Disclaimer: The characters and show all belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, and God only knows who else. This particular arrangement of words in cyberspace belongs to me, however. Btw, it contains love between two women, so if such things offend you, are illegal where you live or somesuch, kindly don't read it and upset yourself, 'kay. It'll just make life easier on all of us.

And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried the LORD do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.

Ruth: 1:16-1:17

PROLOGUE

1615, Manchester, England

She was a slight figure, short of stature, slender, her once long blond hair hacked short like a new penitent, her gown ripped and torn by rough hands and the lash. Her arms had been twisted behind her and folded over a heavy wooden pike pole, her slender wrists chained together in front. Strangely, the heartrending sight softened no hearts amongst her captors. They understood the need to make certain this one small girl could not resist her torments if they were to have any hope at controlling her. Even bound and beaten, she faced them proudly, standing gracefully in the center of the pit, the bars overhead casting striped shadows across her slender frame. Despite her situation, pale green eyes blazed with raw rage and she showed no sign of fear of their control over her fate.

"You have been accused of betraying the Council, Slayer!" the senior Watcher serving as magistrate over the proceedings charged, his voice more than loud enough to be heard by the small crowd spread around the edges of the pit. His heavy garb was ecclesiastical in appearance as befitted his position within the ancient organization. The dark robes, trimmed in royal purple, and thick fur moved with his broad gestures, making him seem larger than life.

The girl lunged forward, though there was nowhere for her to go. The pit and chains binding her wrists were more than enough to contain any efforts she might have made to escape. "I've betrayed no one!" she snarled. "It's your precious Watcher who betrayed me!"

"Lying bitch!" a heavyset man standing near the judge screamed. "She murdered Elizabeth! Tricked her--"

"LIAR!!" the girl screamed back. "I LOVED HER!!!"

"SILENCE!!!" the judge bellowed, then waved to the guards who stood on the edges of the pit. "Judgement has been passed." The sound of metal sliding on metal screamed through the caverns as metal barred doors were pulled up, opening the corridors to the cells hidden deep inside the caverns. "Your perversity and your treason will be punished!"

The vampires that began to flow from the newly opened corridors were half starved, bony and thin, their faces warped by the desperate demons that lived inside their dead flesh.

Had her situation not been so desperate, the girl might have felt some pity for them. Even for the undead she'd shown an oddly soft heart, but as it was, terror made her heart hammer in her chest as she saw doom careening toward her. There were more than a dozen of the creatures nearly all driven to a frenzy by starvation.

She was a Slayer; inhumanly strong, unbelievably fast, trained to fight--and to kill--and she used every skill beaten into her in the four years since she'd learned of her perverse calling to the utmost of her ability. Of all her captors, only one--a guard only a year or two older than her twenty years--had done her even the smallest of favors. The pole used to brace her arms back was wood and not steel and she wielded the makeshift weapon with a skill borne of desperation.

Unfortunately, her abilities weren't likely to save her. Only God could do that--at least that was the idea of the trial by combat--and even he would have been hard pressed to rescue the desperately battling young woman.

Overhead, gasps could be heard amongst the assembled crowd, along with the odd sound of a bet being made. The odds were not in the prisoner's favor. Especially when she was momentarily overwhelmed by the thick--but thinning--horde of her attackers.

But as they watched, more than a few council members could almost believe that God had smiled on this Slayer. Despite being chained, outnumbered, and beaten bloody, she fought like a lion, killing creature after creature as they came after her, using her skills, and the clumsy weapon to dispatch them back to hell.

Clouds of inhuman dust rose from the battle, obscuring their view and the audience leaned farther forward in their seats, peering through the bars, trying to find the slight figure of the young Slayer through the haze of vampire dust with only flickering torchlight to aid them. Screams echoed across the hall and more bets were made, the odds shifting with every passing moment.

And then it all fell silent.

Breaths caught and the sound of voices died away, until the only remaining noise was the occasional jingle of coins being readied to trade hands.

Thick vampire dust slowly settled, the torches casting unsteady light through the hanging haze, until finally a silhouetted figure could be seen.

A collective gasp went through the audience of Watchers as their victim was revealed to their avid eyes. The Slayer stood alone, her head bowed as blood streamed from a dozen small wounds. Her wrists were slick with crimson, and as they watched, she slowly worked one free of a manacle, drawing more blood and scraping the flesh of her already battered hand. The chain fell away with a startling clank, but she only lifted her arm from its braced position where it had been wrapped around the pole, then slowly straightened it, working tortured fingers with careful precision.

From his place on the mezzanine, the magistrate gestured to the guards positioned around the pit and crossbows were raised, the bolts sighted on the slender figure below.

If she was aware of this latest form of stalking death, she showed no outward sign.

The members of the Watcher's Council all stared at the girl in mesmerized awe, hardly able to believe that the doomed Slayer had survived. Scarcely a one of them could even draw breath as they watched their prisoner pull the pole across her back free and drop it to the dirt before methodically beginning the process of removing the remaining manacle.

No one knew quite how to respond when she began to sing, the sweet sounds of a madrigal--a sad tale of lost love--slipping from her lips to float up through the chamber.

"She's mad," someone murmured somewhere in the crowd, and more than a few who overheard the comment nodded in agreement. Not surprising, really, considering what she'd been through. It would be a sad loss, they all agreed, but not unpredictable. Unfortunate as it was, she would have to be dealt with. The world could not do without a Slayer. At least this way she could be buried in consecrated ground.

And then her wrist slipped free of the rough-edged metal and the chains fell to the dirt with only the faintest jingle as the links tumbled into each other. For a long moment, she just stood there, her head still down. Of course, it was a wonder she was still on her feet at all.

As if driven by the very silence and stillness of the girl, her former Watcher suddenly lunged forward, his portly frame, ungraceful at the best of times, trembling with uncontrolled rage and something else--fear. She had passed the test. That possibility had never occurred to him. "Destroy her!" his screamed, his voice threatening to crack with panic. After all, he had brought the full weight of the council's judgement down on her narrow shoulders and it was no secret that an angry Slayer was a dangerous Slayer.

"Silence!" the Magistrate bellowed, still watching the girl with intense eyes. "Tell the Council, child, have you been adjudged innocent of the charges?"

She toed the wooden pole lying at her feet, flicking one end upward to catch it easily. Still singing, her voice clear and sweet, she slowly began to roll it between her fingers then over the back of her knuckles, her pace leisurely.

More voices mumbled about her obvious insanity.

And then pale green eyes lifted from under thick lashes and a smile lifted full lips. Narrow shoulders shook with soft laughter, and then suddenly the girl's chin slowly lifted, the song trailing off as she drew breath to respond. "Not exactly," she drawled as the blood running down the graceful arch of her throat was revealed to the watching crowd. In an instant, while her audience was paralyzed with shock, she hurled the pole like a javelin, sending it straight through the magistrate's heart in one fell swoop.

Crossbow bolts were fired, but none reached her heart as she plucked them out of the air with fine-boned hands and flung them back at the guards, easily piercing the thin armored chestplates they wore and then the hearts beneath.

As panic reigned, she easily broke through the slatted wooden bars meant to keep her in the pit. They were designed to contain vampire strength, or Slayer strength, but not Vampire-Slayer strength.

And then the killing began in earnest....

The slaughter took no more than an hour as she moved through the caverns with demonic precision, leaving the hand hewn walls and carved stone floors drenched in blood and littered with body parts. She turned no one, instead tearing them to pieces with a brutally efficient ferocity borne of both training and inherent skill. The demon inside wanted nothing left of her earthly predecessor's tormentors.

At last, she stood in the storage room where the remnants of her life had been gathered and used as evidence against her during the trial, careless of the dead left in her wake, physically sated, but.... She stood before the paintings stacked against one wall, reached out, touched the top one, pulled it forward to study the ones behind it one at a time, and finally curved fine boned fingers to the entire stack. As she left the storage room, the paintings in hand, she spared a glance for her former Watcher where he hung impaled on the spikes of a large free-standing candelabra. His screams had provided the soundtrack for much of her killing spree, though he'd finally fallen silent. She paused when she stood before him, eyeing his florid, blood spattered face. "Poor Freddy," she drawled and reached out to trail a finger through the crimson streamers on his face. "Your nasty little bit of revenge didn't quite work out the way you planned, now did it." She tasted the blood on her fingertip and made a face. "You really should have cut back on the alcohol my friend." Then, laughing, she turned from her former tormentor and walked away into the night.

PART ONE.

Present Day--University of California, Sunnydale

Willow was crying again, not deep wrenching sobs, but soft, almost soundless tears that seemed to go on forever. Just in from patrol, Buffy silently peeled off her clothes and changed into a nightshirt, painfully aware of the tiny sounds as she tried to tamp down a wave of nagging guilt. She knew she was doing a sucky job as a best friend. With camouflage commandos running around campus, Spike living in Gile's bathtub, plus school, semi-dating Riley or at least being pursued by and considering semi-dating Riley, and of course her usual vampire killing duties, she just hadn't had time for doing the sort of best-friend-helping-best-friend-get-over-guy-by-eating-too-much-chocolate-an d-plotting-vengeance sorts of activities--Buffy sighed softly--and maybe there'd been a bit of avoidance mixed in there as well, she admitted in a darkness inspired flash of discomfiting honesty. That whole Cro-Magnon necking experience had thrown her equilibrium more than she cared to admit, not just because she'd enjoyed it, but because as much as she'd pursued Parker and now Riley during the day, it was Willow she seemed to be dreaming about at night--starting shortly after Angel's exit from Sunnydale, and seemingly growing in intensity with every passing night--strange dreams full of tenderness and sensuality that left her panting and painfully aware of her own body when she woke. It was all just a little too confusing--and now that Oz was gone from Willow's life --at least temporarily--maybe just a little too tempting.

Sniff.

The soft sound reminded Buffy of just where her line of thought had begun. That's good, Buffy, she castigated herself, can you get any more self-centered? Willow's hurting, and are you thinking about her? No, you're worrying about yourself. And after all the times she's done the sympathize-over-the-boyfriend thing for you. If you can manage to be just a little more sympathetic, maybe she won't turn down that whole Vengeance Demon gig next time.

Sniff.

"Hey, Will," the Slayer said very softly as she drew close to the bed. The sniffles instantly stopped and she could almost hear Willow trying not be heard crying. Buffy sighed softly again. Oh, she'd mouthed all the right platitudes, but it suddenly bothered her that she hadn't spent nearly enough time offering Willow the kind of unconditional support Willow had offered her. Hell, Spike had been more in tune with the fact that she was walking on the edge. "I know you're awake," she added gently and heard another soft sniff that made her heart clench with guilt. No wonder Willow had nearly wound up switching off the good guy's team.

"Maybe a little," a tiny voice admitted in the darkness.

Buffy silently took a seat on the edge of Willow's bed, startlingly aware of the warmth of her friend's body where it nudged up against her hip. "I just..." Buffy began hesitantly. "I wanted to talk to you." She reached out, resting her hand lightly on Willow's hip, moving her thumb in a gentle circular pattern.

"Oh," Willow exhaled in a tiny voice. "I guess you were out slaying tonight."

"Yeah," Buffy said, her tone brushing the subject aside. "Look, Will, I know things have been really difficult lately...and...well...I just...some apologies are in order--"

"Buffy, I'm sorry," Willow apologized instantly. "I mean I'm really sorry about that whole spell thing and causing you and Spike to...well...kiss...and all that...I mean I really didn't know--"

"Shhh," Buffy hushed while Willow kept apologizing until the Slayer laid her fingers lightly over her friend's lips. "That's not the apology I was referring to."

"Oh," Willow murmured, then drew a sharp breath. "I'm sorry if I haven't really been a lot of fun lately, and if the whole crying thing has been keeping you up--"

"Will, don't," Buffy interrupted the ongoing apology, feeling worse with every word Willow had said. God, she really hadn't been getting it right lately. "I meant the apology I owe you."

Willow went completely still. "You owe me?" she repeated doubtfully.

"Yeah," Buffy confirmed. "I haven't done a great job of being a friend...since...well...lately." Buffy sighed tiredly, leaning forward, her elbows braced on her knees, fingers loosely intertwined. "I dunno," she exhaled. "It's like I've been kind of out of control, not knowing whether I was coming or going...I should have realized what a hard time you were having...and been there for you..." She reached over and curved her fingers around Willow's hand and swallowed hard. "You're the best friend I've ever had...and I'm sorry I failed you. You shouldn't have been crying alone."

Willow sniffed back on her tears, blinked rapidly to clear her vision as she peered up at the Slayer's shadowed profile. Slowly, she pushed upright, sitting cross-legged, elbows braced on her knees. "Thanks," she whispered at last. She'd entered college so confident, feeling like someone totally different, but losing Oz had shaken her newfound collegiate composure. "I just didn't want to be a burden...I've tried to...tried to cover things up...but...."

"I know," Buffy sighed, remembering how that had turned out. "And the whole covering up thing--well, in light of that whole vengeance demon thing--maybe not such a good idea."

Willow turned her hand under Buffy's clinging tightly and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the hot tears stinging her eyes. "It's just that everything seems wrong lately...not just Oz...everything...."

Buffy frowned ever so slightly. She knew the feeling. She 'd been feeling increasingly disconnected for months and nothing seemed to fix it. At first she'd attributed it to Angel's move to Los Angeles and tried to lose it in the pursuit of other men, but more recently that explanation had seemed less and less likely. Perhaps it was just the change from high school to college--or maybe it's those dreams you don't want to admit to, a tiny voice whispered in her ear, the ones where you can't seem to keep your hands off your best friend, where she's not just your best friend, but also your lover, your partner, and the best thing that's ever happened in your life. "That's not it," Buffy hissed at the recalcitrant voice only to get an odd look from Willow.

"Buff?"

"Sorry," the Slayer apologized hurriedly. "Just talking to myself." Willow nodded understandingly. She'd always tended to talk to herself and lately that tendency had extended to long, unwanted conversations. She stared down at her hands, studying the complicated network of bones, tendons and veins as she avoided looking at the Slayer.

"Talk to me, Will," Buffy said after several long moments of silence.

There were so many thoughts running through Willow's head in disjointed, random pathways that she barely knew where to begin. "Do you think about them?" she asked at last.

The question left Buffy confused and she stared at her friend, nonplused. "Who?"

"The demons and vampires you've killed?" The hacker looked up, lost in thought as she stared at a point somewhere in the distance.

"Sometimes," Buffy admitted hesitantly, not wanting to admit that sometimes she couldn't stop thinking about it. She knew they were demons, knew she had no choice in what she did, but they looked human enough, had personalities, sometimes even begged for their lives. Even knowing what she did, it bothered her more often than she cared to admit.

