19.
In the End

Sneaky I'm not.

Well, almost always 'not.' I have my moments. This just isn't one of them. Mostly because it'd be truly pointless. Maybe even dangerous. Probably foolish. Better to warn the itchy witch that I'm coming than to try to sneak up on her.

Even pretending at sneakiness seemed like a bad idea. As a result, Xander's approach sounded like a small stampeding herd of bison, or at the very least, one excessively nimble Shetland pony capable of walking on its hindquarters. He threw in a Frisbee for the equestrian acrobat to balance endwise on its nose for the sake of richness of imagery.

In a perfect world, the roar of a v-eight engine would've replaced his Clydesdale clomp, accompanied by the disorienting glare of flood lamps. The shriek of shredding tires would've followed, along with gouts of smoke. Extinguishing the lights would've left the Weird Sister effectively as blind as Destiny for a few moments, during which his jackboots would've hit the ground with a whisper, not a thud. His stealthy, super-ninja-self would've stolen up to Broom Wilda and disarmed her with a smile. Which by then she would've seen—what with the temporariness of the blindness.

Unfortunately, he'd left the Rover at the driveway's end. But only because the truck—with its large, unwieldy turn radius—was a pain in the butt to maneuver in the tight area in front of the house. Staying on the asphalt was nearly impossible and leaving it had always earned him lumps. Experiencing that kind of 'damned if he did, damned if he didn't,' catch-22 quandary before he even reached the house was just—

Well, it was pretty trivial, but no less ridiculous. Being reduced to a sticky spot on the tarmac over parking wasn't part of his evening plans. Which is exactly why I'm here.

Or mostly exactly. Someone needs to be here and I have a documented deftness when it comes to disarming twitchy witches. The fact that history exists past May of two-thousand-two is proof. Better me—the experienced one—than any of the girls. Slayery slickness only goes so far. Fact is, I stand less chance of getting gooshed.

Light reflecting from stone shown at the end of the tunnel formed by the boughs of trees. He was getting close. Mingled with the chitter-chat of critters—creepy-crawly, winged and furry—was a soft breathy trill. He stopped to listen. It was Willow. It had to be. No critter sounded like that. She was either laughing or crying. It was easy to guess which, if he discounted the idea that Willow might be crazy. A sane Willow would be crying.

The forefront of his mind was perfectly willing to settle for that. It was a reasonable conclusion. It would've suited him just fine to go on thinking that had it not been for the lowdown, dirty, wicked, tricksome, conniving, undermining, cynical, sardonic, party-pooping part of his mind. That niggling, nagging, annoying, backward part was sure that he was doomed.

He took a jerky step. So, how'd I get sucked into this?

Oh, that's right. I volunteered—with the gooshing. Am I just—?

Yeah. Yeah, I am. But she asked me to come and she's waiting outside. Invitations don't get much clearer than that.

Slower than before, he traipsed toward the house. His feet moved like he was slogging through a marsh. The tunnel vision, courtesy of the rural setting, added to the Apocalypse Nowish mood. But even with the dramatic hesitation, it didn't take him nearly long enough to trudge the last few dozen meters.

Willow had to know he was there, but she gave no sign. Other than the slight shuddering her—now verified—weeping caused, she didn't move an inch. She sat on the glider, hunched over with her hands clasped above the bend of her bare knees. Wearing only a bathrobe, she was a little underdressed for company. That, as much as anything else, held Xander back. He positioned himself as close to her as he could, without invading her territory, by climbing onto the porch and leaning against the left pillar that framed its entrance.

Well, at least her hair's red. That's good news, right?

Right. Okay, so…now what?

I could say something really stupid. I'm good at that. Maybe make her laugh. Maybe make her mad.

Yeah. Let's not. 'We can't all be lion tamers.'

So, how 'bout something tactless? Something like, 'Are you alright?' when she so obviously isn't. That'd work. Or I could ask…

"What's wrong?" Outright prying seemed pretty darned tactless, if not exactly stupid. Funny, that's what most people go with. They call it 'showing concern.'

And I am concerned. There's lots of concern here. Concern and a healthy amount of fear.

