The steam fogged the glass of the shower, the near-scalding water cascaded over the two of them, and Angel held her shoulders, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "Buffy, it is going to work."
"How do you know?" she asked as she looked up at him. "Willow and Giles aren't even certain how they're going to cast the spell, and that's kind of crucial."
He stared down at her with his dark brown eyes, and she couldn't help but grin at the sight of his hair beginning to spike despite the water streaming over him. The deep breadth of his shaved chest captivated her attention, her eyes wandered below his waist on occasion, and she would have much preferred to be engaged in activities besides venting, but she had to voice her worries or she'd go mad.
"Your plans always work," he said with a smirk before he kissed her forehead again and turned her around so that he could soap her back.
She appreciated the sentiment, and appreciated even more his strong, large, calloused hands caressing the sensitive spots she could never quite reach, but it didn't assuage her fears. The day she had chosen for them to confront the First was fast approaching, and she had no idea whether anything she had planned would actually be effective.
"Buffy," Angel murmured as his hands lingered on her back and then glided around to lather with the lightest of touches the sides of her breasts. "I've seen you around apocalypses, and you're not usually this …"
"Insecure?" she asked. "Nervous?"
She sensed, rather than saw, his nod of agreement.
"Blame it on my sixteen year old self," she muttered as she turned off the water. She would have preferred that the two of them linger beneath the soothing, rainfall spigoted showerhead indefinitely, but they had more recruitment runs planned, she had to check on Xander's progress, hopefully the emergency room doctors could figure out what was wrong with Illyria, and …
"Buffy," Angel said as he opened the shower door, grabbed a towel, and handed it to her. "One thing at a time … that's all we can do."
Angel grabbed his own towel, she sighed and gave a single brisk nod of her head, and with immense regret she stepped onto the tile of the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair into some semblance of order and scrunchied it into a ponytail, then walked into their bedroom and ignored the tangle of sheets and comforters.
Creation itself might be ending … who cares about an unmade bed?
She did take the time, however, to retrieve Mr. Gordo from the corner and set him on the edge of one of the cabinets. She'd turned him around the night prior so that he couldn't watch her and Angel's nocturnal activities, which was a juvenile and silly notion, of course, but as with so many of her urges as of late, she simply couldn't help herself. She'd thought the teenage Buffy Summers dead and buried beneath the weight of grief, trauma, and the joy of the occasional temporary victory, but she was now back with a vengeance.
Assuming we all survive, I need to talk to Willow and Giles about whether anything can be done to reverse what the water of Mimisbrunnr did to me. Angel may be enjoying my enthusiasm as of late for bedroom fun, but I'm finding it incredibly distracting to feel like half of me is sixteen years old.
Of course, she wouldn't be willing to give up the renewed youth of her appearance. That change, at least, was entirely welcome.
Partly because the end of the world always brought a certain frantic edge to their lives, and partly because she felt the inclinations of a high schooler, but she and Angel tried to savor every moment they could spend together. In bed, there was no end to their cuddling, and every inch of their skin that could be touching the other person, but wasn't, was an intolerable oversight. They showered together, though not usually for the purpose of heart-to-heart conversations, and as if by an unspoken accord, they stayed within each other's sight unless it was absolutely necessary that they part.
I've become clingy. Goddammit, I don't want to be clingy!
It was only after she dressed that she realized she and Angel were both wearing black coats, white shirts, and black pants. At the realization that they had unintentionally matched their wardrobe, she rubbed her eyes and shook her head.
"Something wrong, Buffy?" Angel asked.
She forced a smile, lowered her hand, and cheerily replied, "Nope!"
They headed to the living room, and not for the first time Buffy wondered if perhaps they shouldn't engage Cordelia in some sort of small talk. Resolving to not simply treat Cordy as a taxi service, she cleared her throat, chose a corner of the room, and addressed the empty air.
"Cordy, I wanted to thank you again for your help. There's no way we could have visited half these people … none of whom may actually help when the time comes … without the Powers."
The room stayed silent, and Buffy began to wonder if Cordelia hadn't heard.
"Cordy …" she began again.
Angel coughed, put his hand on her back, and whispered, "I think Cordy isn't allowed to talk to us."
