Night of Broken Glass by Junecleavage

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m not doing this for money or intend in any way to infringe upon the rights of the Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy or any other rightful owners. I’m just a huge fan.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
Through the Looking Glass http://alia.customer.netspace.net.au/glass.htm
Feedback: Yes, please. This is my first published fanfic ever, so feel free to comment!
Spoilers: Everything.
Author's Notes: Inspired by the great biography of Aimee & Jaguar. In Nazi Germany, Willow Rosenberg pretends to be a non-Jew in order to survive (with the help of Xander and Buffy). She gets herself on the Gestapo’s hit list and meets and falls in love with Tara, a woman whose family are Nazi supporters. Lots of Buffyverse characters are here. I do not claim to be an expert on WWII, German military or Germany for that matter, but I did use Wikipedia a lot.
Special thanks goes to Chris Cook of Through the Looking Glass for the title graphic at the top of the page. Thanks, Chris!
Pairing: Willow/Tara

Summary: Willow's on the run from the Gestapo.

The bell jangled as the door swung wide, admitting a gust of cold wind that swept in what appeared to be a small girl wrapped in a dark coat and scarf. She scurried into the cafe spotting the booth right away and made a beeline to where a clean-cut, dark-haired young man sat nursing a hot cup of coffee between his cold hands. She unraveled her head, ran a hand hastily through red curls and dropped into the booth across from him, taking his hand in her own and giving him a big smile.

It was the same almost every evening and had been since last spring, the shop-keeper thought, watching the pair from across the room with the same detached interest he had about all of his regulars. These two would swing in first, followed by another pal, a blond girl about their same age. They'd all order coffees and maybe a slice of pie, maybe pore over some books together for a while and then slip back into the night. He assumed they were students at the university and kind of admired how they managed to keep a routine together when so much in Berlin these days was changing.

The boy ran his thumb along the girl's hand and her smile grew in intensity. They leaned in close across the table in animated chatter. Were they dating? Or was he dating the other one, the blond? The shopkeeper had given up long ago trying to guess.

The boy turned to the shopkeeper, happily chirping out, "Hey, Helmut, another cup of coffee over here and a slice of pie for the lady."

The shopkeeper nodded and brought the food around. The redhead smiled up at him with happily innocent eyes as he poured her cup of coffee. It seemed all too rare these days to see anyone looking so happy that the shopkeeper couldn't help but return the smile in spite of himself. He set the slice of pie on the table between the couple and rested two forks beside it.

"Your friend the blond coming in tonight?" Helmut asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

Helmut nodded and set down a third fork before turning and heading back to the bar. He had more cups of coffee to pour for the rest of his regulars. He got back to work, a small ghost of the smile still at the corners of his mouth. Buffy – that was the blonde’s name.

"So, did you get it?" Willow asked breathlessly, leaning across the table and pulling Xander's hands away from the warmth of his coffee cup.

"Yeow, your hands are like death!" he protested, adding: "…If death were located somewhere near Iceland. And it was winter. Where the hell are your gloves?"

Willow knew the pair he was talking about. They had been his gift to her. Only now she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen them. She grinned and lied to him, "They're at home."

Xander tipped his head skeptically. "Ha, ha. Right. Considering you don't really have a home."

There was no malice in his comment. It was just a fact, and one she had long ago vowed not to let matter to her, so it didn't matter to Xander, either. She diverted the conversation back to its original course. "Come on. Tell me. Did you get the papers?"

Xander let his breath out in a big sigh, as Willow leaned in closer across the table, encircling his hands in her slim, icy grasp. The sigh was for being reminded of the trouble it had taken him to get something so small – and papery – but then his eyes brightened. "Yes," he said emphatically. His smile was playful and smug.

Willow just about burst at the news. She wiggled, grinning happily. "I knew it! I just had this feeling that today was going to be my lucky day. And don't I deserve a lucky day every here and there considering the odds of me having one are fairly stacked against me and that, well, in fact, I should have run for the hills a long time ago. Wow. What is today? The 26th? The 26th is now, officially, my lucky day."

Xander beamed affectionately. "As of today-the lucky 26th of January, 1943 – you're no longer Willow Rosenberg," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Willow considered this playfully, a sly blush creeping across her cheeks. "I wonder who I am?" It was as if suddenly all the world had opened up to her. Xander turned his head and called out to the shopkeeper for coffee and pie.

When they were delivered to the table, Willow couldn't help but beam happily up at the shopkeeper. She was feeling suddenly giddy and alive. She didn't feel compelled to keep her head down from fear the way she had for so long.

The door jangled again and a new gust of wind brought in Buffy. Her blond hair was blowing out of its hairpins, and she hugged a leather book bag to her chest. She strode quickly to the booth and slipped in beside Willow, letting her breath out in a gasp and yanking her gloves off. She glanced from Xander to Willow and back again. "What?" she asked. "Did you two just get engaged or something? What's with the hands?" Willow hadn't yet let go of Xander's.

"I – I think they're kind of frozen," Willow pondered, trying unsuccessfully to move them.

"Yeah, and it's no wonder. You lost the gloves I gave you!" Xander said in mock slight. "You know, I clocked a lot of hours for the Gestapo just to get those for you." He turned to Buffy, who was trying to tuck the stray strands of gold hair behind her ears. "And what about you?" he bleated at her. "Where's your hat?"

Xander leaned back and surveyed the two women before him, shaking his head. "And to think that the future of civilization could rest on the shoulders of you two."

Buffy shot a glance at Willow and slapped the girl's shoulder. "Tell me you are not marrying Xander."

Willow scowled thoughtfully as well. "You know, I was just asking myself the exact same thing…"

Xander rifled inside his heavy overcoat for something, finally pulling out a slim passbook. He glanced inside. "She's now, uh, Wilma Hermann." He nodded, pleased with himself.

Willow took offense. "Wilma? You couldn't come up with a better name than that? Something more romantic or all movie starry. Like, like Marlene or Greta or, or…"

Buffy patted her friend's arm. "Down, girl. Wilma's fine. We can still call you Will. Ma. Wil-ma," she snorted while Willow looked unhappy.

Xander took Willow's hand once more. His eyes were wide and sincere. "No, Will. It's perfect." The table and the pie and the three forks gazed back at him, surreally. He met Willow's gaze for emphasis. "We don't have to worry as much anymore." And within that simple statement, the three of them understood the depth of things it represented: They didn't need to fear that one day Willow just wouldn't show up because she'd been found out and arrested or shot or worse. Being a Jew in the hate – and fear-stained streets of 1943 Berlin was treacherous at best. And out of defiance, Willow had chosen not to be cowed by it. She was small. She had endured 22 years being an unremarkable wallflower – a girl other people just didn't notice. But as the numbers of Jews in Berlin dwindled, and the government's promotion of hatred and violence ever escalated, and a frustrated people needed a scapegoat, the three of them knew it was just a matter of time before someone asked to see Willow's papers. When that day came, she needed to have some. Xander had, indeed, at great risk to himself, just secured Willow a future.

Willow thought her heart would melt with gratitude. "I love you," she whispered, squeezing his hand. Her fingers were finally warm.

Xander was walking home along the darkened streets of Berlin when the Air Raid sirens sounded. They bayed a woeful and familiar song that filled his chest with dread. He glanced around in confusion, trying to decide where to go. His home was many blocks away, and already he could hear the rumble of planes overhead. Other people – some individuals, some couples – were dashing quickly, running up steps into unfamiliar buildings. "Basement" was the only word his brain could conjure right now. His legs only obeyed the command to run. As fast as his legs could carry him, he followed a middle- aged man and woman as their shoes clicked up stone steps into a large apartment building. He turned as the heavy double doors were closing to see a huge flash of red illuminate the night sky some distance away. The crimson clung there, a luminous red stain across the horizon that flickered but did not fade. His mind flashed to Buffy and Willow, wondering where they were and if they were safe – frightened at the realization that there had been and would be many more moments when the three of them would be separated by what seemed to be the brutish and careless clashing of titans.

