17.
Last Flowers

Gnawing tension, seething with too much potential, like over-caffeination, fire prickling beneath the skin, smothered and died. Buffy went cold. It was her. She was at fault.

The door was opening. Its protracted motion was like something from a horror movie. At first only an arm showed in the gradually broadening gap, then the slope of a shoulder. She wanted to reach out, swat the door and get it over with, like tearing away a scab. She knew it was Willow. She just wasn't sure which Willow, what she wanted, what was happening, what they were doing…

The door opened. A different person met Buffy's eyes and she froze, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car, torn between wanting to flee and needing to know.

When had this happened? It hadn't been that long. A few days that felt like a week. How had Will become so cold in such little time? Was she cold? She looked it. What had she done?

Buffy's hand lifted, driven by the desire to understand. It hit an invisible barrier. She groped across its surface. It had to have limits. I have to know what's left. There has to be something—

"Can I come in?" Willow asked.

So cold.

"Please?"

The second request struck Buffy like a physical jolt, though no one had touched her, physically or otherwise. Willow wouldn't touch her. Buffy still flinched. Then she stepped aside, making way for her 'visitor' to enter the room. Actually, it was more like she staggered. The way they responded, her feet might've been stuck in mud or weighted with lead. She shuffled, stricken, clumsily tracking Willow's progress as she sauntered across the room to the nearest chair and sat down.

"Shut the door," Willow said.

Buffy didn't move. She couldn't move. Finally, another "please" sent a shiver through her that damn near made her gasp. The simple civility acted as a reminder: this isn't Willow's problem. She isn't the one who's wigging out. I am. The near fugueish shockiness chafed like a polyester jumpsuit. I need to get over it. She just wants to talk. I just need to let her. No big.

Buffy shut the door. Her hand lingered against its cool surface. The paint felt strange, the way paint sometimes does, somewhere between tacky and slippery. The internal pep talk was all well and good; unfortunately, the resulting 'stiff upper lippiness' had a tragically abbreviated life. The stumbling block was the actual act of facing a Willow who just wasn't very Willowy. As Buffy grappled with the urge to lean there, rest her forehead, hide her face, the unWillowy Willow said, "I need to get you home."

Buffy flinched. The whole 'hiding,' 'leaning,' 'cool surface' thing would've been good. It would've felt nice against her clammy brow. It would've been peaceful. It would've been better if Willow's tone hadn't been mopey. This wasn't how this was supposed to turn out. She should've been happy. What she should've said should've meant that the nightmare was over. It should've meant that she and a very Willowy Willow could both go home. Buffy bit her lip just to feel something—something right—the way it should feel. Willow hadn't said that. It hadn't gone anything like that at all. She said 'you' not 'us.' For whatever reason, this unWillowy Willow was staying here or going somewhere else—somewhere not 'home.' Buffy flung herself around. "What happened to you?" I swear if she says 'nothing,' I'll…

Willow didn't say anything at all. She just hung her head, which Buffy supposed was no wonder. What started off as 'saying' had come out something more like 'shouting' or 'demanding.' Of course, that made Buffy feel like a lottery winner who'd just recognized the absurdity of bitching about the taxes. She's right. I can't even begin to imagine what she must've gone through to get here. So of course she gets here and the first thing I do the second we're truly alone is yell at her.

Nice. Very nice.

"I'm sorry," Buffy said in some approximation of a stage whisper, which was much better than yelling. She smoothed her skirt as she leaned back against the door. The plain cotton fabric felt coarse beneath her palms. That struck her right then as strange. The dress didn't feel rough where it pressed against her shoulders. After a moment's consideration, she guessed that sort of figured. Everything below her neck did feel pretty disjointed, distant and icky. Not that it mattered.

What mattered was that Willow was mumbling something. Buffy caught about half of it. Something like: "…that you're okay."

'I need to know…?' 'I have to know…? Whatever. Whichever. Either one works. That sounds like her. She's always been more concerned about me than herself. At least 'always' since last year. She thinks I have a talent for getting myself dead. Not totally unfounded. I do seem to do that lots more than the other girls. She's afraid next time it'll stick. I just wish I could see her face.

Unfortunately, it was covered by a curtain of hair, which made this a lot like talking to Cousin Itt—the black and white one—what with the whiteness of her hair—without the kid-sized Ray Bans. Not that Buffy had been doing a whole bunch of talking. She decided to fix that. "I want to stay," she said, sure in the knowledge it was pointless to say anything at all. "Whatever you plan to do, I belong with you." She still had to say it even though Willow was bound to have a different opinion.