"I'm allowed!" a voice cried out from near the ceiling as a searingly bright, white light blinked for a moment. "I'm just not supposed to chit-chat if it isn't on-mission and important!" The white light vanished for a moment, then reappeared. "When you get where you're going, please tell him that I'm sorry how things worked out."
Angel and Buffy waited for a while, but Cordelia did not speak again, nor did the light reappear.
"I just got her in trouble, didn't I?" Buffy asked as a tinge of guilt fluttered at the edge of her conscience.
Angel shrugged. "You were just trying to be nice."
The portal appeared, they stepped through, and Buffy refocused her attention on the task at hand.
. . . . . . . . .
The rough-hewn, grey stone floor and walls, ornate candelabras, and narrow windows of Pylea's throne room were much as Angel remembered. He imagined that if he wandered through the castle, it would look the same as well. Demonic inhabitants aside, Pylea resembled nothing so much as a medieval country.
The Groosalugg looked the same as ever, and except for his dark, iris-free eyes, he could pass for human. A well-muscled, perfectly proportioned, tall, long-haired, human. Not everything had remained the same though.
Angel cast his eyes upwards, Buffy gasped, and he asked in a pained, incredulous manner, "Groo … is there a reason why you're only wearing a loincloth?"
"Angel!" the Groosalugg said as he rose from the immense, dark wood throne and spread his arms wide. "Your presence, and the manner of your visit …" he gestured where the shimmering portal had appeared, "was unexpected, but you are most welcome."
"I feel quite welcome," Buffy murmured.
Groo stepped down from the dais upon which the throne perched and waved away the armed guards who had begun to cluster, swords drawn, around them. "These are friends! Put away your arms."
The guards and everyone else in the throne room were garbed in the expected assortment of tunics, doublets, hose, gowns, and dresses, which made Groo's display even more inexplicable.
"This must be … Buffy … am I remembering that correctly?" Groo asked with a smile. "Angel described you so often, particularly when he wallowed in states of inebriation or disconsolate self-pity, that I feel like I know you already."
Buffy put one foot in front of the gave a nimble curtsy, then waved. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." She smiled at the Groosalugg and said, "Pylea is just how Angel described it."
"Could you find some pants?" Angel asked.
Groo stepped closer and Angel stepped back a foot. "As monarch of Pylea, I have made many changes over the years. The Covenant of Trombli and its minions have been eradicated, we offer rehabilitation and work programs for prisoners instead of banishment to the Scum Pits of Ur, and slavery is outlawed … except for those who choose that lifestyle, and as to them, we avoid judgment." He gestured towards his body. "Once a year, for one week, out of respect for those who once languished cold in their chains of servitude, I dress as you see now out of respect for their sacrifice."
"And what if you get cold?" Angel asked.
"I don't see any signs of shrinkage," Buffy interjected as she appreciated the muscled, taped V of the Groosalugg's torso, the rippling muscles of his chest and arms, and the banded abdominal muscles.
Angel rubbed his eyes and whispered, "Must you?
Buffy eyed Groo up and down in an obvious fashion, and Angel decided that this was likely her petty form of vengeance over the completely innocent situation involving the Transuding Furies.
She's acting like a high schooler.
The Groosalugg ignored their comments and continued, "It is unusual, I know, but humbling myself in this manner sets an example for my entire realm."
"How enlightened of you," Buffy said in a sweet, ingratiating manner. "Let me also say that I can't say that I've been a fan of the scum pits I've encountered over the years, so good on you for getting rid of them, Groo."
Angel flinched when several young, beautiful women, all of whom were carrying trays laden with fruits and glasses of wine, and all of whom wore white garments that were little more than wisps of gauze, appeared at his side.
"Maybe this isn't so bad, Buffy," Angel said with a bemused tone as he plucked a cluster of grapes off a silver tray and tried to be circumspect as he glanced at the gold-dust tinted decolletage of the woman smiling up at him.
He turned towards Buffy to find that she had her own coterie of attendants … male attendants … each as handsome as the women tending to Angel were beautiful, and all of whom were bare-chested and wearing nothing except white sarongs draped around their waists. "We could stay a while," Buffy mused.
"Groo, we're here on business," Angel announced. He thanked the ladies, then politely declined any further food or drink. They darted glances his way and giggled as they bowed their heads and retreated towards the rear of the throne room.