At the whistle of an airborne missile from above, he dove inside, and the doors clacked shut with a firmness that somehow didn't seem anywhere near firm enough. He followed the sounds of footsteps on stairs in a darkened hallway and found himself in a herd of apartment occupants moving as civilly as possible, considering the circumstances, down to the basement. He slipped into their crush and let himself be carried along.

Buffy and Willow had a similar jolt as the sirens came up. They had parted company with Xander not long ago and were headed in the opposite direction toward the flat Buffy shared with her mother and younger sister. They had been walking arm in arm, sharing their warmth and excitement. Willow's mind was moving at light speed calculating all of the things she'd dreamed of doing. "I could enroll at university – nobody there knows me. I could get a job. Who knows. I could even start up a business!" Her excitement was infectious, but Buffy couldn't help noticing a shop front with windows hand-painted top to bottom with the curse, "JUDE," – the lame work of some average Joe proclaiming his hatred and superiority over his neighbors. It was a mark of menace and intimidation. Buffy could tell by the board over the door that that particularly homespun sentiment of boycott had been effective: the place was dead inside. Willow passed the window without a glance. She was deep in dreamland, her cheeks a bright pink and her eyes glittering. Buffy pulled the girl closer and held on tight.

That's when the siren went off, shocking them to a complete standstill. In between its wails, Buffy focused her listening. "Planes," she said simply, tugging at Willow's arm. "Come on, Wilma. Time to hit the dirt."

Willow calmly followed her friend down the street, floating thoughts out behind her like puffs of warm breath into the night air. "See, that's just so interesting. Where did that expression come from, anyway? I could see if we were dodging sniper fire, then being low to the ground-like completely horizontal – would be very useful. But I think if we took a moment and stretched out here we'd probably just create more surface area, you know, for catching falling bricks."

As if on cue, a light flashed in the sky, searing the surroundings with a thick clap that was followed by the crumble and tumble of stones from the building across the street as one shoulder of the gothic structure was torn to rubble. Over the din of the explosion and the Air Raid siren, the girls could hear more than one voice in pain and frightened weeping.

They coughed on the dust and then sprinted away, hacking grime from their lungs as they ran side-by-side toward the broad stone steps of the opera house. The lights there were just being turned down as they stumbled up the steps, gasping. An attendant was pushing the doors closed. "Please," Buffy cried. Only one thought was in her mind: staying alive for her mother and sister. Her outstretched hand caught the door mid- swing. The attendant eyed her expressionlessly and then allowed them in. As they negotiated a crowded and dark corridor down to the basement, Willow noted that she and Buffy were decidedly underdressed among the frightened opera-goers, who seemed to include a rather healthy contingent of SS men, attractive and well-heeled ladies decorating their arms like fine ornaments.

The basement was dark. Later, Willow and Buffy would not be able to remember a single physical detail of it, except they were crouched in what seemed like a long stone archway or tunnel, pressed in close with the opera-goers, every one of them just as scared as they were. Here, in this moment, class and ethnicity and politics didn't matter. They were all Germans under attack. The weight of the whole opera house sat above them, immovable and proud – just waiting to be toppled.

The sounds coming from the sky were terrifying. In the darkness, Xander felt a slim hand slip into his own, a woman's hand. As a bomb hit freakishly close by, he gave the hand a squeeze, and fought down his own trembling to look up into the face of a young woman, maybe a little older than he was. Long blond hair pulled back and haunted blue eyes, mouth slack and scared. She was the perfect picture of the government's Aryan ideal: blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered. The perfect vessel for the next generation of The Fuhrer's genetically purified master race. Which was another way of saying the girl was pretty. She merely blinked back at him, thankfully oblivious to his thoughts.

Another bomb hit closer this time, and Xander found himself clutching the girl to him – whether as comforter or comforted he did not know. Was that him shaking or her? Or both? Or was it maybe the ground? What a strange moment for multiple-choice reflections. They clutched each other in a manner that would have been impossible and unseemly were it not for the circumstances. Wartime makes for strange bedfellows, indeed. Of course, that was only an expression. He didn't mean that in a literal bed kind of way.

They crouched in the basement like that, holding each other tight, for what must have been a solid hour, until at last the sounds of planes and explosions had died away and one-by-one the apartment-dwellers began to rouse themselves. Families began to stand and shake out their stiff limbs, letting out the breath they'd been holding. Xander continued to hold the girl close, looking around for her family, but it seemed she was alone. Finally, he rose to his feet, pulling her with him. They were still locked in embrace. Noticing it, Xander coughed uncomfortably and disengaged, patting her arm and doing his best to look like a man should, all chivalrous and such.

"I'm not very brave," he said with a small chuckle, mentally kicking himself that this stupid statement was the first thing he said to a very pretty girl. And she was pretty in a creamy and voluptuous way. He revised his earlier assessment. "Broad- shouldered" didn't cut it: She was womanly.

The trembling in his hands was back, and he willed himself to take a deep breath and start over. But if the girl caught his fright, she didn't seem to care. She turned to him with eyes that could melt butter. She quirked a half-smile. "Personally, I never want to come down here again, either," she said in a wavering voice. And then she looked up at the ceiling. "I wonder if my apartment's ok?" she mused aloud.

Xander gentlemanly touched her elbow. "If it would make you feel safer, I'd be happy to walk you up."

The girl looked him over and noticed the collar of his uniform under his heavy black overcoat. Xander realized yet again that while his desk job at SS headquarters scared the shit out of him, it was going to instill confidence in someone else. The girl obviously took him for a soldier-and official – and therefore, perhaps, a sworn protector. And, yes, therefore safe.

"Ok," she said softly, but not softly in a flirtatious way. Just "ok" in the kind-of- shell-shocked-and-not-entirely-sure-if-things-were-ok-kind-of-way.

Dr. Thomas Ehrlich had a prosperous medical practice in Berlin. He was well- respected, accepted in high circles and occasionally had the opportunity to advise the government on medical matters. Especially now that Eugenics was the scientific flavor of the moment. It pained him on some level to testify before the government that Jews and Gypsies were genetically inferior, though clearly there was benefit in dissuading people with certain disabilities from having children. He held firm the belief that a strong state needed a strong and hardy people. It was good for nationalism, and a strong nation was what Germany needed to be. Yet somewhere in his heart there was still a spot of warmth and affection for the way things used to be. And now as he gazed across the darkened basement of the opera-house, his occupation made it impossible for him not to scan the faces of the people hiding there. He saw the fear, the grimaces as each bomb found its mark somewhere across the city. A faint glow of red filtered in through the high windows.

He noticed an attractive woman across the chamber from him. She'd apparently lost her hat somewhere, so it was the glint of her blond hair that first drew his eye, that and her youth and beauty. He had a son about her age. The woman leaned to a girl beside her and spoke softly in her ear. Dr. Ehrlich's attention shifted slightly to the redhead. He pondered them a moment more, until another bomb fell – this one much closer than before and sent a collective groan through the opera-goers. He shut his eyes tight and thought about his son, until sometime later he realized it had grown dark outside and the world had quieted. It was the stirring of the two young women that pulled him out of his reverie. They were the first to climb to their feet, and he could hear their whispered voices. They were eager to leave.

