So Wild A Dream

By KallieRose

Prologue

Spring, 2004

A soft rain fell as the battle raged on around them. The drops soaked into clothing and skin, making maneuvering a precarious business, at best. Angel winced as he saw Gunn start to fall, catch a hold of a passing Grenlock demon, and right himself again. A swift blow to the fragile neck of the demon sent that being to its final rest, but another quickly took its place.

He felt twin emotions, annoyance and pride, as he watched his childe fight his way through the demon horde, his attention drawn and held by the dragon. Angel had wanted to kill it himself, so of course Spike couldn't resist the challenge to do it first. Faster. Better. For Spike, everything between them seemed to be a contest.

Angel fought without emotion, as if there were two separate beings at work within him. His motions were almost automatic; parry, thrust, counter, stab, his hand and sword were both slick with the blood of a hundred different demons, and still they continued to come at him.

His mind, however, was considering, analyzing, worrying, and even saying good-bye, becoming resigned to his not-so-eventual death. He had no doubt that they were already dead. Their bodies hadn't given up the fight yet, but in his mind it was starting to become clear.

A flash of blue caught his eye; he found Illyria fighting against a half-dozen demons of indistinguishable lineage. The former god seemed to be faring slightly better than the rest of them; her costume acted as a carapace of sorts, deflecting many of the blows that otherwise would have drawn blood. She wielded her sword with a cold precision, matched by the look of utter indifference in her eyes. Perhaps she welcomed death as a final release from this world, a world that had been such a disappointment. Angel wasn't sure if she was truly capable of dying, but he suspected that tonight he would find an answer to that question. If he lived long enough.

Oops, careful Spike, that one almost got you, he thought. Cut a bit of a gash into you, didn't it?

Angel knew that it was only a matter of time. The enemy seemed to have unlimited resources; all they needed to do was wear out the vampires, give them a swift decapitation, and then tackle Illyria. Gunn was merely a footnote. He wouldn't last much longer, either way. Blood streamed steadily from several wounds, and he looked as if a strong wind would blow him over right now, making him easy prey.

A break in the fighting gave him a clear view of Spike, swaggering up to the dragon as if he actually had a chance in hell of killing it. Angel cringed, then felt his blood freeze in his veins as another Grenlock demon snuck up behind Spike, stake in hand. "Spike," he yelled, decades of anguish and suppressed emotion poured into the word.

The blond either didn't hear him, or was ignoring him, and Angel watched in horror as the Grenlock brought his arm up, briefly measuring the distance between the stake and its target, then brought it down onto Spike's back, behind the heart, and then —

Nothing at all–the demons just disappeared, as if they had never been there.

---

They stood in the empty alleyway, water dripping from the sky, blood dripping from multiple wounds in each of their bodies.

Gunn fell to the ground without a sound, and Illyria hurried to his side, checking his pulse, heartbeat and breathing in a clinical manner. "He is very weak," she told them, her voice expressionless, her features following suit.

Spike and Angel were further away, but made their way to the fallen man with as much speed as they could manage. Spike limped somewhat, while Angel tried not to think about the dislocated shoulder he was pretty sure he had, along with the dozens of other more inconsequential cuts and bruises that were easier to ignore.

Just as they reached their fallen friend, a bright light descended from the grey sky, and the four of them clustered together. Strength in numbers. Or something like that.

The light was pure and white. But it didn't burn; instead it captured the eye, leading it inevitably to the being encased within. "Doyle," Angel breathed, his mouth open in shock, as he gazed upon his long-dead friend.

"Alonna?" Angel heard the tortured word come from Gunn, as if he had forced all of his saved energy into the effort to speak.

"Mum?" Spike whimpered.

Angel shook himself from his own astonishment, shooting each of them a quick glance, taking in their stunned recognition of the figure before them. From the sounds of their awed words, they each saw someone different. Someone they trusted; someone who was dear to them.

Doyle's mouth opened, and the words poured through it, in his friend's lilting accent. "As I'm sure you've discovered, I appear differently to each of you. It is a foolish vanity, I admit, but I prefer to wear a form that is familiar to you. It makes such things easier."

The words were not condescending, although if his tone had been different, they could have been interpreted as such. Instead, they were oddly familiar, and infinitely comforting. And completely unlike anything that Doyle would ever have said. That fact, more than anything, convinced Angel that the being in front of him was not actually his friend.

In the bright light, the pains and injuries he had sustained in the fight seemed to melt away, leaving him feeling strong in body, if not in spirit.

"I know, I know," the being continued, "You are injured, and beyond weary. And you have questions. That is natural." The being that was Doyle/not Doyle dipped his head in acknowledgement, an impish smile playing on his lips.

"Who–what are you?" When they came, the words came from Spike, but they could have been said by any of them.

The vision smiled at Spike, a look that held many secrets, and few answers. "Someone who just saved your life," the being answered smartly, and then winked at him. Angel watched with amusement, as Spike had no immediate reply.

"Why?" Illyria shot the question out, still leaning over Gunn, who was looking much better. Angel could only guess that that was the work of the being before them.

The creature gave Illyria a considering look, before answering her in the same brusque tones. "Because I need every warrior for the light that I can find. When I can…affect an outcome, I will."

"Why now? Why *this* outcome? Why could you not have started earlier?" 'Why couldn't you have saved my Wesley?' The last question was not said aloud, but it hung in the air accusingly, nonetheless.

"Because I am not all-powerful. I grow weary–" the image wavered for a moment, as if ripples of water ran down his body, "I can only do so much. But it was necessary. You," he said, sweeping their faces with his eyes, "are necessary."

"Necessary for what?" Angel challenged, bringing the other's attention back to him.

"For the ongoing battle, of course. I am the First Good. I am locked in an eternal struggle with the First Evil, he who commands Wolfram and Hart, among thousands of other beings of unspeakable horror." A shudder touched the image, and Angel *felt* it roll through him as well.

"Neat parlor trick," he told Doyle's image, smiling when the being frowned slightly. "But what do you want from us? I'm assuming there's a quid-pro-quo deal going on here."

Doyle studied him as if he were a bug squashed under a microscope, and Angel suddenly felt very small and impudent. "Stop it!" he growled, guessing that it was yet another manifestation of power over them. "You're pretty damn powerful. I get it."

A sneaky smile that was purely Doyle touched his lips, making Angel wonder how their benefactor had managed to get it so very right. "I’ll not tell you now," he stated, smiling at Spike as he rolled his eyes, "but when the time is right, you will know."

"Vague enough for ya, Peaches?" Spike grunted, and something in the body language told Angel that his childe was ready to strike. A subtle nod, and both vampires rushed the figure, colliding heavily with…each other.

Deep laughter filled the alley, and their eyes rushed to its source, standing a couple of feet away. "Silly children," he mocked them, shaking his head ruefully. "I saw the idea in your heads before you even knew it was there yourselves."

The two vampires glowered at him, and then at each other, for good measure, before looking to the ground.

"There will be one who comes to you, to help. It may not seem like much–she may not seem like much–but you need her. And when the three of you are ready, it will happen."

"What will happen?" Angel asked, but even as he asked the question, he realized he would receive no answer.

"One last thing, my old friend," Doyle said, coming to stand in front of Angel. "There is something you've been longing for, and I have it. I hope it gives you all that you think it will."

A gentle heat radiated through Angel's body, from his heart, through his torso, finally ending with a tingling sensation felt in his fingers and toes. "You know what it is; use it wisely," the being whispered in his ear, before turning and walking away.

"I must go. Be ready…" the words faded away, as did the bright figure. Soon all that was left were four wet, weary warriors for the side of good, alone in a dark, empty alley.

---

Spike touched Angel's arm, smirking at the start his sire gave. "What was that all about?"

Angel stood silently for a moment, his eyes far away and dreamy. "My heart's desire," he whispered, the look on his face one of complete happiness and contentment. And for the first time in years he *could* be perfectly happy without worrying about the consequences. Because the gift that Doyle had given him was a his soul.

Giving him an odd look and a shrug, Spike walked away, heading over to see how the other two were faring.

Illyria helped Gunn to his feet, the handsome man giving her a nod of thanks, before concentrating on the two vampires. "Don't know about you all, but I could sleep for a week."

"This body too, it wearies."

"Well, Blue, let's find ourselves a little hidey-hole. I could bleed a couple of cows dry, and then sleep. Or whatever," Spike added, trying to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at Illyria, who ignored his come-on completely.

"You coming, Angel?"

Angel stood staring at the spot where he had last seen Doyle's apparition, lost in thought. "Yeah, I'm up for that. Got a place in mind?"

"The Hyperon?" Gunn suggested, moving slowly, as if not trusting his recently healed body. "Nobody's been there in ages; and there are plenty of rooms."

"Never been there." Spike admitted, "Anywhere but Wolfram and Hart sounds good to me. Lead the way," he commanded, with a silly wave of his hand.

"Think that we're safe for now? Or does Wolfram and Hart have more up its metaphorical sleeve for us?" Gunn asked curiously.

"Hard to say, Charlie. Hard to say. Best to keep on our toes, I suppose. In this town, you never know what will happen next."

Chapter One

London, Fall, 2005

A small redhead lay quietly in the rather ordinary-looking nursing home bedroom. White walls, decorated with prints of happy puppies and cheerful clowns, spaced with almost military precision, matched the white starched sheets and blanket that covered the single bed. Machines of all sizes and shapes stood guard over the woman underneath the covers. Her breathing was regular and steady, but other than that, the room she inhabited was silent, save for the small pings and dings made by her electronic companions.

