20.
Random Sample

Willow remembered the feeling of security a fewish centimeters of wood and some teensy dabs of glue could bring. It seemed silly to her now. An illusion. Such a funny thing, she mused, touching the smooth painted surface. People think this is what protects them.

The wood hummed faintly. Her senses extended to probe the energy that vacillated beneath her fingertips. It was a remarkable working: an invisible barrier built of love, amity, a sense of family, loyalty, trust—humanity in all its myriad grace. It gave her hope that Buffy would be okay. The wards her double had created were beautiful, elegant things.

She knocked. Her current situation amounted to role reversal of a particularly eloquent kind. A part of her hoped that Xander would perceive her as some sort of leering fiend.

Okay, so…maybe not 'leering.' She was way too depressed to get her leer on. Still, better she be outside the wards, outside the door, unable to enter. If he somehow managed to find the smarts to leave it that way, she wouldn't have to—

He called out in restrained tones, "Who is it?" and she answered him. From there he failed utterly. His great big heart had him tripping across the room in a series of audible thuds. He didn't even ask what she wanted. The silly boy just turned the key and opened the door. The ward fell with a faint, audible pop, like the touch of static.

Willow stared bemused, which was so much sillier than Xander or the flimsy door, because his great big heart was exactly why she was there. She just couldn't believe how little it had taken. He saw her. He knew what she'd done to Hamilton. He'd been totally wigged out, which was a legitimate reaction. A few hours later she'd smoothed the whole thing over with a first rate illusion and a little mindless chitchat.

He'd said something. She knew she'd missed it to look at his face. In the past few moments, he'd gone from bubbly, 'happy to see you' to curious to concerned. He was just getting around to snapping his fingers or something like that, something attention getting. It was safe to assume he'd gotten around to asking after her intentions. The time had come to get this over with. It's the right thing to do.

Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, it'll help.

Rushing forward in a figurative sense, she reached down, found the chain and removed the pendant from around her neck. Xander's brow furrowed when she held out her hand to show him the three carats of aquamarine, facetted in a teardrop shape, set in a delicate gold prong mount. She enfolded the pendant in her hand and turned it over as if to give it to him.

"Umm, I really don't have anything that'll go with that, Will," he said, eyeing her hand.

A smirk quirked one corner of her mouth. He had a point. The necklace was a little girly. She hadn't cared what it was. It had been available and of sufficient capacity to hold the essence. Those were the only things that had mattered. Beggars, choosers—that sort of thing.

He cared only because he hoped to make her smile. He was predictable like that. This was the right thing to do. He'd do the right thing even if she failed to.

Her smile faded into something sobering. It hurt to say, "Take it," but she did, even if her voice did crack a little. Her throat had drawn tight. As she tried to clear it—a totally futile act that almost left her choking—he held out his hand. She dropped the tiny trinket there. Its loss left a cold spot in her chest. Her hand felt unusually, absurdly empty. Her palm itched. She willed herself to speak. She had to explain. "I need you to hold onto that for me. Be careful. Put it somewhere safe."

His intuition kicked in. He asked, "What is it?"

Buffy.

Something inside Willow's chest caved. Her heart dropped into the void it left and kept falling.

She didn't say that. She couldn't speak the name. Instead, she gathered her resolve. "It's insurance," she replied, her voice unsteady. She cleared her throat again. Her mind writhed, spewing out the same phrases over and over: I'm sorry. I can't.

Xander had started to back away. If he took the charm into his room, it'd all be over. He'd lock the only means of change behind his door, behind the ward and—

This is the right thing to do.

Willow clamped her eyes shut, quieting herself again to gather her resolve. It took several moments of careful breathing and intent focus to calm her mind.

She met his wary eyes. "That's how you fix this," she said, sounding a whole lot better, saner. She backed away, moved on, the words pouring from her, "If I do something—if I can't—if things go bad—if something goes wrong, break the stone. It'll put things back the way they were before the wish. It'll undo what you did. I—" Her back hit the opposing door, stopping her cold. "I can't be trusted."

She stepped forward and Xander shrank back. She supposed he expected her to rush him. She didn't. She wouldn't have needed to. All it would've taken was a single thought, an ounce of focus. She found the idea—its recognition—horrifying. Broken, beaten, she turned to walk away, back down the hall.

"I have things to do. Keep that safe," she said. The words came out weak and breathy, like she was winded.