"Miss Rosenberg?" he greeted the redhead. The fear in her eyes told him he was right.

Xander stood nervously in the darkened parlor of Tara's apartment, regarding the architecture because it was uncustomary for a young man to escort a lady he'd only just met alone to her dark apartment in the middle of the night, in the dark. Yes, darkness. It was all around. The air raid sirens had stopped long ago, so the blackout was lifted, but the power must have gone out. He stood, mindlessly flipping the hall light switch on-off, on-off in darkness, waiting for the girl to reappear.

"I h-had a few candles in the kitchen," she said, cupping her hand around a flame. The fire glow illuminated the body of the white candle and sent shadows dancing around the room. It was large, high ceiling, broad, dark woodwork and a bank of tall casement windows.

"So, is everything ok?" Xander asked with a shrug. His hands were stuffed nervously in the deep pockets of his overcoat.

Tara nodded. "Oh, yes. Some dust in the kitchen." She glanced around the parlor. "And some things knocked off the walls…nothing major to worry about." She went to the wall, taking the candle with her and retrieved a broken picture frame from the floor. Xander followed the light, stooping to help retrieve another fallen frame close by. He held up a stiff photograph portrait of a family – all blue-eyed and blond. Tara and a man in uniform and three small blond children. A blush crept across his cheeks. Of course. Someone as lovely as Tara would be married.

"Where's your husband?" he asked in what he hoped was an offhanded conversational tone. Tara shot him a funny look. "I – I don't have a husband."

Oh, right. It was wartime. Everybody had lost somebody. "I'm sorry," Xander said sincerely, gazing softly upon the family tableau. Tara reached for it and pried the picture from his hands.

"That's my brother," she said. "He's on the eastern Front. The children are his. The photo was taken just before he left for Poland. He hasn't been back in a while."

Xander glanced around the place once more. Even by candlelight he knew the apartment was spacious. Tara's family must be moneyed. "You live here all by yourself?" he asked, a little slack-jawed. The blush that crept across Tara's cheeks told him he was getting a tad too personal, that perhaps she didn't believe he was there for chivalrous reasons, after all. She nodded, though. "Alone," she said simply and then turned toward the door. It was his cue to leave.

Damn, Xander cursed silently. He'd blown it. He followed the dancing candlelight toward the door.

Willow stood rooted to the ground as if she'd sprung there from seed. She found herself staring wide-eyed into a face that was familiar. And not in a good way. Buffy stepped up beside her as the bearded gentleman extended his hand to Willow.

"Miss Rosenberg?" he asked. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, a mirthless half-twitch. She fought the urge to deny it, and her legs simply would not go.

"Willow, isn't it?" He had her hand in his now. She was as good as captured. With a whistle, any of the uniformed officers here could be summoned. The pieces of paper in her pocket would do her no good after all. Not in the face of Dr. Ehrlich's word against hers. He knew her, and he knew what she was.

His eyes flicked to the breast of her overcoat. He was looking for the Star of David, which of course he wouldn't find there because she refused to wear that humiliating rag. His eyes were reproachful for a moment as he looked her head to toe. He seemed to be contemplating something. Willow could feel fear and anger radiating from Buffy beside her. Bless her heart. Buffy was always itching for a good fight.

Dr. Ehrlich's eyes finally met hers once more. "Your father was a good man." He turned to leave. "You be careful now," he said over his shoulder and then slipped into the column of opera-goers who had collected their things and were making their way back out into the night.

Willow was trembling. Buffy had to bodily shove her, hissing "Out. Now," into Willow's ear. Following a command was easy. Willow fell into step beside her friend and eventually found herself outdoors again. Blood was pounding in her ears.

"Oh, God, Buffy. Do you know who that was? How close that was?" she gasped, nearly doubling over.

Buffy was fairly sure all she really needed to know was written on her friend's face. She patted Willow's back, running soothing circles against the dark wool coat as Willow focused on more rudimentary things, like the sidewalk. And breathing. And not throwing up on Buffy's shoes.

Willow choked out more: "Tha-that was my father's business partner. They had the medical practice together. Until Crystal Nacht. I think he-he had something to do with my parents' disappearance. I don't know…"

Buffy continued rubbing Willow's back. "You can't know that for sure. And he didn't turn you in just now. Maybe he wasn't involved."

"Maybe he feels guilty," Willow heaved. "He got the business. And I got nothing, except orphaned."

"Is your friend injured?" a young man's voice called out to them. Buffy looked up to see a soldier with a flashlight approaching. Buffy shook her head vigorously. "She's fine. Just a little shell-shocked is all."

The soldier nodded, then hesitated. "It's no hour for you girls to be out on the streets alone. You'd better get home."

Buffy detected the faint sound of Willow swearing under her breath. " I don't have a home" as if it were the punchline to an old joke.

Buffy grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright. "Come on, Wilma. You're coming with me."

Willow woke early. She lay flat on her back staring up at the ceiling deep in thought. Buffy was nestled asleep beside her, softly snoring. And on the other side of Buffy lay her younger sister Dawn. It wasn't a big bed, but it was soft and warm with a pretty crocheted coverlet of cream-colored lace. The Summers sisters' mom Joyce was in the kitchen making pancakes. She'd been a great housewife until her husband joined the military and then disappeared two years ago. Now she rose early every morning and made her daughters breakfast before heading off to work at a nearby woolen mill. None of the Summers women ever talked about Mr. Summers any more.

Joyce had met them at the door last night, as she and Buffy tumbled in out of the night. The look of relief she gave Buffy was all mama-bear. She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace, and the two of them stood like that for a long moment.

"I don't like you going out at night," Joyce reproached, clinging to her daughter like she'd never let her go. Her soft brown eyes swept up finally and rested on Willow with a mixture of relief and trepidation. Then Joyce opened her arms and admitted Willow into her embrace, too. Willow buried her face in Joyce's blond hair, breathing in the comforting scents of soap and cooking.

Willow now rose silently and slipped into her clothes from the night before, taking a moment to straighten her skirt and smooth her hair in the mirror. Then she headed for the kitchen.

She'd always liked Joyce and the sight of her in the sunny window made Willow smile. Willow noticed the street scene outside. Mounds of rubble covered the streets, like a snowfall of brick dust had blanketed the city overnight.

"Wow, would you look at that." Willow mused softly. The world kept seeming to end – and then not really – in so many ways. If fate kept up the barrage of near-apocalypses it would be kind of tough to know when the real one came, right? Or maybe the apocalypse isn't a single, discreet event. Maybe it's a whole tumbling series of things that culminate in a good snuffing. "I put my money on the whole tumbling-culminating-in-a- good-snuffing kind of apocalypse," she said, turning to Joyce. "Oh. I said that last part out loud, didn't I?"

Joyce chuckled good-naturedly. "They say the Eskimos have a hundred different words for snow," she said, offering her own non sequitur and pouring coffee for Willow. The cup was half-full. Rations were low and staples were becoming harder to come by. Willow was thankful for a shot of anything hot. She accepted the cup humbly and leaned up to give Joyce a peck on the cheek.

"Thanks for letting me stay," she said bashfully. "I didn't think I should try to get back to my flat last night." "Flat" was a really loose term for Willow's current housing accommodations. She'd found a room in an old building that would accept money from Jews. The money was paid under the table, and the rent was a bit steep, considering how many people she shared the one room with, but as winter approached her options had been few. A friend of Buffy's from the university had helped Willow find the place. Waking up in Buffy's house reminded Willow of the comforts of home from before the war.

