Chapter 11

The room had taken on the quiet, yet lonely tone that had quickly become the habit over the past few days.  Tara seemed less and less inclined to spend alone time with Willow, and for the redheaded witch, it was a relief to forego the popular round of questioning of her magical control. It was a moment for Willow to quietly reflect on herself and her skill as her focus narrowed and she silently sunk into self-congratulations for the emergence of her power-loving self.

 

She couldn’t see what the big deal was.  She’d brought Buffy back from the dead…that needed major control.  Uber control.  What was the point in silly pen twirling exercises?  She was so far beyond all of that.  So far developed in her craft that Tara really had little advice to offer her that wasn’t banked in sour grapes.

 

Willow smiled a sad smile.  She had really thought Tara was beyond something as petty as jealousy.  Had rejoiced in having a partner that she could share the knowledge with, if not the power.  But Tara’s retreat lately had changed the perspective of everything, and Willow was left not only confused about the amount of respect her gift and talent received within the group, but also her position in her lover’s life.

 

Willow shirked off the clinging feeling of failure, knowing that she was actually far from being so defeated.  She had power and knew that everyone had to respect her.  She had done the unthinkable and returned Buffy to them all; alive and safe.  That Tara now shot her disapproving glances and stuttered her confusion meant little.  There was nothing to worry about.  Her gentle girlfriend, her beautiful lover was panicking about less than nothing.

 

No.  As much as she loved Tara, the girl was no longer comfortable as Willow’s magic playmate.  Willow had unintentionally left her girlfriend behind, and though it didn’t feel right, there was little she could do about it.  Tara had taught her so much, brought her so far along the path in her exploration of magic, but it would appear now that Willow had sucked up all that the shapely blond had to teach her.  Now she had resorted to trying to put the break on Willow so that the redhead didn’t go too far beyond her.  Didn’t develop so far away from her as to be unidentifiable any more.

 

There was no doubt that Willow still loved Tara.  Was still madly, deeply in love and lust with her partner.  Just the thought of having the shy blond in her arms, kissing and touching her, was enough to make Willow melt into teary happiness.  Tara was her mate, the love she wanted to cherish for all of her life.  But she was no longer her equal as far as skill went.

 

Willow felt the need for a new magic playmate.  Someone who could appreciate her power, could support and encourage her on her journey to strength.  Someone she could have fun with.

 

As if drawn, Willow’s eyes fell onto the cage housing her once schoolmate Amy.  Never before had she had the skill to reverse the fatal spell the girl had used on herself to escape danger but imprison herself within the body of a rat.

 

Ewwww! Willow screwed up her nose in sympathy for what the other wiccan must have gone through the past years, and then shuddered, glad she had never tried to turn herself into something animaly.  If there was one lesson she had learnt from Amy’s pain, it was that desperate attempts to save yourself from certain fiery death by becoming a rat was a major boo boo.  Yup!  No changing form spells for Willow.  That lesson was more than sure to stick like superglue!

 

But in Amy, she could have a friend.  Someone who was able to turn herself into a rat at just seventeen must have had power.  Real power.  Power that she might share with Willow.

 

A thoughtful look crossed her features and a sharpened edge of determination shaped her lips.  She stood and made her way to the cage, opening the latch and taking the rat out, petting her fur.

 

“What’s the matter, Amy?  You lonely?”  Willow thought of more to say, to take her frustrations out about Tara, but stopped herself, instead placing Amy carefully on her bed.

 

She pinned the rat to her bedcoverings with an intent look. There was no doubt in Willow’s mind that she would be able to make Amy into a real girl again.  All she needed was the spell, and not knowing for sure what the spell that Amy used was…

 

“I swear, if I could figure out how to turn you back…”

 

Willow sat back down at her desk, wondering, thinking, and at last spearing towards action.

 

“Revele,” occurred to her and the words she needed materialised etched, on a piece of parchment.  Not even contemplating the risks, the side effects, or even the words, she began to utter the spell.