"Because I can't stop thinking about Veruca," Willow whispered, then shook her head, refocusing on Buffy. "I mean, she was our age....and she's dead...and I--"

"What happened wasn't your fault, Will. She was going to kill you. If Oz hadn't--"

"It's not just that," Willow cut her friend off, trying to find a way to explain what she was feeling, the thoughts that had been running through her head since that night. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly in an effort to clear her head. "She was human, Buffy...not dead and not a demon--"

"She was a werewolf, Will," Buffy reminded her friend.

"And so's Oz, but he hasn't given way to the darkness. So why did she go the way she did? What made the difference in her life?"

Buffy started to answer, but held her words back. True, Oz hadn't given in to the wolf, but he was afraid of it, and she suspected there was a wildness there that was never going away and might just be getting stronger. Oz would never hurt any of them willingly, and she was quite certain that was one of the reasons he'd left. He was afraid he couldn't control it much longer. "No," she said at last.

"But he's afraid of it," Willow exhaled at last as if reading Buffy's thoughts. She released her hold on Buffy's hand to let her head fall forward into her palms.

"Will, if this is about Oz leaving--"

"It's not," the hacker denied and then looked up, her eyes damp with tears. "I'm afraid of it too," she whispered raggedly.

Buffy stared at her friend in confusion. "Afraid of Oz?" she questioned at last. Wolf or no wolf, she knew Oz would die before he'd hurt Willow.

Willow shook her head, frustrated by Buffy's inability to understand what she was saying. "No, of my own darkness."

The Slayer tensed, shaking her head in denial. "You don't have any--" she began instantly.

"For God's sake, Buffy, I just got offered a job as a vengeance demon. Clearly I have darkness issues."

Buffy opened her mouth to argue only to snap it shut again. Willow had a point. "Okay," she murmured after a long beat, not knowing what else to say.

Willow drew another deep breath and heaved a heavy sigh. "It's just that I have this need to know more...to learn more about what I can do...but...but, it's scary too sometimes...and sometimes..."

Buffy just kept listening to her friend, doing the one thing she hadn't had time for amid her own needs and emergencies. She'd been there for Willow that night--saving her life--but during the weeks since she'd been all too absent and it was obvious there was a lot more going on here than she'd suspected. This wasn't just the I-can't-get-over-the-boyfriend blues. It went a lot deeper. And Willow clearly needed to get it off her chest.

The silence that lay between them wasn't the comfortable, friendly studying together sort. It was more the uncomfortable, how-in-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-say-what-I'm-really-trying-to-say kind of thing. Not simple even for the best of friends.

"I was casting a spell that night," Willow whispered at last, swallowing back harsh tears to continue. "I just wanted him to hurt as much as I did...I could feel it, Buffy--the power, the temptation. It was like it was calling to me." The hacker shook her head slowly, shivering as she remembered the sensation of dark energy coursing through her. "For a moment I could almost understand Faith."

Buffy shivered as though someone had walked over her grave. "You could never be like her, Will."

"Yes, I could," Willow disagreed. "I almost was...it was only at the last moment that I couldn't...and then Veruca got there...and Oz..." she trailed off, staring down at her hands with hypnotic intensity.

Buffy tried to find the words to offer comfort. "But you didn't do it...you pulled back. We're all tempted sometimes--" "But what happens if I can't pull back some day? I could hurt someone, Buffy." She dragged slender fingers through sleep tousled hair. "I dunno. Maybe I should just leave too...just go away where I can't hurt anyone--"

"No!" Buffy snapped instantly, the very thought sending a bolt of terror through her. Willow couldn't leave. That simply wasn't an option. She caught Willow's hands in strong fingers, massaging them soothingly as she held on tightly. "Don't talk like that," she insisted more calmly. "You're not like Veruca or Faith...you have people who care for you...who'll help you." Buffy had to resist the urge to lift those slender hands and press soothing kisses across her knuckles the way she had in a half-remembered dream. "You just have to trust us...let us help you." And by that--that insistent part of brain clarified--you mean let me help you. "But you have to be honest...you have to tell us...tell me...when you need help." Buffy's gaze dropped to their twined hands to hide the guilt she was feeling. "And if that means a two by four to my thick skull...well...you do what you have to and play 'Whack a Slayer.'" The silence stretched out between them, while Buffy kept her head down, not quite confident enough to look up and see Willow's expression.

"Oh...great..." the hacker drawled at last, a touch of humor threading through her voice. "Are you trying to get me killed...'Whack the Slayer' indeed..."

Buffy risked a glance at her friend, relaxing as she glimpsed a watery smile lighting her gamine features.

"Though," the other girl continued, "as hard as your head is, I'm not sure you'd notice."

Buffy chuckled at that. "Yeah," she agreed on a relieved sigh. "It is pretty solid."

The mood broken, Willow reached out and mimed knocking her friend on the side of the head. "Solid wood," she teased.

"Hey, that's a plus when you're the Slayer. How do you think I take out all those vamps? I just head-butt 'em with my pointy, little, wooden head," Buffy defended with mock-indignation before turning serious once again. "I mean it though, Will, the only way any of us get through life in Sunnyhell is by sticking together--if it wasn't for you, Giles, and Xander, I'd have been dead a long time ago--so you've got to promise to come to us when things start closing in on you." Come to me when things start closing in on you, that inescapable inner commentator amended loudly enough that Buffy wondered if she'd spoken the words aloud for just a moment. "Yeah," Willow exhaled and the two girls sat silently for a long moment.

Suddenly Buffy bounded to her feet. "Come on, up and at 'em," she commanded with a laugh as she spun away and began digging through Willow's closet, tugging out clothes with unusual abandon.

Willow blinked in sleepy confusion. "'Scuse me?" she questioned.

Buffy pivoted neatly to face her friend. "I've been remiss in the whole best-friend department," she explained. "We haven't done a chocolate and sympathy night yet."

"Buffy, it's two o'clock in the morning," Willow pointed out reasonably, but the Slayer was not to be deterred.

"Look, Will, at times like this, the only surefire cure is a total junkaholic pigout. Chocolate, chips, anything that's loaded with grease and bad for you."

Willow stared at her friend with a faintly perplexed smile. "I repeat, it's two o'clock in the morning. Where do you plan on getting this junkfeast? Besides, chocolate never solved anything."

"Answer to question one." Buffy held up a finger to keep count. "We're college students, where do we get any kind of food-type-stuff."

"Twenty-four/Seven," both girls chimed in at the same time, referring to the 24 hour quickie mart on the edge of campus, where the food was stale, the prices high, the beer domestic, and the help surly. It was, of course, where all the college students got most of their non-collegiate All Aboard Card approved survival provisions, like beer, circus peanuts, beer, Count Chokula, beer, Ding Dongs, and, of course, beer.

"And as for solving things," Buffy continued. "It's broccoli that never solved anything. Chocolate can solve everything."

"You've been watching Mary Tyler Moore reruns on Nick at Night again, haven't you?" Willow demanded, but allowed herself to be pulled from bed by her eager to bring good cheer roommate.

"Hey, she's gonna make it after all, doncha know?" Buffy thrust the clothes she'd chosen at Willow. "I find this a very inspiring message." She turned away at her friend's pointed look, trying not to listen too avidly as she heard clothes being removed and then put on. "I always thought Mary woulda made a good Slayer, y'know," Buffy continued, chatting in an effort not to think about Willow standing naked or near-naked just behind her. Those dreams really had been getting to her. She couldn't help but wonder what her friend would think if she knew about them. Be horrified probably, she concluded, though that taunting voice kept suggesting she ask and find out.

"Nah," Willow disagreed as she finished dressing. "Mary was too soft-hearted. She'd have let them go."

"Rhoda then?" Buffy mused aloud as she caught Willow's hand in her own, dragging her out into the hallway.

"Nah, the one who would have made a really killer Slayer was Ida."

"Ida?" the Slayer repeated as she drew a blank on the name.

"Y'know, Rhoda's mother. The little redhead."

"Oooo, you're right. She was mean. Must have been the hair. You know what they say about redheads."

"Hey!" the redhead yelped, but she clung tightly to her best friend's hand as they wandered away into the night.

PART TWO

The Twenty-four/Seven was like most such places; small, cramped, full of stale candy, overpriced sandwiches, canned beer, and underaged students trying to buy all of the above using parentally paid for credit cards and illegally altered I.D.s. Even as Buffy and Willow entered and began moving among the narrow aisles, plucking up an assortment of the nastiest candy and chips they could find, they were treated to the sounds of a pretty young blond arguing vociferously with the clerk at the counter, who was a hundred if he was a day.

"Dammit, all I want is one beer," she snarled in frustration, while the clerk peered at her ID through coke-bottle glasses.

"I'll admit, it's a good fake," he allowed grudgingly.

Buffy peered over the shelves just as he looked up at his youthful nemesis over the edge of his glasses. "But we both know it's a fake."

The young woman slapped a hand on the counter. "Look, just because I'm cursed with good genes--"

"That's nice," the clerk said smoothly and tossed the card somewhere under the counter. "But nobody has genes that good--"

"Now, wait one damn minute...."

Buffy ducked back behind the shelves, blushing with embarrassment as she was reminded of her own adventures in beer-drinking.

Willow looked over to meet Buffy's gaze, her own cheeks flushing with her own memories of that night--of being cuddled up against the warmth of Buffy's body, the feel of primitively eager lips on her own.

"Heh," Buffy half-laughed on a nervous quaver. "Beer...now there's something I'd just as soon go through the rest of my life not thinking about."

"I dunno, NeanderBuffy had her charms," Willow teased before she had a chance to think about it and squelch the impulse.

Buffy's eyes rounded, her mouth forming a perfect O as she stared at her friend in surprise. "Will," she croaked, because while she supposedly didn't remember that night--though, in reality, it was clear as a bell, a frequently ringing bell in view of how often it seemed to replay in her head--Willow unquestionably remembered and didn't even have the protection of feigned forgetfulness. "I...uh..." Not for the first time, the Slayer wondered what her best friend thought of the whole experience. She certainly didn't sound repulsed by the memory.

By then Willow had realized what she'd said and tripped right into babble mode. "I...that is...I meant...."

Both girls fell silent, staring at each other, uncertain what to say or do, both remembering the heated intimacies they'd shared in the darkness, each wondering what the other was thinking.

"Look, will you at least kindly return my driver's licence," the young customer's angry voice broke in on their unspoken conversation, saving both girls the necessity of a response.

Buffy straightened, peering over the edge of the shelves once again, automatically checking to make sure things weren't getting out of hand.

"Look, kid, look at it this way; I'm doing you a favor. A cop catch you with that thing and you'd be in real trouble," the clerk lectured, though Buffy noticed there was a certain malicious glee in his eyes. Working amid frat rats and sorority chicks, not to mention all those goddamn GDI's had not left him overly fond of the college age crowd.

The young woman leaned across the counter, her hands braced solidly on the top. "Dammit, I don't have time for this..." She started to reach across the counter.

Buffy tensed as she felt a familiar tingle of apprehension. "Will, stay here," she snapped, dropping the half dozen things she was already carrying and moving to round the end of the shelves. She slid her hand inside her jacket, checking on the familiar weight of Mister Pointy where he resided in an inner pocket.

The clerk reached out with a meaty fist, shoving the young woman back several paces with an angry snarl. "Don't pull that garbage with me, little girl!"

The tingle had become a raging shiver as Buffy moved forward, uncertain where the danger came from, but knowing it was there.

The blond customer took a half step forward, her body language broadcasting her anger as clearly as words and then suddenly pivoted, staring through the broad glass panes that fronted the tiny store.

Buffy's gaze followed the other woman's less than a second later as time shifted, slowing until it was measured in heartbeats instead of seconds.

The three men who came rushing through the double doors to the small store were all dressed in black from the tips of their steel-toed jackboots to the collars of their black dusters and the knit of their ski masks. The only trace of color was a tiny rim of red stitching around the eyeholes of the ski masks, Buffy noted with the perverse attention to detail that she'd learned as the Slayer. Each carried a pump action shotgun, held high and pointed at the tiny group of people.

Before Buffy could do more than draw a breath, the barrel of a shotgun was shoved in her face.

"I wouldn't move, little girl," her assailant snarled, his voice ragged with stress, his eyes both scared and excited where they gleamed behind the rough knit of the mask.

Near the counter, the young woman who'd been arguing with the clerk was receiving similar treatment, which meant Buffy didn't dare try anything. She was certain she could disarm her attacker without injury, but there was too much chance the others would get off a shot or two before she could do anything to stop them.

The clerk apparently wasn't so cautious, because he made a dash for something under the edge of the counter, only to crash headfirst into a shotgun butt. The force behind the blow knocked him backwards into the cigarette display, sending packs flying everywhere and upending a rack of adult magazines. He hit the floor hard and before he could even think of trying anything else, the third assailant vaulted the counter, slamming a hard kick into the man's chest.

"Man, that was stupid," the thief snarled as he heaved a final kick at his victim, then began hammering on the cash register in an apparent attempt to get at the money inside. Finally, he grabbed the clerk by the collar, hauling him to his feet as he ordered, "Open it!"

Buffy risked a sideways glance out of the corner of her eye, mentally willing Willow to stay down and quiet, as she tried to see if there was any sign of her friend.

Still hidden behind the shelves, Willow crouched down, trying to think of a way to help and coming up with absolutely nothing. Despite the generally deadly quality of Twinkies, she was comparatively certain that throwing them at someone wasn't likely to do much damage. Still crouched, she glanced up, noting the rounded security mirror in one corner of the store which let her see where the bad guys were positioned. Of course, if any of them looked up, they'd also see where she was positioned, but there wasn't really much she could do about that. She mentally calculated the distances, then eyed the shelves that formed her scant cover. They were light enough that she thought she could probably shove them over. If a couple of the thieves would just--

"You're pretty, little girl," the sneering leering voice broke into Willow's half-formed plans and she peered up into the mirror just as the one holding a shotgun on the would-be beerdrinker sidled up to the young woman near the counter, jamming the barrel of the weapon against the underside of her jaw. "Maybe we should just go in back and have a little party of our own."

She tensed, but didn't respond as he backed her against the counter, using his body to pin her in place.

The clerk had finally gotten the now-battered cash register open, and the thug behind the counter was merrily stripping the money out of the drawer and shoving it in his pockets. "Hey, go for it, man." He turned, leering at Buffy. "Maybe we should all have a party and..." And then he trailed off.

Willow felt her heart skip at least a half a dozen beats as she realized he was staring back at her reflection in the mirror.

"Shit, there's another one back there!" he shouted to his buddies as he vaulted the counter.