Joyce sat at the small kitchen table across from Willow. "Buffy told me last night you might be able to find work?" Joyce had always thought it a tremendous shame Willow couldn't attend university. The girl had a sharp mind and a tenacious work ethic. Willow's look was guarded a moment, and then she softened. "Uh, yeah. I have a bit of a new lease on life, it would seem, anyway."

Willow knew exactly what she intended to do. She'd had her mind made up even before she and Xander had discussed forging her papers. "I'm going down to the newspaper office today," she replied.

"To place an ad?" Joyce asked, assuming the girl meant to hire herself out as a domestic or something like that.

Joyce was certain her face froze. Willow's ambition was to work for a Nazi newspaper?

"It's sort of a sheep in wolves' clothing kind of thing," Willow explained, a bit distressed at Joyce's reaction. It seemed so obvious to her what she needed to do: The only way to ensure nobody asked to see her papers was to never put herself in a position of being asked for them.

"Well, I suppose you and Xander can stop for cocktails at the Officers Club after hours, then," Joyce shook her head.

Xander stared at a dossier on his desk, absently picking at the rubber band that held its contents together. There were a lot more like this one stacked up in the oak in-box on his desk. But for the past half hour it seemed all he could do was stare at this one. And swallow down a squishy stew of guilt and dread. It had seemed a simple enough thing yesterday, swiping the documents he needed for Willow and in a few minutes and with the aid of a typewriter concocting a new identity for her. At the time, he'd been sweating profusely, listening for any sound of voices or footsteps approaching. His hands had shaken at the typewriter, and he'd had to do it twice, but finally he'd gotten it right. He'd stuffed the documents deep into the inside pocket of his overcoat and then grabbed his hat to go.

Now, this morning, there was a small matter of this troubling file. It kept staring at him. It was a certain file marked Wilma Hermann. As in the real Wilma Hermann, the dead woman whose identity he had borrowed for his childhood chum. To finish the job, he needed to go in and change certain documents to match the characteristics of his very real and very alive Willow. And every keystroke he made at the typewriter, each document he shredded and replaced would implicate him further in this fraud. In the end he'd need to sign it himself and refile it. He'd intended to do the work tonight, just before leaving for his regular rendezvous with his friends at the diner. But then, when he'd arrived at work this morning, the file had been sitting right here in the middle of the desk. He was sure he'd filed it last night before he left. And now there it was sitting here. How could it be sitting there, with its rubbery rubber band and its bland manila face and the name of that dead woman typed neatly across the tab?

His eyes had shifted nervously to the other clerks and officers who strode through the office, expecting to catch the eye of the person who'd left this on his desk. Unless it was some gross and stupid oversight on his part, and of that he could not be certain, though it was likely. His paranoia told him someone was messing with him. It wasn't exactly unheard of for government employees to abuse their access to information on behalf of a friend or loved one. He shuddered at the thought of what they might do to him.

He was torn between the impulse to shove the whole file in his book bag…to shred the whole thing…or to just shove it back in the alphabetical hanging stacks. Someone was messing with him. Did he dare alter a word? And if he didn't and Will got caught, she'd be a dead woman. He dropped his head in his hands and tried to pull himself together.

It was a few moments before he noticed the shiny brown shoes just a few feet in front of his desk. He slowly lifted his gaze to find an older, distinguished looking man in gazing back at him, his expression half-amused.

"Ah, yes. The joys and hazards of romance," the man said, and they both chuckled at the absurdity of it, since every resident of the city had certainly spent most of the night a huddled mess in a basement somewhere.

"Believe me, I wish my skill with the ladies were enough to make a woman overlook the fact that the city was falling down, but, ah, I am not possessed of such skills. Or of such a lady." He shook his head at his own pathetic-ness. And then set his files aside so he could attend to the fine citizen here who was probably wanting to rat out his neighbors over something. Which was even more pathetic.

The newspaper office was not far from Willow's flat. She decided to take a short detour there on her way to get a fresh shirt. This part of town had sustained some heavy damage. City workers were helping clear away rubble to allow traffic through. She picked her way carefully along the sidewalk, her scarf tied tight against the wind. She was halfway down the block with the door to her building in sight when she stopped short. Something wasn't right. She spotted a cluster of police and a van at the corner. As she watched, an officer led one of her flat-mates forcibly by the arm down the front steps and into the back of the van. The man had no shoes or coat on. He looked bewildered and broken. Another soldier followed with the man's wife in tow. She was crying.

Willow stood still, scarcely breathing, as if she could will herself invisible. Her impulse told her to run, but that would be bad. They'd spot her and chase her down. So she stood rooted and watched people she'd become friends with out of a strange brand of happenstance disappear into a truck with no hope of saying good-bye, or see you again sometime, or be right back.

A hand gripped her shoulder. She spun around and into the face of a friend – a friend who looked scared and grim, but somehow reassuring nonetheless. "This way," the woman whispered pulling Willow into the slim alleyway between buildings, into the shadows.

"Jenny?" Willow said, clutching the woman's arms tightly, wanting to be sure she was real. "What's happening?"

"I was just coming home, too. They're cleaning the place out. We've got to find a new place to stay." The woman's dark eyes flashed anger and determination.

Willow felt tears well up and begin to fall. "No! Not Mr. and Mrs. Schneiderman. And, and George…and, and…"

"We can't help them," Jenny hissed, a bit more harshly than she intended, but her nerves were on end, too. "We have to get out of here."

"But what about our stuff?" Willow knew the words were stupid even as she spoke them, but considering most of her worldly possessions these days fit in a large suitcase she was loathe to be reduced to just the clothes on her back. She knew for Jenny it was the same. Everything Jenny had was in the flat, too, and Jenny didn't seem to think Willow was being shallow.

"I know. I hate this. We'll have to come back later tonight and see what's left," she hissed. "Fuck Hitler."

That earned Jenny a chuckle. Willow had always liked her. Her people were Romani – Gypsies – and therefore on the Nazi's shit-list just as much as the Jews. Jenny had been one of Willow's teachers years ago before the seeds of hatred had started spreading and neighbors turned against neighbors. Willow had been humiliated, withstanding taunts at school, which she'd put up with as long as she could bear because she loved learning. But Jenny had been dismissed five years ago after Crystal Nacht and then her family members started disappearing one by one. Now it was just Jenny living in a small apartment with a bunch of strangers.

"I don't know," Willow pondered. "Maybe seven? I've got at least another two. I might even have more. What's so magic about the number nine, anyway?"

"Nine is the way it works for cats. Probably doesn't apply to people," Jenny surmised.

Tara sat quietly waiting for her lunch companion to arrive. She took a long sip of water from the goblet at her place setting. Last night the bombs were raining down. Out in the streets there was a chaos of stone and brick and random bits of furniture, the myriad errata of people's everyday lives blown out of their homes and dispersed across the streets for all the world to see. It was a terrible enough sight made even more terrible by the fact that here she was in a fine restaurant, at a table decked in linen tablecloth, waiters moving briskly about the place as if nothing had happened. The war didn't reach inside fine restaurants, apparently.

Oh, wait. It did. Tara looked up to see her companion walking toward her. He was dashing in his officer's uniform. She stood as he approached and he gave her a warm hug before they both took their seats.

"I'm glad you're all right," Riley said, leaning across the table, obviously relieved. "You stayed in the basement?"

Tara nodded, thinking momentarily of the kindness of the stranger named Xander who'd made sure she made it back to her apartment ok.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said, and she almost wanted to laugh at the naked self-importance of his comment. As if he or the army or whatever powers that be had merely made a clerical error, as if that's what caused enemy planes to bomb the city. It also struck her as somehow an absurd understatement considering the destruction of people's lives visible for all to see. Tara had been lucky. She'd been inconvenienced and, at worst, scared. In Riley's world it was about looking beyond the details to focus on the big picture. Where Tara saw stones ad rubble, he saw nothing.

