FIC: Ascension's Shadow (3/?)

[Alan Rogers <masterofwords@xxxxxxxxxx>]

This time, I must give great thanks and gratitude to the Mad Hamlet for his quick and skillful beta-reading of this third installment.    His suggestions and insight went well above and beyond the call of duty, as well as his support for this fic. 

Also, many thanks and heartfelt love go to Kimber for her constant support and her constant reminders that I can write this thing, no matter what my own brain tells me otherwise.

All right guys. here it is.

Part Three.

Enjoy!

---

Ascension's Shadow
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction

by: Alan Rogers (masterofwords@xxxxxxxxxx)
  

Rating: R, for graphic violence 

Disclaimer:  I, Alan Rogers, do not in any way, shape, form or fashion own anything of or related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series.  Those rights are held exclusively by Joss Whedon, Warner Bros. Entertainment, 20th Century Fox, Paramount Pictures, Inc., Mutant Enemy, Inc., and any other entities, corporations or groups notnamed here that have legal rights to aforementioned  series. 

The Original Characters of Charlie Rille, Auric Ward, Falcon Smith and all other Original Characters in this Fanfiction are the soleproperty of myself, Alan Rogers. 

This is a work of fiction.  Some of the cultures and histories are based on real cultures, groups, events, etc., but MANY poetic liberties were taken.  My apologies in advance to any who maybe offended by my warping of history and culture. 

Acknowledgments: To Joanne W, who made me love Buffy Fanfiction, Kimber, for showing me just how much fun it could be do create a wild Alternate Universe, to Gee, for showing me that a series doesn't have to move fast to be wonderful, and can be as much like the show as the show is like fanfiction (if that makes sense) and to Ozmandayus for demonstrating just how serious and emotional shipper-fics can be. 

Dedication: To Kimber, for endless patience with my rambling and inspiring me to write this, no matter how bad it turns out to be. 

Summary: The night of Graduation Day, Xander Harris returns home to have his life changed forever in the blink of an eye.  But when Buffy is given a new Watcher and refused admittance to UC Sunnydale, things start going from bad to worse. 

Spoilers: Graduation Day I & II especially; Seasons 1-3 (minor) -- not much of seasons 4-5 because I'm changing so much.

---

Author's Reference Note: This is still the night of 'Graduation Day'.  It is somewhere around two in the morning at thispoint.  Xander was shot about 10:00 p.m. and Willow arrived at the hospital around 11:00 p.m.  Giles, Cordelia and Wesley boarded the airplane around midnight.

---

Chapter Five: Questioning 

For the first time since junior high, Willow Rosenberg devoutly wished she had her father with her.  And for the thousandth time that night, Willow Rosenberg devoutly wished she were still attending junior high.  Things had been much easier then, without vampires, without witchcraft, when it had been just her, Xander, and Jesse. 

And Jesse is just one more reason I hate people like this.  The Sunnydale police didn't even blink when he died.  Goddess, I'm not even sure his parents noticed.  And now my best friend has been shot by his father -- an honored and respected member of this law enforcement agency that has me halfway across town from where I need to be. 

Biting her lower lip to keep from crying, Willow stalwartly refused to answer the detective's questions, knowing that things were going to go from worse to horrid in a matter of minutes if he wasn't satisfied with her noncommittal answers and outright silence.  But there were some things men like him couldn't handle. 

People like Buffy handle stuff like this. 

Brushing her red hair over her shoulder, she turned and looked at the one-way mirror and smiled, letting her vision subtly shift to see through the reflective glass.  She saw her father sitting there stoically, not moving a muscle except to smile slightly at the consternation of the two officers watching her interrogation. 

Pacing back and forth in the cold and dimly lit interrogation room, Sunnydale Police Detective Kevin Mitchell sighed, and shook his head in exasperation.  "Miss Rosenberg, do you realize that by refusing to answer my questions concerning Daniel Osbourne's role in the arson of Sunnydale High School that you are possibly implicating yourself in a criminal act?" 

The bright, single-bulb lamp directly above her head shone down on her likea perverted mockery of a spotlight, highlighting her and the detective in harsh white light.  Every coffee stain on the grungy table and on his well-worn shirt caught her eyes in stark relief to the landscape of broken plaster and cracked stone adorning the three walls not supporting the one-way mirror and doorway. 