A nurse bustled in, pushed her long brown hair out of her eyes, and ran a practiced eye over the numbers and letters on the faces of the machines. 'Such a pretty young woman,' she thought. 'It's always sad to see someone in a coma, but when it's someone so young…'

Her thoughts drifted away as her attention faltered. There was always so much to do here. Rooms to tidy, people to help, decisions to be made…it was her job, and she loved it, but sometimes Allison wished she did something less challenging, more mundane.

A job where she didn't have to look at a girl young enough to be her daughter, and know that her life was almost certainly over.

---

London, Fall, 2006

A week quickly became a month, and a month became a year, and still Willow Rosenberg lay silent. Friends continued to visit, to tell her their news and share their lives with her, but even the closest ones had become discouraged by her lack of progress. People who had initially visited daily, now only came once a week, or less. And yet they still held hope in their eyes as they gazed at her.

Allison still kept an eye on the girl, Willow, visiting her when she needed a break from the constant craziness in the rest of the nursing home. The nurse found the quiet room a blessed oasis, and often passed the time by making up fanciful stories about the girl, her life, and how she had gotten to this place.

When questioned, her friends, and there had been many, would only say that she had been like this when they found her, lying on the floor of her second story flat in Chelsea.

The older gentleman had confided awkwardly that Willow had been working quite a bit more than she should lately, but other than that, she had seemed in perfect health; she was almost the stereotypical young American expatriate, living in London, perhaps on a lark, perhaps for work. It had never been explained, and no family members had come to the hospital to collect her, but friends had eventually arranged to have her transferred here.

The door opened unexpectedly, and Allison quickly composed herself, turning from the wool-gathering stranger into the competent nurse they expected. She gave a smile to the young couple that came into the room, watching sadly as they turned hopeful eyes towards the bed.

The young man looked to be about the age of the girl in the bed, while his companion was maybe a couple of years younger. The way that they looked at each other and held hands convinced the nurse that they were in love. It was so obvious, and looked so new, that she suspected they had come to share the news with their friend.

She nodded to them as she left the room, leaving Willow with the young couple.

---

"Hi, Willow," Xander called out, striving for cheerfulness, as he sat down on the chair next to Willow and grabbed her hand. He held it for a moment, squeezing tightly, as if to send his energy coursing into the redhead, and then relaxed his grip, holding her hand loosely.

Dawn stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder, watching sadly as the light in Xander's eyes slowly dimmed at Willow's lack of response. It was always like this, she thought. Every time he came into this room, he hoped that she would be better, or at least different. And every time Willow disappointed him, something inside Xander faded a little bit.

"Hey, Willow," Dawn said with a gentle smile, going through the motions because it made Xander feel better. Sure, she had heard the same things Xander had; had read the same pamphlets. Sometimes people in comas *did* hear the things that people said to them while they were unconscious. But after six months or so, Dawn had finally accepted the fact that Willow wasn't going to get up and greet them when they arrived, or suddenly open her eyes because Xander had told her some really funny joke.

Xander just wasn't quite there yet.

"So Will, um, Dawn and I have something to tell you," he said, looking into the other woman's eyes quickly, and seeing the love and excitement reflected there. "It's kind of a big something, and it's a good something. At least *I* think it is. And I hope you'll think it is too."

Dawn grabbed his free hand, squeezing lightly as her eyes fell on the matching rings that they both wore, a remembrance of the day they spent shopping together at the Portobello Market.

"Willow," Dawn said, her voice soft and hesitant, "Xander and I, we're, well, we're a couple." She paused for a moment, stopping to share a smile with Xander. "I hope you're okay with this. I figured you would be. And we wanted you to know. To see that there are things out here that are worth waking up for." She closed her eyes for a moment, willing the tears that were forming to stay hidden for just a little longer.

Crying was inevitable, but Dawn had hoped that she could get through at least the first ten minutes without tearing up like a child.

"Yeah," Xander agreed, a note of pleading entering his voice, as his eyes started to shine with tears of his own. "I think you should wake up now, so you can help us plan the wedding. And, well, so that Dawn can tell you all those girlie things that she's just bursting to tell someone. 'Cuz it's just not the same when she tells me, you know?"

"And Buffy, well, if she were still here, she would have been all weirded out about the whole me and Xander thing," Dawn confided sadly. "I mean, yeah, there's a little bit of an age difference, but it's not *that* big of a difference! I mean, look at everything she and Angel went through. That was a WAY bigger age difference, right Xan?"

"Well yeah, plus there was that whole thing where he was a vampire, and had to drink blood every day." Xander peered at Dawn in mock horror. "You're not hiding something from me, are you? Like, you're not secretly a vampire, right? Because if you are, I’d have to reconsider the whole wedding thing."

"Hey, remember when you guys used to give him a really bad time because all his girlfriends were either demons or ex-demons? Or, well, Cordelia? Well, now he's got a real live human girlfriend. Okay, technically speaking, I used to be a mystical ball of energy," she conceded, frowning slightly, "but I think I'm human now, don’t you?"

Xander smiled, and the pure happiness on his face was wonderful to see, Dawn thought. A year and a half ago he had been depressed, lonely, mourning the loss of his eye and the death of Anya, the only woman he thought he would ever love. But somehow he had managed to overcome all of that, and she hoped that she had played some small part in bringing about the change.

She giggled as he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly, slowly, as if the two of them were the only people in the world. The feel of his lips turned her knees to jelly, as often happened these days, and without another word, she let go of his hand and plopped herself down on his lap.

"Oof!" Xander protested, before settling back in the chair and putting his arm around her shoulder to keep her balanced. "Yes, I think you're definitely human now," he agreed. "No mystical ball of energy could be *this* heavy," he teased, grinning as he watched her face darken a bit in the pretense of anger.

He turned to look at Willow, searching for any sign of life on her peaceful face. It had been so long since he had heard her laugh, or seen that uncertain smile; what he wouldn't give to have either of those right now. Even if she hated the idea of him and Dawn together, which he knew she wouldn't, he still wanted her there, in his face, telling him exactly what she thought.

But instead, she stayed still, eyes closed, looking exactly like someone who was just taking a nap. A nap that had lasted for over a year now, he thought sadly.

---

Dawn gripped his hand tightly as they left the nursing home, weaving their way through traffic as they headed for their car in the visitors' parking lot. There was so much that she wanted to say to him, but it seemed like the most important thing in the world was to simply hold onto him, as if the simple touch could fight off all of the despair he was feeling.

"You've been a good friend to her, you know that," she finally said, hoping that it would be enough. "You visit every week, sometimes even more. But maybe her waking up–maybe it's just not meant to be."

He made a strangled choking sound, and she saw the tears that he had tried to hide earlier sliding slowly down his face. They reached their car quickly, ducking inside and facing each other on the long bench seat. "We--we were everything to each other. I know, I know, we're older now, and it's not quite the same as when we were young. But I guess…I guess I still feel like if I try hard enough, then she'll wake up. That she's just waiting for me to say the magic word, and suddenly she'll wake up, laughing, and everything will be back the way it should be."

"Xander," Dawn's hands went to his face, running lightly over his cheeks in an attempt to comfort him. His skin was wet with tears, and her hands slid easily down his face. She pulled his face to hers, touching their lips together in a soft caress that she hoped would calm him. "You've done everything you could, honey. If it's meant to happen, it will. But it's up to Willow now, not you. Not you," she repeated quietly.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting her hands run up and down his arms, soothing him, reminding him that there was more in the world than what had happened in the nursing home today. He had a good job with the Watchers' Council, a wonderful fiancée, and more friends than he could ever have imagined he would have.

And yet, in spite of all of that, he doubted that his life would ever feel complete again; not unless he could find a way to bring Willow back into it.

---

London, Spring, 2007

It was midnight, and Rupert Giles pushed away from his desk wearily, watching as the walls of his well-appointed office seemed to close in on him. It was at times like this, he acknowledged sadly, that he missed Willow the most.

And not just for her skills as a first-rate researcher. There were other things, little things, like the way that she would lighten the mood with a silly joke, or raise his spirits by simply resting her hand gently on his arm.

A night like this brought those memories back in full force, and he wondered if he would ever get over her loss.

They had labored side by side since her return from Brazil, working with the new Slayers and the handful of remaining Watchers, in an effort to rebuild what they could of the Watcher's Council. It was hard, arduous work, but it left him fulfilled and eager to face the day. And judging by the confidences that Willow had shared with him, she had felt the same way.

The scene of her discovery still haunted him; it was mind-numbingly painful even after all this time. Willow, lying on her side on the floor of her flat, dressed only in the oversized T-shirt she used as a nightgown.

He had rushed to her side, searching frantically for a pulse, relieved to find that she still had one. Once the paramedics had been called, he had torn her room apart, desperate for clues.

But in all of his looking, and the months of research that followed, he had never come up with a reason for her condition. Not even a hint.

At first, Giles had suspected her injury was mystical in nature. Xander, Buffy, even Oz had been tracked down to help in the effort to discover a cause. But nothing had ever been found.

As almost a last resort, they had called in medical specialists; men known for their wisdom and understanding of the human body. And again, they had come up empty.

All roads led back to Willow. She, alone, could rouse herself from the slumber into which she had fallen. The unfortunate fact was, the longer it took, the less chance there was that it would ever happen.

And yet he still held out hope, as futile as it might seem. At least once a week he visited her. Sometimes he would talk quietly, trying to coax her from her slumber. Other times he would yell and rage, stomping about the room in such a manner that it brought the nurses running, in hopes of pulling her to consciousness by sheer force of will.

But none of it ever worked.

He would visit her tomorrow, he decided. Tell her how much she had been on his mind lately; and how much he missed her. Not that he had any hope that it would bring her back. Not anymore. But even in slumber, he found Willow to be a comforting companion.