Willow expressed the difference by first getting over her Cousin Itt look. Only a fool would've wished for what came next. The whole 'hair in face,' 'mopey Willow' act had been much easier to deal with. Her 'resolve face' had matured over the years into something of near surgical precision. With the unhealthy dose of supernatural whammy attached and her gaze set to 'wither,' she was equipped to win a staring contest with a basilisk. It was just plain creepy and way past time to find something safer to look at. Buffy controlled the shiver that was threatening to turn her spine to jelly and located a nice, harmless, fascinating patch of carpet near her feet to study.

"I still need to know that you're okay," Willow said with vocal intensity to match her mystical makeover. "But it's not just me who matters. It's everyone else who depends on you. Our world wouldn't be the same without you. Look at this one." A long, dramatic pause broke up her spiel. Buffy spent it conflicted, wanting to interject something witty and persuasive, drawing a total blank, and trying to work up the nerve to look the Terminatrix in the eye. What she actually managed to accomplish was diddly with a generous side of squat. "I need you to go. I've spoken with the other Willow and she's willing to go with you."

That was the last straw. Buffy's temper flared. She found her voice, "I—" and in short order, got stomped on. Not literally, but verbally. Willow talked right over her.

"I know that isn't what you want." The fact that Buffy might want to choose who she was going to spend her life with was inconsequential. Even if it wasn't a bad choice, it wasn't her choice. This Willow had made up her mind. "You don't understand what I've done—what I've gone through to get here," she explained, the broken record act indicating that she might well be distracted. "I can't stop." She sounded pretty distracted. "I have to keep going. I need to finish, and the biggest part of finishing is knowing that you are where you belong. This wouldn't even be happening if—"

If I'd just stayed put. Like I had a choice.

As if she'd heard Buffy's thoughts, Willow said, "I know. I'm sorry. It's not your fault." She raked her fingers through her hair, stopping at the crown of her head to make a fist. That gesture always looked ouchy, but it was one of those typical 'gimme a minute,' 'I'm thinking,' Willowy things.

Buffy waited patiently for her to continue, mostly because doing anything else had proven in the past to be a fantastic way to pick a fight. And there was the internal debate—the vain search amid the jumble of conflicted, hyperemotional reactions for something 'witty and persuasive' to say.

Eventually, Willow collected her thoughts and deigned to explain, "I'm going to try to find the vengeance demon who's responsible for this mess. I couldn't get through to D'Hoffryn, but I might be able to put things back by—" She let go of her hair and looked up. Lines creased her brow, suggesting she had a headache. Another bad sign. "I'm not even sure. I don't think killing the demon will work, but there has to be something I can do. And if I can, that should put everything back the way it was. It's the best idea I have, but I need you where you belong before I start in case I can't—in case things go wrong."

"And if you can't? If your plan doesn't work, what then?" She said something about 'finishing.' I want to know what it is she plans to finish.

"Be careful with her," Willow said, switching subjects so like the slamming of a door that an audible clap wouldn't have seemed out of place. It was such a drastic shift that Buffy didn't know what the hell she was talking about until Willow met her eyes and went on, "She's going to be really confused for a while. I'm not sure how long it'll last. I gave her a lot to think about."

"I will," Buffy replied, then without missing a beat prodded hopefully, "What are you going to do?" I'm sick of not knowing. The least she can do—

Willow let out a brittle, humorless laugh, all nerves, a chink in her armor. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just being pragmatic. Don't you see I have to be? If I think about what this is—what it means—"

Buffy wondered for moment whether she had even listened. The right response would've been annoyance, if the admission, and strangely that quirky little self-deprecating laugh, hadn't been exactly what she needed to hear. It went a long way towards saying that this Willow—her Willow—was still Willowy enough. Combined with the extra added goodness of a little humility displayed through pose and expression, it said enough. She still hasn't answered my question, but—

"Yeah, I do," Buffy replied, feeling somewhat better, even if she did add a conditional, "I guess." That was a vocal tic that made her feel just that much more in the wrong.

"If things don't work out, I plan to stay here."

Finally, an answer. It had been too long in coming, but it was definitely an answer. Buffy waited with bated breath and was rewarded with more.

"I think I can do some good here. Our world isn't as simple as this one. The things that are broken here are really broken. Ours is more cloudy, shades of gray all over. It'll take a gentle hand—a human hand—to make things better there. In case you haven't noticed, that's something I'm really not. Not anymore. You and your Willow—the human Willow—belong there."

An ethereal smile—a pretty smile, but ghostly just the same—flitted across Willow's lips, thawing her expression. It wasn't an improvement. She seemed no more fine, smiling or not. She was right. Something was broken. Something ineffable, aside from the aesthetic, that made her less herself. She rose from her seat. "Now come on," she said. "Let's get you crazy kids home."

Daylight trickled into the room through cracks in the blinds. In the muted, golden light, understanding came to Wesley in the form of something truly mundane: a bedrail. Everything about the room he was in was stark and sanitary, but the curved plastic rail was uniquely conclusive, a feature only found in hospital.