When, after several moments, Willow hadn't answered, Xander resorted to the truly tactless, "Are you okay?" That got him a snuffle. It was progress of sorts. Not exactly the sort of sign that said he was poking a sleepy bear with a sharpened stick. He said her name, questioning, hoping she'd snap out of it without snapping anything else in the process, most specifically him.

Willow didn't lift her head, but she did mumble, "Yeah, uh—" and sputter, "I—" and gasp, before finally arriving at something sensey, "I don't belong here," that wasn't very sensey at all, but at least it was a complete, quasi-coherent sentence.

"Wha—?" he gasped. "What do you mean?" Her hair hid all but the lowest parts of her face. He watched her mouth, what he could see of it, willing it to move, wanting some clarification.

After a time, she licked her lips, took an unsteady breath and answered, "I meant what I said. I don't belong here." Unfortunately, her answer was no answer at all, just a reassertion.

At least, patience wasn't a problem. Xander wasn't tired, and—other than the obvious, wiggy-witchy-woman-induced apprehension, with its potential for smiting—he was in a pretty good mood. "I think I'm going to need you to back up," he said in his best gently probing tone. "Maybe start at the beginning. Or somewhere close. Add some details. Any would help."

Willow looked up, looking perfectly Willowy, if not a little soggy. Funny thing, she said, "I'm not who you think I am." When Xander returned a perplexed stare, she went on, "I'm from the other place—the one where Buffy went. I'm not the Willow you know. She was scary. She wanted me to replace her. She gave me her memories. I'm not your Willow."

"Oh," he gasped, catching up and immediately flashing on the doppelganger in their past. "You aren't a vampire, are you?"

A wry grin flashed like a glimpse of sunlight. It warmed Willow's face and was gone. "No," she said, sounding world-weary. "Not me. Not this time."

"So why did Willow stay? Did she say? Is she—?" The questions that flowed out broke off as Xander observed the changes they wrought. His heart softened like crackers in soup, minus the icky pastiness. He was demanding answers of someone who was confused and frightened. Someone who'd been thrown into a role she didn't know how to fill. More significant still, he was making demands of someone he cared for who was in pain. Or thought he knew her—everything about her set off feelings of fondness and familiarity. Those impressions would have to do. She needed help, not interrogation.

Her eyes closed. Tears leaked out, trickling down her cheeks as she implored, "I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing here. I can't replace her. I—" A shuddering breath squelched her frantic voice. Before Xander could interrupt to tell her it was okay, she found her voice, collected her thoughts, or whatever. "Buffy went to sleep. She acted like I'd done something wrong. I don't know what to do. She doesn't love me. She loves…"

Conflicting impulses and emotions whirled through Xander's head as Willow trailed off. He wanted to sit down beside her and put an arm around her, but he couldn't seem to move. He wanted to ditch the bleeding heart and see her as an intruder. She'd said it herself: she wasn't his Willow. The appropriate reaction would be something like revulsion, maybe a little anger tossed in for good measure. He couldn't feel either, not with her all vulnerable and bawling her eyes out. She really had been handed the crappy end of the stick. That emotion stuck. He really was a big old softy after all.

That settled, his feet finally decided to work. He walked up to her, kneeled at her feet and put his hand over hers. When she looked up, he said, "That's not true," convinced he was right. It seemed right. He'd felt sympathy just that fast. Willow's fingers felt soft and warm under his. She turned her hand, taking his.

"The last thing Buffy wants to do is hurt you," he explained, giving voice to his thoughts. "Which 'you' doesn't so much matter. I wouldn't have known you weren't you without the heads up. The story is just too—" He managed to stifle an inappropriate chuckle, but amusement still edged his voice. "Well, maybe 'too bizarre' isn't the way to put it. We're pretty much magnets for the bizarre. I think I've been bizarre-proofed. My point is that you act like you. You're too obviously you. She won't last long once she sees that what she's doing is hurting you." He allowed himself a quirky half-smile, knowing it was filled with compassion.

Poor soppy, soggy, extremely Willowy, displaced Willow smiled too.

"Give her some time," he said with complete conviction. "She'll come around." He very nearly had, and in only a few minutes.