Willow licked her lips, shivering in the too-cold room.  Her borrowed clothes and still-bare feet did nothing to protect her from an antiquated air conditioner that seemed hell-bent on not being retired by proving it could single-handedly reverse the effects of global warming. 

"I thought I had been brought here because Oz was reported missing, not because some gang attacked my graduation ceremony." 

Detective Mitchell ran his hand through his graying brown hair and sat downheavily.  "Either you are the most innocent looking teenage hard-case I've ever met, have no idea what I'm talking about, or are hiding something.  Which is it, Miss Rosenberg?" 

Willow bit her lower lip again, and stared up the bright white lamp, feeling her fragile emotional control start to slip, tears welling up in her eyes.  Oh Goddess...please let me not cry...please let me not babble...please let me be strong, just this one time... 

Taking a deep breath, Willow forced her features into her infamously feared'resolve face' and stared hard with her soft green eyes at the detective.  Through the mirror, she saw her father grin and suppress a chuckle. 

"I'm mad is what I am, detective!  My best friend has been shot by his own father, who is one of your captains, and is in surgery and might be dead right now and then you come and tell me that my boyfriend is missing and try to accuse us both of helping burn down the school even though I wouldn't do that because that would mean all of Mr. Giles books would burn, which they did, and Oz wouldn't have burned the school because he's too gentle and never gets angry and I shouldn't be here in your dark little room answering your stupid little trick questions, I should be at the hospital with Buffy and my mom waiting for Xander to get better because someone has totell him that his father killed his mother and be there when he cries eventhough he'll pretend not to...and Oh Goddess, I swore I wouldn't babble..and I know you can't hold me for anything at all because I've done nothing wrong and I don't have to answer your questions, and even if I did have to Idon't know any answers but you don't believe me because you don't believe anyone, even when they are telling the truth, which I am, so why don't you just let me and my father go back to taking care of my friend!" 

Kevin Mitchell nearly fell out of his seat. 

Never in his ten years of police work had he ever had a suspect make him feel as suitably small and guilty as this delicate redhead had done in less than a minute.  He was also having a few problems coming to grips with the idea that that same delicate redhead had delivered her entire speech inless than a minute and in a a single breath.  Trying not to apologize for the tears coursing down her cheeks, he finally admitted to himself that she was right.  He couldn't legally hold her for anything. 

Detective Mitchell nodded mutely to the officer by the door, gesturing for him to let Willow out. 

"Looks like Mayor Wilkins will just have to hire a new runner then." 

Sniffling, Willow turned around to look at the Detective in a state of utter shock, as if he had told her Michael Harris was going free.  "Oz never worked for the Mayor...." 

The door shut behind her. 

Kevin Mitchell kicked a chair across the room.  "Damn!"

~ * ~

A vampire and a werewolf were having dinner. 

Not all that unusual when you consider they were in Sunnydale, or that one of them was the probable childer of the infamous Scourge of Europe and the other was the boyfriend -- and more recently lover -- of the Slayer's best friend.  After all, as far as anyone knew, the Slayer was currently dating the former Scourge of Europe, so why shouldn't his childer co-mingle with the Slayer's support staff? 

Something about William the Bloody's oath to dance on the Slayer's grave seems to come to mind. 

But for the moment, William the Bloody, Childe of Angelus, Scourge of Europe, commonly known as Spike, seemed more than content to sip at a warm mug of blood delivered from Willy the Snitch's bar and muse on the most recent events on the Hellmouth, and take great satisfaction that the Slayer was most probably going to die in the near future. 

Looking over at his unlikely dinner companion who was half-heartedly toyingwith a rare steak, Spike grinned heartily, and swung his boots up on the mayor's antique table, knowing just how much it would annoy Wilkins. 

And the bloody coot can't afford to off me, not while he needs my Dru toread the stars for 'im. 

Raising his bleached blonde eyebrow, Spike took a sip off the blood -- goodstuff, too; most likely fresh -- and chuckled lightly at the guitarist across from him.  "You know mate, you and me are bloody well stuck in this for the same bloomin' reason." 