I'm alive. Curious how, when that comes as a surprise, it's rarely a pleasant one.

Details came back to him in ragged bits and snips. Nothing came easily. His mind was a place where perfectly good thoughts went to drown in the thick, murky haze. Angel had been there. Wesley couldn't remember what had been said, if anything. He wasn't even certain that the memory was authentic. It had that indistinct quality of mental abstraction. Assuming that his mind could be trusted to report facts, Angel's presence meant that things had gone well…or as well as usual, with the accustomed bone-deep aches and the medications that kept them at bay, while laying his wits to waste, which sent his whole line of reasoning whirling to cyclical oblivion. He needed more information.

Even the simple act of turning his head sent twinges through his neck and chest. They fanned out, reaching his midriff. He winced, which naturally made matters worse. Reflex took over, screwing his eyes shut and setting his jaw.

When the nasty business of life after a major trauma had passed, he found that Illyria was still there. Seeing her hurt in a very different way. She hadn't moved, or he didn't think she had, since last time he was presumably awake. She stood by the doorway like a sentinel, unchanging, inhuman and still wearing the face of the woman he loved.

It was weakness. Trauma made him think that. Trauma made him vulnerable. Trauma and a pharmacological cocktail of lord knew what—

Her expression softened, transforming with subtle amusement as she watched him. It was the look Fred might've given a particularly interesting insect, which sounded far less flattering than it was. Fred loved life—all life, even the lowliest forms. Coming from Illyria, that expression seemed tantamount to gushing from anyone else. Anyone human.

Wesley smiled, or he tried. He might've just made a face. It was difficult to tell. Anyway, he hoped that what he felt on the inside had somehow translated to the outside. Despite the discomfort, he was very much pleased to see a familiar face.

He lay there for some time discovering that he had arms, and that his arms were no more pleasant to move than his head had been. The pain passed. Illyria still hadn't budged. She had nothing to offer, not a word, not a gesture, just amusement, faint and enigmatic. Why is she even here?

The events of the previous evening were difficult to suss out. Was it the previous evening? I have no way of knowing— "How long?" he asked.

His voice was so thready, it came as no surprise when she quirked an eyebrow, an addition which made her look devious when combined with the lingering grin, transforming it into a smirk. He wasn't certain whether her mood had actually changed to match her expression. With her it was difficult to tell. He had to try again, "How long has it been?" else he might upset her.

She readily replied, "I don't know."

Hours, days, weeks…surely she can tell me that much? I would assume hours, but wouldn't be surprised by days. Weeks would be—

He knew he'd been shot. He remembered that in the same vague way he remembered his fifth birthday. The only reason he remembered that was that his family had gone on holiday. Strange faces and places left an impression. He couldn't remember who had shot him. That struck him as odd. Every major trauma in his life was coupled with a face. This one was different. All he could recall was men in black—not in the 'silly sci-fi feature,' 'Will Smith,' 'Tommy Lee Jones' sense, but men in tactical gear. They were all nondescript. The shooter could've been any one of them.

No matter. A gunshot wound would necessitate surgery. Surgery would indicate hours. Hours of unconsciousness, days in hospital and weeks—perhaps even months—of recovery. "Surely you can make some estimation?" he prompted, hoping she would recognize his disorientation. But why would she? This sort of thing would be as alien to her as cricket to a frog.

Illyria tilted her head as if considering the question. "Twelve hours perhaps," she replied, not bothering to provide a frame of reference. That was fine. It narrowed the field down to 'hours.' He could live with hours. Hours were far better than days.

The next question of interest was one of survival. How had he? He didn't remember much, just falling; something or someone was towing him toward the edge; and terror, raw, visceral panic. He couldn't reckon how he'd gone from that state of freefall to here.

It was really very simple. There was only one thing he need know: she saved my life. He was uncertain how, but her intervention was the only thing that could've altered the outcome.

"Why—?" he asked, breaking off. His throat was so dry. It hurt. He wanted something to drink. The last thing he was going to do was ask Illyria. The nurse would be by soon. He would ask for something then. Her head titled questioningly again. He regrouped to make another attempt. "Why did you save me?"

Her expression set in a communicative frown that said everything. She didn't need to tell him she was uncertain, but she did. Then she speculated, "Perhaps because this world would have been dull without you." Coming from her that was highly unusual.

Something had changed and all he could say about it was, "Thank you."

'Mollify,' 'mortify,' there's just not enough difference between those two words. Maybe that's right. Maybe it's intentional. Maybe I'm irrational.

Again, not enough damn difference.

Movement on the stairs caught his eye. Willow sure looks good. Happy. Normal even. Not the one who melts people and turns bodies into shrubs, the sane one. My Willow looks happier than I've seen her look in—

I don't remember. It's been years.