Willow scrambled, stumbling backwards, but had neither the time to escape, nor any available route. Somewhere in the distance, she heard Buffy call out her name, but knew there was nothing the Slayer could do to help since she was as vulnerable to a shotgun blast as anyone else. Her attacker was on her in a second, rough hands grabbing at her clothes, and slamming her this way and that, sending bags of chips and bottles of designer water flying. She tried to fight, but he was too strong and too fast and she never had a chance. Upended by her attacker, the world tumbled by at dizzying speed until suddenly she was hurled forward to go skidding across the floor, not stopping until she bodily slammed into a warm barrier. Her ears ringing, Willow pushed up on one hand, leaning against the legs that had stopped her wild skid, momentarily thinking they were Buffy's until she realized the Slayer was in front of her, her head tipped back by the pressure of the a shotgun barrel, every muscle in her body tense with the barely leashed need to do something.

"Buffy, don't," Willow croaked, her voice sounding rough to her own ears.

A hard hand dug into crimson hair, dragging Willow's head back as the one who appeared to be the leader taunted, "Yeah, Buffy, don't."

She was shaking hard, dazed, tasting blood. God, they couldn't even go to a quickie mart without something bad happening.

"Well, this is a nice development," the leader continued as he leered down at her. "A dance partner for each of us."

A hand curved to Willow's shoulder, steadying her when she might have gone down and she risked a glance up at the would-be beerdrinker. She was ghostly pale, her hand cold and clammy where it was braced on Willow's shoulder. Willow recognized the look of disbelieving horror on her face all too easily. When she'd first known Buffy she'd felt that way on more than a few occasions. Of course, those had been otherworldly villains, not garden variety thugs, but the terror wasn't so different. After all, most twenty year-olds consider themselves immortal whether they've ever met otherworldly dangers or not.

The clerk, bleeding from his nose and mouth pushed unsteadily to his feet, an arm braced across his midsection. "Look, you've got the money you wanted. Just go."

Before anyone could move, the leader slammed the butt of his shotgun into the clerk's face, sending him crashing to the floor in an unmoving heap. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it, old man." The leader chuckled, enjoying his triumph.

Buffy's eyes gleamed with the promise of revenge. If she could just find a way to distract them and get those shotguns aimed away from Willow and the other woman, they'd learn that her Slaying skills weren't limited to vampires.

Somewhere in the distance, the pulsing wail of a siren could just barely be heard and three would-be thieves tensed. "Well, damn," their leader cursed. "Looks like we ought to take this show on the road." He grabbed for the blond where she was pressed against the counter, yanking her close and grinning when she flinched in distaste as his alcohol sour breath washed across her face. Emboldened by his actions, the other two started to do likewise.

"I don't think so," the Slayer's angry growl cut through the taut silence of the quickie mart, drawing the attention of all three of the would-be thieves as she yanked her arm back from her assailant.

Willow wondered if her mouth was hanging open. Didn't Buffy realize there was a shotgun-- actually, three shotguns, the hacker realized as she noted that all of them had swung their weapons toward the Slayer--pointed at her and these people were nuts.

The leader was visibly startled by the refusal, his eyes narrowing through the holes in the ski-mask. "Excuse me?" he drawled, his tone thick with sarcastic rage.

The blond shook her head stiffly. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she said, her voice menacingly low. "If I'm going to die, I'd just as soon do it here...on camera." She nodded toward the security camera hanging inconspicuously in one corner. "And not out in the middle of nowhere after you and your friends have all had a couple of turns."

Willow saw the fury in his stance. He was going to kill her. She could feel it like a black cloud hanging around him. And then she felt the leader move, bringing his arm back as he raised the weapon to strike out with it the way he had before. No! She couldn't let that happen! The shotgun stocks were made of wood, and Willow reached out without even knowing she was doing it. As he slammed the butt end of the weapon forward with enough force to rend flesh and break bone, she grabbed it back with her mind. It was like solid wall went up between the gun stock and its intended target, stopping it several inches short of the Slayer's face even as she lifted her hands to block the weapon.

For a long moment, they all froze, each of the participants staring at the scene in shocked disbelief.

The thief stumbled back a half step, shaking the gun as though it had somehow malfunctioned. It was all the distraction Buffy needed as her own attacker looked away from his prey and toward his confused friend.

In that instant, time warped and slowed until each moment took an hour to pass. In the first second the Slayer brought her hand up, slapping her forearm into the gun barrel pressed against her throat and knocking it aside. Before he had a chance to respond, she turned her hand, wrapping inhumanly strong fingers around the barrel and wrenching the weapon away from her attacker. He barely had time to blink before she snapped it into his face, knocking him backwards into a rack of snack packs of chips where he lay unmoving.

As another second passed, Willow saw the two nearest attackers aim their weapons at the Slayer--they wouldn't be using them as clubs anymore--and gritted her teeth--mentally shoving them up and away from herself with panic driven force only an instant before they went off with deafening impact.

With ceiling tiles raining down on them, a third second ticked by. Buffy leapt at the men flanking Willow where she knelt, her back pressed tightly against the counter, her shoulder pressed into the blond beerdrinker's hip. The Slayer hit the nearest man hard, the impact throwing them both into Willow, the blond, and the confused leader of the trio like a trail of human dominoes.

As the fourth second passed, Willow lost all sense of what was happening in the scramble of bodies and limbs flailing randomly in desperate combat. A shotgun went skittering harmlessly across the floor as the Slayer disarmed one of the two men. Caught in the middle, the hacker was knocked about with little control over the situation until, suddenly, a hard hand dug into her shirt collar, hurling her aside.

Willow tumbled free of the fray just as the fifth second ticked away, twisted and looked back in horror as she saw the leader--at least she thought it was him--pull a long, slender stiletto from the back of his belt. The Slayer's back was to him as him as she blocked a roundhouse swing from his partner in crime. Willow heard the tortured sound of her own voice screaming in warning, "BUFFY!!" as she lunged forward, bounding to her feet and hurtling herself at her best friend's attacker with raw ferocity, determined that he would not harm her.

The sixth second saw the Slayer slam an elbow into the other thief's face, shattering his nose as she tore the shotgun away from him with her other hand. With only one of the attackers left, she spun toward her friend's call, horror twisting her features as she saw the knife turn toward Willow even as she was barreling straight toward it. There was no way Buffy could reach them in time and she didn't even get a chance as the downed thief behind her managed to get a hand around a free-standing shelf full of snack cakes and upended it into her back.

As the clock counted down the seventh second, Willow saw Buffy skid and fall forward while she was backpedaling wildly in an effort to escape the knife thrust toward her. Her feet slid on the slick tiles, sending her crashing backwards into a magazine rack. There was nowhere left to go and no time left to go there anyway. Pain rattling through her back where she'd hit the sharp edged metal rack, Willow's eyes instinctively snapped shut and she turned her head away, blindly trying to escape the sight of the silver blade aimed toward her.

As the eighth second fell away, Willow was startled to feel a body impact into her instead of the sharp blade of the stiletto. She blinked her eyes open as blond hair touched her cheek, automatically wrapping her arms around the slender figure that had somehow stumbled between her and imminent doom. For the briefest moment, she thought the blond hair that dusted across her face was Buffy's, that somehow the Slayer had made it in time to put herself between Willow and death one more time, but then she realized it was too short, while the dead weight figure in her arms was dressed all wrong. Unable to support the other woman's weight, she could only cushion her boneless collapse to the floor even as she heard her own voice screaming Buffy's name. Her eyes lifted to where the thief stood over her, staring down at his victim with a wide-eyed look.

By the time the ninth second passed what he thought or didn't think was irrelevant. Buffy took him down so quickly and so hard that it was unlikely he'd be moving again on his own for at least a week. She scrambled past their attacker, skidding to one knee beside Willow. "Will?" the Slayer panted, terror making her eyes glitter with wild lights. All she knew was that in one instant the knife had been headed for her friend, and then by the time she was done with the bastard, Willow was cradling another victim in her arms.

Time began to collapse again, gaining momentum as the tenth second counted off, the seconds moving by more quickly, tumbling away, never to be seen again. "She needs an ambulance" the hacker panted. The woman in her arms lay half on her side, shaking, her mouth working soundlessly as she instinctively coiled her body around the knife still stuck in her gut.

The eleventh and twelfth second slid by while Willow comforted the bleeding victim. "An ambulance?" the young woman croaked weakly, her body trembling violently while her blood continued to spill onto the speckled floor tiles. "Doctors...hospital...yeah...." She coughed heavily, blood spilling onto her lips.

The clock ticked down the thirteenth and fourteenth seconds as Willow promised, "It's going to be okay," trying to offer what scant comfort she could, her hands quickly drenched in the flow of dark blood she was trying in vain to staunch.

Another three seconds passed as the young woman struggled to speak. "Don't think so," the blond groaned, her expression twisted by the pain from her injury."Gotta stop zigging when I oughta zag...." She looked up at Willow, meeting the hacker's frightened gaze with one that was oddly calm. "It's okay," she whispered weakly. Then she shuddered and went horrifyingly limp in an instant.

More seconds came and went as Buffy felt for a pulse, fingers searching the woman's slender throat. "Will," she whispered after a beat. "I think she's dead."

The hacker shook her head slowly, wanting to deny the obvious; that another human being had died in her place. "No...maybe there's a spell--"

Buffy kept searching, but there was no trace of a pulse and the skin beneath her fingers was already cooling. "Will, she's gone." Buffy slid an arm around Willow's shoulders, hugging her hard.

Less than thirty seconds worth of explosive violence and a woman lay dead.

And the frightening part for Buffy Summers was the fact that as angry and disgusted as she was, a part of her was profoundly grateful that it wasn't her best friend lying dead on the floor. Admit it, her inner voice pressed, you couldn't survive that.

In one of the odder coincidences that had long dominated Buffy Summers' life, that was the moment the police chose to arrive, guns drawn, ready for action, and about a half a minute too late. As the first officer burst through the door, barking a sharp order, "Hands in the air," Buffy barely contained the urge to laugh hysterically.

Soon enough they hauled the still-unconscious, handcuffed thieves out. Apparently, the clerk had managed to trip some kind of silent alarm to summon them, but they hadn't come quickly enough to do anything but clean up the mess and send the clerk to the hospital. The officers that took both girls' statements, were appropriately sympathetic, but there were a lot of details to go over, especially when a detective pulled Buffy's name and file from the police computer. As the questioning continued, in the background a forensics team carefully took pictures of the dead woman, then zipped her into a plastic body bag. It was going to be a long night.

PART THREE

Joyce Summers resisted the urge to curse as she took another swallow of lukewarm coffee. For perhaps the thousandth time, she glanced at her watch, noting the slowly advancing hour with a disgusted sigh. It looked like she wasn't going to get any sleep. Not that the client she was scheduled to meet wasn't worth the effort--after all, she was contracted to get ten percent of the auction of the extensive collection of impressionist paintings and sketches the woman was selling--but she was already nearly two hours late and Joyce had had a long day. There was also the niggling worry that it was Sunnydale and going missing in this particular small town was seldom a positive experience. She knew more about that particular facet of her adopted home than she might have preferred since her daughter was the Slayer--the Chosen One--tasked to protect the world from the evils of the night--which included the Hellmouth, an entry from the Netherworld that just happened to reside in Sunnydale, and attracted every sort of evil known to man. She was proud of Buffy for the responsibility she'd taken on, respected her child, knew that she was often all that stood between life and eternal damnation.

But, if and when she was honest with herself, she had to admit it scared the living hell out of her. Mostly, she dealt with the fear through sheer, unadulterated denial, but it gnawed at her and left her terrified that she was somehow failing her child due to her own inability to deal with the ugly realities of life she'd discovered the night Buffy ran away from home. Her daughter had come back and they'd made some kind of peace, but it all still frightened her, driving her to push herself until she couldn't think anymore. If she couldn't think, she couldn't worry and wonder what was happening to Buffy, couldn't imagine the funeral she would probably have to attend some day. She didn't know much about Slayers, but she'd learned enough to know there was no retirement plan. Her daughter would die one day, and the chances were very high she would all too young when it happened.

Joyce shuddered as though someone had walked over her grave and took another sip of her coffee, silently willing her client to appear. Anything to block the morbid path her thoughts were taking.

As if in answer to the unspoken summons, a soft knock rattled the art gallery front door. Joyce's head snapped up, a relieved expression on her face as she called out, "Yes," and hurried toward the door.

"Mrs. Summers," a warm, softly accented voice called through the door. "My apologies for running late."

Joyce swung the door open, revealing a very pretty young woman with short blond hair, and what looked to be an almost delicate build under her heavy black trenchcoat. She didn't appear to be much older than Buffy. Surprised, she took a half step back. "Devon Carstairs?" She had expected her customer to be considerably older.

The young woman smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she said hastily. "I'm Blaine Michaels, Ms. Carstairs personal assistant...." She shrugged, still looking embarrassed. "Also her niece if you must know the truth. Dev had to leave for France rather unexpectedly...there was a fire at an estate she owns near Luxembourg. She sent me down here in her place...and unfortunately, I managed to have both a flat on the Ten and a dead cell phone battery." Visibly flustered, the young woman ran a hand through her hair. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. Truly, I had no idea I'd run this late or I would have called you before leaving Los Angeles to let you know about the change." She stuffed her hands in the pockets of the calf length black trenchcoat that flared around her slender legs. Again she flashed an embarrassed smile, making Joyce feel churlish for any annoyance she'd been feeling at the lateness of the hour. "God, I swear, if I weren't family, Aunt Dev would just fire me."

"Don't worry about it. I had to work late anyway," Joyce inserted, and held the door wide as she waved the young woman in. "Come on in. Your aunt faxed me the crate number that was miss-shipped, and it's right back here," she continued as she led the courier through the gallery toward the storage area in the back.

"I'm sure she'll be very pleased with how organized you are."

Joyce laughed softly. "Well, it's quite a collection to get ready for sale. She has some wonderful impressionist works."

"Yes," Blaine Michaels agreed smoothly. "She inherited much of it from my grandmother. She was the serious art collector...and, in truth, some of the more valuable pieces in the collection came from her father...he was in Europe before the war and picked several things up for a song."

"I'm just amazed she's selling. I'd think it would be awfully hard to part with some of them."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid my aunt has suffered some financial setbacks this year. The market has not been kind and she needs the cash."

Joyce flinched sympathetically. "So sorry to hear that."

The girl shrugged philosophically. "It happens."

As they entered the tightly packed confines of the back room, Joyce wove between several rolling work tables as she gestured toward the front crate in a stack of flat, painting crates stacked against one wall. "It's the top one," she informed her guest.

The young woman stepped fluidly past Joyce, her posture stiff as she pulled up short in front of the crate. "No," she said almost instantly. "This isn't the right one. It's too small." She reached out, brushing dust off the packing slip taped to the outside of the wooden crate. "Here's the problem. There's a scuff mark. If you don't look closely, it looks like it says Oh-four, but it's Oh-seven." She straightened and Joyce heard a soft curse as she leaned past her to look at the error.