"We are?"  Oz looked up at the vampire, his eyebrow mirroring the undead's.  His softly casual voice caught Spike off guard, but brought a grin to his face.  For a white hat, he's not that bad.

"Damn straight, wolf-boy.  We're both working for the wanker 'cause he's got our women." 

Taking a bite of his steak, Oz fingered the bone talisman hung around his neck and nodded slightly.  "You do have a point.  The difference being he already has yours." 

Spike coked his head t one side, his smile fading a bit.  Bloody observant, that. 

Taking a deep swallow from his mug, Spike made a note to thank Willy. This was the best he'd had since the last time he was in Sunnydale. Since the last time peaches got de-souled, and I helped the Slayer put him down.  And in some odd way, I was doing a good deed...I guess even the big bad has to do one of those every century or so.  Heaving a mental sigh, Spike finished the last dregs of his blood and set the mug on the table, wondering if there was any more of than laying about. 

"He does, doesn't he?  Demon lord or not, there aren't many men that can handle Dru, and the wanker isn't one of 'em.  She'll have him eating out of her hand before he can turn around to piss on the Slayer's corpse."   Spike paused thoughtfully for a moment before breaking out into a wide grin.  "That'll be a show, no doubt." 

"Which?" Oz asked stilling gazing steadily at the vampire. "The pissing or the eating?" 

"One, the other, both." Spike shrugged.  "Whichever, it'll be a hell of a lot of fun." 

Oz toyed with the remained meat on his plate, pushing it this way and that with a finger. "And can you?"  He didn't bother to look up at the vampire. 

"Can I what?"  Spike asked, his voice teetering between offended and petulant. 

"Handle her." 

Spike laughed, and swung his legs off the table as he rose to his feet, mugin hand.  "Right.  And I'm the king of bleedin' France.  Dru handles me, and I tag along for the ride, hippie, lovin' every minute of it." 

 Spike started rummaging around the mayor's kitchen, looking for one of the thermoses Willy had brought by. 

"Because you're with her."  Oz was standing, and leaning against a brick wall in a corner of the mayor's kitchen, his eyes scanning theroom, amazed at the third-hand dishes, worn towels and generic brand everything that surrounded the antique table. 

"For a man who doesn't talk much, you say a lot.  The thing of itis, I never wanted to come back to this bloody cursed place, let alone deal with the bleedin' slayer until her corpse was deader 'n me.  But yousee, Dru had ideas of her own and came back to meet this Wilkins poof, andseems to want to stay.  The Slayer and me, we had a deal before, and I figure if I can have a deal with Summers, than I can bloody well have a deal with you.  So listen, 'cause this is a one-time offer.  Refuse me now, and I'll change my mind.  I keep 'im away from Red and you tell the Slayer not to send me  an' Dru back to England as potting soil." 

Oz nodded sagely, thrusting his hands into his pockets.  "Such and idea has it's merits.  But I can't go talk to Buffy, Willow or anyone else until this spell is gone.  Anytime I get close, it's instant wolfman." 

He decided not to mention anything about Xander being shot, figuring that the less Spike knew, the less the mayor knew. 

Spike poured himself another mug of blood, taking a deep swallow.  "Ahh...now that's the good stuff.  Young, maybe...oh, sixteen or so."  He took another sip, savoring it like a vinter tasting a fine wine.  "I think her name was Cheryl."  Gesturing with his mug, Spike sighed.  "If that's your way of tellin' me to sod off, just say it, scooby-doo, an' I'll go get the witch myself and hand her over to the bleedin' Mayor while you watch from chains." 

Again, Oz nodded, considering the situation.  "Then we're at an impasse.  I can't go near them and neither can you."  Then heshrugged casually, his eyes narrowing.  "Because if you go anywhere near Willow, you won't have to worry about Buffy." 

Laughing, Spike reached in his ever-present duster for his cigarettes, and fumbled for a lighter -- there were few greater pleasures in life than a good pint of fresh blood, a cigarette and a master plan worthy of the one andonly Big Bad. 

Deftly, Oz flipped out a lighter and flicked the catch; a seven inch flame licked out to caress the tip of Spike's cigarette.  Puffing gently, Spike sighed in bliss and nodded to Oz. 