She decided to meet him conversationally on his level. "The allies think they've struck a blow, but they have no idea how adversity strengthens Germany's resolve," she said in her best "party line" voice, trying to hide an amused smile.

"Exactly!" Riley grinned, as if she were the first person who seemed to get it. As if she had just given him the perfect excuse not to feel guilty and heartbroken over not being able to better protect his countrymen. "We won't let them get away with it. Even now, we have machinery in motion. I can't tell you more, but you have to trust me: We're going to make very short work of those bastards – pardon my language. It's just that I feel very passionate about this, and I'm not the only one who does."

Tara took another sip of water and regarded him somewhat objectively. He was a good man, beautiful, honest and sincere. But it was interesting how often he expressed more passion for his work than for her. There was affection, certainly. And love, but in a blunted sort of way. The vulnerable parts of him secreted away in an emotional bomb shelter.

Maybe that was the way of many soldiers – or perhaps the officers anyway. In times like these everyone did what they could to get by. And if getting by meant that Tara spent a few lunchtimes or evenings being Riley's tether to normal life, so be it. There was so little in her life right now that she was eager to do almost anything to get outside of it. Funny how the domesticity that smothered her was exactly the kind of comfort Riley craved. In return, he gave her some financial support (though she didn't need much), and he gave her some sort of promise for the future. Though they didn't speak of it, there was a tacit understanding between them that when the war was over they'd marry.

"There's a gathering at the Officers Club this Friday evening," he was saying. "I'm wondering if you'd like to go with me?"

Tara smiled. "Anything I can do to help support the war effort and improve the morale of the brave men who are securing a safe and prosperous future for us I feel it is my duty – no, my honor, to do. I am at your complete disposal."

"Am I lucky? What is luck, anyway? Is it fair to call it luck that I didn't get arrested but my friends did? And in the sense of this morning's raid, what exactly does 'arrested' mean? The Nazis have a sanitized term for everything. They euphemize everything – especially the Jews. My friends just got hauled away to be euphemized. You gotta give them credit for their love of language."

Willow sat quietly in a stiff wooden chair waiting for an opportunity to meet with Mr. Gruber, the editor of The People's Press, a euphemism if ever there was one.

Gruber's secretary had seemed a bit skeptical when she'd walked in without an appointment, but Willow had given her a resume and writing samples to pass along to him for perusal. She was hoping that once again her intelligence and attention to detail would make an impression. Now she'd been sitting for nearly an hour as patiently as if she had just sat down. She had nowhere else to be until she met with Xander and Buffy at the café for their daily "Hey-we're-all-still-here" pie and coffee check-in. She and Jenny had talked about going back to the flat to see what they could salvage of their things, but Willow was quickly giving up on that idea. If Jenny had already used up her nine lives there was no reason risking her last for a handful of things. Maybe if she asked, Buffy or Xander might be able to go by and look on behalf of the both of them. The neighbors and authorities would regard them as Good Germans merely redistributing wealth, whereas Willow and Jenny would be considered the vermin that pest control had missed.

The office door swung open and a tall, silver-haired man in a suit called out, "Miss Hermann?"

It took Willow a moment to realize she was being addressed. She put on her best Wilma face and stepped into his office.

Another lifetime ago Willow had been a terrible liar. There would have been no way she could have made a bald-faced lie to somebody without fidgeting or betraying her guilt in some way. As Wilma responded to Mr. Gruber's questions, Willow felt herself detach completely as if watching the proceedings from somewhere up above. Damn. Wilma was good.

"So why is it, Miss Hermann, that you list no address on your resume?" he was asking.

"I'm afraid my housing situation is at present a bit up in the air," Wilma replied. "In fact, it was pretty much blown up into the air last night."

"You have other prospects for lodging?" he asked. She nodded her head vigorously. "Oh, yes. I have friends in the area. I just need to make arrangements. It's all been a bit sudden is all."

"Why is it you wish to work here? The hours are long and sometimes a bit irregular. If a big story breaks, we don't leave until it's finished. Whatever it takes."

It was Willow – not Wilma – who looked him clearly in the eye and answered him. "Sir, I'm here because I want nothing more than for this war to end. I think I'm relatively safe in saying that after last night, most any German you talked to would say as much. There's too much suffering. We've all suffered. And the sooner we can be done with the suffering and moving on to the building and rebuilding the better. I guess you could say I'm a bit impatient. And that I'm an optimist. I can think of no better place I could apply myself than by working for this newspaper, sir. I need to do something."

"Your writing samples are very good. But I'm not sure you're the right man for the job," he said, a bit amused with his own humor.

"I'm an excellent writer," Willow said, letting his remark pass. "I'm also extremely resourceful."

This being a Nazi rag, she knew what he was driving at. But she answered in her own way: "I love all that is good and pure about my homeland. I would die to defend it." Interesting images flashed in her mind as she spoke the words.

Gruber let out a satisfied sigh. He was done grilling. He turned in his chair toward her and extended his hand in congratulations. "You'll be our new copy editor. You can start immediately."

The grin that spread across Willow's face could not be contained. She had a new name and now a new job that would provide income. Soon, she'd be in a position to actually support herself.

The dark hallway echoed with the sounds of footsteps in the stairwell far below. Xander was on the fifth floor, staring at the door before him. He collected his thoughts a moment, cleared his throat and then knocked.

The faint sound of footsteps reverberated through the door. A moment later, it swung open to reveal the lovely woman whose hand he'd held the other night. She looked surprised to see him.

Already, he loved the adorableness of her nervous stutter. And it was kind of nice to know someone like Tara found him stutter-worthy.

He began to release the words he'd rehearsed on the bus all the way over here. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing. You know, getting over the big scare the other night. I wanted to be sure everything was all right."

Tara smiled and opened the door wider, inviting him in. "Tha-that's very kind of you. I-it w-was definitely hard to fall asleep. I k-kept dreaming of bombs and airplanes."

"I imagine Dr. Freud might have a thing or two to say about that. But not me. Sounds perfectly normal to me. I was never into his whole dream thing. Or that thing about cigars. Not that I've spent time reading his work, much." He felt his cheeks burning. Must get rid of these mind pictures of explosions and cigars, and Tara. But Tara just smiled pleasantly back at him as if waiting for a small child to complete his first sentence. Xander swallowed, hoping he was at the end of it.

Oddly, he was relieved to be saved by the sounds of a second person in her apartment. Tara turned and flashed a smile in the direction of the sounds. Xander took her momentary distraction as an opportunity to pinch himself. Hard.

Sweetheart: a term of endearment usually reserved for two people who are close to signify a special bond between them. Xander heard Willow's voice in his head as he thought this. He looked at his shoes. One could call friends sweetheart. In fact, he and Willow and Buffy happened to use language like that a lot, and they were friends. Also, parents use that endearment when talking with their children. Or at least most parents do. The ones who love their children, as opposed to his own no-account boozer parents. But, no, the person who uttered the endearment didn't sound parental enough.

He looked up to see a tall, sturdy fellow in an officer's uniform standing beside Tara, laying a meaty hand upon her shoulder. He didn't look like the brother from the photograph he saw the other time he was here. He appeared to be an affable enough guy, handsome and smiling. Xander hated him instantly.

"This is Captain Riley Finn," Tara said by way of introduction. "Riley, this is Xander Harris, the fellow from the SS who stayed with m-me in the ba-basement d-during the air raid and made sure everything was safe upstairs here."