"I'm so sorry," the tall blond apologized. "How much larger?"

The young woman gestured with her hands, indicating a package roughly three feet by four feet.

Joyce resisted the urge to curse. "It must be one of the ones at my house." She flushed at the annoyed look turned her way. "The collection is so large, and I needed more work-space here," she said defensively. "I stored some pieces at my house. If you like, I can go back, get them, and bring them here for you. It shouldn't take me more than an hour...two at the most."

The young woman glanced at her watch where it resided on her inner wrist. "Unfortunately, I have to be back in LA at eight am and I'm cutting it close as it is." She uttered another curse under her breath.

I can have it shipped to any address you'd like--" Joyce offered, but Blaine cut her off quickly.

"No," she said very quickly, then offered a tight smile. "Aunt Devon asked me to see to it personally. It's something of a family heirloom. I'll just have to drive back tomorrow night. Is ten o'clock tomorrow evening all right with you? I'm sorry it's so late, but I've got meetings all day tomorrow, and I won't be able to get back to Sunnydale before then."

"Of course," Joyce agreed quickly.

The young woman smiled. "Thank you, hopefully this time things will go a little more smoothly and I won't be quite so late."

Joyce forced down an unexplained shiver as she nodded in agreement, shaking hands politely and wishing her young customer well. She missed the brief glimpse of thick blood congealed and drying on the young woman's dark shirt front as she stepped out into the night and a fresh wind caught the edges of her coat, briefly blowing them apart before slender hands pulled them back together. Certainly it never occurred to her that she was doing a business deal with the dead.

* * * * * *

"Just another fun night in Sunnyhell," Buffy exhaled where she sat on the front porch of the Twenty-Four/Seven, her legs stretched out in front of her. To the east, the horizon was turning the soft shade of pink that heralded morning. She looked up as she heard soft footsteps, smiling limply at Willow as the hacker sank down next to her and leaned her head against the Slayer's shoulder. "You okay?"

"They had a lot of questions. I feel kind of stupid because I couldn't really answer them. It all happened so fast that I'm not quite sure what happened."

"Yeah," Buffy sighed tiredly. She would have sworn she'd known what transpired in those final moments, but when she'd tried to describe it to the detective, somehow she couldn't quite lay things out in a way that made sense in her own head.

"I'm not sure they believed me," Willow added, then buried her face in Buffy's shoulder as though she could block the ugly events of the night out of her mind.

"Not surprising," the Slayer exhaled. "They've obviously looked up my files. That whole mess with Kendra came up...not to mention the murder of the deputy mayor...." She leaned her cheek against the top of Willow's head. "God, some days I think I'm cursed."

"You live in Sunnydale. I think it's one of the requirements," was Willow's muffled response.

"Point taken," Buffy sighed, so exhausted that she didn't have the wherewithal to resist the urge to nuzzle Willow's hair affectionately, taking comfort from the feel and smell of the silky strands.

They were still sitting there like that long minutes later, when Rupert Giles' aging Citroen pulled up. The Englishman climbed out, his hair and clothes askew, his expression rife with worry. "Buffy...Willow..." He searched for any signs of injury as he hurried forward.

"We're okay," Buffy assured him while Willow looked up and offered a wan smile.

Giles ran a shaky hand through his hair as he looked inside the small store, noting the police still working amid upended shelves and shattered glass. "What happened?" He looked at the Slayer again. "Who...when..."

"You forgot why and where?" Buffy said acidly as she pushed to her feet, then reached back to tug Willow up. "But the answer is, three guys in ski masks with shotguns, about three hours ago--"

Giles appeared horrified. "You should have called me sooner."

"Not an option," Willow sighed tiredly.

"Mm," Buffy mumbled in confirmation. "The police had a lot of questions, and since Willow and I were the only ones not unconscious or dead..." she trailed off suggestively.

"Dead?" Giles exhaled, losing another shade of color at the thought.

"Yeah," the Slayer sighed and nodded toward the front door of the store. "Another customer. She never had a chance." She dragged a hand through her hair, her tone disgusted as she muttered. "So much for my vaunted Slayer powers. I couldn't even stop three stupid thugs--"

"They had shotguns, Buffy," Willow reminded her. "Nobody could have done any better."

Giles settled a hand on the blond's narrow shoulder. "I'm sure Willow's right," he tried to reassure her. "You may be the Slayer, but you're not invulnerable. A shotgun blast will kill you just like anyone else."

Buffy's mouth twisted in an grim smile. "Yeah, tell that to the dead woman's family. I'm sure it will be a lot of comfort." Then the Slayer broke away and climbed into Giles' car without further comment.

Willow turned a sad-eyed look Giles' way. "You know how she gets when...well...when she loses one."

A muscle flexed in the Watcher's jaw. "Yes." He looked at Willow seriously as though trying to assess her condition. She'd been through so much recently. He was worried about her. "Are you all right?"

There was a certain lack of sincerity to Willow's tone when she answered. "I'm fine. Just tired...it was pretty bad." Her shoulders tipped in a prosaic shrug. "But then again, we've both seen things that were a lot worse."

Frowning, Giles demanded, "What were you two doing here at this hour?" as though somehow their schedule was at fault.

The hacker shook her head. "Just being silly," she brushed the question off. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering in the predawn chill. "Look, Giles, I really think we should get back to the dorms. It's been a long night." She wavered on her feet, so tired she could barely remain upright.

The two stared at each other for a long moment, Giles suspecting there was something else he should say, but at a total loss as to what. Finally, he just nodded. "Get in the car. I'll take you back."

It was only a little over a half a mile back to the dorms and the drive took place in total silence, the three occupants of the tiny car all lost in their respective thoughts. Willow had wiped most of the blood from her hands on a towel handed to her by the officer who had interviewed her, but it was still caked on her clothes, and the smell of it filled the crowded space despite the open windows, reminding each of them of the night's high price.

Giles pulled into the small parking lot at the rear of the dorm and took a spot near the back doors, then turned to peer at the Slayer where she lay sprawled in the back seat. After a brief glance at Willow, who appeared equally worn out, he cleared his throat. "Look, you two both look like hell. I'm not sure a dormitory is quite the right place for you right now. Why don't you come stay at my place for a day or two. Get some rest...deal with...what's happened..."

Buffy let out a grim bark of laughter. "I don't know. Will, you think Dr. Walsh would let us have the day off for stumbling into the middle of a murder?"

A swell of hysterical laughter bubbled up from the hacker's chest. "Only if we were the victims."

That appeared to strike Buffy as hilariously funny much to Giles' chagrin, though he quickly realized it wasn't real laughter, but rather a way of venting the monstrous stress of the evening. "Buffy...Willow..." he said in a carefully controlled voice. "It's obvious that you're--"

"Too tired for this conversation," Buffy cut him off impatiently as she climbed out of the small car, then reached back to catch Willow's hand and tug her out as well. She ran a trembling hand through her hair. "Look, Giles it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but I really want to sleep in my own bed tonight..." Then, noting that it was rapidly becoming daylight, she snorted something impolite under her breath. "Or not sleep as the case may be." She sighed heavily. "Besides, hanging with Spike and watching Passions together is not my idea of a therapy day."

Giles glanced at the sleepy redhead standing next to the Slayer. "Willow?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't think so," she demurred without further explanation.

The Watcher sighed heavily, quashing the urge to order them back into the car with effort. He could see the exhaustion and hurt in every facet of both girls and wanted nothing more than to protect them and help them through it. Unfortunately, by the look of it, they were no more receptive to the help he wanted to offer than he would have been at that age. "Be careful," he said at last. "And remember, you can always call me..." He turned a piercing gaze on the Slayer. "I know I'm not officially your Watcher anymore, but I hope I'll always be your friend."

"Of course you are," Willow filled in instantly, though the Slayer was silent for a long moment. Suddenly, she blinked back to the real world and nodded, confirming Willow's words.

"Of course we're friends, Giles," she assured him.

And if there was a note of reserve in her words, well, it was understandable after the night's events. Shock and all that. At least, that was what Rupert Giles told himself as he got back in his car and drove away.

PART FOUR

"Do you want to talk?" Willow questioned, her voice sounding curiously hollow even to her own ears.

Buffy looked at her sideways. "Not really...you?" The question was dryly asked, making it clear that the Slayer was in no mood to discuss anything. She turned away and began digging through her closet, yanking out clothes.

Willow stared at her friend's stiff back, uncertain what to say or do. The comforting closeness that had existed between them in the aftermath of the attack had evaporated somewhere during the drive to the dorm, and the hacker was far from certain why. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Buffy clipped without elaborating as she continued putting her things together.

Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, Willow blinked back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. "Yeah, I can see that," she said so softly Buffy almost didn't hear the words.

Buffy froze, stiffening. A beat passed, and then she slowly turned enough to look back over her shoulder at her friend, wincing as she saw the blood that still stained Willow's clothes, a hauntingly tangible reminder that she wasn't the only one who'd had a bad night. A muscle pulsed in the Slayer's jaw and she started to say something only to fall silent at the last moment. Finally, she just muttered, "I need a shower before I get to class," and hurried out. Coward, that annoying inner voice whispered in her ear, daring her to turn back, but for once, the Slayer wasn't up to being brave. She just needed to run away.

Willow stared at the closed door that lay between them for a long time before she finally staggered forward and grabbed her own clothes. Buffy wasn't the only one in dire need of a shower and the thought of being alone left her slightly nauseous.

* * * * * *

The day that followed was the sort that crawls--slowly--by. Willow sat dazedly in her classes, barely conscious of what her teachers were saying and perversely grateful that she only had one class with Buffy on Fridays, the eminently ditchable Freshman Composition--her grade was so high in there that she'd have to miss it for a month before she even dropped to a B--and after the little scene in their dorm room, she just wasn't in the mood to see her best friend.

When her four o'clock class, Principles of Concurrent Programming--a whiz-bang paradigms course from the computer department that even she found more than a little challenging--swung around, she was so tired of it all that she almost scrapped it and took Giles up on his offer to use his guestroom. If it weren't for the fact that Buffy's Watcher would have wanted to know what was going on--and Willow honestly didn't have an answer for that--she would have. So instead, she went to class, sat in the back--a lonely position to say the least since the ambitious crowd that made up the student-body tended to take the front rows--and spent the entire ninety minutes doodling in her notebook and completely ignoring the professor's lecture. Particularly somewhere during the last fifteen minutes when she started crying and couldn't seem to stop: big fat, soundless tears that fell from her cheeks and made her doodles blot when they hit her notebook. Lost in her own private misery, she didn't notice class had ended until she realized other students were filing out the door, most of them merrily plotting a wild weekend of programming and hacking. The joys of Fridays in the farthest reaches of geekdom. If she hadn't already felt so depressed, it would have taken Willow down another notch. As it was, she just ducked her head, letting her bangs fall across her forehead, and hoped no one noticed the tears as she pretended to be finishing up her notes. Finally, when everyone had gone, she stuffed her things together and hurried out. To hell with it all. She was so tired she could barely stay on her feet and if Buffy wanted to fight, she was comfortably certain she could just sleep through it.

* * * * * * Willow was already asleep--or at least she was in bed and feigning sleep--when Buffy got in. It was barely dark out, making her feel guilty for not being outside fighting the evils she knew ranged through the night--Giles and Xander had both more or less ordered her to take the night off, promising to take her place. Her hands fisted at her sides. She would have preferred to just see to her patrol. It was her duty. Besides, the notion of killing something was almost uncomfortably appealing. She'd been hoping to blow off some of the angry stress that had settled in the pit of her stomach and between her shoulderblades. Unfortunately, the both of her friends had been insistent and even Anya had helpfully commented on how awful she looked. After that, the walk back to campus had seemed longer than she remembered. Unfettered by the strain of concentrating on the fight at hand, the Slayer's brain had busied itself by pursuing any number of mental paths she would have preferred to avoid.

Like the way she'd treated Willow in the dorm room after Giles dropped them off. She'd blown that one completely and she wasn't even quite sure why. Maybe it was just the guilt, and the reminder that as the Slayer, she was supposed to protect people, but from the moment she'd seen Giles she'd been even more on edge. But, whatever the reasons, the fact remained that she had failed and hurt Willow. One. More. Time.

Buffy ran a hand through her hair, mentally castigating herself as she stared at her friend's figure where she lay coiled into her blankets. She was fairly certain that she wasn't sleeping, there was just too much tension in her position and her breathing seemed too controlled, but she wasn't quite certain enough to risk waking her. Or maybe you're just afraid that you've finally well and truly blown it for good, her personal Jiminy Cricket whispered in her ear. And if that's the case, you've really screwed up your life but good this time.

Buffy sighed softly, amazed that she could be so brave when faced with death and so damn cowardly when faced with her own emotions. Finally, she just turned away and readied for bed in silence before finally falling onto her mattress in a heap. Despite the profusion of thoughts running unchecked through her head, she was so tired that she was asleep in moments. She never heard the soft movements less than an hour later as Willow slipped from her bed to turn on her computer. She'd slept for awhile on returning to the dorm, but Buffy's return had wakened her, and she just couldn't seem to fall back asleep, so she decided to get some work done, hoping it would distract her from her own thoughts and fears.

* * * * * *

Joyce Summers grunted softly as she hefted a heavy crate containing her customer's missing painting from the hand truck she'd used to transport it in from her trunk, up onto a work table in the back room of the gallery. Several nails and one plank had come loose during the transport and they needed to be hammered back together. She cursed softly as another plank came loose while she was lifting the crate. The delivery staff had been rough with everything, but by the looks of it, this piece had suffered the worst of the group. Once it was stable, she grabbed a hammer and moved to tap the nails back into place only to set it aside as she noted the packing material leaking from the gap between planks. Poking at it to try and push the shredded paper back inside the bounds of the crate, she succeeded only in pulling more of it out through the gap. After another round of curses, she used the claw on the hammer to pull up several nails, hoping that if she released another plank, she could repack the whole thing properly and then seal it up.

And froze. Joyce leaned closer, staring at what she could see of the painting through the gap in the wood and packing. The painting was obviously wrapped in thick felt padding to protect it, but the felt had ridden up, revealing an ornate gilded frame and the bottom right corner of the canvas. Joyce frowned, head tipping to one side as she saw the last part of the signature. She leaned closer, frowning to make out the little snippet of the name. "It can't be," she whispered to herself, not believing what she was thinking. She brushed more of the packing material aside and carefully pushed the felt out of the way until the signature was completely revealed. "It can't be," the woman whispered, then glanced at her watch. It was only a little past six. Four hours until her client was due to arrive. Which left her with more than enough time to open the crate and then repackage it. She paused for a long moment, debating whether or not she should do it. She leaned closer to peer at the flowing script for a long moment, then picked up her hammer and began removing nails.