Chapter Two

London, Spring, 2007

True to his word, the very next day Rupert Giles entered the nursing home, a handful of daisies held uncomfortably in his hand.

The flowers were an afterthought. He saw a vendor selling them in the lobby, and Giles remembered a day spent with Willow, back when they were both in England, during her, 'I almost ended the world, please let me die,' phase. It had been a harrowing time for both of them, but it had also brought them closer together in ways he could never explain.

It wasn't merely the fact that they had spent so much time together, but an understanding that there were some things, some emotions, that spanned the gap of years that separated them; emotions like love, loss, self-loathing, and regret. Giles had been astounded by the depths of her feelings, in spite of her very young age.

On that day, so long ago, Willow had confessed, in her shy, hesitant way, that she had always loved the simplicity of a daisy. They weren't flashy, or romantic, or sexy, but they had a simple elegance that reminded her of sunshine and fields, and a time when things were much less complicated.

Giles thought secretly that they had also reminded her of Tara, who had displayed that same simple elegance and uncomplicated nature.

"How beautiful," the nurse cooed, eyeing the flowers as he entered the room.

He wondered what the staff here thought of them. They were a rather unusual group of people who, even after more than a year, still visited their young charge with surprising regularity. Did they hold the same opinion of Willow's condition as the doctors did: that she would probably never wake? Or was their opinion a bit more optimistic, as was his own?

"I–well, she always liked daisies, and I decided…" he let the thought drift off, suddenly wondering if the gesture had been a silly waste of money.

"I'm sure she'll love them," she agreed. "I'll just find a vase for them; I'll be right back."

"Thank you," he said, lapsing back into his memories.

The nurse left, and he turned to Willow once again, his eyes dreamy. He saw her not as she was now, a pale figure framed by crisp white sheets, but as the powerful/suffering/evil/good walking contradiction that she had been before, when he had taken her to England to heal.

It had not been easy, bringing her back from the edge of darkness. She had had to re-learn so much; he blamed himself, in part, for not being there in Sunnydale when she needed him. His reckless pursuit of a 'real life,' had left her alone, without a spiritual or magical guide. How he could have failed to notice that fact was something that still puzzled him.

Sometimes people saw only what they wanted to see. He was just as capable of falling into that trap as anyone else, apparently. And it had been Willow who had paid the price.

"Willow, you must wake up now," he murmured absently, running his fingers lightly over the back of her hand. "We need you. I need you."

He sighed dispiritedly when he received no reply, no sign of recognition from the redhead.

The nurse came bustling back into the room, tearing him away from his thoughts. She carried his daisies, comfortably ensconced in a simple, clear glass vase. "These will definitely cheer up the room," she commented somewhat awkwardly.

Giles looked up at her from his chair, his weariness showing in his face. "You don't think she's ever going to wake up, do you?" he asked quietly. It was more of a statement than a question, and Allison could tell. He wanted reassurance, something that she was not able to give him.

"I honestly don't know," she admitted, pulling up another chair to sit beside him. He was a nice-looking man; scholarly, even fatherly, and she felt a surge of compassion overtake her common sense. Surely it couldn't hurt to talk to him for a moment, help him accept what he so obviously didn't want to believe.

"Was she a fighter before? Someone who stubbornly refused to give up, even when the odds were against her? Sometimes that can make a difference."

The man chuckled, a warm, kind sound, and nodded his head vehemently. "Oh, yes, our Willow is definitely a fighter. Even when everyone tells her something is a lost cause, she will fight to the end. Especially for a friend." He remembered her steadfast insistence that she return Angel's soul, back when he was Angelus. Even when the first attempt put her in the hospital–in a coma, in fact–she insisted on trying again. And with her dogged determination, she had succeeded.

Had she been doing something like that, something dangerous, for a friend, when tragedy had struck?

"How--how long have you known her?"

"Oh, we go back years. I was the librarian at her high school, actually," he remembered. "Even then she was precocious. A natural student, but she would never get so deep within her studies that she wouldn't stop to help someone else. And so smart. Razor sharp. Book smart, yes. But Willow also had–has, I mean, a sort of intelligence that doesn't just come from reading or studying. She observes and learns. You can't present her with a problem she can’t solve."

"She sounds like she was a joy to teach."

"Oh, she was. I think," he stopped for a moment, considering the truth of his next assertion, "yes, I do think that if things had gone differently, she would have become a teacher herself."

He sighed, something akin to frustration showing in his voice. "It's not that she was some perfect woman. Willow did have her faults. She was so shy sometimes that it was almost painful to watch. And insecure as well. She felt things deeply, which I suppose can be good and bad, but sometimes she made choices, when in the throes of deep emotional upheaval, that had far-ranging consequences."

The look in his eyes told Allison that his thoughts were far away now; back in the past, when the young woman next to them was alive and vividly active. She could almost imagine it…the red hair would have shone with the light of the sun, her lips always smiling, or maybe an embarrassed blush covering her cheeks.

She shook her head at such fanciful notions. They were doing nothing to help her charge, or the man who had come to visit her. "I'll leave you two alone to catch up," she said finally, getting up and leaving the room in silence.

Giles watched her go, relaxing slightly once he and Willow were again alone. In some ways this was harder than losing Buffy had been, a little over six months ago. At least with his Slayer, it had been final. A sharp knife slash across the throat had severed her hold on life, which, for a long time, had been tenuous at best. Killed by a human while trying to break up a bar fight, her death had been meaningless and ordinary. Certainly not the expected ending for the council's longest-living slayer

And there was plenty of blame and self-condemnation to go around. He should have been there, should have gotten her to a doctor, should have stopped the world so that she would not die. There would always be those types of thoughts.

But with Willow it was different. She still lived, even though it was a mockery of life. She breathed, her heart beat, but even with all of that, it was as if she was dead inside. The very things that made her 'Willow' were gone, leaving him with a doll that looked just like his friend, but would never be her. The hope that the situation engendered was cruel beyond belief.

"Willow, dear, please open your eyes. It's spring here, you know. Wet and windy and nasty as only London can be. I remember you saying once that it was the anti-Sunnydale, and that that was why you loved it so much." He reached out to touch her face, running the back of his hand gently down the soft skin of her cheek.

"Well, it's all right outside there, waiting for you, just the way that you left it. All you need to do is wake up. Please."

Giles hadn't really expected any response, but his eyes searched her face for signs of…well, anything.

And he was disappointed once again.

He stayed a while longer, telling her the news of the week, about co-workers and friends, demons and their defeat at the hands of the Council.

Finally, when he was all talked out, he rose, bending to give his friend one last kiss on the cheek. "Be well, Willow," he choked out, before turning and leaving.

---

Fall, 2007

Allison sat comfortably on the windowsill, letting the stillness of the room wash over her, cleansing her of the struggle of day-to-day life. Through the large window, she watched the clouds chase each other across the dark night sky, obscuring, and then revealing, the twinkling stars.

She enjoyed watching it–from inside. Outside it was cold, windy, and more than a little damp, and those were things she didn't enjoy at all.

Savoring the silence, she let her mind wander, her thoughts flickering from one topic to another like a butterfly. Did the garden get too much rain this year? Would she need to replace the rickety old shed, or would it survive the elements for yet another year? Where would she and David go on holiday this year? Italy was nice, but expensive. Perhaps France?

Something, and she would never know what, drew her eyes to the bed, surprise showing in their light blue depths. What was that? Had it been her imagination, or had–

Willow's finger had moved. Just an inch or so at most, but Allison was positive she had seen it. This was not fancy or the result of an active imagination. There had been movement.

She stood anxiously, running to check the readings on the various machines. A shimmering smile settled on her lips, trembling a bit because of the tears she fought to suppress.

She would have to look for a new place to go when she wanted to find her cherished peace and quiet. Because, somehow, despite the opinion of all the 'experts,' Willow Rosenberg was waking up.

---

"You were just sitting there watching her? You didn't do anything else, touch anything else?" the doctor asked Allison for what seemed, to her, like the tenth or eleventh time. Fighting the urge to scream, she answered calmly.

"Yes, I was just sitting here, taking my break. I wasn't even really watching her. It was just–something, I don't know what, but something made me look in her direction. And her finger, it was moving. I went to the machines and checked the readings, and then I called you."

Doctors were always puzzled, almost never relieved. Allison tended to focus on the miracle of the awakening, while they always wanted to know the 'why.' She supposed that that was why they were doctors, and she had never wanted to be anything other than a nurse.

She looked back at the redhead, still unconscious, but improving. There was almost an overload of brain activity, according to the machines. The organ seemed to be on overdrive, as if hoping to make up for the lost time in one blinding burst. But nobody knew exactly what it meant.

"We should call her people. Get them in here, have them talk to her. Could you take care of that?" Dr. Swan didn't even look back to verify that his instructions were being followed. He was completely immersed in his task, murmuring vague words about 'stimuli' and 'activity' as he touched the woman in the bed, his hands moving from one hand to the other, his clinical eyes watching for any sign of change or reaction.

A brief flurry of finger movement, their actions awkward and uncoordinated, encouraged him greatly. "Ms. Rosenberg? Can you hear me? I’m Dr. Swan. It's time to wake up now. You're very close. We just need you to keep doing what you're doing. Move whatever you can, open your eyes, speak, whatever you can do." There was a tone of hopeful encouragement in his voice, as if he knew that it was only a matter of time before she would do as he asked.

The body and mind work in mysterious ways, he reminded himself. There was still so much they just didn't understand…


Chapter Three

Los Angeles, Fall 2005

Angel, Spike and Gunn entered the lobby of the Hyperion, weariness and a feeling of ‘home’ slowing their steps. The discussion they had been having for several minutes continued unabated as they cleaned their weapons and put them away.