Handsome Captain Finn extended his meaty hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you. And thank you for helping keep Tara safe. I don't like her being here alone so much. I'm glad you were there."

Xander imagined that if Tara were his girlfriend she wouldn't "be here alone so much." He smiled cordially and shook the man's hand.

Tara invited him in for tea. He would have declined, but he'd just ridden across town on the bus, and as long as he was here he might as well at least warm himself before heading back out into the winter afternoon. Later, as he strolled along the street below, headed back to his own little world, he had a slip of paper in his pocket from Riley, inviting him to an Officers Club event on Friday. "Great," he thought. He had come here wanting to get to know a pretty girl and maybe ask her out. And instead the girl's boyfriend asked him out.

Buffy had waited patiently until there were no students left to approach Giles. She knew that it was best if her classmates didn't see her receiving any special attention from the professor. You didn't have to be a member of the Hitler Youth to know that the Brit hadn't been run out of town yet because he kept his head down.

But this was a moment where she needed to check in with him – and quickly. She'd seen Willow's flat-mate Jenny stop by the door during class to tell Giles something – something that had clearly bothered him. She knew it had to be bad if Jenny had shown up at university. The only thing worse that being British (and therefore of questionable allegiances, given the Allies situation) was being a Gypsy. And worse than that, Jenny used to be a teacher here, too, and some of the students were sure to have recognized her.

Giles turned to her and let out an exasperated breath. "So stupid. She should know better than to waltz in here no matter how bad the news."

Giles laughed at that. "We live on a Hellmouth. That's good. I'll have to remember that one."

"I may have to hurt you if you don't tell me what's going on. Why was Jenny here?" As she said the last part she heard the fear in her own voice.

Giles sobered and looked out the classroom window. "It would appear that the police raided Jenny's apartment this morning and rounded up all of the occupants and took them God knows where."

"She and Jenny weren't home at the time. They arrived on the scene, as it were, and discovered the kidnappings in progress." They both knew the official version of the story – the government account would be that the people had been picked up for questioning. But then few if any ever returned from questioning.

"I live in a bachelor apartment. I'm a British citizen. And Jenny is a Gypsy. I can't really think of anything else that would draw negative attention to ourselves than if we took up cannibalism. Which during food rationing I suppose is not outside the realm of possibility."

"I can't tell you how frustrating this is. To be absolutely powerless to help her – or even myself for that matter."

Buffy hesitated, not sure if she should say the next. "I'm going to find a way to get you both out of Germany," she said with a determination that made Giles regard her warily.

"Buffy, I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I'm not sure there's anything you could do. And even if there were I wouldn't want you to endanger yourself on my behalf."

She cut him off. "I'm only going to say this once: This is what I do. I help people. I'm – I'm a helper. I help." There had to be a better word for it, but there was safety in obliqueness.

"Yep, in a nutshell. Although I prefer to think of myself as now 'thoroughly repurposed,'" Willow said. "It's better than 'thoroughly screwed.'"

"More like The People's Mega-phoney, but, yes. I'm all with the keeping-the-enemies close. Keeping tabs on where the swastika's been. Being first in the know could be handy…you know?"

There was something pained in Xander's expression that she hadn't expected to see. "What is it? I thought you'd be happy, well, at least about the first part – the me- getting-a-job part."

"Not just you. Me. Buffy. Jenny. Professor Giles. It's turning into something different."

Buffy chimed in, releasing her death grip on the warm coffee mug. "Everything's changing because instead of getting papers for people we don't know, it's becoming personal."

Xander elaborated: "We're all on the line in a way we haven't been before. We're connected through a paper trail. If one of us falls, we all fall."

"It has nothing to do with that. I love you. I'd do anything for you. But this is now like a chess game. Any move one of us makes – one little bit of carelessness – and it comes back around to all of us. If Jenny gets picked up it gets traced back to Buffy. You're staying with Buffy and you used to live with Jenny, so they blow your cover, too. Buffy's mom's in the clink and the guys at my office notice that a certain Alexander Harris signed the documents in the Wilma Hermann file."

"I didn't know you play chess. Had you pegged for a checkers kind of guy," Buffy quipped.

Buffy practically dismissed Xander's worry, slipping instead into fix-it mode: "We were all always on the line in exactly the same way we always were. Only now we have more power. Willow, you focus on being the best Nazi newspaper copy editor you can be. Xander, you're going to be the exemplary SS headquarters clerk – maybe even go for promotion. And I am going to continue to be a straight-A university student."

Buffy: "Ok, That might draw a too much attention. I'll shoot for more middle-of-the- road university student."

Buffy clicked into high gear. "Look, there's a Big Bad out there and we can't even see it. It could be anyone. It could be everyone. We can't trust that anybody is what they seem. And we're going to fight it the only way we know how: By walking among them, in plain sight, and choosing to live and not hide. I think this thing smells fear. We need to step back and study it. Know its moves. And then if we're lucky we can stay safe and maybe do some real good in this fucked up place."

"So, we have to stick together," Xander said, as much confirmation that he understood Buffy as an affirmation of their bond.

Willow shook her head. "No. To blend in and walk among them, we may need to split up. I can't stay with Buffy and put Dawn and your mom in any kind of danger. I could never live with it if something happened."

Xander to Willow: "If you're going to do that we need to get you some more Nazi friends. We need to acclimate you more into the Nazi scene. Come to the Officers Club with me on Friday. I have some friends who're getting me a pass to get in."

The hotel was a grand place, with gilt and filigree and mirrored walls. It seemed large enough you could inflate a zeppelin in it, and the big band playing Cuban samba music at the far end of the hall seemed tiny. This was a showplace of opulence and engineering, and as the war wasn't going so well these days, the Germans needed things like this to remind them of what they were fighting for,…and of the reasons why the purity of their race was of the utmost urgency to civilization: Only the master race could be capable of great works like these. "Never mind that the pyramids were built by Africans," Willow was saying as she nervously deconstructed the whole charade while walking along on Xander's arm. Xander patted her hand sweetly. "Dear, please try not to bait the Nazis tonight, ok?"

"I can't help it. My mind has a low threshold for things that just don't make sense."

Xander stopped and turned to Willow, his eyes taking in the sight of her in her evening gown, which was black and came to black lace along the chest and neck and arms. Willow looked beautiful. "Will," he said. "I know it's tough for a brainiac like you, but tonight, just for once, please power down the synapses and focus on having a good time."

She smiled in that old way that had always made him adore her. She was appraising him in his uniform, and it was clear she liked what she saw. There. She was getting her priorities straight. She seemed proud and awed of him somehow and it made him feel ten feet tall. In a moment she had turned off nervous, over-analyzing Willow and became the girl he'd known since childhood.

"Some champagne would help," she wryly suggested, and he thought about the money in his wallet. He wasn't sure he could swing it. Wartime had made such luxuries nearly unaffordable. He grinned gallantly nonetheless. "But, of course." He scanned the crowd for anyone he knew who might be willing to go in with him on a bottle. His gaze landed on Tara, who looked resplendent – so much so he almost missed the fact that she was there with her boy-captain Riley.

"Oh. Friends!" he managed to blurt out, and practically dragged Willow across the room to meet them.

Riley spotted them first. Smiling and nodding Xander over. He said something to Tara who turned quickly in surprise. She seemed taken aback at the sight of Xander in his uniform, and then even more taken aback by the sight of the woman on his arm.

Xander grinned and made introductions. "Will, this is Captain Riley Finn and his girlfriend Tara….and Tara and Riley, this is Wil – uh – Wilma Hermann, my friend, and a copyeditor for The People's Press."