* * * * * * Buffy Summers was dreaming and half aware of the dream state even as she watched the events unfold. She was at the Bronze, wearing something soft and slinky that left her arms and shoulders bare and swirled around her thighs in soft waves. Riley was there, dancing with her, his eyes glittering with the familiar lights of lust that she'd learned to expect from most men, while his friends were all around them, only they weren't dressed like they normally did. Instead, they were wearing camouflage fatigues and some kind of combat vests. She tried to pull away, and see better, but he kept tugging her back, his voice smooth as he urged her to ignore them.

"That's not important," Riley insisted, still moving to the music. "Only this is important."

"Buffy!"

The Slayer twisted and caught a glimpse of red hair, before her line of sight was blocked by camouflaged men. "That's Willow," she exhaled and started to pull away only to have Riley yank her back.

He smiled down at her, hips swaying with the rhythm. "Don't worry about her," he insisted.. He leaned down and nibbled on Buffy's bare shoulder. "She's not like us."

Buffy tried to subtly pull away, but his grip was too strong as he pressed against her. She heard a pained cry and looked back in time to see Willow try to break through the camouflaged wall of flesh, only to be grabbed and yanked back.

"Ignore her," Riley muttered, trying to drag her back into the dance. "She's just a distraction from what's really important...us...you belong with a real man..." His hands slid over her shoulders and she couldn't pull away even though she wanted to. It was like something held her there and wouldn't let go. She braced her palms on his chest, trying to push, but somehow unable to make her body obey the dictates of her mind, she found her fingers digging into his vest--"vest?" her dream mind questioned--and dragging him closer.

Willow cried out again, her voice thick with pain this time. "Buffy!" She grunted, and the Slayer heard the sound of flesh striking flesh as Willow cried out, "Let me go!"

And then the Slayer did find the strength to twist away, stumbling back from Riley to turn toward her friend. Willow was being held between two of Riley's camo-pals and they laughed cheerfully as she struck at them and tried to break free. Parker was standing behind the girl, and he threw a leering wink Buffy's way as he slid an arm around her friend.

"Buffy, please," Willow whimpered, still struggling with her captors. "I need you!"

"No she doesn't," Riley whispered near Buffy's ear and yanked her back around. "She's not important," he repeated. He gripped her by the hips. "My friends will teach her what she needs to know."

Willow screamed then, the sound panicked and angry, and Buffy twisted away from Riley, breaking his hold as she spun around.

The camo-creeps had lifted Willow onto a pinball machine, and Parker was standing next to her, only now he was dressed all in black.

"Now, isn't this a revolting development?" a soft voice whispered near Buffy's ear. The Slayer glanced back into pale green eyes. It was the blond who'd died in the Twenty-Four/Seven, a wry smile on her mouth, an ugly gash still marring her midsection. "Don't you think it's about time you get over it and do the hero thing...before it's too late?" she asked dryly, then she disappeared as Riley stepped right through her.

"Don't you get it, Buffy," he demanded, dressed all in camouflage now. "We belong together...and she's just in the way." He grabbed her one more time at the same time that Willow screamed. Parker was climbing on top of her, pulling back his fist to hit her.

And Buffy lost it. She slammed an elbow back into Riley's face, thrilled by the satisfying crunch of bone that echoed through the Bronze's loudspeakers, then leapt at the men holding Willow, to send them flying like tenpins. She hit, punched, and kicked with raw ferocity, taking them all down with vicious glee until Riley's voice pulled her up short.

"You just don't get it," he growled, the words punctuated by Willow's tiny cries and Buffy slowly turned to face him. He was dressed in black now, an arm wrapped around Willow's slender body, a sharp stiletto pressed against her throat. "You don't have a choice in this...and if I have to kill her to get that through your thick skull...." He trailed the point of the blade down Willow's torso. "Then I guess that's just what I'm going to have to do." He shoved the point of the blade upward under the bottom edge of Willow's ribcage so hard he lifted her off her feet.

Buffy couldn't move. It was like she was caught in cold tar as she heard Willow's agonized cry and saw the way her breath caught. The hacker's face twisted with shock, while her blood spilled over the blade where it was thrust into her body.

"I was just following orders," Riley said and flung Willow's body aside.

"NO!!!" Buffy's scream echoed back to her as felt the awful paralysis lift and she leapt at him, tackling into his body, taking him down hard. She pinned an arm across his throat, his answering gags music to her ears, and chalked her fist back, fully intending to kill him.

But before she could strike, the scene wavered, colors running like wet paint in the rain, slowly morphing into another scene: Willow staring up at her in horror, her hands held protectively in front of her face, her eyes huge and terrified in her face. The Slayer frowned, uncertain what was real and what wasn't. She glanced around herself, spotting the familiar landmarks of her dorm room--the desks, posters, Willow's open, dully glowing laptop, Mr. Gordo--then back down at the woman lying pinned beneath her on her bed. "Will?" she croaked at last and dropped her fist, self-consciously uncertain what to do with it. A dream...it had just been a dream.

The two girls stared at each other, both breathing hard and shaking with shock and fear.

"Oh, God...Will..." Buffy exhaled heavily and yanked her arm back from the hacker's throat, bracing it on the mattress near Willow's head. They were lying stretched out on her bed, Willow closest to the wall, Buffy half on top, pinning the hacker to the mattress. "I...I was...dreaming... I guess--" By the look of it, she had grabbed her friend, attacking her in place of the dream-Riley.

"More like a nightmare," Willow coughed, her voice rough in the wake of Buffy's choke hold. "I...I was getting some work done when you screamed... I just came to see what was wrong..."

Buffy brushed a few strands of hair off of Willow's brow with a gentle hand. "I am so sorry," she croaked in a voice suddenly thick with tears. "I didn't even know it was you...I-I thought...I thought...someone...was trying to hurt you..." Without thinking, Buffy let her head fall forward until her forehead was resting against Willow's upper chest. "...and I couldn't protect you..." Her hands were braced against the bed on either side of Willow's waist and she shifted them to cling tightly to the hacker's slender frame. "I tried..." she whispered as though still caught in the nightmare. She could feel salty tears sliding away from the corners of her eyes. "But I couldn't...." She couldn't think straight, still overwhelmed by the awful horror of the nightmare, the image of Willow's dead body still burning brightly in her mind. She just needed to hold on and reassure herself it wasn't real...that Willow was okay.

"Buffy," Willow whispered and lifted a hand to the back of the Slayer's head, ruffling her hair gently. "It's okay...I'm okay..." She brought Buffy's head up with a light touch, stroking her cheek and then along her brow, staring deeply into the Slayer's eyes as she tried to soothe her fears. She felt the wetness of the Slayer's tears on her finger and stared at it in awe. "You...you're crying," she exhaled at last.

"I couldn't handle it if anything happened to you," Buffy breathed, her voice so soft Willow had to strain to hear her. The Slayer stared down into the hacker's upturned face, taking in the softness of gamine features, the sweet beauty of her worried expression. Kiss the girl, her inner voice urged, now, let her know how you feel.

For once Buffy was too tired and too steeped in need to resist the siren's song of her own hidden desires. With hungry passion, she ducked her head, tasting soft lips. She felt Willow tense and gasp, and only pressed the kiss deeper, drinking in her friend's startled breath.

The hacker whimpered low in her throat, momentarily confused, but Buffy just kept kissing her until she was lost in the burst of heat that flooded her veins. She arched up against the Slayer, instinctively seeking more contact. Had she been less tired, or less depressed and in need of comfort, Willow might have been able to resist the sweet temptation, but not at that moment. She needed the closeness...the feeling of being loved. Willow surrendered completely to their passion, working her fingers into thick blond hair as she pulled Buffy closer.

Warm curves neatly dovetailed together, the two girls kissed, caressed, stroked and explored, the soft sounds of their lovemaking filling the room as they surrendered to the need flooding through them. Buffy pressed soft kisses into the valley between rounded breasts, stroked the curve of Willow's hip, trailed her lips along the arch of the hacker's ribcage--pressing tiny kisses over the precise spot where the dream-Willow had taken the knife as though to wash away the imaginary injury--then slid back up, shuddering and moaning softly as Willow's hands and lips slid over her skin until she could barely breathe.

And for once, the voice in Buffy's head just sat back and applauded.

PART FIVE

"Giles?" Joyce spoke into the phone as she heard it pick up, aware her voice was trembling ever so slightly, but unable to do anything about it.

His voice came back with the unique tinny quality of an answering machine. "Hello, I'm not home right now, just leave a message at the sound of the--"

"Blood curdling scream," Buffy's voice broke in, along with background giggles and then a full throated scream.

"Buffy," Giles' recording continued, sounding highly annoyed.

"Please leave your name and which level of hell you're currently residing in and we'll exorcize you in the morning," Buffy continued as if her Watcher hadn't tried to chastise her.

"Dammit, Buffy," Joyce growled, fervently wishing for the beep. "I don't have time for this."

"I don't have time for this," the Giles-recording echoed Joyce's thoughts before continuing. "Name and number at the beep and hopefully I'll have time to rerecord this message soon," he growled. A second later the phone beeped at her.

"Giles, this is Joyce Summers. I'm at the gallery. You once told me to call you if I ever saw a catalog listing on a DuCourvallier...well, I'm sitting here looking at one. It looks to be a version of Ruth and Naomi, but it's nothing like the one I've seen attributed to the artist and I can't find a listing for anything like it in any of the books I've had time to check. The style and the signature are right though. The piece was shipped to me by mistake and my client is picking it up within the hour. If you want to see it, you have to get over here now." Then she read off the phone number at the gallery as well as her beeper number, and finished with, "Call me." She hung up the phone, then slowly pivoted, staring at the open crate with worried eyes.

There was something about the whole deal that was starting to make her skin crawl, though she couldn't put her finger on the problem. Unfortunately, the size of the contract made it impossible for her to do what she really wanted to at that moment and simply leave. With Buffy's school bills and the debt the gallery had built up during the start up period, she needed the money too much.

Finally, she moved over to the painting, staring down at the exquisitely delicate work. A part of her wanted to believe it was a fake. Nothing in the few surviving paintings of the Baroque artist had ever hinted at the kind of talent and skill required to create the piece in front of her. In fact, had DuCourvallier not been one of the tiny minority of female artists of the period--even briefly an apprentice of Orazio Gentileschi in Rome, moving amid a circle of people that included great masters like Caravaggio and Rubens--she would have long since been forgotten like hundreds of other apprentices and less than masterful artists whose names had been lost to time.

But this piece was on par with any of the great works. The brush strokes delicate and perfectly controlled, the colors chosen to make the piece glow as though a light gleamed behind the canvas. The two women were staged around a campire that made their skin glow in firelight hues of red and gold while bits of light reflected off a hint of trees and rocks, giving it an amazing amount of depth. The two figures were facing each other, one nearly turned away from the viewer, only a tantalizing hint of gentle features visible within a softly blowing mantle, while the other woman was angled toward the viewer, her dark hair flowing around her, one hand outstretched, fingers almost touching the other woman's face, the tip of her index finger poised as if to stroke her lower lip. There was no physical contact between the two, yet it burned with unspoken sensuality in the grace of their bodies and the way they leaned toward each other, the hunger to touch obvious in every brush stroke.

Joyce wondered if it had been hidden away because of that very sensuality and innocent eroticism. Had some church official seen it and deemed it unacceptable, or had it been stolen because of some greedy noble or cleric's desire to keep it to themselves? Or had it simply been stored away in someone's attic and forgotten? The failed artist in her couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of the work, though she knew it was of little historic significance to anyone but a few researchers. DuCourvallier wasn't of importance to anyone.

So, why the hell does Buffy's Watcher care if one of her pieces show up, Joyce questioned herself, then shivered as she felt as though someone had walked over her grave. She was still contemplating the problem when she heard the sound of the front door chimes ringing. "Damn," the woman muttered as she glanced at her watch and noted the time. She'd totally lost track of the hour while studying the painting and her caller was doubtless looking to pick up her property. Joyce had a funny feeling the woman wouldn't be too thrilled that the crate had been opened, particularly since it had happened since her request to retrieve the piece. She'd just have to delay her another night. Joyce shivered at the thought. There'd been something about Blaine Michaels, something not quite right. She looked like the perfect blond coed, and her smile had been easy, her manner almost too polite and apologetic, but there'd been a moment when Joyce had sensed something more. Something--

The bell rang again, reminding her that she had an impatient customer waiting. The woman slung a protective blanket across the painting and shoved the rolling work table out of the way, then hurried out to receive her guest.

* * * * * *

Giles cursed softly as he re-entered his home, noting the figure sprawled on his couch surrounded by a feast of opened cookies and crackers, not to mention a nearly empty pint of pig's blood. "Spike," he growled in a voice thick with distaste.

The vampire looked up, raising his mug in salute, not because he liked the Englishman, but because he knew it annoyed the hell out of him. "Hey, you should take a look at this," he encouraged as he pointed to the video playing on Giles' tv. "Tabby's about to make a try at that little blond tart again--God, I'd love to sink my teeth into that girl," Spike enthused. "But not as much as that other blond, the one who can't resist the cop. Tasty bit of fluff there. I like my ingenues with a bit on 'em."

Giles glared at the mess and then at Spike. It only seemed to please the vampire. "So, is this what you've been doing all day, hanging out eating oreos in pig's blood and watching Passions tapes over and over?"

Spike shrugged. "Sure, not like I'm going to be planning any bouts of world domination or major killing sprees." The vampire's expression turned pathetic. "Not like I used to."

Grumbling several impolite invectives, Giles started grabbing up the tattered remains of his cracker cupboard, intent on establishing some tiny bit of order in his home once again.

"Besides, I thought you and the Boy Blunder were out for the evening doing the Slayer's job, 'cos she's too 'upset' to handle it right now."

"I realized I forgot the holy water," Giles snapped impatiently, and abruptly dropped everything back on the couch as it occurred to him that he'd been just about to clean up after the vampire. He hardened his voice as he continued, "Which is what I came here to get." He glared at Spike. "And now I'm going out again and I want this entire mess cleaned up again before I get home." He turned away, flipping open the weapon's trunk to grab what he needed. Spike made a face at the mortal's back as he mouthed, "I want this entire mess cleaned up before I get home." His lip curled with dislike. Even his mother hadn't been that much of a harridan. It was like living with bloody Felix Unger. He dusted a few crumbs off the couch and onto the floor. Sheez, it was just a few cookie bits. Not like he'd suddenly brought in a load of crypt dust or something. He looked up as he heard Giles moving to leave. "Oh, and you have a message on the answering machine," he said, trying to get back somewhat in the other man's good graces--not that he'd ever been there in the first place. After all, much as he hated them, the Slayer and her friends were all that stood between him and a quick Spike-style weenie-roast. He shuddered. That wasn't how he planned on going. No, he wanted to die peacefully in...well, actually, he didn't ever want to die at all. Which made that whole vampire lifestyle a pretty good choice as far as Spike was concerned.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" the ex-librarian demanded shortly as he spun back.