It was the right thing to do.

It wasn't clear whether anything had happened at the Hyperion. No one was talking. Nothing had changed. Angel wasn't certain whether Buffy had done anything herself, though the Law of Averages suggested that on any day with a name ending in 'y' she probably had. She was just that industrious. Goal oriented. A real go-getter. He took a chance and hedged, "What happened here? What'd you do?"

She'd been watching him like a hawk since he entered the room—a smug, superior, malevolent, bloodthirsty hawk. Her eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners. She threw her head back and laughed with reckless abandon. The sound resonated against the stark concrete walls like peals of tinkling bells. It was interesting to see someone in so desperate a situation exude such confidence. Locked in a cell, her arms and legs chained and splayed. Her feet weren't even touching the ground. All of her weight rested on her wrists. Steel shackles bit into her skin. Irregular runnels of blood striped her forearms, some dry, rusty, crusty and flaking; some a vibrant shade of scarlet.

He remembered how that had been as the blood worked against him, causing him shame for his weakness. He'd departed that position only hours before she'd shown up and taken his place. The cell had barely had time to cool. His demonic half had reacted the same way to the anguish.

Her head lifted. She wore a radiant smile that hurt him to see. That smile had used to mean something very different from what it did now. "I brought you a present," she cooed. "Something you've always wanted, whether you were man enough to face it or not."

Chills slithered down Angel's spine. He cringed in sympathetic horror. Turnabout was fair play, but this— He'd never— It'd never—

Her charm slipped, the sex appeal soughed off, soured, rotten. She sneered, "Willow ruined the surprise. Meddling bitch."

"What?" The question had been reflexive. He damned himself the second the syllable slipped out. This wasn't going well. Giles had been right. She was playing him. The idea made Angel nervous. Whatever she'd done, it'd been designed to hurt him. There were only so many ways….

"I should go see Dawn," she drawled lazily, sounding tired, or bored. "See how she's getting along. Do the same for myself. Family's alright, but when they're some sort of abomination conjured from who knows what…."

His, "What?" echoed hers. The same thing had slipped out again with a vehement edge and a thirst for violence. He had been helpless to stop it. Shock and fear assaulted his senses. He knew what she was driving at. Her hints just weren't that thickly veiled. Knowing what she meant and believing it was true were two different things. He had to be wrong. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding. She had to be yanking his chain. He couldn't—

Buffy watched intently, allowing his emotions to fester. Angel opened his mouth to ask—well, he wasn't sure what he was going to ask. He hadn't worked that part out. He just knew he needed to ask something. The silence—her staring—it was making him crazy. Suddenly, she was saying, "It was beautiful. Perfectly pathetic, a cheap imitation, an extra brought in for his one real skill: he squealed like a little girl. I barely touched him and he sniveled. I crushed him. It wasn't hard. He died groveling, mewling…"

"Liar!" The pronouncement left Angel's mouth with a wave of fury. Heat surged though him. His muscles snapped tight like bow strings. She was talking about Connor. His child. His son. His mind reeled. He couldn't—

"But why would I lie about that, lover?" she purred. "What could I possibly hope to gain?"

My god. Her haughty little smirk said she wasn't. She was dead serious. There was something in his hand. Then there wasn't. It was gone. Its absence puzzled him more than its presence. It had been such a solid object, smooth and cylindrical. The sensation of it touching his skin, shaping his flesh, lingered. Then her face spider webbed with cracks, like an old ceramic doll, and he looked down.

This wasn't going well at all. These people were such insufferable do-gooders. It was revolting. Willow's actions over the past few moments had left D'Hoffryn aghast and desperate for another drink. He was behind in the game, two stiff belts in the hole. One for each unfathomable action had built up quite a pile of debris. A row of dead soldiers, drained of their 'Hedonism,' lined the back of his liquor cabinet. He'd had to call Lloyd to restock so often, his assistant had grown weary and brought several cases.

D'Hoffryn sighed, stooped down and drew another bottle from his dwindling reserves as he stood. His head swam a little. He pushed the latest empty away to join its fellows. His hand wavered as he poured three fingers into a crystal tumbler. He didn't spill a drop and the glass didn't overflow. He was doing alright, pleasantly desensitized, a little wobbly. He raised the glass of amber liquid, peering through it into the darkened distance of his cavernous home for a moment, before he tossed it back. He topped his glass again and repeated the process. The smooth Scotch whisky warmed all the way down, something agreeable in a sea of unpleasantness.

