did with no hesitation.

"There are really only two resolutions to this particular problem: either forfeit to evil and become an agent for their cause, or find a way to accomplish what must be done without their assistance. It would be more pleasant for all of our sakes if a third option existed. Sadly, I believe that Willow is correct. No other solution is viable."

Ms. Harkness paused to take a sip from her cup. The way she cradled it in her hands suggested that its warmth was doing her joints some good.

"The task she must complete is a daunting one. Even for a vengeance demon, travel between planes requires preparation. They cannot accomplish that on their own. They have the great font of power known as the Lower Beings to draw from." Though he could see nothing amusing about any of this, she let out a harrumph of a snicker. "That name is terribly misleading." She returned her teacup to its saucer.

Giles understood the reality of their situation all too well. It was absolutely criminal that their cause had become so dependent upon one person, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Buffy Summers had been elevated by her deeds to the status of an icon, at least within their organization. She was the one unifying voice that all of the other slayers would rally to. The effect of her loss was impossible to predict. Moving forward would be—

Ms. Harkness resumed her explanation, cutting short his thoughts, "You know the laws regarding the conservation of energy as well as I do." She met his eyes to punctuate the significance of her statement. "We will assist her as we are able, but once she has travelled to the parallel universe, she will be on her own and she will need the power to return. We will not be able to help her with that."

The loss was, in fact, terrible, a great injustice to them all. Their options were indeed limited. On all of those points, he agreed, but there was still the matter of Willow. He wanted desperately to ask if Ms. Harkness truly believed her to be the best choice for this task. Would they not be better served by sending someone else? He would be willing to go. And couldn't that person—be it him or whoever was selected—be fortified by some other means? He had been empowered by this circle before. He could contain and command their power.

Instead of voicing these opinions, he kept his oath and held his tongue. Ms. Harkness had not finished.

"Goddess help us all. Willow is doing the necessary thing, the harder thing. Moreover, and more significant to the issue that you raise, I sense no malice in her, only sorrow."

Buffy hadn't broken Angelus nearly as badly as she'd feared. His larynx was crushed and from the swelling, it looked like his jaw was probably fractured, but he'd heal soon enough. That much was good. While hurting him sounded great in theory, she still cared too much to actually want that.

She'd managed to bundle him up into a handy dandy vampire takeout package in record time. It had gone a lot like rolling a burrito. Willow had suggested using a canvas tarp instead of a duffle. That was a good call. His feet would've stuck out of the duffle. Not having to deal with smoldering feet was another win in her book.

Surprisingly enough, there had been no shortage of restraints at the Hyperion. She'd had her pick and he wasn't going anywhere. Not without her help. She'd even managed to use the rope she'd used to secure the tarp to fashion a handle.

She was feeling pretty proud of herself, trudging merrily up the corridor toward the front door, when a blue haired, leather-clad woman stepped into view. Well, this can't be good.

The strange woman's mostly-red outfit, with its black and gold accents, was really more of a costume. It resembled the sort of molded body armor you see in anime or comic books. She was missing the accessory pack which probably contained a whip and maybe a laser pistol. It hurt the look a little. So. Either a major dominatrix complex or she's expecting candy.

Buffy didn't see any plastic jack-o-lantern. It was time to go. She went for the first door on her left as Mistress Megatron started her way. The doorknob popped in her hand, indicating that might've been locked. Not that it mattered.

The office was occupied by some skinny guy. She was in too much of a hurry to even get a good look at his face. So long as he didn't make with the crazy, she'd be out of his hair in no time. The wedge heel of her boot went through the window, then so did she and Angelus came along for the ride. The twelve foot drop barely fazed Buffy. Though she had no clue where she was going, she was running within seconds of hitting the ground. 'Away from Wolfram and Hart' was enough to know for the moment.

Spotting a red BMW convertible in downtown L.A. shouldn't be a problem. Spotting the right BMW might be. Fortunately Buffy was dealing with the only person quirky enough in the entire state to leave the top up on a gorgeous day. That made it almost a no-brainer. Willow was at the intersection just ahead, preparing to turn.

Buffy didn't look back. The dead weight was slowing her down enough. If she was lucky, she might just make it to the car before the crazy catsuit lady caught up. Fortunately, nothing happened along the way except for a few strange looks. I guess it isn't every day you see a woman who's dressed for a funeral dragging a body down the street. But this is L.A.

She reached the intersection as Willow was making the left turn onto the street Buffy had just come down. Traffic was thick. Buffy ran out into the crosswalk, not quite jumping in front of their car. The fact that Willow actually stopped drew more attention than Buffy's corpseathon.

