"So, what you're saying," Angel said as he pulled on his coat and eyed the broken corner of their kitchen countertop, "is that your memories of high school are … what, exactly? Fresh? Sparkly?"
Buffy pulled her hair back, wrapped a scrunchy around the base of the resulting ponytail, and slipped a brown leather coat over her cream-colored shirt. "Something like that," she confirmed. "I mean, they're all my memories, so I'm not dealing with anything new, but it's really weird for my fortieth birthday to feel like it happened just as long ago as my sophomore year geometry midterm. There are things that I really liked in high school that aren't me anymore … except now they are, again. It's also, I have to admit, pretty strange having adolescent turn-ons resurface after growing out of them decades ago."
"Is that why you dug that dress from circa 1999 out of your closet and wanted me to wear my coat last night?"
"We've got a long day ahead of us," she replied as a blush rose to her cheeks. "Let's chat about this later.
Angel, however, refused to change the subject. "And the physical changes, the face, the rest, no problems there?"
"Nope," she confirmed. "Of course, there wasn't that much difference between my sixteen year-old self and my forty year-old self."
Angel grunted in agreement, though not quite convincingly enough for her taste.
"Do you think Illyria will be alright?" she asked in a desperate attempt to shift the conversation to a new topic.
Angel shook his head and the corners of his mouth turned down in a grimace. "I have no idea, and it's not like we don't have our hands full."
"We're going to have do something."
"I agree," Angel said.
They walked to the center of the living room, glanced at each other, then as if on cue they both pulled their coats tighter.
"I get why we're splitting up, but I have to say, and this is just me speaking my truth, Angel, I'm not that excited about you seeing those three by yourself."
Angel stared at her with an open mouth and a wounded expression. "You can trust me, Buffy. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, but can I trust them?" she said with a snort. "Besides, it's pretty unfair that your prior dalliances are fair game, but I can't ask the Immortal to round up some help."
"Vampires wouldn't be a help, Buffy," Angel protested. "They're a liability."
Well, I can't argue with that.
. . . . . . . . .
Riley's office was military utilitarianism at its utilitarian. Rubber tips capped the metal legs of the chairs and couches, every visible seat was upholstered in khaki green, and the cabinets and desk were made of what appeared to be dyed particle board. There were no decorations or personal touches of any kind that she could see, with the exception of a framed photograph of Samantha, his deceased wife, set on the far side of a computer monitor perched on the desk.
"Buffy?" Riley said as he stood up in surprise. The jeans and turtleneck he wore were perhaps the least military thing about the room. His words were crisp and sharp, he snapped upright without the slightest pause, but she could see the red rims around the edges of his eyes.
Oh, Riley … what drugs are you on this time?
She wasn't there to talk about that, though. "Riley, I know this is a surprise."
"Yeah," he said as he walked around the desk. "I'll say it is. Did Willow make that portal? Did she figure out a way past our wards?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. "I knew she was good, but wow."
"It was the Powers," she confided.
An instant later the door swung open and men bearing an assortment of handguns, rifles, and what looked like sparkling, silver-bladed Lochaber axes burst into the room.
"Wait!" Riley roared in his best battlefield voice.
It took several minutes to convince the men to leave, and several more, long minutes before Buffy had put Riley in a frame of mind to listen to what she had to say. She waited patiently while he took notes, on occasion buzzed men to order research reports, and when she'd finished, he stared at her with an unreadable expression.
"That's what we're facing," she said. "The end of it all, the big crunch, the apocalypse of apocalypses."
"I can't say that I know all that much about the First, Buff," Riley said, "but I know that it isn't something that can be defeated."
I am so sick of hearing variations on that theme.
"Riley, I feel like as of late I've been saying this way too often to people, but I need you to trust me. I need your trust, and I need your help."
"You're asking me to send a lot of people on what sounds like a suicide mission, Buff," Riley said, and his was thick with a polite skepticism."
Buffy spread her arms wide. It's the end of everything, Riley."
Riley picked up the pad paper, tapped at it thoughtfully with a pen, then stared at her and nodded. "Hypothetically, let's talk about what you'd need."
. . . . . . . . .
"Ladies, don't overreact, it's me … Angel," he said with outstretched hands while he tried to mollify the surprised, and usually-friendly-but-also-extremely-powerful, blonde, brunette, and black-haired beauties standing in front of him. As he spoke, he could not help but notice the enormous, velvet covered, red hued bed set along the far wall of the pink-painted bedroom.
"Mmmm …. Angel," the Transuding Furies replied in unison while they smoothed the front of their white robes and with sinuous movements swayed with half-closed eyes.