Spike almost laughed at the lighter -- there was really only one reason themusician would carry a lighter that doubled as a small flame thrower.  The vampire choked on the smoke holding back his laughter. 

"Here's another deal for you, then.  I get you out of town and make sure he doesn't touch Red.  You get word back to the Slayer not to stake me, and tell them fancy Brits holdin' the Slayer's leash what's coming.  You think Acathla was bad bloody news?  Or this wanker of a mayor a problem?  They're nothing at all.." 

Spike took a deep drag off his cigarette and threw back the rest of his blood in a long swallow.  "I told Buffy that I had a ken to keep this world around...something about how I wanted to keep you bleedin' happy meals on legs walking around like god's own drive through buffet.  And right about then it sounded like a good idea, but now it doesn't seem so bright." 

Recognizing the look in the vampire's eyes as the same one Giles or Wesley got when they wanted to be encouraged to continue on about whatever demon of the day was threatening the safety of the good people living in obliviousidyll in Sunnydale, Oz tilted his head to one side and shrugged the obvious question out.  "Why not?" 

"Peaches always said I never learned my history, but this part I got.  The mayor is a hell-bent on revenge on the Slayer and taking over themortal world...and he's calling in the big guns.  I'm not sure what'sworse; that he's waking the bastard up or that he can control him." 

Frowning, Oz sat down and nodded to himself.  "Talk to me."

~ * ~

A modest house at 1630 Revello Dr. in Sunnydale, California had been the home to the Slayer for three years.  Andrew St. Clair silently wished for those years to have been good, because he wanted his Slayer to have fond memories when she moved away from her mother's home into her new rooms in asafehouse the Watcher's Council had arranged. 

This time, everything would go by the book. 

There would be no bending, changing or flagrant violations of the rules.  The Slayer would act as a Slayer, live as a Slayer, soon enough, think like a Slayer.  He would not be another Rupert Giles or Wesley Windham-Pryce to coddle her desire to be a teenager and have a 'real life'.  Buffy Anne Summers was the Slayer; one girl in all the world with the strength and skill to fight the rising tide of evil threatening the world. And fight she would, in the time-honored manner the Watcher's Council had set out since the discovery of the Slayers centuries before. 

His hand hovered over the doorknob and his lips moved in a silent chant.  With a click, the door swung open as if inviting the Watcher into the empty home. 

With quiet footsteps, Andrew entered the Summers' residence, gesturing the door closed behind him. 

"Nice place."  Nodding to himself, the Watcher set his satchel down on the table, and shrugged.  This shouldn't take long at all. 

Unslinging the two large blue duffel bags he had bought at the Sunnydale Wal-mart, St. Clair trudged up the stairs and into the Slayer's room at the end of the hall.  He knew right where it was; his training for this assignment had included memorizing the layout of the Slayer's house, school and standard patrol routes.  He had also committed to memory every report and message concerning both Buffy and Faith. 

His current task was simple; get the Slayer packed. 

Buffy's room was a dichotomy of chaotic organization and careless housekeeping, but that didn't deter St. Clair.  Thoroughly methodical, the Watcher rifled through every aspect of the Slayer's belongings, folding and packing the supplies, clothing, and personal belongings he felt she would need, all fitting neatly into two duffel bags.  Most of her more fashionable clothes and lingerie he left behind, opting instead for clothes suited for fighting and patrol.  Not understanding the danger in this, he onlypacked two pairs of shoes. 

He had been right; it didn't take long at all. 

Anything else she feels she needs, I'll argue with her about later. 

Leaving the two duffels by the front door, St. Clair calmly sat down at thekitchen table and began to read over the Watcher diaries of Rupert Giles and Wesley Windham-Pryce.

~ * ~

"There's more going on here than you're willing to tell me, isn't there?"  Ira Rosenberg worked hard to keep his voice level, and to hide both is fear and anger at his daughter.  Keeping his eyes straight ahead as they drove, he refused to look at her tear-stained face, knowing one glance into her wide green eyes and he wouldn't have the heart to be angry anymore.  Only heartbroken that he had lost almost all connection with his only child. 