Whitewashed adobe walls, hued tawny by a sunset dense like a sky full of sorbet, framed double wooden doors set into an arched alcove. To the right of the doors, a wooden sign trimmed with old timey scrollwork hung suspended on a wrought iron bracket perpendicular to the façade, announcing the establishment to be 'Barnaby Rudge.' Everything except the sign was exactly the opposite of anything conjured in Willow's imagination by the name. Where was the clapboard construction, the leaded glass, the slate roof?

The Jamba Juice just down the street didn't help much either. Nor did the palm trees gently swaying in the arid breeze, but this was Southern California. She'd expected to have to overlook that much. She suspected that there wasn't much hope of finding a raven here either. Let alone a raven capable of proclaiming itself the devil. The only thing that might still hold true is the idiot as a central character.

The whole 'gently rapping,' 'chamber door' spiel she'd worked up in transit—racking her brain to remember snippets from The Raven by Poe—was pretty much blown unless she was up for playing out a parody. It had somehow seemed more relevant then. Anything that kept her mind off what had happened seemed relevant then. Now, not so much. Oh well.

"Open up," she mumbled while rapping on the door, voice and patter both magically augmented to sound ominous, not bored. Or at least louder. Keeping that part of her plan seemed reasonable, if not efficient. Although the truly efficient thing would've been just to go inside. The fact that the door was locked was hardly a problem. All this pretense to alert the pesky demon was just that. It was the witchy equivalent of a letter from the I.R.S. It really didn't matter what he did, she was going to exact her pound of flesh. The only matter left to debate was how flashy did she want said 'flesh exacting' to be.

She was starting to favor 'pretty darn flashy' when Old and Crusty bellowed, "Piss off! We're closed!" He had one of those voices that seemed made from screaming, or maybe smoking, or in some way abrading his vocal chords. Anyway, his bellow sounded painful and really grumpy. Degrumpifying the tetchy sexagenarian sounded like a plan.

So, flashy had it…something really, really witchy like blowing the door off its hinges—with a hail of wooden shrapnel and big boomy sounds.

The only problem was the steady flow of traffic. It didn't work so well with her intent. Ending up on the evening news wasn't a good idea. She could've gotten fancy. Cast an illusion. Hidden the mayhem. She could've made do. It just wasn't worth it for one piddly, attitudinal demon, so she went with the sneaky brand of showy—the 'poof,' 'I was here, now I'm there' brand of showy. At least, appearing from out of nowhere seemed showy to her. It seemed like the demon should've been startled. If he was startled, he didn't stop picking his teeth long enough to show it. Jeez. I should've added the cheesy, fakey pyrotechnics. Maybe that would've gotten his attention.

"Whatdaya want, witch?" the demon grumbled.

Willow was a little surprised to feel some sense of recognition as she stared across the generic expanse of gloomy, wood-toned barroom. Xander hadn't alluded to that—maybe he just hadn't seen it—but to her the old man looked a little like a Caucasian Redd Foxx in his role as Fred Sanford, including wardrobe with the plaid shirt, suspenders and Dickies. He was a little paunchier and his hair was a little thinner and—obviously—straighter, but otherwise….

For one fleeing moment feelings of something akin to nostalgia softened her heart. Then she decided this was utterly irrational and swept into a bounding, blur of forward motion. This thing was a vengeance demon, not an old man. She could feel it.

While in transition, she removed her necklace. It was the one thing she actually had on that wasn't conjured. As a result, it and her hair were the only things affected by the sudden burst of speed. She suspected it looked freaky. It was difficult to say from the demon's reaction. He looked shocked out of his skivvies, but would've looked that way anyway—what with being slammed into the liquor cabinet behind him by a hundred pounds of seething witch. The shocked look was the last look he'd wear. The fist that held the pendant plunged past layers of flannel, ribbed cotton and flesh into the demon's chest.

Willow had been having enough trouble controlling what she had to want the power herself. Instead, she decided to siphon the demon's essence into the pendant. Her theory seemed plausible.

The print had begun to blur again. Giles blinked to put it back into focus, not that the affectation bore any effect, negative or positive. He'd long given up trying to concentrate on the page. The words had forfeited their significance to flights of downhearted rumination. The book had once again been reduced to a prop that, with any luck, would inform the others he was otherwise engaged.