The bottle came with him when D'Hoffryn staggered to his chair. He replenished his glass before taking his seat. Doubtless the game would claim it shortly, another moron would do the right thing, or at very least, something profoundly dumb. That appeared to be these people's common defining trait. He couldn't imagine how they'd lived this long. It seemed to him that all lemmings eventually found one dilly of a drop. Yet somehow these fools had managed to sidestep not only the cliffs but nearly every minor furrow. It was like those commercials with that irritating pink windup bunny beating its little drum. He smirked. Anyanka had used to flail about over those, driven nearly to—

D'Hoffryn's mouth dropped open. He'd just cast an absent glance down at the scrying pool near the base of his chair. What he saw made him cackle with delight. The vampire lovers were having a spat. He wasn't even certain what had enticed him to look in on Pollyanna's evil twin—she was awfully boring strung up like she was—but he sure was glad he had.

The tiny blonde had a thick dowel sticking out of her chest. That was bound to leave a mark. Lover boy stared at her in horror, which was funny considering it had to have been him who'd done the deed. There was no one else in the room. She'd probably driven him to rage. He'd acted. Now he was decimated by the outcome of a bout of temporary insanity. He collapsed to his knees weeping as Buffy Summers, bane of the underworld, caught fire and fell to ash. The shackles that had held her legs clattered to the floor. The ones overhead swung wildly.

It was one of the most beautiful things D'Hoffryn had ever seen. Tears blurred his eyes. Somehow, he'd ended up on the floor, his legs bent beneath him. All that without falling into the pool. His bottle rested cockeyed against his left shin. The same mysterious force that had saved him from the drink had preserved his drink as well.

Barely stifling his mirth, he chimed musically, "Uh-oh, someone did something stupid. Imagine that." He finished the thought by pounding back the contents of his glass and swabbed his mouth with the length of his sleeve.

Giles threw himself down the stairs at a gallop as if he presumed his haste might make some difference. The damage had already been done. His actions were those of a desperate man with no recourse and he knew it. Even so, outrage thrilled through him, hurling him faster. He burst into the hallway, charged down its length and into the room that contained the now vacant cell.

There he froze, taking in the tableau. Angel had crumpled to the ground. His legs were askew, bent beneath him, splayed one way and the other. Hunched over, he hugged himself, weeping. Ash had scattered, dusting his clothes and hair. Giles imagined that he'd aged. It seemed so, though he couldn't see the vampire's face.

He'd had dozens of scathing indignations resting right at the tip of his tongue. Now that he'd arrived, his tongue was no longer working. His mouth was dry and his throat felt closed. He swallowed. A blink brought tears to his eyes. It was over. Buffy was gone. After this, there were no more chances. No viable ploys or deceptions. No means to subvert death its due. She was really gone.

His attention wavered beyond the bars to the ashen starburst strewn across the floor as if someone had dropped a bag of flour. Or what he could see of it. Angel's body blocked the majority of the sight. Several moments of quiet repose passed for his part while Angel carried on like he'd lost his wits.

Finally, Giles rasped, "Why?" It wasn't a conscious effort. He'd simply been trying to sort things out—understand how they'd come to this end. It seemed so extraordinarily unjust. The question slipped out. He heard his own voice, barely audible around the caterwauling, and decided it was a worthy thing to ask. He had to try again. He coaxed his dusty mouth to life and swallowed to soothe his throat. On the second go, he overcompensated. "Why?" His voice cracked like a whip, hard and cold as the concrete box around them.

Angel twisted around, his legs splaying even further. Rage not age warped his boney features. The demon had come out to play, full of fury, seething, "She murdered my son! Do you understand what that means?"

Oddly, that didn't concern Giles at all. Perhaps his sense of self preservation was off. He didn't think so. Truthfully, he didn't care. Every single person under this roof had experienced a loss equal to what Angel was feeling now. It was about time he had his turn. Something on the floor of the cell had caught the light in an unusual way when Angel turned. Giles' attention remained fixed on that. Angel could rant and rave until his head exploded. It wouldn't matter one lick to Giles. He advanced on the vampire to better see the object. It was beautiful, glowing with the otherworldly radiance of a thousand fireflies. His crisp voice cut through Angel's tirade, "What is that?"