Willow's silence spoke volumes.  They road in uncomfortable silence for a bit, the elder Rosenberg bracing himself for her reaction to his next question. 

George Bernard Shaw once said that silence is the perfect _expression_ of scorn.  I see now that he was right. 

"Willow Rosenberg, I know I heard you swear by a goddess in there.  I want you to tell me what you meant when you did that." 

The Jewish scholar's stomach roiled with bile as he headed back towards thehospital, wishing he knew what to say to make his daughter open up to him.  He couldn't remember...hadn't Sheila mentioned something once about Willow wanting to be a witch or some other foolishness like that?  Maybe she just hadn't grown out of that phase yet, or maybe all the stress hadmade her revert to the comfort her teenage rebellion. 

Either way, it wrenched his digestive track into knots that his own daughter wouldn't talk to him. 

He watched the sights of Sunnydale's only highway blur past him as he gunned his sports car -- another trophy of his endless mid-life crisis -- at speeds that would have been unsafe if not for all the time he had spent driving on the Audubon in Germany in the past three years. 

Three years he hadn't really known his daughter. 

"Listen to me, girl!  I am your father, and you will tell me what's going on!" 

Ira felt his daughter's eyes slicing through him like razors.  He heard her soft voice like it was spoken by someone else.  "No.  I won't." 

He didn't even have time to answer before he felt the temperature in the car drop ten degrees.  "You don't know a thing.  And you won't.  Not one of us will answer your questions any more than I answered the detectives.  I would ask you to trust me, but since you don't know me, I can't ask that.  So I'm going to tell you to stay out of it.  If you want to help Xander, please."  Her voice almost crackedon that last. 

"But otherwise, leave us all alone." 

Sputtering, her father turned to look at her caught between shock, guilt and anger.  When he saw her eyes, he felt a small amount of fear.  What he saw there would stay with him until the day he died -- he had always heard the distant Irish relatives on his wife's side of the family talk about how Willow was so like the fey, in her innocence and energy.  Nowhe saw it in her eyes, a strange sense of being more than he was or every could be, as if his petite and sweet daughter held secrets in her that would break him.  Goosebumps ran up his arms as he drew in breath to speak. 

If this is what comes from letting her hang around with that odd Summer's kid... 

"No.  Don't talk.  Don't lecture.  Accept."  Lowering her head so that her red hair covered her face in curtain that hidher renewed tears, her voice grew strained as she talked.  "WhenJesse died, you told me it would be okay...but that's all you said.  You never asked how.  You never asked why.  I spent nights cryinginto Xander's arms and on Buffy's shoulder.  They helped me.  They were there for me. 

"Amy disappeared, and you didn't blink.  My classmates kept dying, and you weren't worried.  You left me alone to deal with it all.  Alone, in that house, at night, knowing there were bd things happening.  I had Xander, and I had Buffy, and I had Giles.  I learned to deal with it without you.  You can't come in now and try to help me dealwith it all.  So don't ask.  Don't try.  Okay?" 

Blinking back tears of his own, Ira swallowed a lump of guilt that settled in his stomach like a rock.  Oh sweet Jehovah...what I have done tomy baby? 

He could only nod as the lights of Sunnydale General grew closer.

---

Chapter Six: Falling 

She dreamed. 

She slept in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, and on his pillows, her bare skin wet from sweat and rain.  And she dreamed. 

Of fire, around her, devouring the demons that craved her blood, her body, and her soul. 

Of blood, soaking her hands, her shirt, dripping down her face.  Some of it was hers; most wasn't. 

Of the girl, the small blonde angel that fought them with the fury of a storm unleashed, her hazel eyes begging for the chance to save her world. 

Of the girl lost in the dark who fought as her sister-in-arms, aching for a chance at redemption. 

Of the redheaded witch who called upon the might and mystery of magic todefend her own. 

Of the woman who stood at her side, a partner in power and more. 

Of the father who guided them, watching them grow and learn.  And watched them die. 

Of the teacher who joined too late in the game to understand the war he was fighting. 

Of the soldier that stood with them. 

Of the parents that loved them. 

And of the darkness that hunted them...aching to taste all that they hadbeen, all that they were, and all they ever would be. 
  