 

“Cio che fu none piu.  Cio che fu fatto disfa.  Passato e it pericolo, finita e la prova.  Metti le cosa a posto.” A glaring flash of white light blinded Willow momentarily, but as she regained her sight she found the stunned vision of Amy sitting naked on her bed, legs pulled up protectively.  Willow smiled her satisfaction and offered a warm welcome, Amy twitching still and rat-like.  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  

Willow couldn’t remember how she got to be here.

 

Spinning, whirling, her skirts a twirling. 

 

Willow giggled, her red hair vibrating with the buzz.  Unaware how she came to be upright on her feet, she fell to her knees hard, the pavement cushioning the nasty crack of her kneecaps.  Her fingertips tickled, sparkled and suddenly she was floating, uncaring whether her balance in the air was precarious or covered with an invisible safety net. Her head fell back, her smile wide, delirious, swallowing.  Until the scream.

 

With a thump she fell into a grungy pile of cloth, face first.  Her limbs shook, and as nasty as her pillow permeated the night, she was unable to move.  Unable even to let her lips tip to the side, eager to capture clear, purifying air.

 

The lack of oxygen flowing to her lungs burned; deflated, she still didn’t move.  Her eyes opened, staring into the bundle of filth, surrendering her life-force to a pile of garbage in a Sunnydale alley.

 

Then the scream.

 

Head jerking like a startled drunk, her eyes glassy and blank, Willow rolled to her back, dirty matted red hair rolling now in the filth.

 

The eyes.  Dark and beady, they made her teeth feel like chalk—brittle and soft.  Everything sunk, and suddenly images of strawberries spun faster and faster behind her eyes as the clumsy fruit dashed and dived until together they crushed, mashed against one another until Willow couldn’t move her limbs, could barely feel her feet hanging unsupported yet drifting.

 

Rack.

 

Scream.

 

And at last she remembered Amy.  Beloved rat-friend, magic loving Amy who had guided, pushed and pimped her to an ugly scarred man, offering her the power, quenching her need.  Making her sick on the inside as well as out, but quenching her need.  Quenching her need—powerful and urgent need.

 

But now she could feel it grow; as the discomfort settled she felt the passion for power rise again, rip though her with sharpened talons of promise, of gaining the fix and blighting out all else.  Eradicating all coherent memory of her last hours.

 

But with the hunger and desire for more, came the biting awareness of reality.  Where she was.

 

With a far less delicate shudder than one might have expected from the girl, Willow Rosenberg—accomplished witch extraordinaire—launched herself to her feet and searched out Amy.

 

The screams had ended, drained by the determined teeth stuck in her throat.

 

“Get from me!” Willow screamed in a disjointed voice, thought and projection on an unequal disparity.  Nothing was near her, but a vampire had helpless Amy dangling limp from his fangs.

 

“Incendre,” shouted Willow and a beautiful glittering spark lit the dark alley as Amy fell awkwardly to the ground under a mist of greasy ash.

 

Gasping for breath, blinking hard to regain time and place, it took graduating moments for Willow to become aware of her redheaded image as vamp Willow slinked through the dark.

 

“Aww, saved me a snack.  You really shouldn’t have!”

 

The female vamp, strong and sure of her clan and covered head to toe in shining leather, bent forward enough to allow her cleavage to bulge, smiling seductively at her shattered counterpart.  She studied Amy, the gaping wound on the newly de-ratted witch’s neck and the steady river of red.  In a sudden dash, both unexpected and bold, she licked the wound and sealed the skin against the rushing blood.  Her lips smacked together in a seductive tasting, and Willow felt something evil slither to her groin, mingling with the excess of power that she hungered to renew.

 

Willow’s hands shook as she raised them, blood thundering through her arteries as she wigged way beyond Wiggsville at being confronted with the reality of killing her evil self.  Sparks circled her fingers, splayed and aimed forward at her unafraid counterpart.

 

The jittery itch of a junkie seized Willow’s body as electrical shocks sparked out her fingertips.  They arced forward a little then fizzed out, making room for the newer onslaught.  She flushed hot, then froze.  Ice clamped her throat as she stared unblinking into the green eyes of herself.  Evil.