Angel snapped still and silent, like the dead. His eyes seemed to take a moment to focus, then he followed Giles' gaze. "Where was that?" he stammered.

That was an awfully good question.

Pain was s'posed to make a man sharper, temper him, give him strength. The feckless spacker who came up with that one should try living with their rended guts stuffed inside little Chernobyl for a year or two. See how it suited. There was no sodding upside. Spike had more in common with a baby's head than the witch or any of her, bloody, bleeding heart Scooby gang now. And there was no getting around that. No matter how much hope he felt seeing her, this could only go one way.

That was fine. Dust on the floor had it better than him. He'd spent days, weeks, maybe even months wishing he could join it. Be that peaceful. Go back to where he'd come from. Ashes to ashes, etcetera, etcetera….

She could change that. She'd finish it. The thought gave him hope. He'd make one last trade with the witch—get past the agony. He was pretty sure he knew what she wanted and she was only getting colder. He'd pass off the keys to psycho slayer's kingdom and her witch would let him rest.

It was a good plan. Only Little Witch Lost had been arsing around digging through crypts for the last five minutes. She was s'posed to be the smart one. She hadn't even noticed him. Not that there was much to notice. He wasn't much more than a potted plant these days, spine to spleen and only so much in between stuffed into an urn. There wasn't enough of him left to nod, let alone be threatening until he caught someone's eye. Rarely did that end well. Usually left his crypt smelling like a loo.

Funny, but not so much what he wanted.

Her presence made him wonder what had changed. She'd been absent since pulling that last rabbit from her hat. He thought she was out of the game. He wanted to ask. All he could do was grunt. Bitsy Lizzie Borden had seen to that. He'd wanted to kick himself over that one for—well, time was pretty transitory here. He had no idea. It'd been a while. Too bleeding long. Best to cut this short.

Bugger it. Spike let out a moan to rival Romero's best shamblers.

Willow turned. Her eyes fixed on him. Her expression changed, cycling through a kaleidoscope of emotions to end at pole-axed. It was funny watching her jaw hit the ground again for old time's sake. Spike wished he could laugh, but he couldn't even do that right.

Now all he had to do was get her to understand that what she wanted was in the hollow beneath his urn. How hard could that be?

Even stunned stupid, Willow was doing so much better than he was. She figured out she had a mouth. And a tongue. She could talk, or croak. "Are you—?"

Spike rolled his eyes over where that was headed. No, I'm not bloody alright. Do I look alright?

That cock up set off another ridiculous pantomime, this one depicting embarrassment in all its subtle hues. Eventually she composed herself enough to ask her next witless question, "Can you talk?"

Spike rolled his eyes again. If I could talk, don't you think you'd be getting an earful?

"Alright," Willow stammered. "You're right. That's stupid. So, I guess you can't shake your head either?"

Spike gave her another eye roll. Some genius.

"Right," the genius said, finally, hopefully, catching on, "because you kind of need muscles and bones to do that. All you have is a head…" she made a face "…and whatever's in that." She pointed at the urn.

Spike shut his eyes and sighed in assent.

"So, blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'?"

He blinked once. About sodding time.

Sounds permeated the grayness of sleep. They were ordinary, electronic pops so faint no one else could ever hear them. At one time, just after they moved in, Buffy had thought she might be going nuts until she'd timed it just right and gotten the utility closet open and Willow inside so she could hear them too. And there was mechanical whirring—the stirring of fans, the whooshing of air through ducts. From that unique set of sounds and the general, snuggly comfiness, she recognized that she wasn't just in a bed—some stranger's bed—but in her bed.

It felt glorious. She just had to ruin it by reaching out an arm. She was alone. That was decidedly bad. Her tummy gave a little lurch. Willow had been with her. Buffy wondered what happened. The 'wondering' lasted for all of ten seconds. That's about how long it took her to realize she'd been a great big jerk—an exhausted jerk; a jerk with a headache like something hammering inside her skull, trying to get out; a jerk who desperately needed to hole up until the world stopped spinning—but a jerk nonetheless.

All of those assumptions—the ones she was used to making where Willow was concerned—meant nothing now. This Willow needed an invitation. She needed to be made to feel welcome. Buffy wondered whether she'd gone—uh, well, she didn't go to bed, obviously, but when she went wherever she went—probably the couch—did she even do—umm, anything—any of her usual routine. All that stuff Willow would've done at home wouldn't have been the same if she didn't feel at home.

