Fic: Bittersweet (2/?)

[ladyvyxen@xxxxxxxxxxxxx]

Bittersweet, Part Two.
Flames/Hate-Mail/Neo-Nazi Ranting/Etc. to: ladyvyxen@xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Anne-Lise turned over and mumbled in her sleep, rousing a grumpy 
Spike who'd dozed off for a moment.
"Bloody Hell," he muttered, putting away his paperback, "Its nearly 
sunrise." As he raided the young Muse's cupboard for nummy treats and 
Weetabix, he narrated to the camera, "Buffy's just told Willow she 
loves her, right?" He rolled his eyes. "Slayers. Chicks with sticks. 
You can't trust 'em, you know. Break yer heart as look at you. 
Anyway, here's part two."

--

Buffy stalked the midnight streets of Sunnydale, alone and 
miserable. When she'd woken up this morning, she hadn't planned to 
blurt out everything to Willow. That'd just sort of happened, and now 
she couldn't believe she'd finally gotten the nerve to admit her true 
feelings to her best friend. Ex-best friend, she reminded herself.
Telling Willow she loved her had felt so right, so natural, and 
that she did love her, she had no doubt. She knew she'd thought of 
nothing else since they'd met. Well, okay, she'd thought a lot about 
the unspeakable horrors and the odd demon that plagued the Hellmouth, 
but Willow was always there, swimming at the surface of her mind.
That was why she'd settled for Angel. He was perfect, the most 
unattainable guy she'd ever met. A guy who'd turn to dust if he 
turned up during the day, and who couldn't have sex with her in case 
he turned into Mr. Morning After. Well yeah, there was some animal 
attraction in there too at first, she conceded, but hey, she'd been 
frustrated and desperate. And she'd killed him.
Willow had turned her down. Not immediately, not then and there 
with a point-blank no. She'd just whispered her name, softly, and 
given her such a long, earnest look of sympathy and sorrow that words 
weren't even necessary. And that's when she'd fled into the night. 
Burned into her memory was a vision of Willow, a vision she'd seen 
when she'd looked behind her as she ran, a vision of Willow standing 
in a Caribbean-blue negligee on the drive of her home. Willow, 
shivering in the cold of night, a worried expression defining her 
face, calling her name. It hurt, it hurt bad.

*

Sunrise, and Giles was woken by the frantic knocking on his door.
"Mr. Giles," Joyce Summers addressed Buffy's Watcher as soon as he 
answered the summons. "Buffy didn't come home last night."
Rupert hugged Joyce as she broke down in his arms, embarrassed by 
yet another very American display of emotion.
"Are her clothes gone?" he asked. Joyce shook her head.

*

"Penny for your thoughts?" Xander sat down next to an obviously 
upset Willow. "You and Oz have a fight?"
Willow shook her head, staring down at her chest, shoulders heaving.
Xander put his arm around Willow's shoulders, nervous at what 
people would say, well, what Oz would say, if he saw them together 
like this. He decided that the half-hug wasn't helping anyway, and 
removed his arm. "What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"
Willow shook her head again. "I lost my best friend last night," 
she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think I can ever 
make things right again."
"You had a falling out with Buffy?" Xander's face became more 
serious. "Why, because she left without a word and moved to LA while 
we spent nights worrying about her, wandering if she was still alive, 
wandering if..."
"No," Willow whispered, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Its... 
complicated."

*

"Talk to me, I'll listen."
Buffy looked up into the honest face of an old priest. She didn't 
know why she was here, only, after wandering the streets of Sunnydale 
in a lost daze, she'd simply wound up here. The door had been open, 
inviting, and she'd walked on through. And now an old man was 
offering to listen, and she found herself pouring out her heart.

*

The demons had jumped her as soon as she'd left the church. 
Denizens of the graveyard, drawn to the power of the Hellmouth, 
they'd naturally taken up residence in the Sunnydale cemetery. Ugly, 
scaly creatures without mouths and an albino complexion, it gave her 
an embodiment, a focus for her rage, a form to vent her bottled-up 
emotions on. Blood splashed over her arms as she fought much harder 
than necessary. Blood that seeped into her skin, mingling with her 
own. Blood that infected her with an aspect of the demon.

*

"...And the meek shall inherit the earth..." Oz and Willow sat in 
Oz's van as he drove her home. The radio churned out Rush's Temple of 
Syrinx from an alternative station, which suited Willow fine. She was 
still being no-talk girl. Thoughts about Buffy crashed through her 
skull like sniper rounds.
"You okay?" Oz asked, a barely discernible trace of concern in his 
voice.
"No," Willow replied. "That's why you're driving me home, remember?"
Oz concentrated on the road, burdened by a frown that threatened to 
break out on his stoic face. "I mean, well, you seem distant."
"I had some... news." Willow studied her hands. "It made me think 
about things, about my life and future."
"You always think about the future," Oz pointed out. "I bet you've 
even chosen your college options. So what's new?"
"I met with Buffy last night," Willow admitted. "She told me she 
loved me."
Oz nodded. "In a more than platonic way, you mean?"
"Yes." Willow's voice sounded a little flat to Oz's acoustically-
tuned ears.
"And do you? Love her the same way, I mean?" Oz asked, unable to 
stop himself and despite outward appearances, dreading an answer.
Willow stared at Oz, who was watching the road. She studied his 
handsome face and thought hard about her answer.
"Well..." she said.

*

End Part 2.