“The killer is human. It’s not our gig.” To Angel, the matter was as simple as that. Spike nodded his agreement, which surprised Angel. They didn’t agree often, and usually when they did, Spike refused to admit it. But his concurrence this time just cemented Angel’s feelings on the matter.

“Yeah, I know,” Gunn said, his voice laced with barely-concealed impatience. They were discussing the serial killer who was haunting Los Angeles. His victims were all young women in their twenties and early thirties, and their bodies bore exactly twelve stab wounds as the apparent cause of death. There was no sexual assault involved, just the dozen wounds to the chest. The police didn’t seem to have the first clue as to the identity of the killer, if the newspapers were to be believed. Five women had died so far, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

Gunn had been pushing the idea of their getting involved in the investigation for a couple of days, and still wasn’t any closer to making them see things his way. It frustrated him, but he kept pushing. They respected that, he knew. Tenacity was something they appreciated. Although slightly less when it was aimed at them. “All I’m saying is, why not look into it a little? We’re slow right now. We’ve killed just about every vampire and evil demon this town has to offer at the moment. ‘Cept Paris Hilton, of course. Too much security there. What I’m sayin’ is, we either need to branch out, or go on vacation and kill something new somewhere else. Me, I’m thinking branching out is the answer.”

A look of resignation flashed between the two vampires. Their friend wasn’t much good at just sitting back and taking the good times where he could find them. If he wasn’t fighting something or solving a problem, he seemed rather at a loss. They could respect that; each of them had had times in their lives when they felt the same.

But things were quiet right now. Demon activity was at an all-time low. Wolfram and Hart, and those who pulled their puppet strings, had conceded the city of Los Angeles to Angel and his friends. For now. Things were sure to change sooner or later. They always did. So why not enjoy the good times while they lasted, instead of looking for more trouble?

The sound of footsteps on the stairway brought the three of them to attention. All eyes flew upwards, settling on Illyria, watching curiously as she descended the grand stairway.

They were still surprised that she had stayed with them after the final battle. Spike thought it was because they were her only link to Wesley, although the others each had their own opinion.

Angel attributed her presence to nothing as prosaic as a lost love; he thought she stayed because this little band of fighters knew who she was and what she was accustomed to. She might not still garner the worship of her people, but at least when she was surrounded by them–people who knew what she had been–she still received the treatment she felt she was worthy of. They might not worship her, but they treated her with a cautious care that she felt she deserved.

Angel had observed how she reacted when other people out there, not knowing of her status as an ex-god, treated her as they would any young, slim brunette. As nothing special. He had recognized her mounting frustration, knew she wanted to lash out at them, demand their obedience, their recognition, their submission.

The three of them had watched her; waiting for her to break, to fall to pieces before them as her lack of importance in the overall scheme of things made her feel more and more angry and inadequate.

And then a funny thing happened. Illyria began to accept it. It was like she tucked that part of her that craved obedience and submission down inside her somewhere, where nobody would know it existed. Oh, she still had her moments, moments where she railed against this world, and the weakness of her shell, and all the things she had lost.

But with them, she could bring her own personal demon–her godhood–out to play. The rudeness, the arrogance, the real Illyria could still exist.

At least that was Angel’s theory.

“Didya miss us, Bluebell?” Spike loved to push Illyria’s buttons. He would tease her, insult her with his insolence, and eventually she would reach the limits of her patience and smack him down, hard. Sometimes she would use words to express her displeasure, and sometimes she would use her fists. It didn’t seem to matter much to Spike either way.

He would sulk for a day or two, and then the whole process would start all over again. Angel supposed it was a sort of game the two of them played. Illyria always won, but that didn’t stop Spike from wanting to participate. He was incorrigible, not to mention persistent. Brain damaged was another possibility Angel was unwilling to rule out.

Angel was just happy that Spike’s annoying tendencies were aimed somewhere other than directly at him.

“Bluebell?” Illyria stared at Spike, wondering at the name he’d called her. Her head tilted slightly as her cold, inhuman eyes focused on Gunn. “Is this an insult?”

Gunn shrugged. “Depends on the intent, I suppose.” He liked to watch Illyria and Spike play, but not as anything other than an observer. Illyria’s wrath could be…painful. And since Spike was usually the one who provoked her, and on purpose, from what he could tell, well, it was every man for himself.

They watched as Illyria’s lips curved into a cruel smile that would have made Angelus proud. “This one,” she said, nodding at Spike, “is insolent. His intent is always to insult. Have you not found it to be the same?” she asked turning to direct the question at Angel.

“Why’d you have to bring *him* into it?” Spike complained, his eyes settling on his grandsire. “Not a word out of you, poof,” he warned, arm outstretched, his finger pointing directly at Angel.

“Or what?” Angel shot back, his eyes narrowing as they coolly appraised his opponent. “I’ve taken you before, I can take you now.” All movement in the room stilled as the challenge was issued.

The other two watched curiously as the vampires faced off. Suddenly the lobby became an arena, and they the audience to an argument that had begun over a century ago, and would probably continue until the day one of the vampires turned to dust.

These small skirmishes were generally quick and brutal, and usually ended with lots of broken furniture–and two very bruised and battered vampires.

“You break anything, it comes outta your salary,” Gunn warned them. “No way I’m giving you any of my money to buy new furniture. Again,” he added pointedly.

Strictly speaking, they were all quite rich. As a parting shot at Wolfram and Hart, Gunn had managed to drain several of the company’s bank accounts, transferring the money into an untraceable account in Switzerland. Monthly stipends were deposited into each of their personal accounts, while the rest of the money just sat there, building up interest. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, they should all be financially comfortable for the rest of their lives.

Of course, unforeseen circumstances seemed to happen daily, so the smarter ones in their little band continued to live sensibly, setting aside a fair amount of their monthly salary for a 'rainy day.’

“Come, Gunn. I wish to talk. We will go upstairs.”

Illyria mounted the stairs, knowing somehow that Gunn would follow her. They often disappeared together for hours, and although Angel and Spike were both curious about what was going on between them, neither had the nerve to ask Gunn about it. They hadn’t had the opportunity to hear anything that happened between them, and neither smelled of sex. Was it possible that they were really just talking?

The two vampires faced each other, each circling the other as they waited for a mistake or a weakness to manifest. Suddenly a bright light burst forth, quickly filling the space between them, stunning and blinding them. It was a white, pure light, reminding them both of something that had happened a year ago, in a wet, dark alley.

Even though neither could see well, their vision still impaired by the strength of the light, they closed ranks, standing together against whatever was to come.

As suddenly as it began, the light faded, leaving in its wake the form of a young woman with a thick mane of long red hair that covered her naked body like a shroud.

She seemed to be unconscious; her small body huddled in upon itself as if warding off an attack. But there was not a mark on her, and her heartbeat thrummed strong in their ears.

They approached cautiously, as if concerned that she might somehow be a danger, or part of a ruse to harm them. But nothing untoward happened, and after a half-dozen steps they were staring down at the woman who was lying still on the floor.

A glance was exchanged; “You do it,” Spike insisted. It wasn’t that he was afraid. More like, if it was going to be bad, he wanted Angel to take the brunt of it. But that didn’t mean he was afraid; just smart.

Angel glared at him, but reached out a hand to touch the woman. Her body uncurled at his touch, unfolding and lying on her back on the cool tile floor. Her face still held the peaceful expression of a sleep, but at least now they knew who she was.

Willow Rosenberg.

---

Willow was fighting to wake up. Her head felt muddy and confused, her thinking clouded, and waves of nausea buffeted her body back and forth. With each attempt at movement, sharp stabs of pain tore into her head, making her want to cry out at the severity of it.

Okay, you can do this, she told herself. Mental pep talks were usually fairly successful, but this time it wasn’t doing much good. Then again, it was hard to get really excited and enthused about anything when all you really wanted to do was crawl away into a corner and die. On second thought, with the way she was feeling right now, crawling might be a bit too much work.

Her eyes flickered, halfway between open and closed, but all that greeted her was a blinding light. She tried to scream, but it seemed like too much work. Then she tried to whimper and failed fantastically at that as well. So instead, she let her eyelids drift closed and fell back into a dreamless oblivion.

---

Angel and Spike stared at the small figure lying on the floor of the lobby. Of all the people who might have been dumped on them, she was the last one either of them would have expected.

Spike still remembered their desperate call to London. The Watcher’s voice had been prissy and smug as he informed them that Willow would be unable to help them fight to keep Fred. Something about an astral plane, he seemed to remember.

But it had been an excuse, pure and simple, and they all knew it. Giles had decided that the Los Angeles group was evil, and he used that as his justification for refusing to help. Spike was relatively sure that if that hadn’t worked, Giles would have found something else. He didn’t want to waste any of his resources–his precious slayers–on the likes of Spike and Angel.

But Willow…she had seemed like one of the decent ones. He hadn’t expected that she would toe the party line like she had. Yeah, they’d had their differences. He’d threatened to kill her once or twice. But that was ancient history. Or so he’d thought. Apparently she still held a grudge.

“She’s got a lot of nerve showing up on our doorstep,” Spike said. He didn’t seem particularly angry; he was just stating the facts as he saw them.

“Hmm…” Privately, Angel agreed. He shared Spike’s bitterness towards what he thought of as the Sunnydale social club. No vampires allowed. Oh, they’d let him stand on the edges of their little group, let him help when they needed him, but in return they had refused to help him when he’d really needed it, and for that he couldn’t forgive them. She was one of them, one of the linchpins. It still stung that she had swept them aside so easily.