"Angel, my friend, you seem troubled." Groo stepped closer still, and Angel wished that he wouldn't. "Is everything in order in your world? I did notice that you did not bring Cordelia, so can I assume that the two of you … what is the word?"
"It didn't work out," Angel replied with no further explanation. For the first time during the visit, Buffy's smile vanished, and her expression turned serious.
Groo frowned, and his dark eyes narrowed with worry. "How is Cordelia? I will admit that I tried on several occasions, without success, to find ways to correspond with her in your world. I can only assume she has similarly tried, and failed, to communicate with me."
The Groosalugg's last comment was phrased in a manner more befitting of a question than a statement, and Angel could tell that while years had passed in both dimensions, it hadn't been enough time for some of Groo's wounds to heal.
He knew what that was like.
"Cordy's fine," Angel said. He reasoned that it wasn't a complete lie. Buffy apparently disagreed, as she stood straighter, shot him a sidelong glance, and frowned. "But like I said, Buffy and I are here on business." He hesitated a moment, then stepped nearer to Groo, but not too near, and whispered, "I kind of thought you and Cordelia had closure."
"I still would like to speak to her, as friends," Groo replied in a nearly convincing fashion.
Buffy added, "We talked to Cordelia today, and she wanted us to let you know she's sorry about the way things worked out."
Groo's eyes widened, he smiled, and as he nodded, it was as if a weight he'd been carried for many years had been lifted from his shoulders. "Tell her that she need not apologize, and that I am glad that she thought of me." The Groosalugg grinned, and his eyes went vacant as he seemed to become absorbed in an old memory. "Tell her that I treasure the memory of our shared experiences, most particularly this one evening when we engaged in the most vigorous of Com-Shucks while we bathed in the waters of …"
Angel raised a hand and hurriedly interrupted. "We don't need, or want, the details, Groo."
"Cordelia again?" asked a voice from the side of the throne. Angel shifted to the side and watched as three women, all of them tall, statuesque, brunettes, emerged from hidden slits in large red curtains that stretched nearly wall to wall. Each of the woman wore identical purple gowns along with rings, necklaces, and tiaras fashioned from a variety of precious metals.
The woman who had spoken put her hand to her mouth, leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion, and murmured, "Groo whispers Cordelia's name in his sleep sometimes."
Groo laughed, but it was a forced, pained thing. "Now, now, Clytemnestra, let us not share the secrets of the royal bedchambers in open court."
"Royal … whatnow?" Buffy asked.
Groo rubbed his forehead, then gestured at the three women, all of whom had their hands either on their hips or folded over their chests. "I am remiss in not introducing my wives."
"… Wives?" Angel asked. "As in plural?"
"Yes," Groo said with a smile that had a tinge of weary exhaustion to it. "We have foregone the staid and tired tradition of limiting nuptials to …"
Buffy raised her hand and interrupted, "I watched Big Love. I get it."
Groo shrugged and turned back to his wives. "This Clytemnestra." The woman who had spoken a few moments earlier frowned and pulled her arms tighter across her chest. Groo gestured at the next woman in turn and continued, "And this is Srhijiannai." This wife forced a smile, but her eyes were staring with open envy at the black leather boots Buffy sported. "Finally," Groo continued as he stepped towards the third woman and gave her a loving peck on the cheek, a gesture that resulted in the other two wives shooting daggers in his direction, "this is Jill."
"Hello," Jill said in a heavily accented voice. "Good to meet ya guys."
"That accent," Angel said, "is that … Brooklyn?" Angel asked.
Jill nodded and smiled. "Born and raised. Worked at an old bookstore, opened the wrong cursed tome of ancient gibberish, and poof!" she clapped her hands together and everyone in the throne room flinched at the unexpected sound. "Here I am." She smiled up at the Groosalugg. "Groo, dear that he is, killed some horrible ten-legged octopus-grasshopper demon thing that wanted to eat me, and after I stopped screaming, we've been head over heels ever since." She reached up and rubbed his shoulder. "Isn't that right, babe?"
The other two wives swiveled angry gazes in Jill's direction.
"Groo, we're going to have figure out a way to sit down and catch up," Angel said, "but like
I said, we're here on business."
"What is this business?" Groo asked.