Spike shrugged. "Didn't think of it." He climbed to his feet, wandering over to listen to the message as Giles played it. "Not like you're going to get a message from a cute bird." He eyed Giles speculatively. "Or even a good-looking bloke."

"Bloody hell," the ex-Watcher groaned as he heard the name DuCourvallier go by. He was already grabbing for the two-way radio to warn Xander when Joyce's message clicked off.

Spike looked at the other man with a wry smile. "Looking for a DuCourvallier," he murmured. "I'd think one of those would be a bit out of your price range...what with the jobless thing and all--"

"I don't want to buy the damn thing," Giles clipped, then focused on the radio. "Xander, this is Giles--"

"Nighthawk here," the teen's voice came back.

"Nighthawk," Spike mouthed, then snickered derisively and took another swig from his mug.

"Xander, I need you to get to Joyce Summer's gallery and get her out of there."

Xander's voice was all business. "Trouble?"

"Probably not, but it's possible. It's a long story--I'll tell you about it later--but for the moment, get her the hell away from there...and if you see anything, don't engage...run!"

"But, Giles--"

"I mean it, Xander. Don't try to fight it. I'll be there as fast as I can." He clicked the radio off and reached for the phone, dialing the number Joyce had given in her message. "You don't actually believe that old sod about Delaine DuCourvallier, do you?" Spike snorted.

Giles ignored him in favor of the phone.

"Next thing y'know, you'll be telling me you believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy," the vampire continued, though he tracked Giles' progress on the phone out of the corner of his eye. "She's a bloody myth, a fairy tale to scare Watcher-tots in their beds at night." He stuffed his hands in his pockets before adding, "Anyone pick up?"

"No," Giles snapped as he hung up. He dialed another number-- Buffy's this time--and got a busy signal. "Damn," the former Watcher hissed and slammed the phone down in frustration. He was hurrying to leave when he abruptly realized Spike had grabbed his coat and was following him and pulled up short. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily. He didn't have time for this.

"I'm coming with you," Spike answered as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, right, am I to believe you've suddenly seen the light and decided you want save the world and help fight evil?"

"No," Spike sneered at the very idea. He shoved a finger in Giles' face. "I hate the Slayer, loathe you, and would cheerfully put Xander's head through a wall if it weren't for the bloody migraine I'd get, but I rather like the Slayer's mum."

Whatever response Giles had been expecting, that wasn't it.

"Look," Spike pointed out surprisingly reasonably, "if it really is La Cour Noir, you're going to all the help you can get."

Accepting that he was going to have a passenger, Giles simply headed for his car as he jeered over his shoulder, "Well, I suppose we could throw you at her if things get too rough."

"Hey!" the vampire complained. "That's not funny."

"It is from where I'm sitting," Giles disagreed as his Citroen puttered to life and he pulled out. He shoved his cell phone at Spike. "Now shut up and dial while I'm driving."

* * * * * * "Important call?" Blaine Michaels politely questioned Joyce as she returned from the back room.

The other woman shook her head. "I don't know." She let out a small stressed laugh. "Didn't make it in time."

Green eyes watched her assessingly, though Michaels' expression remained bland. "Too bad. Personally, I always hate missing late night calls. I'm always afraid it was something important."

Another nervous laugh erupted from Joyce's lips. "I'm sure it was nothing," she denied, then continued uncertainly, "Probably just...um...my--uh--the man I'm dating. He often calls or stops by when I'm working late."

Blaine lifted an eyebrow, but her expression didn't otherwise change. "Very thoughtful of him. After all, you never know what might be lurking in the night."

It was probably just her imagination running out of control--fed by the knowledge of the otherworldly evils her daughter faced--but Joyce couldn't force down the sudden bout of nerves and every time she looked at Blaine Michaels it seemed as though her fine features had taken on a demonic cast. "Yes," she agreed, hoping the other woman would believe the tale of the boyfriend who might just stop by. "That's the kind of man he is."

"Lucky you," Michaels drawled, then pointedly glanced at her watch. "However, in any event, I'm afraid I do need to be moving along. So if you could just show me the crate, I can be out of your hair in just a few minutes."

"Of course," Joyce assured her uneasily. "If I could just..." she trailed off, grabbing for the beeper in her pocket. A simple message scrolled across the tiny screen, 'Get out.' The woman felt her heart kick into overdrive as she made a fast decision. Money or no money, she was walking--running actually-- away from this one. "I...uh...it's from my date. If you don't mind, I'm just going to go ahead and return this call. It'll just take a moment."

Blaine Michaels' smile was strained, but she nodded. "Of course."

"I'll just be a moment," Joyce repeated over her shoulder as she hurried toward the back room. Once through the double doors that shielded the storage and work area, she broke into a jog, bypassing her office as she headed for the short corridor that led to the rear door, pausing only long enough to grab an antique wooden cross from one of the work tables. She threw the lock on the back door, wrenching it open with the intention of hurrying out.

It didn't quite happen that way. Blaine Michaels stood just outside the back door, and she lunged forward as Joyce flung the door open--somehow she had to have gone out the front and made it around to the back in the time it had taken Joyce to get to the back door--grabbing her by the throat and forcing her back inside. "Where's my painting, Mrs. Summers?" the youthful-appearing woman demanded implacably, her expression flinty, her grip painfully strong. She shoved Joyce into the wall, lifting her off her feet. "Because I'm tired of the delays."

Gagging desperately for air, Joyce grabbed for the hand wrapped around her throat, trying to take some of the awful strain off her windpipe, momentarily forgetting the cross gripped tightly in her other hand. She was startled a brief second later when her feet hit the floor again and the hand at her throat loosened enough so that she could breathe.

"My painting," Blaine Michaels repeated her voice little more than a low hiss, just in case Joyce was considering forgetting what she wanted. "Where is it?"

Working on instinct, Joyce swung the cross around in a roundhouse arc, trying to use it like a club. A hard hand caught her wrist mid swing and she heard the crunch of bone shattering against bone as agony bolted up her arm. The cross clattered uselessly to the floor as she was slammed into the wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

"That wasn't smart, Mrs. Summers...."

PART SIX

Xander Harris was running as hard as he could, long legs eating up the distance. He was barely breathing hard--being one of the Slayer's pals was a hell of a work out program--and he had a sharp wooden stake gripped tightly in one hand. Despite Giles' admonitions, he was absolutely determined that nothing was going to hurt Buffy's mother. His own parents were pretty much worthless, and for all the platitudes they mouthed, Willow's weren't much better. But the Slayer's mother--despite any failings--she was different. She honestly loved her daughter and if anything hurt her, he knew his friend would be destroyed. He wasn't going to let that happen.

He reached the front door of the gallery and slowed, pushing the door open enough to peer through and ascertain the front room was empty. A soft whimpery sound reached the boy's ears and he was through the door in an instant. Joyce Summers had paid him to help out--lifting and moving heavy stuff--a couple of times, so he knew his way around the place. He didn't call out, just moved toward the back room. The double doors to the work area were open, and he glanced through first, checking for anything that might consider him a tasty meal.

"Where?" the voice was light and should have been pleasing, but there was a dangerous hardness to it.

He recognized the second voice instantly. "Go to hell." Joyce Summers, sounding bad, like she was in a lot of pain. Xander knew that tone all too well.

"Been there, done that, not looking to go back, thank you," was the bitter reply.

Xander spotted them in moments; together in the back hallway, Joyce Summers pinned against the wall, one hand cradled against her torso, the woman holding her there smaller, but obviously far stronger than any normal human. He saw the discarded cross and knew what they were dealing with in an instant. Gripping his stake tightly, the teen lunged, pulling back his arm to give the blow added power.

He never made contact as the tiny blond sensed his attack a millisecond before he should have made contact and twisted toward him, sweeping her free hand around, knocking his arm aside, and sending him sprawling on past her. He hit the floor hard, rolled to his feet and came up just in time to meet a hard blow to the face. The teen's head was whipped to one side as he suddenly found himself airborne. He hit the floor at the entrance to the short hallway and heard a growled, "I don't have time for this," as he struggled to push upright again. Somehow, against all odds, he'd maintained his grip on the stake and he brandished it in what he hoped was a menacing way as he found his feet with all the stability of a punch drunk boxer.

"Get away from her," the teen snarled, weaving gently.

Still maintaining a grip on Joyce, the blond turned toward him, her expression forbidding. Or at least he thought the blurry double image that was all he could make out looked pretty forbidding.

"Children," she whispered so softly he wasn't entirely certain that was what she'd said.

He lunged then, swinging the weapon wildly, while Joyce threw a clumsy left-handed punch at her attacker, adding another distraction in hopes of helping the boy. The blond tossed Joyce aside, appearing not to notice the limp blow that caught the side of her face as she turned to meet Xander's attack. She blocked his blow, then hit back with a shove to his chest that literally sent him flying. He landed on a work table, letting out a dull scream of pain as the force of his impact sent the table careening into its neighbor. He was just trying to push upright again, despite the pain and dizziness rattling through him, when a hard hand gripped his shirtfront, lifted him and slammed him down again. Only half conscious, the boy tumbled to the floor, a voice ringing in his already ringing ears to create a bizarre echo that hammered back and forth inside his skull.

"Stay down."

Momentarily forgotten, one knee wrenched from a bad landing, her broken wrist throbbing with blinding pain, Joyce used the wall as a brace to push to her feet. The work table with the covered painting was just around the corner, and she lunged toward it, struggling to ignore her own aches and pains. She grabbed for the shelves above the table, searching for, and finding, the cheap lighter that sat next to a pack of cigarettes that she occasional indulged in when the world was caving in on her late at night. Don't think, just move, she told herself as her other hand fumbled among the open cleaning supplies that lined the floor. Agony shot up her arm as she closed her fingers on a wire paint can handle, and forced her shattered wrist to bear the weight. As she lifted it, she used the thumbnail of her other hand to flick the loose lid off. The acrid smell of turpentine reached her nostrils almost instantly. She flicked the flint on the lighter, saw the flame flare to life and shoved it into the can. The turpentine caught with a soft puff, burning hot, bright blue flames that threatened to singe her hand.

Xander had pushed to his knees and was trying to find his feet. One arm was braced his ribs, and his breath came in huge gasps, while the hand that had gripped the stake so tightly was empty. His eyes lifted to the woman who stood over him, the expression in her eyes suddenly seeming perversely gentle to his eyes. A hand reached out and slid over his hair, running it back from his sweaty brow. He was going to die. He'd seen enough to know that. "Just do it," he snarled, trying for one last show of bravado.

A strange smile lifted the woman's mouth. "Don't be in such a hurry to die, boy," she said softly and brought her hand around, her thumb under his jaw forcing his chin up with implacable strength. "It's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Better that than a thing like you," he sneered.

"Get away from him!" Joyce Summers' voice was stronger than she would have predicted was possible. "Unless you want it to go up in smoke."

The blond's head whipped around and she tensed as she saw the burning paint can held tightly in the woman's hands, ready to be spilled over the covered crate on the table. With their attacker's attention focused on her now, Joyce yanked the blanket back, revealing the painting with its wooden crate and shredded paper packing.

"Lots of fuel for the fire," the woman snarled, her unsteady grip on the turpentine can making it slosh liquid fire and threaten to spill onto the canvas.

The blond relinquished her grip on Xander as she spun fully toward Joyce. "One lick of fire on that painting," she snarled, green eyes glittering with rage as her face morphed into the arched features of the thing that lived inside her body, "and you'll take a week to die...if you're lucky."

"Xander, get over here!" Joyce ordered as she saw him struggling for his feet. The boy scrambled to her side, somehow managing to snag the cross Joyce had dropped in the first moments of her confrontation with the creature in front of them.

"I don't want you or the boy," the vampire told her, her voice dropping low in an odd combination of threat and seduction. "Just the painting."

"And how long will we live after you have it?" Xander jeered sarcastically.

In an instant, the vampire's features smoothed to a perfect mimicry of normal humanity. "You'll have to take that up with your God. If I were interested in killing you, you'd already be dead." She took a half step forward, eyes tracking the burning paint can with laser intensity, and froze as Joyce readied to tip the flaming contents all over the artwork.

"Don't move!" Joyce snapped. "Or I'll do it."

The vampire stood perfectly still. "All right...I propose a trade," she offered. "Your lives for the painting."

It was Xander who shook his head first. In his experience, when demons and creatures of the night were ready to work deals to get their mits on something, it invariably meant that they should--under no circumstances--be allowed anywhere near the item in question. "No deal," he growled and brandished the ornate cross.

The woman who'd called herself Blaine Michaels flinched ever so slightly, but didn't lunge back the way most of her kind did. "It's a rather poor example of Rococo workmanship," she observed dryly.

"It does the job," Xander snarled.

A slim brow lifted. "We appear to have a Mexican standoff," the vampire observed, then suddenly tensed, pivoting on one foot as she realized they weren't alone. He eyes landed on the man standing in the corridor that led from the back door, a crossbow braced at his shoulder.

With the vampire aware of his presence and moving, Giles was forced to fire while he was still sighting the weapon, and the bolt hit wide, driving deeply into the small woman's left shoulder, but missing her heart by several inches. She twisted toward him, roaring in pain at this newest attack.

Giles dropped the weapon without even trying to reload, instead slinging a second loaded crossbow from his shoulder to take aim.

"Delaine DuCourvallier!" he called out as Joyce and Xander's attacker danced backwards, her expression twisted with frustrated anger. He sighted the weapon along the bolt perfectly this time, aiming straight for her heart. "I sentence you to hell in the name of the Watcher's Council."

"Just kill her!" Xander shouted, while Joyce just struggled to keep the paint can from tipping fire over the painting, while still keeping it where the threat was still evident.

Giles triggered the crossbow, lips lifting in a satisfied smile as he watched the bolt take flight. Not even a vampire could run fast enough to evade that fast-moving death.

Only, she didn't even try to outrun it. A fine-boned hand lifted, plucking the wooden bolt out of the air only inches from her heart. She rolled it in her fingers, turning the point end their way and Giles' felt his chest contract with fear. In an instant, the bolt took flight once again, this time flung with inhuman accuracy. He heard the thunk, and turned to look, fully expecting to see it puncturing human flesh.

Instead, it was embedded in the wall, the length of the bolt sticking through the handle of the burning paint can so it couldn't easily fall on the painting, either by accident or design.

"We'll finish our business another night, Mrs. Summers," the vampire promised, then spun, her coat flaring around her like a black cape as she fled into the main part of the gallery.

"'Ey, Giles, I can't find a bloody...thing..." Spike called out as he entered through the front, his words trailing off into a shocked finish as he saw the slender blond standing in the middle of the gallery.