And now here she was, obviously in trouble. And she had come to them for help. Angel had to wonder why. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked Spike.

“That she’d look pretty good chained to my bed?” the blond asked, his eyes running over skin that was pale to the extreme. She looked more or less like one of them, her skin so translucent that it almost shone.

The look that Angel gave Spike was one part incredulous, two parts disgusted. “No, I was wondering what it was she was running from when she decided to come here. And whether it will follow her.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought. “Although you do have a point.”

Spike snorted, his upper lip lifting slightly to give Angel a crooked half-smile. “So adolescent fantasies aside, what are we do with her?”

Angel shrugged. “Guess I’ll go upstairs and grab her some blankets. You put her on the couch.” He walked towards the stairs, stopping halfway and looking back down. “Try to keep your hands to yourself,” he added.

Spike rolled his eyes. “I’m bein’ a perfect bloody gentleman, I am,” he muttered, as he picked the redhead up and carried her to the sofa.

---

Willow had no idea how many hours had passed, but once again she was on the threshold of awareness, trying to decide whether waking up was worth the pain and suffering that were bound to follow. Then again, she couldn’t continue like this forever. Eyes would have to be opened and decisions would have to be made.

So once again she made the supreme effort to open her eyes. This time, the blinding white light was gone, replaced by a murky half-darkness.

Something was different; she had been on a cold, hard surface before, but now she felt softness beneath her, as if she were lying on a bed or a couch. Sure enough, when she ran her fingers over the surface of her resting place, the texture was flat and felt of canvas. Definitely a couch. Or a bed belonging to someone with really bad taste in linens.

Her eyes began to focus on objects in the room: a bookcase here, a doorway there. She had vague memories of having been here before. If only the fog in her head would clear for a moment, she’d be able to figure it out.

“What the hell made you think you were welcome here?”

The words shocked her. Anger filled them, but they held an undercurrent of pain as well. Most shocking thing of all was the fact that they were spoken by someone who had been dead and gone for over a year.

“Spike?”


Chapter Four

This had to be a dream, Willow thought. It couldn’t have been Spike’s voice she heard. He was dead. Not just dead, but disintegrated, if Giles was to be believed. There was no way he could possibly be here, in what she was coming to recognize as the lobby of Angel’s hotel. Not unless someone was playing a very sick joke on her…

She turned her head to search the shadows, looking for the face to match the voice she’d heard. As she watched, a figure came towards her from out of the darkness. It was Spike. She blinked, and then ran her hands over her eyes. Yep, still Spike.

“How?” It was all she could come up with at that point. The word croaked out of her mouth, signaling her need for water.

The apparition stopped, staring at her, a slightly confused expression on his face. “Was about to ask you the same question. Might have added ‘why’ into the mix as well.”

His voice was cold, as if tightly repressed anger were coursing through him. Important questions came to her, things she hadn’t considered before. Things like, ‘does he still have a soul?’ and ‘would he bite me?’ and then there was the ever-popular ‘why am I naked?’

He continued to stare at her, the look he gave her akin to someone studying an insect they thought they might like to dissect. Her nervousness increased, and her body began to shiver in response. This Spike wasn’t the one that had been destroyed in Sunnydale. That Spike wouldn’t have hurt her; heck, he wouldn’t have even made her nervous. But this one was sending off bad vibes, and she mentally conjured up a half-dozen defensive spells, just in case.

“Why are you alive? What am I doing here?” She tried again, the words barely understandable. But something in his eyes and the way that his posture relaxed just the slightest bit told her that he had gotten the gist of the questions.

”Don’t know the answer to either of those. Would like to know why you came here though. Why you thought you’d get any kind of warm welcome, after what you did to us before.”

The anger was evident again, in what he said, and in the way he clipped the words off. His stance was aggressive, as if he expected a fight. Surely he couldn’t expect her to put up any resistance; she could barely handle lying quietly without getting nauseous. Standing up was out of the question.

Then she tried to concentrate on the words he had spoken. Why wouldn’t she receive a warm welcome here? Sure, she hadn’t heard from Angel recently, but they were on good terms, as far as she was aware. Had things changed? If so, why? And why did Spike seem to be under the impression that she had chosen to show up on his doorstep? Or, at least, on his floor. As far as she could remember, coming here certainly hadn’t been *her* idea.

It was definitely past time to gain some clarity.

“You’re dead. I mean really dead,” she told him. “Remember Sunnydale? Big crater, nothing survived, you and Anya ‘died’ while saving the world. Any of that ring a bell?” Her voice was becoming stronger, although each word still pained her like rubbing sandpaper over a raw wound. “Could I get some water?” she asked. “Talking hurts.”

Spike fixed her with a glare that clearly said, ‘and why should I care?’ but a voice from the stairs interrupted before he could say anything.

“I’ll get it. Then we need to talk.”

Willow looked up to see Angel walking down the stairs, his arms full of blankets and his expression grim. His voice held the same quality of anger as Spike’s did, and his body seemed to practically vibrate with the emotion. Why were they both so angry with her?

“Hi, Angel. Um, thanks.” He nodded curtly, dumped the blankets on the floor next to her, and then headed to the kitchen. Willow grabbed a blanket off of the pile, grateful to have something with which to cover herself. Trying to avoid looking at Spike, she fussed with the fleecy cover, moving it this way and that, tucking it underneath her, until it covered her completely. When that project was finished, she looked up to see Spike’s eyes still on her, his expression foreboding.

“Why are you here, Willow?”

The question was from Angel this time. He was standing next to Spike, and for a moment their equally intense, equally angry expressions showed Willow a ‘family’ resemblance she’d never noticed before. Seeing them like that made her want to laugh, but she knew that was a bad idea, so she merely filed the fact away for future contemplation. Maybe she’d think about it when the screaming in her head quieted down a bit.

“I don’t know why I’m here, Angel. The last thing I remember, I was…” she tried to think, to concentrate on the moments before she woke up there. “I was in my flat. Getting ready to go to bed. I think…” She took a sip of the water, feeling a gentle relief as the liquid soothed her aching throat. “I didn’t come here on purpose. I think I must’ve been sent here. I just don’t know why.”

Willow watched as the vampires exchanged a look. They knew more than they were saying, although overall they seemed just as confused as she did. She wished she had some idea of what had been going on in L.A. recently.

After the destruction of Sunnydale, Willow had left the U.S., and Angel and his friends, and hadn’t really thought much about them until now. The work she was doing for the Council had been all-consuming. She loved it, but it certainly didn’t allow her much time for keeping up friendships, or idle chit-chat. Sometimes she missed her old life, but it all seemed far away and unattainable, just like the town she had grown up in.

Willow couldn’t tear her eyes away from Spike. It was as if her mind still couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling it. “How long have you been back? And why didn’t you tell us?” She tried to inject a little anger of her own into the words. He had been one of them, albeit reluctantly. They deserved to know that he was alive. Or at least undusty.

And what about him and Buffy? Her friend’s reaction to Spike’s disappearance was still fresh enough in her mind. Buffy had been deeply affected by Spike’s death. Some nights Willow would hear her crying through the walls in the cheap hotel room they’d stayed in directly after they lost Sunnydale. At other times, a far-away look in the blonde’s eyes would alert Willow to the fact that her friend’s thoughts were elsewhere and elsewhen.

But finding out that he was here, and hadn’t even bothered to tell them, was like being slapped in the face. No, actually, it was more liked being clubbed over the head repeatedly with a two-by-four.

Or maybe that was just the pain in her head talking.

Spike looked confused again. Another quick glance at Angel, and then he replied: “Of course I told you. Not you personally, but Andrew. He told Giles. And I’m sure Giles called a meeting to let the rest of you know. Giles was always big on the meetings, with the visual aids, and the charts and all that rot. Probably gave you the news, then told you not to trust me,” he added morosely.

Willow frowned; there hadn’t been a meeting. Or any mention that Spike had been alive, for that matter. That was something she was sure to have remembered, no matter how muzzy her brain felt at the moment.

“I was in Brazil,” she explained slowly, trying to figure it out as she spoke. “With Kennedy. For that first year. Then we had a–a parting of the ways.” That was such an understatement, while still being technically the truth. Kennedy’s betrayal, with one of the younger, non-witchy slayers, had hurt. Maybe not as much as losing Tara had, but the pain of it had still been enough to send her scurrying back to London, and the relative safety of her friends. Xander had returned from Africa when he heard she was back, and the whole gang had been together again.

Except Spike and Anya, of course.

Spike was still glaring at her. Angel too. Maybe she hadn’t made herself clear? “I was in Brazil. Nobody ever told me you were back, Spike. If they had, I’d have…” She’d have what? Baked him a cake? Sent him an email? What? They hadn’t been particularly close, although they’d fought for the same side. She wasn’t quite sure what she would have done, if she had known he was back.

“So I suppose you had no idea we were trying to get ahold of you, either, then?” This time it was Angel who spoke, and from the tone of his voice, he already knew which answer she would give him. Judging from the look on his face, he was also prepared not to believe her.

Circles within circles. Nothing was making sense. There was more going on here than she realized, and knowing that made Willow more than a little annoyed. But it was better not to show her emotions until she had a better understanding of the situation. Until then, she would continue to answer the questions as they were asked, and do her best to figure out what she was doing here.

“No, I didn’t. When was this? Why were you trying to get ahold of me? Fred had my email address; I told her I checked it two or three times a week.”

They flinched. Something she said had actually made them flinch. And now their faces were completely empty. They wore the kind of blank mask that a person used when their true face held too much pain to show the world. “What the hell?” she whispered.