Riley was clearly impressed by the last part. He took her hand and kissed it, as was customary when formally being introduced to a lady in polite society. "The People's Press." he said. "The men on the front lines are ever indebted to the news organizations for keeping our loved ones informed of the our progress. It's a pleasure to meet someone so dedicated to the war effort."

Willow blushed bashfully and replied, "I'm just doing what I can to keep up morale these days." She said it more about herself, of course, than about the war effort, which she just hoped would go to hell. Where it belonged.

Tara couldn't help staring at Xander's date. She was beautiful and charming and wearing a really great dress. There was an air of confidence and sophistication about her. She even held an important and high-profile job. For a moment, Tara felt small and inconsequential, just another hausfrau – and not even a frau at that, definitely nothing special. But then, Willow's attention turned, her eyes kind and sparkling and genuinely interested in Tara. Willow took her hand almost in an echo of Riley's masculine politeness and held it in greeting. Her touch was light and her skin warm and soft. "It's really nice to meet you," Willow was saying, though Tara absorbed the words in a squishy and remote way as if her head were underwater. "Xander told me about the other night how he met you during the air raid." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Thanks for making sure no rocks fell on his head. His head's a little soft."

Xander rolled his eyes. "What about you? I heard you nearly threw up on Buffy's shoes that night."

Willow scowled in mock reproach. "I was scared. I have this whole list of things I want to do before I die, and it was a little unnerving thinking I might not have the chance to do them."

"And nearly throwing up on Buffy's shoes is one of the things on your list?" Xander quipped.

Willow looked confused. "Uh, no. That wasn't really on there. But I guess I can add it. And, heck, I can check it off, too."

Riley patted Xander's back in comradely fashion. "It's fair to say that these are hard times for just about everyone. Let's go get the ladies some champagne and forget our worries for a while." Xander grinned as if his evil plan to make Riley pay for the drinks had worked. Which it had. He followed the captain to the bar, venturing a quick look over his shoulder at the women.

"Don't mind us. We're fine," Willow waved. And then Willow and Tara were standing looking at each other.

"Why don't you j – join us o – over at our table?" Tara managed to get out, though with some obvious effort. Damn, she hated that nervous stutter. But Willow didn't seem to mind. She smiled a broad smile and took Tara's hand again with a simple, "Lead away."

"Can't we send you out into the countryside somewhere?" Giles was asking, though he knew it was a stupid idea. But he was feeling desperate and there weren't a lot of options. Jenny Calendar was pacing the floor of his small living room, her eyes trained on the carpet like they had been for the last half-hour. Her shoes made a soft squeak on the floorboards with each step.

"I can put a hex on them. That's what the Gypsies are supposed to do, right? That's what they think we're all about. Well, that, and tramping about," Jenny was saying. She was blathering in her anger. "Fuck this."

Buffy uncrossed her arms and climbed to her feet. "I have a plan," she said, waiting for the nervous commotion in the room to stop. It did. She had their attention. She drew a deep breath and continued.

"I know a guy who can get Jenny a visa. I can get her to England, And, Giles, I can get you there too. Pull a few strings. You know. But I can get it done."

Jenny stared at her. "What. You're going to have Xander forge more papers? His little trick for Willow may end up costing him dearly. These assholes play for keeps."

Giles interrupted, stepping forward softly. "Jenny's right. Xander needs to lay low. And Willow, too."

Buffy shook her head, her jaw set. "Right now they're at the Royal Hotel mixing it up with the high-steppers."

Jenny and Giles looked at her like she were mad…or Willow and Xander were mad. Or both. "They're at a Nazi soiree?" Giles hissed.

Jenny was agitated now. She pulled out a cigarette and lit up, muttering to herself. "Willow's getting in way over her head. I don't like it. She's got what? Maybe two lives left?"

Buffy shook off the cryptic remark. "Listen, this doesn't have to involve either of them. They're ok. Really. I have another source."

Giles gave her a fatherly glare. "All of this covert business is far too dangerous. Jenny and I will take a car out into the country."

Buffy shrugged in frustration. "Hello? The police have most certainly gone through all of Jenny's things back at her apartment. They know who she is, and they'll be looking for her. Taking a drive out of the city just isn't gonna cut it."

She turned to Jenny. "You've got to travel out of here. Get far away. Just until this stupid war is over. Put your life on hold. But at least you'll still have one."

Jenny seemed to mull this over. "Then Willow's coming, too. I won't leave her here."

Buffy let out a sigh. "Willow's going to do what she's going to do. I'll talk to her about it. But in the meantime tell me you want the visas because it's going to take some time to get them." They all knew what she really meant was that it was going to take some risk to get them.

Jenny's hands were shaking as she took another drag on her cigarette. She blew out smoke and finally said, "Ok."

Willow was extremely confused. The beautiful girl at the table with her had a boyfriend who was just about the biggest Nazi blowhard she had ever met, though of course her new occupation would likely bring her into circles with many, many more Nazi blowhards. And yet Tara seemed, well, genuinely nice. She came off as gentle and accepting, and truly interested in Willow.

Of course, dummy. She has no idea she's sitting here with an evil Jew. For a moment Willow feared what she might feel if Tara happened to spew some anti-Semitic statement, which Good Germans were so prone to doing these days. Somehow Willow had a sense that such a remark would really sting in a way that the countless other remarks she'd heard over the years hadn't come close to. She tried to ponder why that was. Maybe that now she was Wilma she expected to get the real scoop on what the gentiles thought about the Jews. Was that what bothered her? Or was it something more specific to Tara? A person who, under different circumstances, Willow might actually like as a friend.

And what was with all the touching? Willow had always been affectionate with Xander and Buffy, but Tara was a complete stranger and yet Willow realized she now knew the exact temperature and sensation of the skin of Tara's hand, the softness and texture of her fingers. Why the hell couldn't she just drop it and leave it alone? Maybe it was the champagne. The boys had toasted a glass with them and then disappeared, leaving the bottle between the women. She and Tara had downed their first glass and were now on glass number two.

Tara sensed Willow's nervousness and grasped for something to say to break the silence.

"W – what part of town do you live in?" she asked. Not exactly the most interesting or witty conversation-starter, but it would have to do.

Willow's eyes saddened. "Uh, my apartment kind of, well, it got blown up, so I'm a little in between places, you might say."

"I'm so sorry. I got off easy the other night, but I know so many other people didn't. I think I'd probably have thrown up on somebody's shoes, too, if I were in your place."

A wry smile crept across Willow's face and the effect was luminous. "Don't apologize for being in one piece. I'm glad you're ok."

Tara's eyes focused on the tablecloth, unnerved by the gentle kindness of Willow's gaze and by intimacy of what Tara was going to ask next: "So what exactly is on that list of things you want to do before you die?" Tara regretted she hadn't the ambition to even have thought of such a thing for herself. This beautiful red-headed girl before her had an intensity she wished she herself possessed. Tara was curious.

Willow lost herself in thought for a moment, wondering really what she could tell a Nazi, since so many of the things on her list included, well, screwing the Nazis. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "Well, I'd really like to work as a photo-journalist. I – I have this job at the newspaper, so I guess that's a step in the right direction. Uh, let's see…I'd like to go to university because I love learning – but, but I can't b – because I need to work, you know, to support myself, so my friend Buffy lets me borrow her books, and I, you know, do a lot of the reading for her and help her out because it's easy for me-just kinda how my brain works. So, huh, maybe it's like I am going to university, except without the degree." A pause, and then: "I'd like to someday live in a nice retirement home, since that means I'd probably have made it through this crazy war and lived to a ripe old age, and, um, that would be a really good thing…" She paused again, taking another deep breath. "And I'd kind of like to fall in love, you know, for real?" Her mouth was dry after this last part. She had no idea she was going to say it, but then she also had the sudden awareness that the words were absolutely true.