Each Fury, as was their custom, would speak one word and then the next would continue the thought. "Long" "have" "we" "hoped" "to" "once" "again" "enjoy" "Angel's" … "mmmm, Angel" … "company."
They moved closer, and the apartment felt rather cramped when they reached out and ran their fingers along his coat. As always, each of the women had their hair teased into exotic styles, wore diaphanous garments that clung to the curves of their body, and the high-heeled sandals seemed entirely impractical for walking on the thick, rose-colored carpet of the apartment.
"I can't, not this time," he said. "I'm with someone."
The three pairs of hands were immediately snatched away.
"Angel" … "mmmm, Angel" … "comes" "to" "tease" "us?"
The three Furies floated back a few steps, crossed their arms, and somehow managed to look down at him while they stood perhaps a foot shorter.
"I'm not here to play hard to get, or any manner of get, actually," he tried to explain. He grinned at them with a sheepish expression and watched as they stiffened and pulled back another few feet.
This is going to be a difficult conversation.
In the end, after he'd spoken to them far longer than he'd hoped would be necessary, he was sure that they understood, mildly confident that they'd help round up demons friendly to their cause and horrified at the promise they'd managed to extract from him.
Buffy's going to be pissed.
. . . . . . . . .
"How'd it go with the Warlock Conclave?" Willow asked.
Giles raised the thermometer he had just withdrawn from Illyria's mouth and squinted at the mercury indicator. "About as well as could be expected. They were unhappy to see me portal into their midst, then they told me it was hopeless to fight the First, then they eventually took down my information, so to speak, and said maybe they'll help." He set the thermometer down and shook his head. "Illyria's temperature is normal, but she passed out for what length of time? Five hours?"
"Was it so long?" Illyria said as she glanced around the living room. "I do not recall what happened between Willow helping me to this couch and opening my eyes to find you all standing over me."
Buffy leaned over and stared at Illyria. "She seems fine now, but you two are telling me she's been having these conk-out episodes since the First zapped all the Old One out of her?"
"Yup," Willow replied. "Four or five days now."
"We have to do something," Angel said.
Illyria blinked a few times, then her gaze swiveled to Angel. Her skin had grown pale, her hands shook periodically with palsied tremors, and her already thin form had become near-emaciated. "Angel, am I going to die?"
The room fell silent, and Buffy was certain that it was several seconds before anyone breathed.
"No," Angel eventually reassured her. He tilted his head in a thoughtful manner, seemed to reconsider, then continued, "Well, I mean yes, eventually, you will die, now that you're a mortal human, but not right now, not because of this."
Willow and Giles winced at Angel's phrasing.
"Great bedside manner, doc," Buffy observed. "I'm sure that will cheer the patient right up."
"Illyria, don't worry," Angel hastily added. "Whatever it is, we'll fix it."
"Hospital?" Buffy asked. "It isn't magic, so maybe an MRI is in order?"
"We've wrapped enough wards on my car to keep Wolfram & Hart off her back," Willow said, "and the emergency room is where we're heading next."
"And who will Illyria say she is?" Buffy asked. "I'm thinking Winifred Burkle might not be the best name to use."
"Jane Smith," Illyria interjected. "Did I remember that correctly? Also, I shall inform the attendants assigned to see to my needs that the purse containing my identification, though I have never made use of such an item, has been stolen."
"That's right," Giles said with a smile.
"Can you stand?" Willow asked.
Illyria nodded, then with Angel's help she wobbled to her feet. Her steps were hesitant and her gait uneven as she fought to keep her balance.
"And if the hospital doesn't find anything, I have a different idea we might try," Willow added. "I got the idea from something you said about Cordelia, Buff."
Buffy glanced over at Willow with a quizzical look on her face. "What do you mean?"
Willow proceeded to explain, and when she had finished explaining, Buffy announced in a loud, firm voice, "We're not doing that unless Illyria says its okay." She glanced at everyone else. "I hope we're all in agreement."
"I do not want to perish from this plane," Illyria announced. Her voice cracked and the edges of her words warbled as she spoke. "I have experienced death and I have no desire to return to that state."
"I think that means she wants us to do everything we can to keep her alive," Willow announced.
. . . . . . . . .
"I thought you were staying home for lunch?" Dawn asked as Xander slid his work jacket over his shoulders and stooped to tug on his boots. "Is everything alright?"
"Unannounced check of the worksite," Xander replied. "Connor and Colleen are stalling the inspector, but there's supposed to be a licensed contractor onsite during work hours." He tripped on the rug by the front door, then caught his balance and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I thought I could slip away and see you, but now I've got to rush back."