Angel had turned his head too. A quick glance told Xander that they were both watching the procession that was descending the stairs, with Willow the human transmogrifier in the lead. Or almost human—kinda quasi, semi, sort of—not a cardboard box. Giles brought up the rear, sandwiching his Willow and her Buffy.

Something was up. Something big. Something that had thankfully given Angel something else to focus his politely Machiavellian charms on. Angel's interest in him had driven Xander to desperation, looking for an out. He could've found a way if…

Guilt always caught up with him. Of course 'your kid's dead' wasn't the sort of thing anyone with any scruples would brush off. The last half hour or so had been murder…in more than one sense. Luckily, the subject hadn't come up. Had it, Xander would have folded like an accordion. As it was, Angel knew something was wrong—nothing more, nothing less—which made the fact that he was distracted now a welcome relief that showed on Xander's face. He let it. Angel wasn't watching him now, so what did it matter?

Because reveling in it at all made it short lived. It was like a law or something. A moment's peace meant at least two moments' pain. Enter pain: the next guilt trip was almost down the stairs. Considering the fact that Xander didn't have a leg to stand on…

The shift was devastating. He went from the faint, light, airy, wonderful swell of something close to calm, to a crashing, gut wrenching wave of anxiety that made his face flash hot. He felt lightheaded and queasy. He wanted to bolt. The door was right there. He stared longingly at it, willing his feet to move.

"I'm not even sure how to say this, so I guess I should just get it over with. I'm leaving."

It went without saying which Willow was speaking, not that he could tell for sure without looking. The one who'd just gotten there was bound to leave. She'd come for Buffy. She'd leave with Buffy. Everything would go back to normal then. But why announce it? Why the finality in her tone? He turned his head. His Willow, the pretty girl with red hair who'd been his friend since they were little kids, wouldn't meet his eyes. He didn't understand.

"Xander, I'm leaving," she repeated, stomping the stuffing out of his denial, his hope. It was his Willow. His Willow was—

The other Willow—the one he could never relate to—said, "I'm staying here. I think I can help."

Someone was screwing with his thermostat. It was horrible. His face felt cold. He felt faint. His chest felt tight. In an awful way, this was fair. He was the one who had made this mess. He'd caused all of this. It made a sick sort of sense that he'd have to pay for his actions. He should lose something. Not that he was losing much, mostly just history. He and Willow hadn't been close in—

Over the past six months, her presence had been more 'in' in the corporeal sense—the Ghost of Willow Past—felt more than seen, hidden away, suffering for—

This was actually good. She looked good. Buffy was good for her. She'd shown herself to be capable, honorable, kind…more so than even the Buffy he remembered. Willow was going to be with her. She'd be fine. Better than. No wonder she's so happy. She probably feels like a kid on Christmas.

Willow and Christmas?

Her birthday then. Whatever.

"Can I go with you?" Xander asked. The corner of his mouth twitched. He gave them a quirky, lopsided grin. He knew the answer. They knew he was kidding. Sort of. Before she could answer, he added, "I'll miss you," and held out his arms. Willow strode over to him. He embraced her. It had been a long time. She felt wonderful, soft with just the right amount of girlish lumpiness.

Finally, after much frozenness, and maybe some reluctance, she asked, "Are you okay?"

No. "Sure. I'll be fine," he lied, trying to put a little pep in his voice. He wanted to sound convincing. It didn't work. Slurring would've been the only thing that might've made him sound more like he'd been thwapped between the eyes with a hammer. His diction was fine. That was all that was fine. A lump formed in his throat. The pained pressure that built behind his eyes was much better than crying. Pain always was.

She probably knew how bad it was, but she moved on anyway, giving him a small, sad smile in parting. Angel was next, he was closest, then Giles. They all got hugs. Hugs all around. Buffy even hugged Xander. It was like being thanked for wrecking her life. She didn't know what he'd done and he didn't share. He swallowed his guilt and said his goodbyes. They all did—the others presumably without the guilt. The only one who didn't join in was Snow Willow. That wasn't surprising.

Everything went exactly the way it should except for one tiny thing: Xander couldn't feel his legs. Well, he could, but he couldn't. Not really. They didn't feel right. Nothing did. Nerveless, as he was, it wouldn't have seemed out of place for his vantage to be overhead—floating over his head—floating over all of their heads. This couldn't be real.

It didn't feel real when Willow—the insane Willow, who like Arnie, 'would be back'—turned away and a glowy spot bloomed in the air in front of her. She stepped through, followed by the other two. The glow winked out and they were gone.

The life Willow had known had been wearing away since Buffy's arrival, sloughed off like old skin, one particle at a time. Nothing about that had been hard until she'd looked on Xander's face, seeing grief and desperation in his one watery eye, the creases in his skin, the set of his jaw. He'd been miserable. That realization had driven the gravity of her situation home. Not her home. Another home. A different home. A home she knew intimately, although she'd never been there before in her life. That was the trade. She was leaving everyone and everything she'd ever loved behind, exchanging them for someone else's family—a different family with matching visages—the sting of transition barely cushioned by a snarl of cast-off memories.