  

Swords and darkness clashed in her mind, thunder rolling through the skyand lightning flickering through the clouds like mad faeries dancing evil down on the Earth's people, acid blood falling where rain should have washed away shadows of death and left trails of tears dripping into gutters, leaving only the merciful touch of dawning day to greet their tired eyes. 

Focused thoughts and intensity of emotion ate at her as she walked amongst them, now a general leading them to a war they could never win and a battle they could not afford. 

Sometime in the past she could not remember, she had betrayed them all. 

Sometime in the past she could not remember, she had loved him. 

She tasted the darkness and silence sang silver in her ears.  Tearsof moonlight leaked onto her face from Luna's grace above and she smiled, knowing her knives would taste blood that night. 

Instruments of destruction; 

Existence ached in her.  She wanted it back. 

She craved it to end. 

For her peace to come back. 

They marched to war, demons dancing in the dark about them, eyes peelingskin away and revealing hearts.  Angst boils over and they all scream. 

They all scream. 

The eye of the storm shatters, and the blood flows. 

Blood flows; blood calls to blood.  Blood feeds.  Nourishes.  Guides. 

Blood kills.

~ * ~

When Sheila Rosenberg had asked Buffy for a quieter place to talk, a small room sheltering a comatose teenage girl was the last place she expected herdaughter's quietly enigmatic friend to take her. 

Buffy entered the room with silent footsteps; how the girl did that in heeled boots, the psychologist would never know.  Slowly, almost reverently, Buffy walked over to the bed, her face as solemn and dark as some of thewar veterans that she had counseled.  She reached down and caressed the girl's face like she would a sister or a lover. 

The room was dimly lit even during the day, but at night it seemed as if the small lamp was nothing more than a candle, making it feel as if she had just entered a temple that was being constantly profaned by the presence of beeping and humming technology keeping a fallen warrior alive. 

Somehow, Sheila couldn't shake the feeling that the girl was a warrior.  That both of them were.  And somehow, she found herself thinking ofher sweet, quiet daughter as a solider in a war; same as the boy she had helped raise who was even then fighting for his life. 

How man times have they all fought for their lives, and none of us saw it?  And is this war really against street gangs that we all ignore, oris it worse? 

Is it the mob? 

Shivering, she rubbed at her arms, realizing that whatever it was they werefighting, gangs or mobsters, it was worse than she had ever imagined. 

Even so, the idea seemed ludicrous.  Her mind tried to wrap itself around concepts that it refused to accept, and she looked up, meeting the deepeyes of Buffy Summers. 

The face of the comatose girl was reflected there, dark hair and pale skin giving her a fae cast and making her heart ache for the heart-and-soul deeppain carved there, even in the depths of unconsciousness. 

"Her name is Faith."  Buffy spoke in a soft whisper, full ofguilt and regret that it didn't take a psychologist to hear.  "She should have been a friend." 

Sheila found herself speaking without realizing it.  "Should havebeen?"  Sucking in breath, she braced herself, gripping the wooden armrests of a cold chair, and kept her eyes locked on the teenager's; itwas the hardest thing she had ever done. 

Someone has to ask. 

"What happened at the school today, Buffy?" 

Smiling crookedly, the martial artist shrugged, her gentle caress of the words echoing with hollow bitterness.  "Someone killed a lot of my friends and blew it up."  Her smile widened in an ironic mockery of humor.  "But at least I graduated.  I have the diploma toprove it." 

"Buffy,"  the older redhead walked around the chair coming to stand on the other side of the bed, leaving Faith sleeping between them.  "what's going on?  What are you trying to do by bringing mehere, and hinting at things but not telling me anything?" 

Something about this conversation was unreal; part of her refused to believe this was happening while another part of her mind rationalized it away, filing it in that place where all mother's store their children's teenage emotional antics, making more of something than is needed, or where they see something that's hidden, some exaggerated game of dramatic angst that teenagers seem to feed on. 

"Because I want you to understand.  I need you to understand.  That Xander being shot by his father isn't part of it.  Thatthere is stuff you don't see, and that you never will.  And when Xander is better, and you go back to whatever it is you do, you'll forget this.  So please help Xander, and then help us by walking away from it all." 