"Hey, I get it," Dawn replied. "Go save the day, we'll catch up tonight."
Xander swung the door open, paused, and looked back at her. "This was the second morning in a row you've slipped away to meet with Buffy. I don't want to say I'm hurt about not being invited, but just because I don't want to say it doesn't mean that such a statement would be untrue. Because it wouldn't be untrue. I am, in fact, quite hurt."
She walked over, tried her best to keep her face carefully neutral, and said, "Just trying to talk through some things with my sister, nothing major."
"What things?" Xander asked.
"We'll talk about it tonight," she lied, and she hoped that when Xander discovered the truth he'd be able to forgive her … and Buffy.
Xander's phone buzzed again, and he pulled it out of his pocket and stepped outside. "I really have to go."
Dawn waved at him, he waved back, then he turned and rushed across the lawn towards his truck. The phone continued to buzz in his hand, and the moment after he slipped behind the wheel, he held the cell to his ear and thumbed the screen without checking to see who it was.
"Connor, I'm on my way, just tell the inspector that I had to use the bathroom, or something."
"Xander?" a cheery, high-pitched, decidedly feminine replied. "Is that you?"
Xander's hand froze in place as he reached forward to trigger the ignition.
"Emmy?" he asked in astonishment as he rolled up the windows of the truck. "Emmy, I … I don't know what to say. Are you alright?"
"Oh, I'm fine," she replied. The fear that had dripped from her every sentence when last they'd spoke seemed to be gone, and if anything, Emmy sounded … hopeful.
"Look," Xander replied, "I've been meaning to text, but I have to admit that I wasn't sure if you wanted me to."
"I came back to Moonridge," Emmy replied, and her words froze the air in his chest. "I'd like to see you."
Xander hoped that Emmy could not hear his audible gulp before he replied, "Emmy, don't take this the wrong way, but I have to go. Nothing to do with you, or meeting you, or anything like that, I've just a work thing I have to deal with right now."
"Yeah, it sounded like an emergency when you picked up," she said. "Hey, I get it, you're at work work … right?"
"Yup, saving the world … again," he confirmed as he turned on the truck. "Call me later?"
"Absolutely," she promised. "But we'll see each other, right?" There was a pause, Xander could sense that she was carefully weighing her words, then she continued, "I feel awful about the way I handled things, and I really want to talk to you."
"We'll meet," Xander promised as he pulled away from the curb. His phone buzzed again. "That's my other line," he announced. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."
He ended the call, and for an instant, before he switched over, he wondered if he shouldn't have told Emmy to drive out of Moonridge and never glance in the rearview mirror.
. . . . . . . . .
Dawn stood frozen in place on the cobblestone walkway that led from the front door to the driveway and watched Xander drive away. In her hand was a paper bag containing the hastily packed remnants of Xander's unfinished meal, and her jaw was agape at what she thought she had just heard.
Did Xander just get a call from Emmy?
. . . . . . . . .
"Angel," Buffy asked as she closed her eyes, held out her hands in a questioning manner, and spoke in a high-pitched, incredulous tone, "please explain to me how you possibly thought I might be interested in a demonic orgy with these translucent furies."
"Transuding Furies," Angel corrected her. "And I never said that I thought you'd be interested."
"Whatever," Buffy said as she cut him off and glared at him with wide, angry eyes. She planted her hands firmly planted on her hips and continued, "Maybe you've been spending too much time reading those gross stories about me that the Apocalytes write, but I don't do harems, and even if I did, it would take months we don't have to work out boundaries and a suitable aftercare plan."
"Hey, I promised the Furies that I would ask," Angel said as he raised his hands in a defensive motion. "That's it. Didn't say we'd do it, just that in exchange for them taking our message to every demon they know of, I'd ask."
She took one of her hands off her hips, bowed her head, and rubbed her forehead. "The only thing worse than you thinking that I might be interested is my thinking that you might be interested."
"I'm not interested!" he protested. "I just promised what I had to in order get them to cooperate."
"Now that I think about it, you've always been a bit vague about just what happened between you and them, though I got your drift," she said.
"That was a long time ago, Buffy."
She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. "You should have just told them no."
"We need their help!"
Buffy's lips tightened into a flat, thin line.
"Look, it doesn't matter," Angel said in an overly mollifying, cloying manner. "I asked, you declined, end of story."
Buffy opened her mouth to issue a rejoinder but was interrupted pre-scold by the chiming of her phone's ringer. She snatched the cell out of a coat pocket and checked the screen.
"Willow," she announced. "It has to be about Illyria, so I'm picking up, but don't think we're done talking about this."
Angel winced.