It was a hell of a thing. Her sails were definitely looking a bit droopy. Only Buffy's grip on her hand stopped her from turning back the way she'd come. Natural reflex, brilliant light and a strong desire not to walk into any situation blind fueled her unrest. Only Buffy's gentle urging kept her going at all. Willow scrunched her eyes shut, blinking furiously, squinting, trying to figure out where in the world she was.

White and blurry resolved into green and blurry. Finally the remaining tapestry of cheerful colors resolved to match the fresh, floral scented air. They were in a glade that Willow recognized as the glade from her borrowed memories, an idyllic forest clearing that could've been the perfect setting for any fairytale, except for the ones that involved mean, old, reputation-tarnishing witches or evil queens that were almost always witches too. But even those stories tended to have respites in places with patches of wildflowers, fluttering butterflies and brocades of artfully disparate greenery. Consequently, it seemed it was all the same, so beautiful that Willow momentarily forgot she was upset.

That lasted until the woman who'd tied her up and poured several seasons worth of 'This is Your Alternate Life' into her brain sat down. Why that upset her, Willow didn't know. It was a sign that they'd be sticking around for a while. That was all. It wasn't nearly as upsetting as that other thing—the thing that had confused her so much that being tied up by her doppelganger had felt like a minor annoyance. The last time that had happened she'd feared for her life; this time, only her sanity came into question. She wondered if getting out of the fix on her own had constituted passing some sort of test. The expression on her double's face had certainly seemed to suggest so.

Now her crazy alter ego only looked expectant as she gestured for Willow to join her. Buffy already had. The gentle tug on her hand caused Willow to change focus. It was Buffy's look—somewhere between pleading and questioning—that caused Willow to relent and join them. Buffy sought out her hand when Willow broke contact to smooth her skirt beneath her. It wasn't nearly long enough. The feathery grasses tickled her legs. They were bound to get itchy. There might even be chiggers.

When did I start to think of my double as 'crazy'? I had this picture of someone altogether more together than me. A confident woman who knew what she wanted, unlike me. I mean, she had to be confident to woo Buffy.

Only now I know. I know that there was very little wooing and that Buffy was the wooer. Not that she wooed. This b-side variation of me thought the same thing that every reasoning, reasonable, self-respecting lesbian in the same shoes would think. She thought that Buffy wanted to try on said idiomatically 'sensible' shoes and take them for a stroll. She didn't see that Buffy had seen the whole 'stick-to-tiveness to the point of self sacrifice' thing as a sure sign that my counterpart was in love.

And me—I was in love—via the same mechanism—the same set of circumstances. I am in love. I've been in love…and totally heartbroken, utterly demoralized by that special someone becoming the Evil Queen in a screwed up switcheroony facilitated by the misguided machinations of a conceited, unhealthily obsessed vampire—like there's any other kind.

On the other side of the dimensional fence, this Buffy's game wasn't a game. It wasn't an experiment. It was a logical conclusion with all of the warm fuzzy feelings that amounted to the necessary kindling.

Why she didn't see the same thing in Xander? It was there. He loves her dearly. He—

They were both staring at her. Willow was the center of attention. She hated that, especially when she felt this lost, looking into the past, like looking through the surface of a pond, like that one book—the one about the girl and her friend— Umm… Memories rose to the surface, churned up by the current, drawn by shadows, fractal patterns reflected in the water, random, chaotic, not linear at all…

Maybe I'm the one who's insane?

The name came to her: Cat's Eye. Not that it mattered in the slightest. That was just a book that she'd read long ago, when she was a girl, before all of this.

What I need to be worried about is them, not her. She thinks I'm the cat's meow. That much is obvious. I can tell just by the looks she gives me—the looks I used to wish she'd give me that she gave to other people. People like Riley and Angel, even to icky people like Parker. I was so—

I'm so scatterbrained. It's sad.

Resigned, Willow looked up from where her hand rested clasped with Buffy's. Meeting her double's eyes, she ventured, formulating a tenuous preamble to the only thing that really mattered, "I need to know one thing before I go along with this." I'll be fine. I know I will. I just need some reassurance. Surely she won't—

"Okay," her double drawled, stretching the word out quizzically before clipping the next two off, "Fair enough."

"What do you plan to do?" Willow asked, her mind firmly focused on Xander to keep the other thing at bay—the thoughts that plagued her—the recognition that this woman—this alternate rendition of herself—was disturbing on a level that she'd only sensed on a couple of other occasions. Glorificus had been disturbing in a similar way: terrifying, chaotic, palpably powerful, and quite insane. The only saving grace of Willow's current situation was that she wasn't sure about that last part.