"Pop the trunk," Buffy shouted over the bellowing of people and car horns. She dragged Angelus around to the trunk, uncertain whether he'd fit. One glance solved that. There was no way. The space was a whole lot tinier than it looked like it might be from the outside. She closed the trunk and brought him around to the passenger side.

Wrestling Angelus into the small, two-door coupe was a joy. It probably would've been hard for him to get in on his own. Willow tried, but she wasn't much help. All of the attention they were getting was seriously wigging her out. Mostly this job involved Buffy lifting him under the shoulders and knees and chucking him into the car. The trouble was the folded passenger seat and the seatbelt kept getting in her way. She finally managed.

"Let me drive," Buffy said as she ran around to the car.

Willow looked aghast. "What?" she stammered. "But Buffy, you don't drive."

"I'm not the same person you knew," Buffy reminded her patiently, though that's the last thing she was. The light was about to change and things were getting uglier by the second. It wouldn't be long before someone was in her face. Avoiding that sounded like a plan.

Willow gave in pretty quickly. In the time it took her to scramble around the car, Buffy had stashed her purse in the backseat, fastened her seatbelt and adjusted everything except for the mirrors. She played with them to give Willow a moment to get situated before they rolled. The turn Willow had been making put them on one of the main routes to the four-oh-five. They didn't want or need to get caught up in that mess. Buffy swung the car around to go straight through the intersection.

She went half a block, pushing the BMW hard. The tires squealed as she made the turn onto a cross street. What they needed to do was disappear, and the quicker, the better. Once they were nearly to the next block, she slowed down. Driving like a total lunatic would only get them in trouble. She opted for 'half-lunatic,' which should actually make them blend in.

"I hate cars," Buffy mumbled under her breath as she brought them to an abrupt stop. No one was coming. A twinge went through her knee when she mashed the accelerator. They went straight across the intersection as fast as the car would take them. The excitement was wearing off and she hurt. It just figured that she'd reinjured her knee. At this rate, the thing would probably never heal. What she needed was a full day to recuperate. And that might happen sometime between no-time-soon and never.

She hadn't gotten so much as a disdainful snicker for her comment yet. It was time to check. She backed off the gas and gave Willow a quick glance.

Willow reacted to the attention by turning to look out her window.

"What's the matter?" Buffy asked, trying to take Willow's hand.

It stung a little when Willow pulled away. "Nothing," she replied, clearly avoiding the question.

Buffy responded with an annoyed glance. In truth she was glad to see that Willow was paying that much attention.

"Everything," Willow admitted, only to hem and haw. "Oh. Uh. I don't know. I mean, umm…" Her cheeks were streaked with tears. A second glance just made her defensive. "I really don't."

Willow sat on her heels in the clearing in front of her home. Her toes were curled under, supporting her weight. They ached with the pressure. Her feet felt too big, her legs gangly and useless.

It was beautiful here. A warm spot in an often chilly world. That took the edge off. This meadow was still the perfect place to fall in love. It made her think of Buffy. They'd shared so many months in this place, together and happy.

Too few months.

The grass was wet, but Willow was dry. Even her slacks were dry. A fire burned inside of her, keeping her warm, but in no way safe or comfortable. Her head felt huge, thuddy and sore. And for some reason her hands felt big too. She didn't get that, but here she was, exposed. A cartoon girl with skinny legs and cartoon hands to match her cartoon head and feet.

A breeze blew through the trees. Raindrops pattered down. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one that struck her was a tiny assault. She had control. She didn't flinch. They burned off, turning to steam as though showered over a hot griddle. Or that's what she imagined. She didn't look. All she knew was that her hair was dry. Water wasn't trickling over her skin, so it had to be going somewhere. It did matter what she was or what she'd done, how powerful she'd become. Some things were absolute. She couldn't defy the laws of nature.

For a moment she felt a burning desire hop to up and run inside. She was sure if she did, Buffy would be there, waiting for her in their bed. She'd be able to snuggle up, to go to sleep, to forget. She couldn't move for fear she was wrong. The sensation faded as quickly as it had come.

As time ticked away, she slipped away. Her body grew deader and deader. Her hands, feet and head were still too big, but they were so numb it didn't matter. In place of water, bad and hurtful things seeped from her pores and trickled away, running rivulets over her skin.

She reached out, probing and plodding, looking for someone familiar. Buffy was there. Willow didn't know where, but the sense that she was healthy and safe comforted her. She hadn't failed. There was still time. She could bring the woman she loved home.