 

The witch felt a power surge whip through her body, uncontrollable but whole.  Her muscles contracted, her neck and form arched as she was drained, power squeezed and she felt something explode, missed because the pressure would not allow her eyes to remain opened.

 

Once again she was left like a rag on the alley floor.  Slumped and unconscious.

 

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Anne and Spike had left without her.

 

Buffy fumed and spluttered as she roamed the cemeteries, both eager to avoid as well as confront the pair.

 

The pain that swept through her at Spike’s callous neglect at times rendered her speechless.  Her memories pre-death hadn’t prepared her for this reaction, for this avoidance and lack of emotion.  They were so full of him, so full of the sweet look on his face when she offered him his crumb.  True, it had been easier to give it knowing that one or both of them might not survive long enough to sort out the meaning behind the offering in the first place.

 

Not in her most slayerish dreams had Buffy imagined her best friend would whip her out of the ground.  Death?  Pfft…not a problem for goodly witch Willow! 

 

Buffy felt her lips thin in increasing anger and confused yearning before she concerted her efforts to relax.  As her lips plumped again in a pout of misery, she felt the cloud that had settled since her resurrection fall a little lower.  She felt so smothered, so restrained.

 

Isolation sucked.

 

What she needed to help make her feel like she was really back, really out of the ground, were a couple of really intense snipe sessions with her not-so-arch enemy. What she needed—a craving as dire as for air and water—was Spike contact.  What she got was watching <b>Anne</b> receive Spike contact. 

 

And it made her insides scream.

 

It made her feel vile.  It made her hate.  Hate herself.  Because that other girl was Buffy, renamed for sincerity’s sake.

 

She was what Buffy might have been without her friends.  A blinded yet determined white warrior.  A duty bound demon killer.  A slayer who had fallen almost immediately for a soulless monster when it had taken Buffy years to do the same thing.

 

Whoa…hold up there a minute.  Is that what this was?  Sure, she’d allowed Spike into her life by degrees at the end.  He’d shown his capability with helping in the fight against Glory and in his devotion to Dawn; he’d proven that Buffy could trust him when he’d worn the secret of Dawn in bruises and broken bones. 

 

In lacerations. 

 

The kiss she had given him—the first touch freely shared between them rather than the result of a spell—was the beginning for her.  She didn’t often kiss murderers she hated with all her instinct.  She’d allowed his swollen, fleshy lips to rest upon hers and her heart had thudded hard in disbelief.  It had taken the strength of her previous rejections—her faith in unalterable evil—for her to leave him alone and in pain on the bed of his sarcophagus.

 

But her heart had fought angrily with the decision.

 

Her desperate wanderings had brought her to them.  Brought her close to where they patrolled and became closer friends.  She saw him with Anne—trained precision eliminating every threat before it could pass through their defense and on to Buffy.  They didn’t need a second line of defense.  The first line was steady as a rock and just as lethal.  Poetic.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Buffy had used that word only once, and after tasting the complete disgustingness that  was soap, she had repressed it from her pun-loaded vocabulary.  But her resentment and petty anger was bringing back the meaning.  Buffy wanted to hit something really badly.  And would do for a start.  But then the guilt struck and added to her pain, to her confusion and she just wanted to blank the other girl completely out of her life.  Be able to live without being in the wrong Buffy’s shadow.

 

She fumed.

 

Not only was Anne stepping in on her vampire—for God’s sake, trying to even lure him away from her, Dawn and the Hellmouth—now she was taking over Buffy’s job.  Her destiny.  Killing her demons.  Taking over her dance.  Hell, breathing her air!

 

Her other self seemed to have stepped in and taken over everything that was once elemental to Buffy’s identity.  She lived in Buffy’s home, shared Dawn’s room, had helped herself to Buffy’s clothing—and she was really pissed off about the acquisition of a pair of red leather pants—ate her food, did her job and every second kept Spike from her.