He'd been trying to convince himself their situation wasn't all that bad. He repeatedly returned to the opinion that what Willow had alluded to in their brief time together had sounded harmless enough. He chided himself that he should find the fact that she wished to help encouraging. In fact, he should be thrilled that anyone cared enough to put themselves at risk in order to come to the aid of a group of people so abjectly damned by fate. Sadly, he was too pessimistic for any of that to stick.

Instead, her potential maneuverings had made him uneasy. And with good reason. Her past experiments had been intriguing, if often traumatic. She had a gift for taking what might otherwise have been simple personal matters and turning them into elaborate fiascos. Memories of blindness and amnesia flitted through Giles' mind. He wryly admitted that both states would no doubt dramatically improve his current situation.

Of course, his many musings assumed that the doppelganger's past bore a resemblance to the experiences of her native self. But what other assumption could he have made? It came down to a simple matter of believing that he knew something or admitting he knew nothing at all. The former choice seemed the more attractive of the two.

Giles had hesitated to speculate how she might handle a severe issue that affected a large number of people. The one example he had of that was the working she'd done to empower the potential slayers. That had been propitiously successful; a fact that had failed to hearten him so far. Regrettably, he had to admit that that particular spell had also led them to the turmoil they now faced. Though, in fairness, that had happened through no fault of hers. Still, he'd found it difficult to separate the myriad consequences from any of their actions. One thing had, after all, led to another. Who was he to say that they weren't inextricably linked to the spell in some way? There was always a price exacted for elaborate magical workings. The greater the payoff, the more devastating the penalty. There was little doubt that—

Movement in the doorway drew his attention. Angel was there with his knuckles to the open door. He rapped lightly, unnecessarily, to announce himself. Giles supposed that he should find the gesture complimentary. This was after all his office. He assumed it had been Angel's office before him. The concession was undoubtedly courteous. But when Angel opened his mouth to ask, "Is there something going on that I should know about?" any positive effect it had had was negated.

"Not that I can think of," Giles replied, commanding a cordial tone from his ire. At that moment he wasn't even certain why Angel's question had angered him. He merely wished his guest would bugger off. Perhaps find somebody else to bother.

As the vampire explained, droning on—bemoaning Willow and her unexpected plurality, coupled with what he deemed unusual behavior; Wesley and his injury; Xander and his awkwardness, which Angel imagined to be some attempt at subterfuge; Illyria and her aloofness, combined with what Angel perceived as an unusual fixation on the injured Wesley—Giles only half listened. Nevertheless a pattern emerged. It became clear that Angel's complaints were all bollocks. So far as Giles could ascertain, no one was behaving unusually, except for the alternate Willow. And wasn't that to be expected?

Giles suspected that the real issue was that Angel was no longer in control. All of these people were running around doing things that hadn't been demanded of them. Giles imagined that all of this rampant freewill expressing itself must be quite upsetting to an ego-maniacal mastermind. It was a position that garnered Angel no sympathy. The final straw dropped when he broached the topic of Buffy.

"We should question her," he said, fixating on the cabinet that housed the displays that monitored their prisoner. "She might know—"

"Nonsense!" Giles erupted, sending Angel into stunned silence. "What you really want to know is that you still have some say in how things will proceed. I'm afraid that, even if I cared to, I couldn't offer you that sort of reassurance."

Angel huffed, "That isn't—"

"It is," Giles insisted, now thoroughly peeved. "That's essentially what you've been saying. Up until today you were the chief muckety-muck over at Lucifer's Lapdogs, Attorneys at Law. Now you're just a befuddled, rather boorish vampire with an aching conscience and innumerable sins. Were I capable of altruism, I might consider coddling you. I'm not. Consequently, you're rather low on my list of priorities." Sometime during his rant, Giles had risen from his desk and craned over it, resting his weight on his palms as if coiling to pounce. He righted himself, tugging at his jacket to straighten it before he switched tack, "Do you realize that we have a witch of extraordinary power primed to—?"

"Giles, I—" Angel tried to interject.

"No," Giles said, "You will listen to me. If you really want to make a contribution, you might consider how to deter Willow. The last time I faced her in a similar state, I was imbued with the power of an entire coven. She came within inches of ending my life."

