It had been a mad dash to the airport, through security, hurling down the terminal to the plane, and reaching the gate just as it was closing.

Now in his seat, surrounded by passengers reading airport-purchased paperbacks, Giles unpacks the slim leather-bound book from his carry-on, beads of sweat threatening to roll down into his eyes from his forehead as he opens the cover with shaking hands, and turns to chapter two.

"The ritual of Osiris," he mumbles to himself. "The act of retrieving a soul after its separation through unnatural means… needed for the ritual: the urn of… and the vino de…"

His eyes bore into the page as the dread sinks into his gut like cold mercury.

Once payment for opening the portal has been given [see above, the soul may return to its rightful vessel.

To close the portal, summoners must enact the calling of Janus – protector of doors, gates, and roadways.

"To close the portal," he mutters, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes before sweat can breach his eyebrows. "She didn't close the portal. She didn't damn well close it!"

"Sorry?" asks the passenger beside him, assuming Giles is talking to him.

"She left it wide open," Giles hisses, and the passenger casts him a concerned look and shifts to the far corner of his seat.

Failure to call Janus… continues the book in an unhelpful tone. Should the gates of the dead remain open, Esrothi—demon of the Hellgate—may gain a foothold, and latch onto the summoner. See "Esrothi" on page 143, for further information.

Pages flip under his shaking fingers.

Esrothi…

His eyes hit on keywords with mounting panic.

…Latch on to the summoner—

…Strengthened by a weakened state…

…Preys on vulnerabilities to gain control of its host—

Down, down, further down, until the last sentence burns into Giles' heart, cinching his throat tight in horror.

Intentions of the Esrothi:...

…to open all portals.

"Oh dear God," Giles whispers, closing his eyes.

To open the Hellmouth.

All hellmouths.

The sun creeps over the horizon, lighting the roof of the twenty-four-hour diner first before slipping lower and igniting its windows into blinding golden rectangles.

Tara sits hunched by the window of her motel room, slumped down in the uncomfortable chair, her feet on the bed, as she watches the sunrise, eyes bloodshot and heavily lidded. Sleep never came, jittery unease filling her bloodstream like a million cups of coffee, keeping her heart rate too high to relax.

Her eyes flick to the rose propped up in the stolen diner mug on the desk. She's filled it with water but she suspects it wouldn't matter if she hadn't. Each petal shimmers with excessive health as though it were still quivering on the vine, its stem dark green and rigid.

Its presence is unnerving. It doesn't cast a shadow, nor do any shadows touch it, as though it's flawlessly lit from every angle. It looks just as she remembered it—slightly asymmetrical, its petals glossy and pristine—before the spell had zapped it to pieces. There's no doubt it's their rose. Resurrected.

She's really starting to loathe that word.

"What do I do?" she asks. She waits. Nothing happens. "P-please," she whispers to the room at large, to anyone listening. Anything. "Tell me what to do…"

She stares hard at the rose, willing something to change.

It has to mean something.

It has to… do something.

Tara closes her eyes as mounting frustration crackles through her core. Willow's out there somewhere being consumed by something and she's sitting here, in this badly decorated, stale-smelling room, talking to a rose.

She pictures Willow in her mind. It's so easy to do. The shape of her form imprinted on Tara's soul. She knows every freckle off by heart. She can see her so vividly; soft and sweet and warm. Smiling that slightly goofy smile that never failed to make Tara's stomach somersault. To make her heart glow until her eyes were shining with adoration.

"I miss you so much," she mutters, tears stinging the insides of her eyelids. "I'm so alone, Will, I don't know what to do."

"It'll be okay, baby," Willow murmurs softly, leaning on the arm of Tara's chair, brushing Tara's hair away from her face. "You should get some sleep."

Tara groans. "I can't sleep."

"She says sleepily," Willow chides, pouting a teasing smirk.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Tara sobs. "You always know what you're doing."

"Definitely not true," she says, chuckling, and the sound burns Tara's throat.

"I feel so lost."

"But I found you, didn't I?" Willow persists, leaning closer, cupping her face. "Remember when I found you before? You were all lost in there-," she cards her hand through Tara's hair, her fingers caressing her scalp, "-and I got you out, didn't I? You've got to find me this time. It'll be okay. You'd know me even in the dark, right?"

Tara frowns, confused by Willow's last question, as it seems oddly specific. But she doesn't hesitate. "Y-yes."

"Even if it was all darkness, you'd know me, even then," Willow says, nodding encouragingly, and Tara nods with her.

"Yes." Her eyes slide to the window. To the sun setting beneath the horizon, sucking the last rays of light from the sky. "Even in the dark…I'd know you even then."

"'Cus you're my girl," Willow says, smiling, and dips her head to lay a soft kiss on Tara's cheek. Tara turns her head, needing more, needing her lips on hers and her hands in her hair. Needing the weight of her body over hers, feeling so fractured without it.