Buffy rolled out of bed, feeling addlepated, like a ginormous twit, with the temperature spike and the dread, like anvils on her chest. She skipped the usual wakeup routine and went to face the music. The low belly, full bladder ache and general unwashed ickiness hardly seemed to matter—what with each step adding another anvil.

Willow was exactly where she'd predicted. She hadn't even found the extra blankets or a regular pillow. She just used what was there. The lap blanket was only big enough to cover her lower legs. She'd wrapped it around them so her feet wouldn't slip out. Not that it mattered—what with the holeyness. Piddies always escaped crochet. And the pillows were hard. Buffy had passed out just like that more than once. She'd always woken up cranky and come to bed after a few hours without any intervention. Weird how 'nice to look at' almost never meant 'comfortable' when it came to furniture. That seemed to be a rule.

There was barely enough room between the coffee table and the couch for Buffy to kneel down. She wiggled her way in. The glass top pressed against the small of her back. It didn't take more than one repetition of Willow's name for her eyes to flutter open.

It was bad. Besides the obvious careworn rumpledness that sleeping on upholstered rocks would reasonably bring, Willow eyes lacked their usual sparkle. The hollows beneath them were deeply circled the icky purple of a bruise. Her complexion was a blotchy study in lividity. Her lips were puckered and chappy like she'd chewed them. Buffy had seen that look before when Willow had been up all night mulling over any of the many totally impossible problems life seemed to delight in throwing at them. 'Mulling,' more like a wicked mix of 'desperation' and 'insomnia.' It was really bad.

And it was probably—definitely her fault. She slipped the grating intensity of Willow's gaze by hanging her head and did the only thing she could: she apologized. "I'm sorry." A glance revealed no progress—no reaction at all—so she forged on to the 'flimsy excuses' part of the program. It was just a bigger, better shovel to bury herself with and she knew it, but— "I didn't think. I thought you'd come to bed. It isn't like we haven't slept together before and this is your house too. I thought you'd get that. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," Willow said and levered herself up to a seated position, swinging her legs around. Buffy tried to help, but Willow ignored her and caught the afghan herself before it hit the ground, draping it across her lap. The whole process looked so painful that her dismissal didn't carry much weight.

Buffy hadn't quite knocked the coffee table over. The spot where the heavy glass top hit her back throbbed. She was just about to pooh-pooh the whole bogus reaction and start in with the self-deprecation when Willow decided to put in her two cents, "It isn't about that. Don't you see? This isn't about property. It's about how you feel. I'm not her. What she owned or was owed has nothing to do with me."

"I get that," Buffy replied without really thinking it through. Then it hit her that Willow was totally right. This whole thing was about her—about how she felt. She could invite this Willow into her life and make it all better. In fact, that was what she should do. But what if she couldn't get over the loss? How could she predict how she'd react to something that hadn't really sunk in yet? She could end up miserable, making this Willow miserable because she wasn't—

Willow was watching her intently as if waiting for something.

Buffy settled for a lame admission, "It's just confusing." She was too close, practically sitting on Willow's foot, not to mention really uncomfortable. The floor was hard. It hurt her knees. Added to everything else, it was just—

As she slipped free of the coffee table / couch limbo trap, Willow sighed. The despondent sound ended in agreement, "Yeah." Lounging cockeyed on one thigh, Buffy settled just in time for the follow up. "Y'know what the worst part is?" Rhetorical question or not, she had an answer, but she held it, allowing Willow to explain, "I love you. I've loved you for as long as I've known you. For me, the choice wasn't a choice at all. I was offered something that I hadn't even dared dream about, something completely impossible: an opportunity to be with you. I jumped on it."

Buffy opened her mouth to point out that they hadn't known each other for a week yet, but Willow picked up her thought, "That was probably one of the stupidest things I've ever done." Buffy shut her mouth. "For you, there was no choice. You've been forced by someone you love to accept an unacceptable situation, a lover by proxy, some substitute. I can't even imagine how you feel. Abandoned probably. Betrayed maybe. Likely. I know you've got to be hurting. And how can you possibly mourn for her with me in your life?"

That was all just a little too insightful. Buffy rose to her feet before Willow could point out how else their situation was awful. The impulse to turn away was strong. She stood her ground long enough to suggest, "You're right. We need to talk about this, but is there really such a rush? Can we get cleaned up first? Maybe brush our teeth? Have some coffee?" It was lame and she knew it, but there was something nagging at her. Something not right. She needed to buy some time to think.