Angel had progressed forward, obviously intent on the scene playing out on the monitors. Giles glanced to see what held his attention. Buffy was still strung up tight as an E-string, spread like a tuning fork, just like her doppelganger had left her. Nothing had changed. She even affected the same defiant glare.

Giles stepped around the desk to stop Angel short before he picked up his thought, "The only thing that stopped her from killing me outright was another distraction. In my drained and bloodied state, I was no longer of sufficient interest. I slipped her mind. She moved on to something else." Realizing he sounded moderately self-absorbed, Giles arrived at his point, "That afternoon she came within an ace of triggering an apocalypse. Perhaps you heard about that?" He paused to await acknowledgement.

With some reluctance, Angel nodded. "Alright," he drawled. His Neanderthal brow knitted. "Look, maybe I'm missing something, but I just don't see it. You're saying that Willow's a threat? I mean, Xander claimed she 'melted' Marcus Hamilton. I s'pose that could be seen as threatening. It might also be the best thing that's happened all year. But I thought it was just some sort of bizarre innuendo. I wasn't sure. That was true? He meant that literally?"

"Yes," Giles replied, adopting a casual pose with his right hand and hip planted against his desk. "Xander was correct, to a point. She reduced Marcus Hamilton to something that resembled a discolored, deflated balloon. 'Melted' is an apt, if not awkward, description. Very much the sort of thing I've come to expect from Xander. The remains weren't runny, as that term implies. In fact, they were flattened and appeared to contain the same volume as before, which makes my description somewhat dubious as well. Suffice it to say, Mr. Hamilton's dancing days appeared to be over."

It was good to see that Angel received the news with appropriate portions of slack-jawed incredulity and silence. His reaction afforded Giles the latitude to proceed. "As to the rest, I have no idea. I believe it's possible. Willow certainly has sufficient power to pose a problem." He paused to collect his thoughts, filling the vacancy by clearing his throat and shifting his weight. "We mustn't overlook the fact that she found her way to our world. That was no small matter. I assume her method of travel was raw, brute force—something which only the more powerful demons are typically capable of. Otherwise, making such an incursion could be quite tedious. Merely locating the correct terms in order to begin the search for the appropriate portal spell could represent years of research."

It occurred to Giles that there was something missing from his analysis. He rushed to put it into words, "Even that fails to take into account how she located the Buffy from her reality in the first place. Searching for a single individual throughout all of creation would be a daunting task. I have only the vaguest of notions how one would go about it. She successfully completed her objective in a handful of days." These were hardly the actions of a gawky, scatterbrained girl. Depending on her motivations, this might be a cause for optimism that he'd overlooked until now.

The only sign Angel had made to indicate whether he was following was a sustained air of pensiveness that had come about as his surprise faded. Giles took that for interest, and after a short pause, resumed his explanation, "I suppose it's no surprise that this incarnation of Willow has disarmed any physical threats with alarming ease. She treated the Buffy from our realm as if she were a ragdoll. We certainly have reason to be wary. Still, I believe we should hear her out. She claims to have our best interests at heart. Should those sentiments prove genuine, she could become a formidable ally. Conversely, should it become necessary to stand in her way…." There was no need to explain that the outcome would be very messy indeed.

Angel summed the trouble up concisely. "That wouldn't be good." His manner then turned introspective. "I don't need to explain who Marcus Hamilton is, do I? What he represents? Why I assumed Xander was making a joke?"

"No," Giles replied smartly. It was no mystery to him that the creature Willow had flattened was a very powerful demon. And that her actions would doubtless irk the overlords of Wolfram and Hart. He wasn't exactly looking forward to the backlash. The deep, slow breath he took in an effort to master his anxiety came out a sigh. "I'll gratefully accept any suggestions you have should things turn ugly. Until then…."

"Until then, it sounds like all we can really do is wait," Angel concluded as he turned to leave.

He was halfway to the door when Giles replied, "Precisely." He almost let Angel go, but Giles felt it would remiss of him not to offer a few words of caution. "Oh, and, Angel," he said, causing the vampire to linger in the doorway. "You do know that, if you attempt to interrogate Buffy, the last thing she'll be is agreeable? Of all people, you should understand the subtleties of that game. Trusting her to offer you anything but lies and grief would be pure folly."