Angel and Buffy shared a glance, and then they began to explain.
They spared Groo none of the details regarding the First, the threat it posed to Pylea along with every other world, and what they needed. While they spoke, the Groosalugg stared at them with a grave, and also trusting, expression.
When they had finished asking for any help he could command from his realm, Groo shook his head and said, "I have sworn that my kingdom will no longer fight needless wars, but you ask me to march my armies into your world to fight something that cannot be defeated?"
"We don't need you to fight," Buffy explained. "Well … not exactly."
"Not exactly?" Jill asked as she ran a hand down Groo's arm. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Could we maybe talk in private?" Angel asked.
All three wives drew themselves upright and glowered at him in anger.
"I do not keep secrets from my family, Angel," Groo said, and for the first time his tone had an edge to it. "Perhaps I do not understand what it is that you are asking of me. If not fighting, then what is it you seek?"
Buffy explained and Groo listened and asked many more questions. When Angel and her throats had grown hoarse from talking, they realized it was time to leave.
"But you have not yet met my children!" the Groosalugg protested. "Please, at least stay for dinner."
"How many children?" Buffy asked.
Groo opened his mouth, stopped to think, and Jill punched him in the shoulder.
"Eleven, you big, gorgeous oaf!" Jill reminded her husband. She then proceeded to slap him on the rear … hard … and the cracking sound reverberated throughout the throne room.
"Of course," Groo said with a wince. "Eleven."
"Busy man," Angel said as he fought back a sympathetic wave of exhaustion at the notion of wrangling three wives and eleven children.
"When this is done, we'll meet them," Buffy promised.
"That sounds wonderful," Goro said while Jill fervently nodded.
Goodbyes were said, Groo's proffered hugs of affection were graciously declined, and after Buffy and Angel were certain the Groosalugg knew when and where the portals to Moonridge University's stadium would appear, they departed through a Cordy-generated gateway.
The second the shimmering doorway vanished from the living room of their townhouse, Angel turned to Buffy and said, "Where does Groo find the energy to live that life?"
"He's equipped for it," Buffy replied as she pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and began texting requests for updates to Willow, Giles, and Xander.
Angel groaned in irritation and turned to stare at Buffy. "Could you not?"
"Could I not what?" she asked with an innocent expression.
"You know what you're doing," he scolded her. "Stop acting like a child."
Buffy tucked her phone in her pocket, scrunched up her face in an angry, but exceedingly cute, fashion and howled, "As if!" She put her hands on her hips, craned her neck forward, and fixed Angel with an expression of irritation. "I am not acting like a child, and you need to take that back!"
. . . . . . . .
"You dare to come here?!" screamed a man with gleaming ebony skin, bright white teeth, and a multi-hued, woven blanket wrapped around his body. Atop his head perched a black top hat, on his face was a white mask, and the skin Willow and Giles could see along the entire right side of his body was scarred and burnt. "You think to invade my sanctum!" The screaming man raised a staff topped by a gourd decorated with coral, snake bone, and feathers, and gestured towards a set of wooden stairs leading upwards. "Begone!"
Willow cleared her throat and began, "Mr. Chevalier, we don't …"
"Silence!" the man screamed as he pounded his staff against the floor. "I am Doctor Jean Laffitte Chevalier, a Houngan of the Order of Bokor, and whatever deviltry brought you here, use it to depart." The feathers atop the man's staff quivered as he struck the floor once more and gestured again. "Immediately!"
"I think not," Giles growled. "What is waiting for us up there, I wonder? A brainwashed horde of the loa-possessed? Perhaps a djab or baka?"
The man's dark eyes narrowed in puzzlement as he stared at Giles. He leaned his staff against a green cloth-covered pedestal covered with candles, melted wax, and stains of what appeared to be dried blood. "No," the man said. "At the top of the stairs you will find the lobby of a Chevalier mortuary … the franchise's parent location, in fact." He took off the white mask and top hat and set them atop the pedestal. "As I see I cannot be easily rid of you, why do you bother me." He stared at them, and the entire right side of his face was similarly burnt, and the scarred eyelid could only partially open. "Do you come to gloat over your victory and the ruination of my Order?"
"A mortuary, really?" Willow asked as she glanced behind her and eyed the stairway.