And she wasn't thinking about this. She was thinking about Xander. She was explaining, after what she hoped wasn't too long of a pause, "Not with us. I get that we're leaving—exiting stage left or whatever. What do you plan to do with them—with my friends—my world?"

In an echo of Willow's own voice, her doppelganger said, "Nothing," through a tinkle of laughter. It was irksome. "You make it sound like I might have it in me to hurt them." The familiar voice forming such jarringly dismissive tones made Willow wonder if she'd ever been that crass, if it had looked that unattractive. "I'd say you don't know me very well if it wasn't for the obvious absurdity of that statement." A mawkish smile punctuated the sentiment. "You should know that whatever I do will be in their best interests. I want to make things better for your friends. They're my friends too, in a roundabout way."

Willow's resentment dwindled with those last few statements. I'm being too hard on her. Too suspicious. Maybe even kind of mean. She capitulated, "Okay, but how?" Not that she gave up any ground. She was still curious. It was the tone of her voice that marked the change, no longer quite so dubious. She sighed.

"The same as usual," her second, sallow self said in crisp parody. She was too sharp, too hard, teeming with wrongness, any goodness drowned in a froth of placating tones. "You have to understand that nothing's really changed. Everything's changed, I know, but the fundamental things remain fundamentally the same. The way to help is to eliminate the bad, while shoring up the good. I thought I'd start with what you left me. You and Buffy have already affected things for the better."

Buffy.

Buffy sat watching the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, her attention turning, seemingly discerning subtle changes for good and ill in each participant's humor. That made Willow nervous to say the least. Nervouser and nervouser…downright antsy, afraid she might say the wrong thing. Again, she capitulated, "Alright, well…" This time completely. She still didn't tell me anything, but—

The other Willow wasn't finished. "What I want to know is how Buffy—the other Buffy—has dodged your attempts to ensoul her. I assume you tried. I assume that was the first thing you tried. I'm very curious how she's been getting away with murder all this time."

"I don't know," Willow replied, shame washing over her. She was inadequate. That much was clear.

"Well, I'll figure it out," her paradoxical counterpart said in what Willow was sure were supposed to be reassuring tones. A little something to take the sting out. "I'm sorry. I don't mean this to rub you the wrong way, but I don't have the same problems you did. I have nothing to be afraid of. She's just another vampire to me. And vampires are—"

"Probably pretty passé to someone who pancaked a liaison to the senior partners," Buffy interjected rudely. "Willow's right to be worried about you. What the hell happened?" A soft, fretful breath seemed to betray her tears, but when Willow looked, Buffy wasn't crying at all. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion. Her jaw was set. She looked livid. Through clenched teeth, she asked, "What are you?" Each word came out as a separate challenge, bitten off, standing apart.

Willow felt several conflicting things in such close succession they seemed to hit her all at once. She hated that. It was like being torn or picked apart, pecked at by a bevy of emotions. First, she hoped that Buffy would never look at her like that. The whole exchange frightened her. That was quickly shadowed by sympathy, closer to sorrow. Buffy looked miserable in her anger. Having to ask something so severe of the person she loved had to be horrible. Willow was also grateful and relieved that Buffy had mustered the nerve. She had the same questions, or similar ones. That was the problem: how to ask and not upset. There was a sense of solidarity in the fact that Buffy had. Finally, Willow felt ashamed for feeling relieved at all. It was wrong, terrible, selfish…not to mention a truly annoying note for such a taxing rollercoaster ride to end on.

A jarring note that wasn't eased one bit by the other Willow's indignant retort, "I'm still me."

Willow fixated on the gnarled thicket at the forest's edge, all viney and wild, overgrown with woodbine, speckled with trumpet-shaped flowers in fiery hues and the poofy, purple pompom plumes of thistles. An elusive thought flitted through her mind: how could she be so miserable in such an idyllic location? The place seriously needed pixies. She struggled to hold fast against reason as the electric tension cascaded over her in waves. Running away seemed like the better idea, the best idea ever. Buffy squeezed her hand. The gesture was almost reassuring. Though not quite reassuring enough in the Clash of the Titans context this was building up to. A thick wall of bulletproof glass would've been much better; a bomb shelter, even better still.

Before anyone went the way of Lot's wife, the other Willow calmed, the white hot bristle of her magic fading. It seemed such an unlikely thing that Willow had to look. She needed a peek. She needed to understand where the tension, so tangible moments before, had gone. It was Buffy. She glared defiantly, daring her estranged paramour to try something.

Willow's heart swelled. She loved Buffy more in this moment than she ever had. Funny, this was a different Buffy. It was growing more and more difficult to separate the two—the one she'd known from this new person. The vampire was the one who was someone entirely different, easily compartmentalized. It felt like there'd been lapse in this saner Buffy's presence, and now that she'd returned, Willow was once again safe. Truly strange.