"Damn," she hissed, then glanced over her shoulder and saw Giles shoving a fresh bolt into place.

A huge arched and multi-paneled skylight made up much of the ceiling of the gallery.

Spike saw the woman's chin lift as she assessed the distance from the floor to the glass--twenty feet at least by his calculation--then saw her brace. "You've got to be kidding," the vampire exhaled. Then his jaw hung open as she leapt straight up, almost seeming to fly as the black trenchcoat whipped around her like batwings.

Giles fired a beat too late.

"Bloody hell," Spike snarled, diving out of the way of the bolt headed straight for him as he threw an arm in front of his face to protect his eyes from the sudden jumble of sharp glass knives that tumbled from the newly destroyed skylight overhead as the blond went through without slowing. He had only a brief glimpse of her figure dancing lightly across the frame that held the remaining glass panels in place before she disappeared into the darkness.

"Damn," Giles hissed peering up into the night sky visible through the missing window panels.

Spike stared up at the newly revealed night sky for a long moment, his expression one of awe. "Bloody hell. I gotta find out how she does that." Then he pushed up on his hands, noting the crossbow bolt stuck in the door right where his heart would have been if he hadn't ducked. "Hey," he complained to Giles, "you coulda killed me with that thing."

Giles barely spared him a glance. "Remind me to care sometime," he muttered as he turned back toward the rear of the gallery.

Spike thrust to his feet, jogging after Giles into the work area. "So, was that really her?" the vampire demanded. "I mean," he laughed triumphantly and punched the air with his fist. "They say when she comes it's always to kill...that nothing...not even a Slayer can stop her." Spike was so jubilant he was almost giggling. "She'll level this town and your precious Slayer with it."

Giles spun on his heel, lashing out with a hard punched that knocked Spike on his ass. "Shut up!" the Watcher snarled through bared teeth. "And while you're crowing so happily, you might want to consider the fact that according to the legend, she didn't like vampires much more than she did humans."

"I just meant--"

Giles leaned closer. "In fact, as I recall, she killed more of them after she died than she did before."

Spike lost considerable color at that little reminder. He'd been so lost in the thrill of the coming of someone who might just put the Slayer and her oh-so-self-righteous Scooby Gang in their proper place at the bottom of the food chain that he hadn't stopped to consider the rest of the rumors...or their possible ramifications in his undead existence. After a beat, he slowly pushed to his feet.

"Hey, Giles, not that I mind the idea of killing fang-boy here, but you're mighty bent out of shape," Xander limped over to intercede. "Okay, so the art obsession is new for the fangy crowd, but we beat her back....."

Giles stepped past the boy, moving to stand in front of the painting. With Xander's help, Joyce had lifted the burning turpentine can off its tenuous support and put the lid back on to douse the flames by denying them much-needed oxygen. The woman was leaning against the rolling table, her broken wrist cradled against her body, her face ghostly pale.

"This is the DuCourvallier?" Giles whispered as he stared down at the work, noting the soft glow that seemed to emanate from the very brush strokes.

Joyce nodded. "Yes."

Giles was still staring at the piece as if hypnotized. "Are you certain?"

The woman shrugged. "As sure as it's possible to be without a lot more authentication. It's not something that's listed in any catalog of her work, but the signature is right...and the style...it's a lot more mature than any of her known works, but it definitely has her feel for light, color, and background space. I mean, it's very possible it's a forgery...but why? Her work's not particularly valuable. It's not like discovering a lost Renoir."

Giles was only half listening to Joyce as he stared at the piece, trying to decide if he should just go ahead and burn the damn thing. God only knew what evil DuCourvallier was planning to use it for if it was important to her. As far as the Council knew, she'd been quiet for better than a hundred years, and there'd been considerable hope among the senior members that she had somehow been destroyed along the way. Certainly, none of the many hit teams dispatched around the globe to hunt her down had ever gotten more than a distant whiff that might or might not have been the former Slayer. "We've got to get out here," he said abruptly.

"Here, I'll help you," Spike said solicitously as he moved to help support Joyce when she might have gone down.

"Oh...Spike," Joyce exhaled as she recognized the vampire. Buffy had told her how evil he was, but she'd yet to see any sign of it. Really, he seemed like a nice enough boy as far as she was concerned. "I'd appreciate that."

"The car's just outside," the blond vampire told her, then looked over his shoulder at Giles and Xander. "You two probably ought to bring that painting," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Am I the only feeling slightly grossed out?" Xander murmured thoughtfully as he watched the vampire carefully helping the Slayer's mother.

Giles snorted something impolite under his breath, but slung the painting up by the frame. He looked over at Xander who was standing dazedly beside him. "If you're waiting for my tender, loving help," he said acidly. "It's going to be a very long night."

"Well, aren't you coming?" Spike questioned as he looked back, the smile on his face a wicked confirmation that he knew very well just how much he was annoying the other two men.

Muttering under his breath, Giles hurried along, while Xander limped after them in the rear, wondering how they were going to get everyone into the librarian's tiny Citroen.

PART SEVEN

Buffy blinked, momentarily confused as she realized she was snuggled up against a warm body--not a normal event in her life--until she remembered the events of the previous hours. "Oh, God," she exhaled almost inaudibly as it all came back to her. She'd made love with Willow; hot, sweet, incredibly erotic love-- just the memory of it made her pulse pound--then curled up in her arms to fall into an exhausted sleep that was the best she'd had in months.

Way to go, her inner voice encouraged, but Buffy was far less confident about the matter, her head rolling with inner turmoil, while her heart just wanted to hold on and never let go. She was conflicted to say the least.

She pushed up on one elbow just enough to stare down at Willow's face, taking in delicate features softened by sleep. "Ah, God, Will, what are we gonna do?" she breathed, then reached out and tenderly brushed several strands of bright red hair off Willow's cheek. Well, at least she's forgiven me for this morning, she thought with a touch of dark humor. I wonder if she'll forgive herself for how thoroughly she forgave me? I wonder if I'll forgive myself?

Don't think like that, her inner voice chastised.

Shutup, Buffy ordered the voice which had been her constant companion of late. You're the one who got me into this.

Even you don't believe that, her inner Jiminy Cricket disagreed.

Buffy shook her head slowly, wondering if she was going nuts. The dreams, the constantly chiding inner voice, and now whole conversations. It wasn't the sort of thing that boded well for her ongoing sanity. And then she looked down at Willow, lying so trustingly against her side and couldn't squelch the thought before it blossomed in her conscious mind, if this is insanity, bring it on.

Suddenly, she needed to move, escape the thoughts moving through her own head. Buffy was lying on the outer edge of the bed and only had to carefully disengage from the figure cuddled against her side, then slip quietly out of bed to leave without waking her sleeping friend. The sweats and tank top she'd worn to bed were still tangled amid the tumbled covers, so she didn't even bother to try and dig them out, just moved to the chest where she kept that sort of thing and pulled out a fresh pair of sweat pants and another tank top. As she tugged her clothes on, it occurred to her that Willow's laptop was still open on the desk, though the screen had long since darkened and gone into power-saver mode. Willow had probably been doing either homework or late night research. She tended to lose herself in the computer when she was hurting. Still pulling her shirt down, Buffy reached over to at least close the laptop so it couldn't accidently get knocked over and damaged, jogging it just enough that the screen flared to life. Buffy jumped in surprise as she noted the icon in the corner and realized the computer was still logged on to the Internet and a chat program was still scrolling by, while some kind of other program ran in the background.

"What the..." the Slayer breathed as she saw the discussion going on. Vampires, UFO's, werewolves, and anything else supernatural or strange mixed in with lurid remarks, obvious double entendres, and aggressive cyber-passes. She reached out and scrolled up so she could see the start of the conversation; Willow, as scooby1, looking for someone with the handle artfuldodger and suggestive teasing from the other occupants of the chatroom--chat-surfers with handles like lonegun1, alienluvr, and msfang--about the amount of time they'd been talking to each other recently. Buffy tamped down an unfamiliar flame of jealousy as she found herself wondering if Willow had some online thing going with this artfuldodger character. After all, weren't online sex and romance all the rage, and a screen name like that certainly indicated a tendency toward dishonesty. This guy was probably some sleazebag who bounced through chat rooms, looking for innocent young girls to "cyber" with. Probably some loser who couldn't get near a real girl if he paid for it. And he was chasing Willow. Buffy's hands fisted at her sides as she imagined smashing in his scrawny, ugly, pimply, cheating face.

She was still glaring at the computer screen when she heard the soft sound of Willow stirring in the blankets.

"Buff?" the hacker mumbled sleepily as she rolled over, peering at the dim figure of her roommate where she stood silhouetted by the soft glow from the laptop.

Buffy did a slow pivot, eyes finding the hacker's slender form where she lay tangled amid the blankets in bed...my bed, Buffy mentally amended. Willow slowly pushed into a sitting position and the Slayer felt her heart clench as she saw the way moonlight spilled through the window across her friend's pale skin and bright copper hair, reminding her that she had spent the night touching fine skin, sliding her fingers through the crimson river of hair, tasting the swell of soft breasts. "Will," she croaked.

The hacker suddenly realized the sheet had tumbled down around her waist and tugged it up over her breasts as memories of the heated words and caresses they'd shared washed through her. She swallowed hard, not knowing what to say or do, or how to react. Not when she couldn't regret what they'd shared, but had no way of knowing what her friend was thinking or feeling. "Buffy?" she whispered tightly as she slid out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her body as she moved.

The Slayer swallowed hard, standing absolutely still, her hands hanging at her sides, uncertain whether she should apologize, run away, or just throw herself into Willow's arms and hold on. For once, her inner voice didn't offer any brilliant advice, just stood back and left her to handle it on her own.

"Say something," Willow begged after a long moment of silence.

"Who's artfuldodger?" Buffy whispered at last, blurting the first words that came coherently to mind.

Willow blinked. Of all the questions or comments she'd been expecting, that was nowhere on the list. The hacker frowned, then her eyes flashed to the computer screen where the online discussion was still flowing past. "Dodger's just someone...someone I've...talked with...online..." she babbled. "But...why...I mean..." Willow glanced back at the bed where the blankets were still torn up from their shared passion. "We...just--" She couldn't quite get the words out.

Buffy spun, concentrating on the computer instead of the bed. She could get her brain around the computer. The bed was proving to be a much larger challenge. "So...what...you're cyber-sexing with some creep--"

"Cyber-sexing!?" Willow exploded. "What are you talking about?"

Buffy spun around, feeling more confident now that she could concentrate on an argument instead of the far less comfortable topic of her emotions, and the even less comfortable topic of Willow's emotions. "Oh, come on, I've read about what goes on in those chat rooms, and I can see for myself the kinds of remarks being made in this one...though how vampires and the supernatural translate into online sex totally escapes me."

"No!" Willow snapped. "If I wanted that, I'd have been talking to lonegun1, not dodger." She straightened her shoulders, glaring at Buffy and somehow making the simple sheet she was wearing seem regal. "What the hell is going on here?" she demanded, refusing to be drawn into a fight.

Buffy spun away, bracing her hands on the desk as she tried to clear her head. "I just...I know you're vulnerable...right now...and ... I hate the thought of someone...some creep...using you...or taking advantage..." she stammered raggedly, accusing herself with every word.

A moment passed before Willow quietly asked, "Is that what you think you did, took advantage?"

Buffy froze. Now, there was the million dollar question. She wondered if there was any way she could use a lifeline...no, probably not without having to put up with Regis Philbin in the bargain."Hell, Will, I all but attacked you," she whispered at last, then let out a hollow laugh. "Who are we kidding, I did attack you." A hand landed lightly on her shoulder.

"No," Willow disagreed. "I mean it started out that way," she allowed after a beat. "But that was the nightmare..." She leaned closer to the Slayer, not touching anywhere but her shoulder, but close enough to draw strength from their nearness. "Not the reality...what happened...whatever it was...whatever we want it to be...it wasn't about using each other...or-or taking advantage..." she whispered in disjointed syllables, not knowing what was going to come out of her mouth until the words already hung in the air between them.

Drawn by the emotion in Willow's voice, Buffy slowly turned to face her. Even in the faint light cast by the computer screen, she could see the honest concern in her friend's expression. No anger, no fear...no regret? Buffy was less certain about the last one. There was something there in her eyes, something shadowed and hard to read, and as turbulent as the emotions burning in her own breast. "Will," she whispered after a long moment. Her jaw muscles clenched tightly, and she realized she was shivering violently as if caught in the treacherous grip of hypothermia. Hard throbbing terror ripped through her. "I'm scared," she choked out at last. "I don't ever want to hurt you." She was close to crying again, tears filling her eyes until she could barely see. She lifted her hand, almost, but not quite touching Willow's cheek, afraid that if she actually made contact, she might shatter into a thousand pieces.

"You didn't," Willow exhaled after a beat. Her eyes slid closed and she swallowed hard, summoning her courage to put her heart on the line and whisper, "I don't regret any of it." The moment that followed was among the longest of her young life, then she felt the tenderest of touches on her cheek, stroking very lightly. Green eyes sprang open and Willow could feel her heart thudding against her ribcage. "If you don't want it to--"

"Shhh," Buffy hushed and brushed a finger over soft lips. She didn't want to think about that...didn't want to let herself delve too deeply into her own fears, uncertainties, and hangups...somehow, she sensed danger along that route. Her inner nag was babbling away, telling her what to do and how to do it, but she ignored that as well, and just let her body take over, muscles instinctively straining to bring her closer to Willow's delicate frame. She lifted a hand to carefully brush silky hair back from the redhead's cheek, still not quite touching the softness of her skin. They were standing so close that the thin strip of air that separated them warmed with the heat of pouring off their skin, while their breath mingled as their mouths drew closer.

And then they touched, lips just barely meeting, electricity arcing between them. Buffy shivered and tasted Willow's tiny cry. She let the hand at Willow's cheek fall to her bare shoulder, stroking the line of her collarbone tenderly.

Willow shivered in response. It was like flame sliding over skin, leaving overheated, exposed nerve endings in its wake. "Buffy," she gasped through the blending of their lips. She found the curve of the Slayer's waist with an unsteady hand, edging her fingers under the bottom of the loose tank top to spread her fingers against the flat plane of Buffy's stomach.

They were still kissing long minutes later, when a steady, grating beeping sound intruded on the sweet magic. Willow pulled her head back, breathing deeply as she tipped her head to one side to peer past Buffy's shoulder at her laptop.

"Wha'?" the Slayer gasped unevenly, then realized Willow had focused on something else and turned her head, following the path of the hacker's gaze. "What is it?"

Pulling the rapidly slipping sheet back together over her breasts, Willow reticently stepped away as the beeping continued its obnoxious rhythm. "It's a search bot I left running...before..." she didn't finish the sentence, her meaning clear to both of them.