The walls and floor of the cavern were hard-packed earth, and a fetid, sour aroma wafted through the air. In places, water seeped upwards to pool along the floor, and the walls were lined with handcrafted musical instruments, stuffed animals wearing clothing along with necklaces beaded with smooth stones and teeth, and cabinets stuffed with an endless assortment of items that leaned towards the garish, unsettling, and macabre. Torches set in sconces and candles perched on nearly every flat surface lit the room, and the dirt of the walls was burnt to a charred black where the flames licked against it.
"I ask again, what do you want?" Dr. Chevalier asked. His words were precise, with clipped consonants and terse vowels, but heavily reminiscent of the islands of the Caribbean nonetheless. "Your friend, Buffy Summers, murdered my god, then you helped her destroy the Order's temple, which had been a place for serviteurs of all the hounfous to gather, and now you come to my place of meditation uninvited."
Giles removed his glasses, folded the earpieces, and tucked the spectacles into the pocket of his shirt. He frowned at Dr. Chevalier and said, "As I recall, your Order intended to allow Granath to unleash zombies across the entire southern United States."
"People come to mortuaries to see their loved ones laid to rest," Willow added, "not turned into your minions."
"They would have been happy to have their loved ones back, once they adjusted," Dr. Chevalier said in an oddly petulant fashion as he folded his arms across his chest. "In any event, are you here for vengeance?" he gestured at the burns covering the right side of his body. "Was this not punishment enough?"
"You should be in jail," Willow replied.
Giles sighed. "And you would be, if all of the evidence had not been destroyed along with several blocks of the French Quarter."
"Jail?" Dr. Chevalier said with a harsh, barking laugh. "You see before you a broken man. I am a houngan in a world without the zombi, a master of the crossroads in a reality where my connection between life and afterlife has been severed. Do you have any idea what you have done?"
"A world without zombies, yes, how miserable," Giles muttered. He turned to Willow and said in a frank, indifferent manner, "I told you this would be a waste of time."
"It's the end of the world," Willow reminded him. "Buffy said to try everyone we could think of." She gestured towards the black man staring at them with hate-filled eyes. "The good doctor knows a lot of voodoo practitioners … their god may be gone, but they still have power. They could help."
"Help defeat the First Evil, the defier of the Great Master and the enemy of Bondye?" Dr. Chevalier laughed, and his laughter went on long enough that Willow and Giles began to shift impatiently on their feet. "Even if it could be defeated, and it cannot, why would I bother? You have reduced me to a purveyor of trinkets and charms, why should I do anything on your behalf?"
"The world is ending," Giles said. "And you're part of it."
"Not just this world," Willow added, "but all of them."
Dr. Chevalier shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. "What do I care? I had found a way to cheat death, to live indefinitely, and you took that from me. Do you think nirvana awaits such as me? The end of the world means I would escape whatever fate the Powers would subject me to. I welcome it."
"You could always change your ways?" Willow asked. "Maybe score some points for the great beyond? The alternative is nothing at all, forever."
Dr. Chevalier began to laugh again, and this time a visibly annoyed and impatient Giles cut him off. "Instead of continuing to waste our time, why don't you tell us what you find so amusing?"
"Do you actually think this has not happened before?" Dr. Chevalier said, and the gleaming white of his teeth took on a menacing aspect as shadows began to creep into the corners of the room. "Are you of the belief that with the coming of the Great Djab, there shall be nothing, ever again?"
"Nothing at all, forever, is the First's goal," Willow said as her forehead and nose crinkled in thought. "Isn't it?"
Dr. Chevalier's smile intensified. "All the power you and your cohorts possess, and yet you have no wisdom at all. You speak as if Creation was not spun from nothing and could not be spun again." He shook his head at them, then grabbed his staff and for a third time pointed at the stairway. "Leave."
"You were right, this was a waste of time," Willow admitted to Giles.
The portal appeared, they stepped through it, and Dr. Chevalier blinked his eyes until his vision had adjusted to the gloom of the fire-lit room.
The shadows that had appeared in the corners of the room seemed to grow darker still, and an unnatural chill filled the air of the earthen chamber. With reverence, Dr. Chevalier slowly, and with great pain, lowered himself to his knees. The skin of his thighs split and tore, as it always did when he stretched his limbs too far, and blood began to drip down his legs.