Angel turned to show his profile, capitulating with a curt nod.

Willow wondered if it hurt when Angel lost his soul. She assumed it did, mostly because she did. She imagined the ache in her chest, the sensation of bleeding—of losing something—some vital part. Disconnected, floating away, venting life. Just that little hiss, without any other interference, caused her to spin. Air, like her soul, leaking out, contained in a body adrift, whirling out of control.

It was all terribly melodramatic. She wasn't losing her soul. Her soul was the part that hurt. She was sure of it. She could probably shed the offending part if she wanted to. There had to be some trick—a way to tear away the tattered remnants of conscience and caring without vamping out.

She'd be a monster either way. Being a less ouchy monster held a certain appeal.

No. She was better off stuck with the tender, battered thing. It would continue to sting, like a bone caught in her throat. She wouldn't spit it out. She'd spend the rest of her days choking on it, in pain, leaking from all of her pores.

Still too dramatic.

She wiped her eyes and opened them. It was useless. All she'd managed to do was make her fingers wet. Warm air blew in off the water, caressing her skin with its briny tendrils, chilling her hands and her slick cheeks, making her shiver. But maybe that was just everything else. She wasn't cold.

A sliver of the sun peeked above the breakers, blurry, or maybe blurrier. Viewed from underwater. Under tears. The sunset had richened from the pastels of sorbet to a deeper shade of pink, darker than strawberry ice cream, with shades of bright red like a maraschino cherry near the horizon. Bloody colors. Blood wicked through pink gift box tissue. Blood and tissue. Brains spattered across the sky. But she didn't want to think of it that way. Better to stick with something sweet and yummy. She should think happy thoughts. This was such a beautiful place. Water beat the rocks around her, lapping like the tongue of an overly friendly dog.

She still wasn't sure why she'd come here. It reminded her too much of Buffy. She wondered if Buffy had gotten to visit the coast while she was here. This was one of the things she loved best about California. Willow would've rather it had been her, but that was unlikely. Buffy had been busy.

Oh, Buffy. What am I going to do?

Why? What did it matter? It was done. Willow's mind was made up, but she still wasn't sure. She wanted it to be over. No more oceans. No more sunsets. No more stars. But it still hurt. She wished that her life was like a scab she could tear away. Something mercifully fast. Something that once she'd started, she couldn't stop. A point of no return. Simple. Quick. To the quick. Neat. 'Poof,' no more Willow.

She could do that, but then everything she'd done would be meaningless. She needed to see this through. That or stop. Hit the reset button.

No.

The fact that she could—that she might start over—was making her crazy. She didn't want to start over. Starting over would be bad.

Coward.

She looked down at her palm, where the faceted piece of aquamarine lay. The pendant was pretty. Caught in the last remnants of light, caught in her tears, it glistened. Rainbows refracted. All she had to do was destroy it—crush the tiny rainbows—and everything would go back to the way it was. She'd wake up in bed with Buffy. None of this would've ever happened. She knew it.

Not that she really knew it. It was speculation at best based on a flippant comment Anya had made about being tied down by a piece of jewelry, getting married, all of that. It was a 'timing' thing. Willow put it together from bits that she'd read and what she knew. She was sure, even if she couldn't be certain.

It made a certain sense that D'Hoffryn would have a way to leash his problem children—a way to siphon off their essence and store it, just like Willow had done. Admittedly, her method wasn't quite as tidy, but it had still worked. She could feel the power pulsing in the gem. Extinguish the power, unravel the essence, and reset—

Reset everything. Erase all of the horror, except the most obvious. The horror that was her. What she'd done. What she could do.

Or it might just be a happy placebo. Something to salve a wound.

She didn't want to know.

The Willow from here might be broken, but so was she. The Willow from here might be many things, but at least she wasn't a monster. Buffy was better off with her. It'd hurt for a while, but in the long run….

Willow needed to be strong. She had to go on. She was too broken to go back. It wouldn't be fair to Buffy to expect her to take her back, not after what she'd done. Whatever else she became, she'd always be the person who was capable of—

She could help the people here. She could do something noble with her lack of boundaries—with her lust for power.

Or she could be selfish.