Willow's mother found herself sitting down in the chair she had so recentlyused as a support.  "Buffy, if you didn't want me to ask, you would be saying anything." 

Sitting down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed, Buffy put her head in her hands.  "No, I wouldn't be saying anything if I wasn't scared to death.  If my gut didn't tell me something was horribly wrong, and this time I can't do anything about it.  That this time, not even I can stop it, because I'm fighting alone.  For the first time ever, I'm fighting alone, and I know we'll need someone.  Instinct, you understand?" 

Mutely, she nodded, motioning for the younger woman to go on. 

She is a woman.  As much as I am...and as much as my daughter is.  They are women, and have been for longer than anyone dared realize. 

"Too many people suddenly turned up missing, you know?  Suddenly,Giles, Wesley, and Cordelia are gone.  No one knows where they are.  Oz is missing, and Xander has been shot.  It's too much at once to handle without back-up.  So I'm going to trust you with just as muchas I've told you.  And if you can leave well enough alone until it's said and done or until we need you, Willow and I will decide together how much to tell you." 

Sheila looked up mutely and nodded, not even pretending to understand what she had just agreed to.  She knew she should ask.  But something inside her mind refused to ask the question. 

Buffy breathed out a long sigh of relief.  "Thank you, Mrs. Rosenberg.  I can see where Willow gets her even temper from..." 

"Not from her father, that's for sure!"  Willow's voice interrupted Buffy's moment of relief.  "I knew you would find your way back here eventually.  I think you need Faith as much as she needs you in here..."  Her delicate face twisted in distaste, "as much as it hurts me to admit it, you two were good together." 

Buffy and Willow hugged, clinging to each other for support.  When they stopped hugging, they didn't let go of each other.  Willow was leaning against Buffy, who had her arm around Willow's waist. 

Ira Rosenberg growled under his breath as he walked into the room, watchinghis daughter hug her friend, his eyes narrowed and his face flushed with both anger and guilt. 

Sheila looked up at her husband and lover, shaking her head.  Their eyes met about the same time their hands did, simultaneously turning to face the three girls. 

There's no doubt that we're in over our heads.

~ * ~

By the time Giles and Wesley were done, Cordelia was working on a headache.  Of that, Giles was sure. 

She was pacing back and forth, he hair rolling over her shoulders like darklightning.  Some time ago, she had doffed her shoes, revealing that she had forgotten socks in her rush to find him and help Xander.  Now, her mind was occupied by the puzzle of people she was offering to help decipher and put back together again in a format two British scholars of undeadlore could comprehend. 

"All right guys, I admit it,"  Cordy threw her manicured hands up in utter disgust, "I'm clueless.  Watchers are just fuckingnuts!"  Her pacing increased in speed and force, each footfall thudding dully into the carpet.  "I mean, high school chicks.  I can do that.  We're all vapid and shallow trying to pretend were deep pretending we're vapid and shallow.  Makes perfect sense.  Everything is about image and about everyone else's image of you.  Easy,right?" 

No, not really.  Giles and Wesley were positive they had shareda moment of telepathy right then, and from they way their eyes had met, itwas more than probable. 

They both stared at her while she mentally ran through everything they had told her about decades old feuds over the interpretations of obscure prophecies, over the assignment and training of Watcher-candidates to how much a Watcher told his or her Slayer or Slayer-in-Training.  Trials and hearings over heresay and debates about policy, and even about who sat where inGrand Convocations, or who got what key to what library when. 

Continuing, Cordelia raked her hands through her hair.  "But comeon, people, what is it about tweed that makes you lose your sense of self?  All this debate over interpretations and over who's right and who's wrong and who's smartest and who's oldest....and..." 

She stopped pacing, and started laughing. 

She was laughing.  At them.  And they both knew it.  Chuckling as if someone had told her the world's greatest joke, Cordy's eyes lit up with a mischievous fire that Giles was torn between being fearful of and excited about. 

"It's the same thing, isn't it?  All you guys are doing is proving who's the best Watcher the same way I proved I was most popular.  But you can't be fashion divas, you all wear tweed.  You are how you dress, I always say.  Watchers dress boring, so you are boring.  Andyou fight about boring stuff." 