"Look, I asked," Buffy said. "You wouldn't tell me. I think I have a right to know. We both do." She included Willow with another convulsive twitch of her hand, squeezing without squishing. "You say you're going to 'make things better.' Your 'more human' Willow wants to know how. I don't see that as too much to ask. Her friends are there. Y'know, the people she loves? That should give her rights to at least a rough idea of what you have planned." Her head tilted, giving her a contemplative air. "My personal thoughts are veto rights, but that's me. I tend to be pretty sensitive when it comes to the unknown screwing with my friends."

"Unknown?"

"You heard me. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I could knock you out and take you home. You wouldn't be able to do anything to stop me."

"You won't."

"What makes you so sure?"

Their rapid exchange was charged with incredulity, disdain and hurt. Willow sat, frozen, awkward, displaced, awaiting the verdict, as if the decision would change the rest of her life…which she supposed it would. She was after all set to leave her world. Or was she? Would Buffy decide not to go? Could she?

After an angsty wait, filled with so much discomfort it made Willow want a shower, Buffy smoothed things over by saying, "Well, I'd like to think you still love me." Not that Willow had taken anything her mismatched double had said as an actual threat. It was more like a statement of truth. Buffy operated on the same premise, soothing hurts with a few words, "I mean, why else would you go through all this just to get me home? I know it's not for them. You've never been that magnanimous." She beamed fondly, displaying a genuine, yet vaguely conspiratorial smile. Wryness entered her tone too. "It's okay. Neither have I. I've done some pretty crazy things to protect the people I love."

Willow's disparate double looked thoughtful. Then she yielded to the analysis. "I can't tell you exactly what I have planned because I don't know yet. I have a few ideas."

Buffy replies, "Okay," drawing the word out into an invitation.

Questions were offered in answer intended as shorthand memory triggers, "Remember Darla? You know how Connor came into being?"

Buffy quirked an eyebrow while Willow just felt foolish. She put the pieces together before her double picked up again, "No, I'm not going to create a magical love child," laughing at the implication.

Willow wasn't laughing. She wanted to ask about Mohra blood. She'd only found out about by being sneaky and persistent, not to mention desperate. She wondered if her double knew. Finding a Mohra would be the trick. They were rare, if not extinct. It was too late. The opening was gone. Her double had moved on.

"The fact that Darla was returned from ashes to mortal existence by Wolfram and Hart is of interest. The Connor thing was just because. Time frame, y'know?" She quirked her eyebrow too, but Buffy was over the expression—her bit of good natured teasing had ended. She listened with interest. "I need to know what kept Willow…" nodding to her diminutive, or that's how it felt "…from ensouling Buffy, because I'm not sure how her soul being locked away will affect the spell. Otherwise, I think I can fix it. I need to know where the scythe is. I can do this. Hopefully, her mind isn't too broken from—"

"I get it," Buffy cut her off, seeing where the line of reasoning was going. There was nothing anyone could do about that.

"That's my only worry," the other Willow added unnecessarily. They all knew the problems.

The sun beat down on Willow's back, turning the stiff, shiny satin cincher at her waist hot. She'd long since sweated through the blouse beneath it. Though she scarcely noticed then, she was well aware now. Her disconnection from the conversation had given her the leeway to take stock of her own discomfort. As a spectator, she wanted to find a better seat. She could slip her fingers free of Buffy's and lie down in the grass. Her fingers were getting kind of sweaty too. It was gross. The grass would be cool, or more the earth beneath it would. This had to be almost over, at least she hoped so. She wished she hadn't started it. They would be wherever they were going by now, not sweltering in a thicket full of bugs.

"What else?" Buffy asked, shooing a gnat that was now bugging her. "You've got something else up your sleeve. There's a reason you won't let me touch you. There's a reason that Mr. Master Race melted like a gummy bear left in a pocket—with the dryer and the—umm…yeah, don't ask. Mom wasn't impressed." Her brow crinkled in that cute way. Light banter, mock thoughtfulness, bubbly and hopelessly endearing. "Juvenile traumas aside, there's a reason for all of this."

All of it—the whole show—rolled off of her double like water off a duck's back. If anything, she looked distracted. "Yes, there is," she said. "And while I'd love to answer your question, I'm running a little short on time. I need to do this now."

Buffy turned serious too. "What do you mean?"

Willow suddenly felt so much like an interloper she wanted to hop to her feet and run away. Yes, this was all about her, her interests, her concerns, but it was also about them. They were the important part. Their relationship had obviously been a good one and it was ending. Running away wouldn't work. They would come after her. Even distancing herself by lying down might be seen as rude, but Willow could pull away. She could turn away, so she did.