“I want answers, and I want them now,” she said, pushing herself to a sitting position on the couch. She regretted it instantly. The world wobbled precariously, and whatever her last meal was, it was threatening to make the trip up north again, but she steadied herself and fixed the vampires with a stern look. So maybe she didn’t look like ultra-strong wicca-woman, but at least she was upright-woman, and that was progress, wasn’t it?

“Fine, you want answers? Well here they are.”

It was Spike who replied, and again he radiated the repressed anger that she had sensed before.

“Angel called Giles. Begged for your help. And we never heard from you. Not a word. Saved the world for you bloody white hats, I did. But all Giles cared about was whether Angel was still running Wolfram and Hart. The minute he heard that he was, the pukin’ Watcher couldn’t hang up the phone fast enough.”

“You’re working for Wolfram and Hart? Why?”

“That’s not the point!” Spike roared. “We needed you to save Fred’s life, and you wouldn’t come. She’s dead now, and it’s *your* fault.”

He took a step towards her, his face a perfect picture of murderous rage. Willow’s fight-or-flight mechanism took over at what looked like an all-to-real threat, and she jumped to her feet, attempting to get away from him. She managed one step, and then another, before she fell to her knees, dizziness and pain overtaking her again.

As if from far away, she heard Angel call her name, and then Spike’s. Her eyes drifted shut, and she knew she was in danger of passing out. But then she felt herself being lifted and placed on the couch, and a soft voice called her name again.

“Willow? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

And she found that she could. Her eyelids fluttered open, Angel’s concerned face filling her vision. He looked more confused than anything, she decided. He seemed to have determined that maybe she wasn’t guilty of whatever it was they thought she had done, although judging from Spike’s angry glare, the other vampire wasn’t quite so sure.

Then his words came back to her. “Fred’s dead?” she whispered. She remembered the shy woman with friendly eyes, and a touch of Texas in her voice. They had chatted and laughed together the last time she had come to L.A. They had even stayed in touch for a while, in the long-distance way that people who had lots of stuff in common did. She hadn’t heard from Fred for a while, but then again, that wasn’t too surprising. Every couple of weeks she would resolve to write the woman an email, and then something would come up and distract her. A couple of weeks would go by, and then she’d think of Fred again, resolve to write her, get distracted…it was a cycle that played out over and over again.

“What happened?” she asked Angel. Then turned and looked up at Spike. “I liked Fred. I would have been here, if I’d known…”

Judging from his expression, Spike was unimpressed. He seemed bound and determined to blame her for whatever had happened. Angel, on the other hand, seemed like he was willing to consider what she had told him. She concentrated on him.

“Tell me,” she insisted softly, watching the pain as it played across Angel’s face. “I want to know. What was it? And how could I have helped?”

She heard Spike’s snort of derision and watched as he headed upstairs. “You can waste your time with her if you want,” he called down to Angel, “but I’m going to bed.”

It hurt that Spike didn’t believe her, and in fact seemed just as angry as when she had arrived, but there was nothing she could do right now to fix that, so she just watched him leave.

When only the scent of tobacco and leather lingered as a ghost of his presence, she turned to Angel, motioning for him to sit next to her on the couch. Sitting up was easier this time than it had been earlier, and that fact reassured her. Even though it didn’t seem like it, she *was* getting better. Slowly.

“Now tell me what happened to Fred,” she asked again. “And while you’re at it, don’t forget to tell me what the hell has been going on here for the last couple of years. Including why you were working for Wolfram and Hart.” She paused for a moment, giving him a sharp glance. “You didn’t lose your soul again, did you? Because I’m fresh out of orbs and way too damn tired to do another restoration tonight.”

Angel wanted to grimace and laugh, both at the same time. Willow did that to him sometimes. And the subject of his soul was something he *could* laugh about, now that the First Good had secured it for him. In fact, he found himself laughing quite a bit more in general these days.

But first he owed her an explanation. He would tell her most of it, but decided he would leave off the details of their encounter with the First Good. In his experience, it was always prudent to have at least one secret. Knowledge was power, and you never knew when you’d need a little.

“It’s a long story…"


Chapter Five

Willow felt like she’d just gotten off a roller coaster. Angel’s story had been full of twists and turns that had her heart beating double-time. But the part that really got to her was when he told her about his phone call to London, where Giles summarily dismissed him, refusing to help in any way.

“It’s not that I don’t get his reasoning,” she admitted. “I mean, evil law firm and all, it’s gotta make ya wonder. Sorry,” she added, when she noticed Angel’s frown. “I’m just saying…”

“It wasn’t like that,” Angel growled. “We were making progress, changing things for the better–we were!”

“I know, I know,” she agreed, becoming more animated as she tried to explain. “And I’m angry at Giles. Really angry.”

Her voice was eerily calm, but Angel could tell that she meant what she said.

“I mean, regardless of what he thought, the decision was mine.” She nodded, as if to emphasize the point. “He had no right to make that call, not without consulting me.”

“And what would you have done?” Angel asked.

She was quiet for a moment, obviously giving the matter some thought. Angel was impressed that she was actually considering the question, instead of giving the knee-jerk reaction of saying “I’d have helped.” Her hesitation gave her eventual answer the patina of honesty.

“I’m not sure,” she finally answered, casting her eyes to the floor. “I know I wouldn’t have ignored you, though. Probably would have come out here to assess the situation myself, before giving you an answer. Something like that.”

That was what Angel would have expected of her. She was open-minded to a fault. Heck, she had given him the benefit of the doubt when he had returned from Hell. So it made sense to him that she would want to see what was happening before she passed judgment.

He was surprised to realize that her answer made him feel slightly less bitter. It was easier to heap all the blame and hatred on Giles’ shoulders. It was the difference between one betrayer, and a half-dozen.

So maybe that wasn’t a very logical argument, but who said emotions were logical?

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her suppress a yawn. Obviously whatever had happened to her had taken a physical toll. “Do you need some sleep?”

She nodded, her expression slightly uneasy, as if she was embarrassed at being caught in possession of such a human frailty. “I’m still kinda tired,” she admitted.

Angel made the calculations in his head. If it was just now 3am in Los Angeles, it would already be 11am in London. She had said earlier that she had been getting ready for bed when–whatever it was–happened. He wondered when she had last slept. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

And by the time he was halfway up the stairs, he could tell that she was already fast asleep.

---

Spike leaned back against the door to his bedroom, wanting to punch something. Anything.

Suddenly he wished Illyria was with him. A long round with the Mistress of Pain would be just what he needed right now. Someone to hit, someone to hit back…there was an even exchange of violence. It was almost like poetry in motion.

Anger threatened to consume him. Anger at Willow, and Buffy, but most of all, at Giles.

Because if what Willow said was true, it was Giles who had betrayed them, Giles who had ignored them, Giles who had…

Giles who had condemned Fred to death.

But did he really believe Willow? That was another important question.

Sure, she was the mature one, the responsible one. But mightn’t she, if push came to shove, tell a little lie in order to get herself out of a tricky spot? She could blame Giles for everything, and be reasonably sure that they would not go to the trouble to track him down and demand the truth.

Another possibility occurred to him: maybe all of this was just the backlash of a spell gone awry. There had been plenty of those in the past. Or maybe she was here on orders from Giles, checking out the ‘big evildoers,’ making sure that they weren’t a potential threat to the White Hats and the new Watchers Council.

A couple of years ago he would have trusted her almost unconditionally. Would have trusted most of the Sunnydale crew, really. But things had changed. He had changed. Maybe it had been because of the loss of Fred, and then Wesley.

He had trusted Willow then; trusted her to do the right thing and help them. And where had that gotten him?

Well, he wasn’t going to give her the chance to let him down again. This time he would watch and listen, and see what she was up to. If her story turned out to be true, he would accept her. But until then…

---

He would have to tell Gunn, Angel realized. How on earth would he be able to explain this to Gunn in a way that didn’t have the man bounding down the stairs, eager to kill Willow? Or at the very least, hurt her badly?

There was an alternative, one that was looking relatively pleasant, although he had to admit that it was a bit of a cop-out. He *could* stay quiet, and let Gunn discover Willow on his own.

But in the end that would only lead to bad things happening. Most likely, to Gunn.

Sometimes he could forget that Willow was a badass witch. Her easy smile, unassuming demeanor, and soft voice made her seem like nothing more than a typical young woman. Scary-smart, but still normal enough.

People tended to forget that she had once flayed a man alive.

Not that he hadn’t done worse in his time. Willow’s dark period had been over in a day or two. Angelus’ had lasted over a century.

His footsteps slowed as he reached the door to Illyria’s quarters. The day of the final fight against Wolfram and Hart, Angel had ‘liberated’ all the money he could get his hands on. And as well as evil paid, that was a lot of money. He figured that if they made it through that day, they would probably need it.

Since they had survived, although not without losses–his thoughts turned briefly towards Wes–he had decided that a renovation of the old Hyperion might not be a bad idea.

So now they all had their own private suites, several times the size of the previous rooms the hotel used to boast. And well furnished, to boot. There wasn’t any rule that said the warriors for good couldn’t be comfortable in their spare time, after all. Besides, wasn’t it better that the money went for something like this, than towards the subjugation of all mankind? He was pretty sure that if he’d left it where it was, it would have ended up doing no good at all. Literally.

Illyria had shown little interest in shopping for items for her rooms, so Spike had taken care of it, merely buying two of whatever he wanted for himself. As a result, Illyria’s suite reminded him more of Spike than her. But she seemed happy enough with the result. As far as anyone could tell, at least.

Angel hesitated as he stood at the threshold. He wasn’t quite listening, he told himself, and yet he wasn’t knocking either. He chalked it up to uneasiness about what he had to tell them.