 

Why the hell did they bother to bring her back? 

 

The hopelessness was manifest in tears as Buffy choked on a self-indulgent sob.  Her nose itched before the emotion passed to her throat, then stung her eyes.  Her friends may have missed her, but nobody needed her.  Other than Willow’s hanging over her, waiting for a word of gratitude that Buffy had so far been unable to utter, she was hardly even noticed.

 

The fighting up ahead slowed to a stop, clashing weapons and enthusiastic battle-cries  ended as talking started up again.  Buffy hated to be honest with herself, had spent the latter years of her life diving headlong into denial specifically so she could be dishonest with herself, but in her envious eyes, the two seemed to fit.  They fought together like choreographed beauty and they talked calmly and quietly in a way Buffy had never permitted between herself and the blond vamp.

 

It was watching the flirting and innuendo from Anne—almost expressed unawares—that completely brought Buffy undone.  Everything about her now was green, shuddering—terrifying arrows of jealousy making her want to scream, run at the other Buffy and beat out all her fear and frustration.

 

Why now?  What was it about Buffy that made him keep his distance?  She hadn’t returned with her mouth shooting venom, her eyes hadn’t been warning him to keep his distance.  Her homecoming had seemed wrong with him not being involved, his causal entry and dismissal causing such a confusion of hurt that Buffy was left reeling.

 

He was the overprotective big brother for Dawn, the dedicated trainer and slaying buddy for Anne, but for Buffy—he gave nothing of himself.

 

The cruelty of loss and rejection had shaped her actions for too long.  Buffy had acknowledged that she was falling for Spike, and she couldn’t let it go.  Not when he could possibly surrender everything to another version of her.

 

Anne came to existence through a spell.  The twin slayer might be real, as real as Dawn even, but Buffy couldn’t let her walk away with the one hope her life had. 

 

So, a decision.  It had to be made yet she could feel the painful shaking as her mind tried to struggle with the options. What could she do?  She had to encourage closeness somehow, get Spike to be near her in some way.  It had all been so easy back in the days where he skulked outside her bedroom window, eager for the chance to cross the threshold.  Now he was permanently inside and more distant than she’d ever thought it possible.  He had always sought her out, hoped for that crumb she dangled cruelly in front of him like a carrot, but now he took the ease of contact away.  Left on her own, she was lost for direction.

 

She’d confide.  Spike was all Intuition Guy.  He would have to love a good revelation, wouldn’t he?

 

Buffy could tell him what her friends had really done by bringing her back.  Tell him where she had been, what death had been like for her.  And Spike could give her comfort like he had the night she had sat on her porch steps, brokenly crying for the uncertainty that was the health of her mother.

 

Feeling secure and hopeful, she let her gaze encompass him, felt her skin warm in a gush of happiness she’d not felt since leaving her coffin on her own two legs.  Breathing.

 

She took in his hair, glinting white in the moonlight.  The metallic clink of his lighter as he lit a cigarette.  Buffy smiled at the action, finding relief and security in observing his continued habit and the curl of his lips around the filter.

 

She watched as he looked in distraction around him, searching out the danger before it could hit them unawares.  Buffy could see the lack of light in his eyes and it hurt.  But it reassured all the same, knowing that at least he didn’t shine for her counterpart instead.  His steady puffs belied his usual nervous energy and Buffy marvelled at the confidence that seemed to mingle with his uncharacteristic detachment.

 

One sharp sudden action pitched her in horrified darkness.

 

With a flick of the wrist, burning stub discarded, Anne stepped forward and claimed Spike’s lips, bold and defiant.  He was still under Buffy’s frantic stare, but as her desperate eyes searched for another reality, his lips parted under the pressure and he cupped his hands on either side of Anne’s jaw.

 

And it cut.

 

Sliced her deep.

 

Buffy sensed something hidden and elemental bleed inside and she smacked her hand across her mouth to muffle her distraught scream.

 

The couple entwined heard nothing.

 

And Buffy ran.

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