Blinking to himself at having himself aptly compared to a teenage homecoming queen, Giles coughed lightly, wiping at the lenses of his glasses with the edge of his coat. 

"I fear that Cordelia has the right of it."  He was looking into the chagrined and humiliated eyes of his fellow Watcher as he spoke, guiltily grateful that Wesley was far more guilty than he of such offenses.  He had only summoned demons, maimed, tortured and possibly contributed to the death of innocents; he had not, under all but the most extreme circumstances, engaged in Council politics. 

"You mean to say that the Watcher's Council, a highly respected, ancient and venerably association and brotherhood devoted to keeping the world from being swallowed by eternal darkness is just a macroscopic parody of an American high school?"  Wesley's pitch increased with eachword until he was almost screeching. 

Rubbing at her ear, Cordelia gifted her one-time kissing partner a withering glare of perfectly timed scorn.  Wes wilted under it, shrinking backin a way that would have done any of Cordy's teenage victims proud.  "Puh-lease, Miss Man, sing soprano outside the first class.  And duh.  You people are more boringly juvenile that I am!  Or even Xander Harris!  At least he can stand up for himself fromtime to time instead of whining about everything!" 

With a final 'humph' Cordelia Chase sat flopped down into a seat by the window, making it look as regal as queen taking her seat.  Silence descended, broken only by the constant low-throated growl of the jet engines propelling them towards England at almost the speed of sound. 

Staring at the disheveled and barefoot fashion queen, Giles almost shuddered. 

I get the most unpleasant feeling that she is going to fit right in.  And that the Council is in no way ready for Cordelia Chase. 

A slow smile spread over Ripper's face as he slid his glasses back on. 

Good.

~ * ~

He hadn't ever been to an airport before, and found himself strangely excited about the prospect. 

New experiences are good. 

Shouldering his one small bag, once again feeling a pang of regret for the guitar he was leaving behind and a stab of deeply personal pain at the friends he was going to have to betray, Daniel Osbourne ran his hand through his freshly dyed green hair and sighed a soul-deep sigh. 

There was no one to see him off, but that didn't bother him. The one personwho could have been there wasn't welcome and the one person he wanted there couldn't be there because he would have had to kill her. 

Curses sucked like that; he should know.  This was the second one he had gotten that had pushed him farther from Willow, farther from the woman he loved. 

This would be easier if she didn't make life worth living. 

Laughing at himself, Oz strode towards the gate with an enigmatic smile plastered across his serene face. 

Whoa...if you had your piece, you could be one hell of blues player right now. 

The flirty attendant was too falsely cheerful for the easy natured teen, but he was able to make enough polite conversation to escape her mandatory attentions relatively unscathed.  Flying coach was easy, because he wasn't expected to be anyone or do anything.  The band had flown first class once, on their first out of town gig; the record label had insisted.  It had been a miserable flight, because everyone had known they were a band, and things had gotten uncomfortable when the fundamentalist preachers going to a seminary conference had begun to rail against rock and roll. 

Yeah, coach was easier.  Quieter.  More people, but quieter. 

Settling into his seat, Oz debated about giving into the stereotype of the hero having to leave for the sake of love and pulling out his photo of Willow so he could stare into her green eyes until they landed in London. It was a nonstop flight, after all. 

No...that would breed questions, and he didn't want to answer any more questions. 

Besides, the picture he had in his mind was more like the real Willow...vibrant, alive and beautiful...and his.  His comfort, his partner, now his lover, and always his heart and soul. 

Smiling in amusement at himself, he saw his hands here in position to hold a guitar and strum the music to life in honor of her.  Shaking his head, he leaned back to close his eyes and breathed out slowly, focused on histask at hand. 

He had two weeks.  Two weeks before the full moon, and before he had to lock himself away for a week to protect everyone else.  Two weeks. 

It was long enough.  He could work that fast.  He had to, for hersake.  For everyone's sake. 

As he heard the captain's voice over the intercom and the flight attendant's echo it, Oz relaxed even deeper, listening to the engines thrum to life and start pushing the plane forward, he had a thought.  He blamed it onthe politicians; on The Man. 

It's all just The Man trying to keep me down... 

That thought kept him smiling all the way to London.