“You may enter,” came Illyria’s voice, as imperious as ever.

Well that was interesting. Apparently she had sensed him outside, somehow. Although he was curious about how she had done it, he was also a little alarmed that this ability of hers was something he hadn’t been aware of before. What else could she do that he had yet to discover?

He turned the knob and pushed the door open just a bit, waiting for Illyria’s regal nod before entering the room.

Gunn and Illyria sat at the dining room table, hunched over small pieces of wood, and a large-ish laminated playing board.

They were playing Scrabble. Whatever it was he had been expecting to find Gunn and Illyria doing, it certainly wasn’t this.

And, judging from the number of tiles on the board, someone was actually fairly good at it. Words like quaver and xylan littered the board, along with more conservative choices such as vanquish and device. He suspected that the more unusual words belonged to Illyria. She talked like she had eaten a dictionary every now and then. And considering some of the things Angel had seen her do, he wouldn’t put that past her.

While he was slightly disappointed that he hadn’t interrupted something a little more risqué, at the same he was relieved that they were both clothed. Occasionally Angel’s memory would tease him with the gentle curves of Fred’s body. He and Fred had enjoyed a ‘look but don’t touch’ type of relationship. Well, maybe ‘enjoyed’ wasn’t quite the right word.

But now Fred was gone. And Willow was here, her presence like salt rubbed into an open wound he thought had healed.

“Okay,” Angel said, clearing his throat uneasily. “We’ve, um, got a bit of a situation.”

Gunn shot a cheeky grin at Illyria. “See, it’s always ‘there’s a situation.’ How come it’s never, ‘how are you?’ or ‘are you having a nice evening?’ Start out with something nice, then work your way up to the big nasty stuff, okay?”

Angel glared at him. “You done yet?”

Gunn crossed his arms over his chest and gave Angel a grin. “I’m good.”

Par for the course these days, the conversation wasn’t going the way he had planned. He started again. “Spike and I were…” Were what? Were replaying the quest for dominance they’d repeated over and over again?

“Fighting like small, annoying children?” Illyria offered, in an attempt to be helpful.

Fine, whatever worked. “We were talking,” he ground out. “And then this bright light blinded us. It was kind of like…”

Gunn was frowning. “Like in the alley? The First Good?”

“Yeah.” Trust Gunn to cut to the chase. It was a quality that Angel appreciated.

”Huh.” Gunn was quiet for a moment. “So how’s that a situation?”

“Well, because this time the First left behind a little present.”

“Is it dangerous? Should I smite it?” Illyria still tended to think in terms of black and white, friend or foe, ally or target.

“Actually, it’s…Willow.”

“Willow? As in a tree? That is not a worthy present.”

Illyria hadn’t met Willow, obviously. Angel wondered what she would think of the witch. And vice versa. He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

The beginnings of anger stirred in Gunn’s eyes. “Willow? Little Miss I’m Too Busy to Save Fred’s Life? That Willow?”

Yeah, this was gonna be fun. “There’s more to that story than we thought, apparently.”

Gunn’s raised eyebrows were Angel’s cue to continue.

“Giles never told her that I called. She had no idea that we needed her. Or so she says.”

The skeptical expression on Gunn’s face didn’t surprise him much. His own thoughts went right along those lines.

“Do you believe her?” Gunn asked finally. “Or do you think this is just some convenient excuse she’s come up with, now that she needs our help?”

Angel sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know. I will say that I don’t think it was her choice to come here. I mean, she seemed pretty out of it. I’m thinking that maybe she’s as surprised to be here as we are to find her here.”

“What does Spike think?”

“I don’t think he buys it. He took off before we had a chance to talk. He and Fred…” Spike and Fred had been friends. And Spike didn’t make friends easily. Conquests, yes. But friends–true friends–not often.

“This Willow would not help the shell when it was in trouble?” Illyria’s eyes narrowed slightly as if she were trying to decide whether to be insulted.

“This Willow would not help the shell when you were killing her,” Gunn growled, glaring at Illyria. He was no longer constantly bombarded with images of Fred when he looked at Illyria, but there were times when memories of her came to him unbidden, and this was one of those times.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed his bitterness down and concentrated on Angel. “What are we going to do? You got some plan?”

Angel shook his head. “Nothing yet. She’s downstairs sleeping. When she wakes up, maybe we should talk to her. Decide if we should just put her on a plane back to London. I don’t know.” He ran a hand across his forehead. It had been a long night, and the morning was looking to be pretty nasty as well. But mostly, he was just tired.

“I’m going to get some sleep. Just…don’t do anything yet. I think we should all be there when we talk to her, okay?”

Illyria shrugged; it didn’t really matter to her. Gunn nodded, but he didn’t look terribly thrilled. That was fine; Angel didn’t need him to be happy. He just needed Gunn to lay off Willow for a few hours.

“Okay, meeting downstairs at noon.”

---

After Angel’s departure, the silence between Gunn and Illyria stretched uncomfortably. Gunn seemed deep in thought, staring at the game tiles before him blindly. Illyria was, in turn, studying one Charles Gunn.

“You are angry with me.” Her flat tone made the words a statement, not a question

“I’m–no, I’m not.” Gunn shook his head, then frowned slightly. “Maybe I am. I’m trying not to be.”

Illyria speared him with that cool, level gaze meant to intimidate. “Why is it so important to you? You and the sh–you and Fred were no longer intimate. The connection between you was not the same as the one between Fred and my Wesley.”

Even in death, Gunn would never be able to forget that it was Wesley that Fred had turned to in her last days. Some part of him hurt with the knowledge, but the wound wasn’t fatal. He tried to explain it to her. “There are connections–relationships–other than the type of one that Fred shared with Wesley.”

Her blank gaze spurred him on.

“There’s friendship, and there’s acquaintances, and there’s family. Those are the main ones, but there are lots of others. Each is different, and complicated, in its own way.” And how did he get himself roped into this discussion, anyway?

But even as he thought the words, he knew the answer. She expected nothing of him; he was simply Charles Gunn, a way to pass her time. He was nothing more to her, and the simplicity of it was surprisingly relaxing. He didn’t have to be a hero, or a lawyer, or a fixer of problems. He could just sit here and play with little wooden tiles on a piece of laminated cardboard.

“I understand those relationships.”

And the thing was, she believed that to be the truth. Gunn shook his head. “No, you know the definition of those words. That’s a whole different thing.”

She was silent for a moment, studying him, and probably replaying the conversation in her mind. He suspected that she did that often; sometimes, out of the blue, she would throw his own words back at him hours or even days later, demanding an explanation.

“You will teach me the difference.” She seemed unconcerned with his opinion on the subject.

The thing was, he figured she was probably right. Oh, he could complain about it, deny it, rail at fate for this role he seemed to play in her life. But when it came down to it, he was all she had.

She certainly wouldn’t learn anything from Spike or Angel. Their relationship was…just too weird for words. And certainly not anything like the human relationships of friend or lover. Although he supposed that elements of each were present.

The tapping of her fingernail against the playing board brought his attention back to the game between them.

“It is your turn,” she told him.

Gunn carefully marshaled his thoughts, pushing the serious contemplations away for now. He had just the tiles he needed to spell quixotic, and it was on a triple word score.

Hot damn, he might actually win this game.


Chapter Six

It was quiet when Willow woke, and the pounding in her head was, thankfully, gone. Since she was still alone, she took the time to look around the lobby of the hotel. It had changed since the last time she had visited.

Small touches that spoke of money carefully spent, made the lobby look comfortable, yet professional. The couch that she had slept on last night was evidence of that. It was nearly new, and quite comfy. But the colors were neutral, probably chosen because they weren’t splashy or eye-catching. It was that whole ‘understated elegance’ thing that she’d heard about, but never quite understood.

To Willow, fashion was all about color. The flashier the better. A sunshine yellow shirt with a pair of bright green shorts was a fashion statement. Plus, you’d never get hit by a car wearing an outfit like that. Any driver would see you coming from a mile away.

Speaking of clothes…a look under the blanket confirmed her still-naked status. A quick glamour took care of that for now, but sooner or later she really should get actual clothes to wear.

A trip to the bathroom was needed, Willow decided. Her teeth felt like they were wearing fuzzy little sweaters, and other needs were making themselves felt as well. She had been to the hotel twice; if she remembered correctly, there was a small guest bathroom right off one of the offices.

She was grateful to see that her memory wasn’t completely useless; the bathroom was there, right off what seemed to be Angel’s office. Casting a quick look around the room, she made her way into the bathroom and took care of what she needed to. Five minutes later she emerged, feeling slightly cleaner, although she suspected that her breath probably wasn’t as minty fresh as it could have been. Too bad Angel hadn’t had any toothpaste in that bathroom. Maybe when one was a vampire on a liquid diet, brushing one’s teeth wasn’t quite as important.

On the way back out, she took a moment to study the office. Even in the near-dark, she could tell that it was elegant and well furnished. Everything in there, from plush carpet, to the tranquil scenes in the framed paintings on the walls, seemed to project an image of calm competence. An Orb of Thessulah, resting on a pile of papers, caught her eye, and she picked it up, feeling the comforting weight of it in her hand.

She wondered why Angel kept it there. Was it a ‘just in case’ type of thing? Or maybe it reminded him of how tenuous the dividing line between Angel and Angelus truly was.

Willow put the Orb back down and turned to leave. As she did, she noticed a flicker in the depth and quality of the shadows. Before she could move–hell, before she could even *think* about moving, she was pinned against the wall by a cool body that vibrated with tension. Angry eyes, blue with flecks of gold, bored into hers.