But Willow pulls back out of reach.

"Soon, okay?" she whispers as Tara bites down a heartbroken whimper. "It'll be dark soon."

Tara's eyes slide to the window, staring at the mounting night past her reflection.

"Wasn't it just—?"

She jerks awake, her neck sore from hanging off the back of the chair, eyes dazzled by the sunlight scorching her eyes.

"Oh," she groans, sitting up properly. She swallows and rubs her neck until the ache subsides a little, wiping dried tears off her cheeks.

She glances over to the desk one more time. The rose is still elegantly displayed in the pilfered mug. Still eerily lit and arrogant in its perfection.

Tara sighs, and shuts the curtains against the rising sun, stripping down to her underwear and t-shirt. She burrows into the covers of the bed despite the oppressive heat of the room, needing the weight, needing to be pressed down into a heavy darkness. It's a poor surrogate for Willow's arm over her ribs, but exhaustion wins out regardless, and her eyes close on a last sigh.

Soon.

"Buffy…"

Buffy stirs, roused by soft kisses along her shoulder, Spike's fingers lacing with hers and squeezing gently.

"Mm?"

"You're talking in your sleep, luv."

She hums and rolls over to face him. "Weird dream."

She lifts her head so he can slot an arm underneath her neck, bringing her closer, drawing her underneath the white sheet they'd managed to wrap themselves in before crashing into blissful oblivion sideways on the bed.

"Bad dream?" he asks, winding his other arm around her waist.

"I'm not sure," she answers, curling deeper into him so her head is on his chest, tucking herself under his chin. "You were in a garden."

"What a nightmare," he mocks, linking his legs with hers, and she chuckles softly.

"There were roses everywhere. It seemed… important."

"Slayer dream?" Spike asks, his fingers stroking cool trails between her shoulder blades.

"Maybe," she agrees, smiling unconcerned. "Some sort of gardening monster, you think?"

"Bit of a stretch," he chuckles. His fingers brush the curve of her spine and he flattens his hand, holding her close. "Could just be telling you you're due for some romance."

Buffy grins sleepily, tilting her head up to receive a slow, easy kiss. "Is that just wishful thinking on your part?"

"Very wishful," he purrs, burnishing her skin with kisses down her neck towards her collarbone, kissing lower as she threads her fingers into his loose curls. "Got a whole day to fill before nightfall. Might not have the flowers, but I can accomplish at least a bit of adoration regardless."

His hand slips from her waist down to her thigh, squeezing gently until her hip cants up towards him, her head falling back to the mattress as fresh desire sets her belly over a low flame.

"Mm, think the prophecy is coming true," she chuckles as he nuzzles lovingly into her neck, devotion burning over every inch of contact, and she sighs, lightheaded and still a little drowsy. "Roses or not, this is pretty good."

He darts back up to kiss her hard, pulling his arm out from under her neck to cup her cheek and she melts beneath him, letting him widen their lips as his tongue curls around hers. The hand on her thigh slides higher, squeezing the joint of her leg.

"When it's all over, I'll show you a better time than this tacky motel," he insists between kisses, his tone serious. "Dinner and movies and flowers—the lot of it, and you'll bloody lump it."

Buffy raises an incredulous eyebrow. "Are you threatening me?"

"Oh, you'll know when I'm threatening you, missy." A smile breaks across his face, eyes sparkling with worship before he bends and smothers her lips with his. He kisses lower and lower as she arches her back, and sucks a bruise into the side of her stomach and she groans, her fingers tightening in his hair. "Now open your legs," he commands.

Buffy snorts. "So romantic." And complies.

Book clasped so hard it feels like his fingernails could tear, Giles throws his luggage into the trunk of a taxi.

He has just enough cognition to give the driver his address, sinking into the worn-down upholstery that smells like other people's aftershave and that certain type of dust you only get in cars of a certain age.

It's late afternoon, and in his head, he calculates the travel time. Should be home by 6 pm, shower, change, in the car by 6:30, get to the motor inn for 7, must call Buffy and—

His head snaps up as the taxi driver misses the turn-off. "Excuse me! You've missed the—"

"Need to take a different route," the driver calls back, gesturing at the exit passing them by. Giles just manages to catch sight of the yellow warning tape and blockades. "It's like Day of the Triffids down there."

"Like what?" Giles cranes in his seat, straining to see out of the back window.

"Haven't you seen the news?" the driver says, shooting a glance at him in the rearview mirror as they sail onto the Sunnydale Bypass bridge, affording Giles the full Sunnydale view…

…and the sprawling mass of brambled thorns it encompasses. Roses. Roses as far as the eye can see.

"What on Earth…?" he breathes out.