Willow seemed taken aback. "Yeah," she replied, faltering. "Uh, I guess."

"You first," Buffy said, gesturing for Willow to go on. As she did, Buffy put on her good hostess hat. "There are some new toothbrushes in the top drawer to the right in the vanity. Just poke around. Make yourself at home. Anything you need." It was like lamest thing ever, so much lamer than that other thing. When Willow was gone, she flopped down onto the couch, listening to the relative peace and quiet of running water and whistling furnace ducts.

Sitting still only lasted so long. Not very long at all. First, Buffy picked up the afghan and folded it, returning it to where it belonged, hanging over one arm of the couch. One of the pillows leaned against it. The other went on the other end. It was busy work, something to take her mind off—not that it helped. She kept her hands busy anyway. There were only the two mugs to rinse and put in the dishwasher. She wiped the counters. That left her to debated wrestling the coffeemaker again. The idea didn't thrill her, so she decided on juice instead.

All that took place to the nagging feeling that Willow's assessment, while astute, had been totally wrong. Neither of their situations was all that different. Willow was assuming something—a pretty big something. She thought she knew Buffy—like Buffy was the same Buffy from before—the one native to her world. That wasn't true. It couldn't be. There had to be differences, even pre-fangy.

The situation they were in might as well be a new relationship. It was a rebound relationship for both of them and not on the sunniest of terms. In fact, these might be the worst of terms. An arranged marriage might've been better. At least they wouldn't be clambering over mangled mounds of history, like an active Mount Vesuvius. They'd be able to start out fresh. Getting emotionally Pompeiied didn't even sound like fun. We need to be careful. Take it slow. Otherwise—

Footsteps upstairs made Buffy tense. By the time the bathroom door opened, she was already in motion, headed for the stairs. The juice had been a bad idea. The gentle nagging in her belly was edging its way toward a full blown command. It was a close thing, but she made it into the bathroom before things turned dire. Sitting there afterward, she wanted nothing more than to shower. The thought of being clean in her own house in her own clothes was all too tempting, just this side of heaven.

On the other hand, stalling any longer would probably upset Willow, which could place her on the other side of perdition. Before life could normal up even a little, they needed to bury the hatchet at least in part—preferably in a part made from something neutral and inorganic. Buffy finished up, washed her hands and face, brushed her teeth and opened the bathroom door. Before it was shut, she started in on the flaw in Willow's analysis, "You're right, but—"

The sight of Willow reflected in their dresser mirror stopped her cold. Buffy's heart took a little dip. Then the stupid thing started to flutter, and not in that pleasant twitterpated sort of way. Willow's lips were parted in surprise, much like Buffy's were now. Unlike Buffy, something had really set Willow off. Her complexion looked pasty, her stance rigid, her eyes wide. She looked like she's seen a Bombina. Ghosts were so passé.

Buffy figured from the angle of the mirror and the focus of Willow's eyes that the offensive 'whatever' was just to her left. The only things there were a doily, a jewelry box, several fancy little dishes to hold more jewelry and trinkets as they were cast off, some perfume bottles and a piece of rock. Any jewelry that was truly sentimental stayed with the one it was sentimental to, so…

From this angle, the rock looked like nothing special, just a big chunk of plain vanilla crystal. Only was it was more like grape or raspberry. The direction Willow was viewing from was totally different. From that angle it looked like nothing Buffy had ever seen. The surface was grainy like drusy quartz, which would've been unremarkable if the color had been even close to uniform. It wasn't. It looked like extra-vibrant granulated rainbow or Peeps dandruff, all clumped up like the little nodules inside a geode.

According to Willow it was supposedly some sort of super-duper, hopped up focus for specialized hocus pocus. Buffy didn't know anything about that. She only knew that it was best avoided. The few times she'd touched the rock the skin at the base of her spine had tried to skitter up over her head. She's categorically classified it as one of those weirdnesses that came with Willow's witchiness. Surprisingly, there were quite a few of them. More than she would've thought. Thankfully, most of them weren't sitting around the house like landmines.

The way Willow was looking at the rock told the story. Pretty much. Not enough that Buffy didn't feel the need to ask, "What's wrong?" She found the presence of mind to finish shutting the bathroom door and went around the bed to sit on the corner nearest Willow.