“Doing a little spying, are we? Want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”

Spike. It was only Spike, she told her heart, which was beating at breakneck speed. Spike was chi–wait, no, Spike *wasn’t* chipped anymore. But he still had a soul. He wasn’t evil. She clung to that thought like a drowning woman would clutch at a life raft, as his body pressed hers against the wall of Angel’s office.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice deadly quiet. He hadn’t trusted her last night, and he certainly didn’t trust her now. Especially since she seemed to be snooping around Angel’s office, poking into things that were none of her business.

“I’m–I’m not spying!” she exclaimed, twisting and pushing against him in attempt to dislodge his body. “I was just using the bathroom. Fuzzy teeth!”

He frowned at her words. It had been a couple of years since he’d had to decipher her nervous babbles and obscure references. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here. In L.A.,” he clarified.

She looked up at him, and he was surprised to see the confusion in her eyes.

“Don’t know what I’m doing here. Didn’t Angel tell you?”

She sounded alone and slightly scared, and for just a moment Spike felt guilty. Then another face replaced hers: Fred’s. He saw her face as she futilely fought the pain and misery as Illyria killed her in bits and pieces. Any remorse he felt towards Willow died then and there.

“Don’t care what you told him. I want the truth. Did Rupert send you here to find out what we were up to? Things get a little slow in London, so he figured he’d send you around and yank our tails again?”

Willow shut her eyes to his angry gaze and tried to ignore his accusations. She was still having trouble believing that Giles had done what he had, but everything Angel had said, and now Spike as well, seemed to lead her to one inevitable conclusion: that Giles had lied to her. He had lied by omission, but that was just as much a lie as any other kind.

“The sooner we get you back on a plane to London, the better.”

Spike’s words triggered something deep inside her, and a dark terror flooded her system. She couldn’t go back. Not now. She didn’t know how she knew, but something inside told her that if she went back now, the results would be horrific. The panic raced through her body, controlling everything, until all that was left was the fear.

“Can’t go back,” she gasped out, eyes wild. “Don’t send me back, don’t!” The terror continued burning through her as she tried desperately to get it under control.

She twisted and pushed against Spike in her panic, and the blond found himself studying her dispassionately. The odd thing was, she really did seem to be terrified by something. Words and actions could be faked, but scents, in his experience, could not. At least, not by a human, who had absolutely no idea what fear smelled like. Even if the witch *could* come up with the correct combination of scents, there was no way she would be able to gauge how strong it should be or how long it should linger. It would take a vampire to figure out those subtle touches.

He finally let her go, watching curiously as she dashed from the room. Once she made it to the lobby, she looked around the room, as if wondering what she should do next. Whatever strong emotions had touched her earlier seemed to be winding down, though. The scent of her fear, which had pleased his demon so, was no longer quite so overpowering.

“Care to tell me what that little display was all about?” he asked, following her into the living room.

Her eyes still bore traces of her earlier panic, he noted. She looked around nervously, and he wondered what she was searching for.

“I was scared,” she confessed, obviously uneasy about admitting to a weakness.

“Yeah,” he drawled, “got that part. What I was wondering about was the why?”

She glared at him from across the room, hands on her hips. “I don’t know why. I just suddenly…I was terrified. About going back to London.” As she voiced the words aloud, the fear surged back through her. But this time she was able to push it down.

“You were scared of…nothing?” His skepticism was obvious.

“Have you ever had a cat?”

The question caught him off guard, and he frowned at her, wondering what the point was.

She shook her head in bemusement. “Of course–kitten poker. You’ve been around them.” Tired of standing, she flounced over to the couch and sat, regarding him cautiously. “You know how they do that thing, where they stare out into the distance, like they can hear something–or see something–that makes the hair on their backs go straight?”

That had happened to Spike on more than one occasion; he nodded his understanding.

“So you see the cat do that, and you know it senses something out there, and it’s freaking you out. And even though you can’t hear or see anything yourself, you’re afraid nonetheless. Afraid of something you can’t see, can’t hear, and can’t even put a name to. It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t make you fear it any less.”

“Not afraid of anything,” Spike muttered, although he understood the metaphor.

“That’s not the point!” She sighed, turning in her seat and doing her best to ignore him.

The sound of footfalls at the top of the stairs alerted Willow to the fact that they had company.

“Hi, Gunn,” she called out, frowning slightly when the other man didn’t reply.

“Didn’t realize I was late to the party,” he said, shooting a curious glance at Spike as he made his way down the stairs.

Willow’s eyes widened as another figure came into view at the top of the stairs. She was a study in blue; blue hair, blue skin, and, most likely, blue eyes.

As Willow watched, the blue woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Fred, walked down the stairs with a grace and precision that the other woman had never exhibited. Fred had been all gawkiness and angles; Illyria–for Willow understood that that was who this must be–carried herself with a regal posture and a comfort with the body she wore that Fred had never possessed.

Willow rose to her feet as Illyria approached her. It seemed the thing to do when greeting royalty for the first time, and that was how Willow felt. She realized that it was nothing but her own odd fancy; Illyria was no longer a god. But Willow felt a strong need to make a positive impression on this being, for whatever reason.

“You have power,” Illyria said, stopping abruptly a few feet in front of Willow.

“I’m a witch. It kind of comes with the territory.”

Illyria cocked her head to the side, unabashedly studying the redhead. “You will help us.” As if this settled the matter, Illyria turned and left the room, walking with purpose towards the kitchen.

“That was…different,” Willow muttered under her breath.

“She’s like that. Very straightforward. Cuts to the chase. Kinda like that about her,” Gunn admitted. “You always know where you stand.”

“Good, we’re all here.”

Angel’s familiar voice relieved Willow somewhat. He seemed to be the only one who wasn’t out-and-out hostile towards her, although she wasn’t naïve enough to think that that meant he wasn’t angry with her. It just meant that he was the only one who bothered to hide his feelings towards her, whatever they might be.

“Hi, Angel,” she said quietly, taking a step towards him, before checking her unconscious movement.

“Willow. Spike, Gunn. Let’s go into the dining room.”

The dining room turned out to be a small room next to the kitchen. It contained a long, plain wooden table, and wooden chairs that were big on wood, but not so much with the comfort, Willow could see.

She perched on the edge of one chair, watching as the others joined her. The continued noises from the kitchen told her that Illyria would not be joining them. Despite many other, more pressing matters, Willow took the time to wonder what exactly Illyria would consider a good meal. Did she share Fred’s near-legendary fondness for tacos, or did she prefer something else? And just how long would it take her to try all of the assorted foods life had to offer? Or did she even care much about the taste, as long as it provided sustenance?

There were lots of questions she’d like to ask, if she was given the opportunity.

“So, why are you here?”

Skip the preliminary and cut to the chase. Gunn seemed to emulate Illyria when it came to that.

“I don’t know.” At the skeptical glares she received, she elaborated. “You don’t like that answer. I get it. But I don’t have a better one. I was in my flat, and one minute I was getting ready for bed, and the next thing I knew, I was here, and everything in my head was screaming.”

“Riiight,” Spike drawled, once again showing his skepticism. “You sure this isn’t just another of your spells gone wrong?” he asked. “S’not like that’s never happened before. If I develop the irresistible urge to suck face with Peaches here, I’ll stake you myself, never mind that you’re not a vamp.”

Willow felt her anger beginning to build, but did her best to keep herself calm. “That happened once, Spike. A long, long time ago. Get over it.”

“Whatever,” he dismissed it. “So why don’t you explain again why you didn’t come to help us when we needed you.”

He and Angel had heard this story already, so Willow concentrated on telling Gunn. “Giles never told me. If he had, I would have tried to help.”

“So why didn’t he tell you?” Gunn’s tone gave nothing away.

“I’m not sure,” Willow admitted. “Probably, judging from what Angel says, because he was afraid you were evil. And with my,” she paused for a moment, “checkered past, maybe he was afraid that I’d–that I’d go evil too.”

“It’s a pretty story. It absolves you of all responsibility, and puts the blame on someone thousands of miles away.”

“It’s also the truth,” she shot back, beginning to feel her earlier anger return. “I don’t like it–knowing that someone I knew, someone I cared about, is gone. But that’s a risk that we run. We fight evil. It’s what we do.” She looked around the table, her eyes boring into theirs as she made her point. “We fight, and sometimes we die. But those that are left behind still keep fighting. I would think that Spike and Angel in particular should get that. You’ve been able to experience evil from both the supply and the demand sides, after all.” She wasn’t above using a couple of well-placed barbs of her own.

They seemed surprised by her eruption.

Finally, Gunn replied: “Fred was special.” A lot went unsaid with that simple statement.

Willow grimaced. “So were Jesse, and Jenny,” she shot a pointed look at Angel, “and Kendra, and Tara, and Anya, and…” the list went on and on. She hadn’t even touched on all the lives lost during the final battle in Sunnydale. This wasn’t a contest, after all. “You’re not the only ones who have lost people,” she repeated sadly, all of her fight leaving her suddenly.

“She could have been saved,” Spike challenged.

“You don’t know that! I might have gotten there and been completely unable to change *anything*. You had every resource available at Wolfram and Hart on your side. That’s a whole lot of evil working for you, and lots of smarts as well. What could I have done that they couldn’t have?

“Besides, they *all* could have been saved. If only I were faster, or smarter, or at the right place at the right time.” She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. “Life is a matter of inches, when it comes right down to it.”

Nobody said a word. Her tirade had given them something to think about, but she wasn’t sure if it had made one bit of difference as to their frame of mind. Did they still hate her? Or would they be able to get past it?

“I’m staying in L.A. And if you guys want to wallow in your anger and your insistence that it was all somehow *my* fault, then go right ahead. I’m not going to stop you. I’ve told you the truth, but