"Great Djab," he said as he bowed his head. "I have done your will today. Allow me to be your avatar, the recipient of a tiny fragment of your ti-bon-ange, so that I may serve you further."
The shadows twisted, the room pulsed, and a figure stepped from nothingness onto the floor of the room. The Great Djab wore the shape of Buffy Summers, the loa-possessed monster who had proved the ruin of his Order, but he recognized it for what it was immediately. He flung his arms forwarded and prostrated himself upon the dirt floor. 'I beg you, Great Djab," he said as he pressed his forehead against the ground, "choose me."
The First stepped closer, and its shadowed footfalls cracked and bent the fabric of time and space as it walked. It bent down, lowered its lips near the ear of Dr. Chevalier, and whispered, "We prefer to work alone."
Dr. Chevalier screamed for an instant, and then the screams were gone, swallowed into the same emptiness that had consumed his body. Reality shivered against the unnatural strain to which it had been subjected, then shimmered and resumed its natural shape.
. . . . . . . . .
"What do you think he meant?" Willow asked Giles as they stepped back into Illyria's room. "That business about creation being spun from nothing?"
Giles shrugged, then laid a hand on Illyria's forehead. "The man is insane, and I recommend we not spend one more second ruminating on the meaning of his rants."
Illyria stirred, opened her eyes, and glanced up at them from her hospital bed. A thin white sheet covered her, a blood pressure cuff was affixed to her upper arm, and if anything, she looked worse than she had the day before.
"The doctors met with me to discuss my condition," Illyria reported.
"What did they say?" Willow asked as she walked to the other side of the bed and grasped Illyria's hand. Illyria's dark brown eyes swiveled to her, and she gripped her hand in return. Illyria swallowed, and her neck had grown so thin that Willow could make out every twitch of the contracting muscles.
"They spoke at length," Illyria replied, "but in the end, I believe they discovered no explanation." She glanced at Giles, and then at Willow. "Can I leave this place now?" Illyria glanced towards the plastic divider that Giles and Willow had drawn across the room as soon as they entered to give them some modicum of privacy from the two individuals lying in neighboring beds. "It smells of death and sadness."
Giles cleared his throat for a moment, then said, "I think it best that we wait until the doctors say you are healthy enough to go home."
The corners of Illyria's mouth twitched, and Willow realized that the woman might be attempting to smile.
Illyria shook her head, and replied, "I do not believe that day will come." She stared at Giles, and a note of determination crept into her voice. "This is not where I wish to be when I pass from this world."
Willow couldn't keep a small, half-strangled sob from escaping her throat.
"Can you take me from here so that I might die in a location of my choosing?" Illyria asked. "I would attempt to journey myself, but I believe I lack the strength to walk significant distances."
Willow and Giles looked at each other.
"It's time to tell Buffy that we're out of options," Willow said. "Her idea is worth a shot, even if it does sound crazy."
Giles nodded. "I agree."
Willow leaned closer to Illyria. "We're going to take you back to my home," she said, "then, if you give tje okay, we're going to try something that might help you."
Illyria stared at her with a flat expression, then she nodded. Willow searched for a flicker of hope in the former demon's eyes, but if there was any to be found, she didn't detect it.
. . . . . . . .
"Wow, you look pretty much the same," Buffy exclaimed after she'd stepped through yet another portal and found herself standing on white tiled floor within the faux wood-lined walls of a jobsite construction trailer. Filing cabinets and a small desk were arranged on one end, and maps had been tacked along the walls.
Angel would appreciate just how many circles, dots, and thumbtacks are in those maps.
"Buffy!" Robin Wood yelped as he leapt up in shock at her appearance. "How did you …"
"The Powers sent me," she said. "Yeah, it's that important."
Robin nodded, rubbed at his shaved head for a moment, then sat back down. He stroked his goatee, which had only the barest hints of grey at the edges and narrowed his eyes. "It must have been something profoundly cataclysmic to get you to come to Cleveland. I've only begged the Council for more slayer help, what, a thousand times over the past twenty years?"
"You know I don't work for the Council," she reminded him. "Ever."
"Me neither," Robin replied as he looked her over. "By the way, if any of us looks pretty much the same, it's you." He gestured towards her and shook his head in wonder. "What's your secret Buff, cause you don't look a day over twenty-five."