"A what?" the Slayer questioned as her friend stepped around her and reached out to bring up another program. A list of urls and descriptors filled the screen, while the scroll bar indicated hundreds, possibly thousands more entries. A brief second later, a new message box popped up, this time with no more than a half dozen sites listed.

"A search bot," Willow said distantly as she began saving the data. "It's a way of automatically searching for information on the net, plus I wrote in a little subroutine that does some additional cataloguing."

Buffy peered at the information, noting the titles and descriptions with a raised brow. "And just what the hell are you searching for?" she whispered, a new tension entering her voice. Half of the titles she was looking at were in Latin or other languages she had no way of recognizing, but what English she could find kept coming up with terms that made her shiver--like Watcher, Slayer, Watcher's Council, Vampire, The Chosen One, and prophecy--having broken with the Watcher's Council a year before, she had no desire to attract any attention from the shadow group that had controlled Slayers down through history.

Willow did a slow pivot, her expression guilty. She took a deep breath, nerving herself up to continue. She knew perfectly well how Buffy felt about the Council and had known when she started this particular project what Buffy's response would have been had she told her about it in advance.

"Will?" Buffy prompted sharply.

"I've-been-trying-research-the-history-of-the-Slayers-and-the-Watcher's-Coun cil," the hacker got out in a single gasping sentence that bordered on being one very long word.

Buffy flinched as though struck and her breath caught in her lungs. The Watcher's were a secretive organization at best. She was far from sanguine about their possible response if they thought someone was trying to divine those secrets. They'd been more than willing to kill her for the sake of a test, and she'd always suspected that, had they succeeded in transporting Faith back to England, she would not have found herself being tenderly ministered to by a team of highly qualified psychiatrists. "Wha'...Will...I-I...I really don't think...I don't think that's such a good...a good idea..." she muttered in halting, stammered syllables, while still trying to get brain around the whole concept. Her brain wasn't having the best day on that whole getting around concepts thing, so it wasn't moving very quickly. She looked at the screen again, riveted by the hint of information she could make out. "If they find out...."

"They won't," Willow insisted breathlessly. "I've covered my tracks, worked through proxys, used hacked IP numbers...as far as the net is concerned, nothing I've done ever happened...and if it did happen, it's not me that did it anyway."

Buffy shook her head slowly, horror crawling over her skin for reasons she couldn't even begin to fathom. "It's too dangerous."

"Dammit, Buffy, I know what I'm doing--"

The Slayer spun, catching Willow's shoulders in a hard grip. "I said it's too dangerous," she snarled, then suddenly froze as she saw a flicker of pain in Willow's expression and realized how tight her hold was. Shock etched on her features, she loosened her grip, carefully setting the hacker back from herself. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry," she panted raggedly, her expression twisted to one of horrified contrition. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I just...I don't want anything to happen to you and I'm afraid that's what the Watcher's Council would do if they knew about this."

Willow swallowed hard, biting back hurt tears. "And I don't want anything to happen to you," she whispered through the tightness in her throat. "And I kept thinking that if we...if we understood more about your...Slayerness, then maybe...I don't know...maybe we could find some kind of..." Willow fell silent, afraid to put her fears into words, as if simply by speaking them, she would give the darkness power over the Slayer.

Overwhelmed by the need to do something, but not knowing what, Buffy lifted shaking hands to Willow's face, brushing her hair back from her face, studying the unique arrangement of features that made up the hacker's face. Not anyone's definition of the classic ideal of beauty, there was something irresistible there, something that was wholly and completely a quality of Willow, a part of her very Willowness, and it was an intrinsic part of what had caught and held the Slayer's attention from the very first moment, first in friendship, and later--later, Buffy questioned, then corrected the odd thought, no, now--this was the first time it had ever spilled over into something other than deep friendship. She was still mulling over the strange sense of deja vu when Willow voice broke into her silent musings.

"You've got to trust me...I know there are answers out there." Willow caught one of Buffy's hands in her own, holding on tightly. "It's like I can feel them...just out of reach. That's what Dodger was helping with--he's a historian, that's all--he's done a lot of research on secret medieval and renaissance societies and he's helped me find a lot of really buried information sources and translations that almost nobody knows about...things that mention the Watchers...that might offer some clues about their history..." She reached out with her free hand, tracing the neat arch of the Slayer's brow as if committing her face to memory. "I'm careful, I swear...but I really think there's information that could help..." Keep you alive that much longer, was the unspoken subtext. It didn't need to be said. They both knew that slayage didn't have a lot of long-term employment possibilities and the chances for advancement were limited at best. She touched Buffy's cheek, lips lifting in a funny little smile. "Besides, I have you to protect me."

Thick silence hung in the air between them for a long moment, then Buffy hooked a hand loosely behind the hacker's neck, stroking her cheek with her thumb. "I will, you know," she rasped. "I'd do anything to protect you." They both leaned forward, foreheads just touching, both close to tears. "I won't let them hurt you," the Slayer breathed almost inaudibly.

When they finally straightened, it was to share another soft kiss, lips meeting and stroking, bodies just touching at first, and then molding together more firmly. Buffy wrapped her arms tightly around Willow, lifting and pressing her back onto the desk, deepening their shared kiss as she felt the blood roar in her veins. Clothes were pushed and pulled aside to allow eager hands to stroke and caress, while the sheet was peeled back to make way for the Slayer's exploring lips. Dusting tiny kisses down the center of Willow's chest, Buffy clung tightly to the hacker's slender waist. She didn't want to think, didn't want to debate the pros and cons of what she was doing. All she wanted was to escape her fears in raw sensation.

Willow moaned low in her throat, head falling back on her shoulders as she clung desperately to the Slayer, fingers massaging and roaming over firmly muscled arms and shoulders, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of desire. There were two beds only a few feet away, but neither of them was willing to part long enough to move from their oddly erotic, if somewhat precarious position. Buffy pried more of the loosely wound sheet out of her way, sliding her hands under the soft fabric and down to stroke the tops of Willow's thighs before slipping underneath, tugging her forward on the desk until they were pressed groin to groin. Delicate fingers worked into the Slayer's hair, while Willow brought her legs up, looping them loosely around Buffy's slender hips. They were both breathing hard, gasping for air as though running a marathon as they stroked and touched, the passion building between them.

Blood throbbing like molten lava in her veins, nerve endings so excited each touch bordered on pain, Willow clung to her lover, fingers spread against the breadth of her shoulder as she trailed her other hand down the length of Buffy's torso to find the bottom edge of her tank top. Needing to feel the softness of bare skin, she slipped her hand under the loose knit fabric, sliding her fingers over taut muscles, then up, brailing the rounded curve of Buffy's breast before peeling the shirt off, not caring where it fell when she let go. A brief moment later, she hooked a toe in the elastic waistband of the Slayer's sweats, running the ball of her foot down the lean length of her flank as she pushed them off. She felt the faint shift as Buffy stepped out of the cotton puddle at her feet, then pressed closer, the sensual press of flesh making both of them shiver with awareness.

Buffy slid up, dipping her tongue into the hollow at the base of Willow's throat, then trailing up the length of her throat, tasting the faint salt of her skin, feeling the unsteady beat of her pulse at the base of her jaw and the soft vibrations of the tiny moans that bubbled up from her chest. Sharp teeth found the delicate fold of Willow's earlobe, dragging gently over soft skin before the Slayer whispered in her lover's ear, "Tell me." Her fingers stroked the banded muscles of Willow's stomach, pausing just long enough to dip into the faint indentation of her navel before sliding lower. "Tell me what it feels like...when I touch you." She could hear the thick pleasure in her friend's harsh breathing, feel the slick heat of her skin. "Tell me," she commanded again when Willow didn't immediately answer.

The redhead slowly tipped her head up, wrapping arm around Buffy's neck as she turned her head until they were eye to eye. Body reacting to the sweet sensations running riot over overstimulated nerve endings, she brought her knees up, tightening them against Buffy's hips and drawing her closer. "Hot...cold...electric..." she gasped, sweat making her skin glisten in the faint light. Agile fingers found a particularly sensitive spot and her eyes slid closed as her body shuddered violently. She gripped Buffy more tightly, fingers pressing into flesh and muscle. Trying to form any kind of coherent word that could even come close to describing the cravings running riot through her body was clearly past the capacity of her already overloaded brain. It wasn't just the physical intimacies, it was the knowledge of who she was sharing them with that aroused her almost past any ability to do anything but hold on and let the tidal wave wash over her. A beat later, she exhaled the only word that came to mind, "Perfect."

"Good," the Slayer panted, pressing a hand flat against the small of Willow's back to pull her upright until they were breast to breast, their sweat mingling wherever bare skin touched bare skin. "I want it to be perfect."

"Absolutely perfect," Willow breathed, trailing her free hand down from the Slayer's shoulder to stroke the outer curve of her breast, then dance along the graceful arch of her ribcage. Her fingers slipped lower, following the pointed arrow of abdominal muscles that led down to soft hair and silky flesh. She heard Buffy gasp, thrilled with the way muscles rippled with sudden tension as she tenderly mimicked the Slayer's uncertain caresses.

Their lips met again, sharing broad open mouthed kisses that moved and ranged in rhythm with the instinctive syncopation of their writhing bodies as emotion and sensation built to a fever pitch.

Then Buffy tasted Willow's cry and felt her body tremble with hard spasms. Elation shot through her, the knowledge that she had caused that kind of pleasure every bit as erotic as the physical caresses themselves. And then her breath caught in her lungs, her entire body frozen in place for no more than a heartbeat before her body seemed to implode and then flare outward again.

Orgasm. Hot, hard, rumbling, and tumbling through both girls, electricity arcing from nerve ending to nerve ending, from flesh to flesh. It was like being caught in a beautiful kind of conflagration that licked at their bodies and fired their passion without damaging flesh.

Willow gasped Buffy's name through the shared ardor of their kiss while she clung to her with almost bruising strength.

And then they were falling back to earth again, rolling end over end before spilling back into the real world. Their kiss broke as Willow leaned back against the wall, then Buffy fell against her, hiding her face in the damp column of her throat. They stayed that way for long minutes, hands touching very gently, rough breathing slowing to normal, enjoying the closeness in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Finally, the Slayer pushed up on her hands, studying her best friend's face in the thin light. Nothing in her life had prepared her for what she was feeling...actually, she wasn't even entirely certain what she was feeling; she just knew that she didn't want to stop feeling it.

"Buffy?" Willow exhaled at last, her voice echoing her sudden uncertainty.

"It'll be okay," the Slayer whispered. She stroked the redhead's lower lip with the pad of her thumb. "Trust me."

"I do...always...." Willow nibbled lightly on Buffy's thumb, rubbing sharp incisors against the faintly callused skin. Weapons training and the night-to-night practicalities of combat and staking the undead had left the Slayer's hands tougher than the average coed's.

They were still tangled together like that when the jangle of the phone shattered their peaceful cuddling. Both girls jumped and Willow glanced over at her laptop.

"It must have thrown me offline since the bot finished the search routine...and it's been idle...since we...well...." Willow shrugged.

"Great timing," the Slayer muttered.

"Could've been worse," Willow couldn't restrain the nervous giggle as Buffy reached past her and grabbed the phone yanking it to her ear, her tone more aggressive than she intended as she growled.

"Yes?"

Willow felt her lover tense only a second or two later and instantly knew something was wrong.

"What happened...God...are they okay?" Buffy pulled away from Willow, turning away as she continued, obviously discussing something with the person on the other end of the line. "What...who...no-no... Willow was online doing some research...."

Sensing the Slayer's upset, Willow slid off the top of the desk, tugging the sheet around her as she moved to rest a comforting hand on Buffy's shoulder.

"I'll get there...." Buffy massaged her temple as though she'd developed a sudden headache and her voice roughened noticeably. "Thanks...we-we'll meet her downstairs." As she hung up the phone, her shoulders trembled under Willow's hand.

"What is it, what's happened?" the hacker asked the instant Buffy hung up the phone.

The Slayer pulled away, breaking contact as she moved to start yanking clothes out of her closet. "A vampire attacked my mother in the gallery--"

"Oh God, is she--"

"She's got a broken wrist." Buffy's voice was a tremulous shadow of its normal self. "According to Giles, if Xander hadn't shown up when he did..." she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Her back to Willow, she began yanking on her clothes, her movements jerky and lacking in their normal grace. "Apparently, he got pretty pounded on too...but he's okay...." She was shaking, her voice coming in rough gasps as she fought the threat of angry tears. "When he couldn't get through on the phone, Giles sent Anya with his car. She should be here any...any minute...to-to take us to the hospital...to see them...."

Willow followed her friend, reaching to massage her shoulder lightly. "They're okay," she soothed. She started to lean against Buffy's back to offer as much support as possible, but the Slayer pulled away before she had a chance, shrugging away from the light hand on her shoulder as she moved.

The redhead frowned, hurt flickering across her face at the sudden distance she could sense between them. She grabbed for her clothes and began mechanically pulling them on, but her gaze remained locked on her friend's stiff back. "Buffy?" she whispered at last.

"I should have been there--"

"You couldn't have known what would happen--" Willow disagreed, cutting off Buffy's self-castigation.

Buffy whirled, anger and something else twisting her expression as she cut Willow off this time. "But I'm the Slayer." Her eyes were edged in silver tears, her voice ragged with emotion. She knew she couldn't be everywhere, that she might be faster and stronger than a normal human being, but she was still human, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd failed disasterously.

Willow stared at her friend, trying to read her expression. "Buffy...what are you...talk to me..."

Buffy wrapped her arms tightly around her torso. It was all wrong. She couldn't think straight. It was like something was yanking her back from the edge of a precipice and pushing her over at the same time. She swallowed hard, trying to collect her suddenly shattered thoughts. She didn't even know what the hell was happening to her. Her mom and Xander were okay, Giles had assured her of that, so why was she suddenly sweating with stark terror, doubt burning in her breast. "This--This shouldn't have happened," she choked at last, eyes sliding away from Willow, unable to face the hurt and betrayal she knew she'd see in her friend's expression.

Willow flinched as if struck, some part of her not quite believing what she'd just heard, but she sealed the hurt off quickly, walling it away in that hidden part of herself where she was well used to hiding the petty hurts and insults she'd received so many times during the course of her young life. "All right," she said at last and turned away to finish dressing.

Buffy's hands fisted at her sides as she tried to deny the flood of pain Willow's simple concession opened in her chest. She started to call the words back, apologize, beg for forgiveness, and plead to start over. Started to, but the words just wouldn't come, leaving her watching Willow's back with helpless confusion.

"Come on," Willow said as she finished pulling on her shoes. "Anya is probably here by now. It's not that long a drive." Somehow, she kept from crying, though she couldn't hold back a sniffle or two.

"Yeah," Buffy rasped and grabbed her coat.

Moments later, they left together, their thoughts a million miles away.

Chapter 8