"I thought I'd lost this," Willow replied. "Now I remember…" She couldn't have remembered much. Or maybe she remembered a lot, none of it helpful, all of it conflicting. Confusion hung over her like a big neon sign.

"Remember what?" Buffy asked. It stood to reason that Willow couldn't remember anything about something that had happened here. Maybe she was remembering something that had happened there. That rock had been in the bag of things that Willow had rescued from Sunnydale. If it had been important enough to save it in one place….

"She must've brought this with her," Willow said, "just like I did." Her voice had a dreamy quality, which was probably no wonder considering her fingertips were gliding over the surface of the rock as she spoke.

It made Buffy's skin crawl to watch, so she didn't. That rock was just plain creepy. She verified the assumption, "Yeah, she did." When she turned her attention back to Willow, she was leaning casually against the dresser. In spite of that, nothing had really changed. Buffy decided to try to feel her out. There was still the sushi comment from the previous evening to consider. That might have something to do with this. "You remember that?" Buffy asked.

"No," Willow said. "Not exactly."

That was probably on some top-ten list of noncommittal answers. The expression on Willow's face didn't suggest anything encouraging either. It was time to admit that this was going nowhere and try switching tack. Buffy still wanted a shower sometime this week. "What you said about us was almost fair, but you're missing something."

Willow's expression underwent a subtle change, shedding some of its wistfulness. "I am?" she asked.

There was no nice way to say this, so… "Yeah, individuality. I'm my own person. My double isn't me, not any more than yours is you. Unless everything there happened exactly the same way it happened here. And I know that's not true. There have to be differences. So you can't know me. Not like that. Not that well." Buffy didn't point out that there was no way Willow could really love someone she'd only known for less than a week. The truth might not be nice, but she didn't have to make it mean.

"Oh, I know you," Willow said, "more than I should." She exuded more confidence than Buffy would've thought possible. Their eyes met and Willow didn't waver. Either she was totally deluded or— "My counterpart saw to my education. I'm pretty up on what's happened here since Sunnydale. You probably won't believe me, but I know you as well as she did. I know everything she did, what you've become, how she changed you, how she planned to help you…."

Suspicion was one thing, but the truth with all its messy implications was almost too much to take in. The change in Willow's demeanor helped a lot with that. Her sober gaze punched right through the denial Buffy wanted to throw up like a shield. Spaghetti legs won out. Buffy fell back on her sorry, should-be-repentant butt. The bed beneath her bounced. She rasped, "Everything?" The truly sad part was she wasn't certain when she'd risen or why.

"Yeah, everything," Willow confirmed, but she had to look away.

That made Buffy antsy, not to mention mildly suspicious.

Again, suspicion would've been preferable to what came next. "It would've been nice to experience a few things for myself before—" Willow's face flushed gradually, prettily, bright as a strawberry. She didn't need to continue, which might've been why she did. "Well, you get what I mean. I know you." Stubbornness did nothing to strengthen her voice.

Great. And here I was worried about a little nudity.

Buffy realized that she was scowling when Willow got defensive. "Before you go feeling violated by me, I didn't choose this, not on purpose. I didn't know what she meant. She didn't explain. I just agreed to help her and she started. I started remembering. Only not. It was so fast. It scared the hell out of me. It hurt. I wanted it to stop, but she was so much stronger. I couldn't. I was—"

Buffy never found out what this Willow was. It didn't matter. The blank was easy enough to fill in. Willow had systematically broken down as she explained. She was weeping too hard to continue.

Things weren't much better for Buffy. It was going to take a while for her to come to terms with what she'd learned in the past few minutes. Not only had her Willow violated her trust by sharing the most intimate details of her life with someone who was for all intents and purposes a stranger, she'd also violated the stranger's mind. She'd laid it open, pouring whatever she wanted inside. A physical violation probably wouldn't be that much different.

Willow spared her the trip down memory lane by proving a distraction. "I don't know exactly what happened to her after you left. She didn't share that part. Thank goodness. From what she did say, just the memories might've made me as wiggy as she was. Whatever it was must've been pretty awful to make her—" Her voice was so brittle it wasn't any wonder that it broke off.

And of course, as it turned out, what Willow had to say wasn't any more cheery than the memory. Buffy stared at the carpet for another moment or three chewing everything over. It was a mess. No one in this scenario came out unscathed. "I am sorry." There was nothing else she could say.