"Clean living," she explained with just the barest hint of a facetious undertone.
"Where's Angel?" Robin asked. "I'd heard through the grapevine that you were making a go of it with a vampire again." He winced. "That didn't come out the way I'd intended."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "It was what it was … at least Angel is alive now, so we don't have to worry about the whole gypsy curse thing anymore, but he's back in Moonridge checking on something."
"I'm sorry, did you say that Angel is alive?" Robin asked. "As in, heartbeat, breathing, all that good stuff?"
Buffy nodded.
"Alright …" Robin said as he stared at her with a perplexed expression. "And Spike, he's …?"
"Alive, too," she replied. "But he's gone from this dimension."
Robin tapped his fingers on the grey metal of the desk, and when he opened his mouth to speak, Buffy knew who he would ask about next.
Oh, no.
"And Faith," Robin said in a deliberately casual manner, "how is she." Buffy could swear that the trailer grew so still that she could hear Robin's jeans and thick canvas work shirt crinkle as he leaned back.
The temptation to lie was nearly overwhelming.
"This last apocalypse was a bad one," she said, and she could see him stiffening in his chair as she spoke in as gentle of a tone as she could. "Faith and a couple other slayers didn't make it."
Robin bit his lower lip and looked away for a moment. "You know, Faith would drift in and out of Cleveland, every once in a while, and we never made any promises to each other, but I always thought … no, I hoped …" His words trailed off and he bowed his head.
"Faith was Faith," she reminded him.
He nodded, took a deep breath, and they moved on.
Robin's organization in Cleveland had grown since Buffy had last been in the Midwest, though unfortunately the Hellmouth's influence had grown in lockstep with it. Some theorized that with the Sunnydale Hellmouth gone, other Hellmouths had become more powerful to fill the void left behind, but others posited that Hellmouths had always been subject to random fluctuations of demonic activity.
In any event, Cleveland had become even more hellish than usual.
She explained the threat of the First, an entity Robin was already well familiar with, what she needed from him, and what he could expect if he did as she asked. Buffy could tell that Robin resented being asked for assistance after he had been rebuffed so many times, but she could also tell that he believed her … which meant he'd help.
Hopefully.
. . . . . . . . .
"You're sure?" Angel asked as he squinted his eyes against the setting sun. "Right there?"
Xander gestured at his left eye. "Remember this? I'm telling you, I saw Joshua, clear as day."
"And he was just standing there?" Angel asked. "Staring back?"
"Yup," Xander replied. "He was clinging to the shadows on the far side of the canal, out of direct sunlight, and eyeballing me."
Colleen craned over the concrete edge for a better look and Connor reached out to grab her shoulder. She shot him an irritated glance, brushed his arm away, and resumed staring. "If Joshua stays down there, what's the big deal?"
"He might be here for a reason," Angel explained, "and that reason could involve us."
"Should we get more guns?" Connor asked. "They do slow him down."
Angel shook his head. "He's too fast, and we're too exposed out here. We're going to have to come up with another option."
"Blow up the tunnels?" Colleen asked.
Angel, Xander, and Connor swiveled their heads to stare at her with incredulous expressions.
"Okay, nothing that drastic," Colleen murmured.
"How long until you're finished rebuilding the pentacle?" Angel asked Xander.
Xander scratched his chin and surveyed the construction site with an appraising eye. "Most of the pipe has been reconnected … figure one more day to finish that and pressurize the main, then another day to fill in the trench."
"Two days, then," Angel mused. "That's too long to have Joshua lurking around for who knows what reason. I'm going to have to go down there and search for him."
"Bad idea," Connor said with a shake of his head. "If we're going to do it, we need to bring everyone."
"Instead of traipsing through muck searching for him, why don't we just portal?" Colleen asked.
Three sets of eyes once again rotated to stare at her.
"What?" she asked. "The Powers said we could use Cordelia's portals if it's about defeating the First, and keeping Joshua out of our hair is definitely on task."
"Colleen," Xander said as he fixed her with an appreciative stare, "you're a genius."
Colleen's dark brown eyes sparkled as she smiled at Xander. "Also, I think I should speak to him alone."
"No fucking way!" Connor protested.