"I mean I can't," the other Willow replied. "I don't have time. I'll do what I can to make things better. I need you to trust me." A brief pause divided answer from question, adding gravity to her request, "Can you do that?"

The fine blades of grass beside Willow stirred in the breeze. She watched them, touched them, ran her fingers through them as she listened to the back and forth of their conversation in an aloof way—the way you listen to strangers in a restaurant, accidental eavesdropping that blended in with the other sounds. Instead of other patrons talking, dishes clattering, background music…this place had birds fluttering their wings, chirping, chattering; the rustle of leaves; the occasional barks of squirrels; the buzzing of bees; even the croaking of frogs in the distance…

"I want to, but I still need to know why."

"Why am I in a hurry?" Willow's double asked, the lilt of her voice mocking the question. Her incredulity vanished. "That's simple." She sighed, resigned. "Because I'm dying." Paused, perhaps for effect. "I have to get back there to fix this. I need to go now." As if responding to some unseen change, her tone turned sharp. "Look, Buffy, I told you there was a cost. Remember what I did to Giles?"

Willow could easily imagine the unseen. Buffy's voice cracked, affected, though what she said was plain enough, "Which time? There've been lots of times with Giles. There were lots of times with all of us."

Willow's double mumbled, "I get that." It seemed like it was hard for her to continue, like she was ashamed. "The bad time. The one we never talk about." Avoiding her double's gaze, Willow gave Buffy a sidelong glance in time to see her nod. She wondered how. She wouldn't be able to talk about this. She couldn't even imagine. Somehow her double managed to admit, "Well, I did it again. I didn't have the power to save you, so I took it. You know I can, so don't ask. What you really want to know is from whom."

"Yeah," Buffy replied, her tone distant and dry.

"D'Hoffryn," the other Willow confided. "I stole what I needed from his minions." A hiss of a snicker interrupted her confession. She picked up with barely a pause, sounding more self-satisfied, "Actually, I stole a little more than I needed. I was a teensy bit miffed when he told me 'no.' The insufferable old goat gave me the option of joining him or saying goodbye to you. I kind of went overboard. Now I need to fix things before—"

"Before? Before what? Before you explode?" Buffy sounded angry now. Willow supposed it was no wonder. This seemed like something she would've done: senseless, filled with emotion, the want for revenge. Her double was flawed too. Knowing this wasn't helpful, but it was. At the same time it was tummy troubling in the rumbly, bubbly way, it was also like being shown conclusive proof that Buffy could love her, warts and all.

There was a caterpillar in the grass. No hookah. Good sign. It was too fat to climb the spindly, flimsy blades—like hairs, like the earth had hair—but it kept trying. It'd get part way up and the fine, fragile stem would fold. Willow put her fingers in its path, so it would climb up and she could put it on a tree or something. Caterpillars liked trees.

She was flawed and her double was sick, but not dangerous to hear her tell it. Willow didn't know what to believe. The caterpillar climbed her hand with its funny, tickly feet. She turned it when it reached the edge, giving it something to do, something to strive for, an endless climb. There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

"What I need to do is finish what I started," her double said. "Go play Typhoid Mary, or that other thing. One or the other—whichever one works out. I'll know when I get there. I just need you to trust me."

"You made it work?" Buffy said, decidedly curious, but there was something else about her voice, some small hesitation. Willow wondered what it meant. Although she wanted not to be, she was curious too.

"I did," her double affirmed. Her tune changed, she turned apprehensive. "And I'd prefer not to debate ethics anymore. It's a little late in the game for that. I've already sent a gift to Wolfram and Hart." This had been another point of contention. One of many points to judge from the subtle shifts in the conversation. "It's okay. I know what I'm doing. I understand the implications. I'm going to make things better for the people your Willow loves. No more fighting. No more war. Not our kind, anyway." It sounded like she was trying to sell a particularly sticky point with the raw power of her charm and the wiliness of her wits. She was a snake oil salesman, purveyor of discount remedies for doomed worlds.

She'd also relegated Willow to an outsider. A possession. Willow didn't know how she was supposed to feel about any of this, so she tried to feel nothing. This would be over soon. It'd be just her and Buffy. The stigma of 'interloper' would shift. She would belong and this other Willow would fade to memory.

"Okay," Buffy said. "Y'know D'Hoffryn's going to be ticked off, like more than he already is."

"I hope so," the other Willow replied. She seemed pleased by this, as if she'd accomplished something of value in placing this burden on Buffy's back. A target, more like. D'Hoffryn wasn't the sort of thing Willow would ever consider pissing off. Just the idea made her nervous.

Her double continued in honeyed tones, "It'll be okay. Just be careful. He can't really do anything besides be a pest without another wish. That's where his power lies."

Willow wasn't convinced. She wondered what she was getting herself into.