Willow looked over her shoulder to where Xander and Riley were engaging in some man talk and cigar smoking among a group of military types. Her gaze was affectionate. "I love him. We've been friends since we were, like, five. I can't imagine my life without him. But we're just friends." Xander seemed to understand this, too. He'd never shown more than familial affection for her. And that was ok. It was enough between them.

"I want something more," she found herself saying, as if her mouth would not shut up. "Every day I wake up wondering if it will be my last, and I just crave in the most visceral way to feel something messy and passionate and all-consuming…to have something that overrides absolutely everything else – that, that obliterates all of the pain and suffering and fucked-up-ness. I just want something that's, you know, mine."

Tara was surprised by her companion's fragile candor, but then everything about Willow's face was open and honest. Tara's heart beat a bit faster at the realization that some of the things Willow wanted were the same things she herself wanted but had assumed she would never have. Particularly that last one.

Willow's gaze was dangerously naked. Tara held it a moment, and then dared herself to hold it a moment more. Willow broke first, with a joke. "And also I'd like to visit the country and maybe get over my fear of horses."

Tara brightened at this. "Horses? Oh, I could help you with that one. I grew up on a farm outside the city. We still have family there. I could take you sometime." She was shocked again at her forwardness and thought perhaps she was making a new friend.

Willow grinned. "See, and then maybe I could check off another thing from my list."

The boys eventually gave up on the Nazi talk and cigars and returned to the table with another bottle of champagne. Xander was feeling smug at his good fortune that he'd found them companions with cash – and clout. Riley seemed to think nothing of it. It was almost as if he were relieved that Xander appeared to already have a girlfriend so he didn't have to worry about somebody making a move on Tara.

"How's my girl?" Riley asked Tara, leaning down and kissing the top of her head. Xander and Willow exchanged glances. Even buzzed on champagne they both knew that Riley's treatment of her more resembled the affection he might have for a pet cat than for someone perhaps destined to be his wife.

Willow didn't get it. Tara was lovely. The lights seemed to gleam off the blond hair she wore pulled back from her face. Her skin was luminous. Her eyes the color of the ocean. Her whole aspect sensual. Xander was drooling. And then she noticed that she, herself, was a little slack jawed. But Riley wasn't. He patted Tara's shoulder and swung into the chair beside her. Tara gave Riley a shy smile that could scarcely have hinted at its full carnal power. A power that somehow Willow knew was there. Didn't Riley see it?

Willow bolted down another swallow of champagne, wondering what the hell was wrong with these two. They were Hitler's perfect specimens, and, darn it to hell, they were certainly never going to mate. Take that, evil Eugenics! She shot another glance at Xander. The smirk on his face said it all. He knew it, too. Tara was Riley's chattel.

But instead of amusement, Willow felt anger rising up inside her. She slammed her glass on the table and commanded: "Let's dance."

Xander flinched and then nodded agreeably with the plan. He took Willow's hand and led her across the room to the dance floor. The Cuban band was playing a slinky, hip- swaying number.

Tara watched them go, her eyes never leaving Willow's back, following the play of black lace as it charmed its way through the crowd. It seemed as soon as Willow left the table she took all the warmth in the room with her. Until she and Xander started dancing, and then the heat was back, this time rising up in Tara's cheeks. There was nothing overtly sexual about the way the pair danced. In fact, they fell into a friendly intimacy that was borne of familiarity. So what was it that made Tara wish she were there with them?

Tara drained her third glass of champagne and grabbed Riley's hand. "You heard the lady," she said. "Let's dance."

"Oh my god, do you think those two could be any more wooden?" Xander was laughing as he swept Willow across the dance floor. Xander was not a bad dancer, Willow thought. Or maybe it was the champagne doing the thinking. Hey, in fact, she wasn't really thinking. Yay, brain! Xander was right: She really could turn it off and enjoy herself.

"Maybe it's one of those, you know, arranged marriage things," Willow replied archly.

"Yeah, I hear the government has one of those books where you can mix and match your mate based on certain characteristics."

"Like choosing color swatches," Willow nodded. "Except all the swatches are, you know, pale."

"Guess that means I'm not in the book," Xander smiled. "Being tall, dark and handsome and all."

That pleased Xander, and he gave Willow a good swing that made her eyes go wide. Whoa…Hips in new places.

Willow blushed. Chuckling, Xander asked, "Which reminds me. Did she talk about me?"

That did it. With the flick of her wrist, Willow took the lead from him. Xander laughed and fell into step with her. Willow shot him a mischievously intoxicated look and said, "About you? Not so much. We talked about me."

Xander's eyebrows shot nearly up to his hairline. "Is that right? Wow. Who knew Wilma Hermann already had a back-story."

"Wilma's got a lot more than that, wouldn't you say?" With that she gave him a dramatic dip.

The night was cold, and Buffy really, really wished she hadn't left her hat – the one Xander gave her last Christmas – at Spike's. She took the trolly partway to his house, then got off and walked the last 10 blocks. A glance up to a lighted window high above told her he was still up. From the front steps, she rang the bell to his apartment. It was late, but he'd be expecting her.

His apartment was on the fourth floor, and the steps were a good workout. Buffy climbed them two at a time. When she hit the landing, Spike was standing in his doorway. He bowed and admitted her into his home.

"And what brings you here tonight, I wonder?" he asked, leaning against the door as he closed it behind her. The look on his face made it plain he was hoping she'd admit it was lust. He was infuriating, but useful. Putting up with his crap was just part of the price she paid for having him on her side.

Buffy scanned his apartment, idly wondering how he spent his time up here. There were newspapers scattered about and unwashed dishes in the sink. He was nowhere near as fussy and tidy as Giles. She sat on the arm of a chair, carefully avoiding newspapers and other errata. "I need some help," she said, her gaze unwavering, as if she were on a mission of greatest importance.

Spike held her gaze a moment, weighing its gravity, and then let out a deep chuckle. "Oh, right. This is about getting visas or something for one of your little friends. What's up? The Jew get kicked out of her apartment again? Or maybe her boy's been found out a sympathizer by the Gestapo?" Spike had never met Willow or Xander, or Buffy's family for that matter. She had scrupulously worked to keep him out of their affairs. He didn't even know their names, though she did talk about them from time to time. They were important to her.

In a way, Spike was grateful not to know them. In his line of work, hunting down Jews, traitors and degenerates, he really would rather walk into an arrest situation innocent of whether he was screwing up the lives of people Buffy loved. It somehow made things morally simpler for him. He could help them behind the scenes a bit – for a price, of course. And they were free to hide as best they could, but if he found them, then it became about his work. He couldn't help what he was.

That Buffy came to him for help was baffling in a way. He knew deep down she must love him, though she'd never admit it. That had to be the real reason she kept coming around, with these thin excuses. Getting visas was no problem. He had access to records because of his line of detective work. And he had friends in official organizations like the Red Cross, who cold be counted upon – again for a price – to supply him with papers. He really didn't mind working both sides. People were people. They had a right to do what they liked, to defend themselves or run or hide or whatever. But as the war wore on and the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and other riffraff became fewer and fewer in Berlin, his job became simpler in some ways. He and his detective partner would be handed a dossier and they had more time to track down a good trail and a lead. That probably meant that at some point one of Buffy's friends would come into the cross-hairs of one of his investigations. He sorely hoped that if the day came he wouldn't be aware of who he was picking up, or interrogating or chasing down and shooting, or whatever. And he really hoped Buffy never visited his apartment with tears in her eyes because one of her friends was dead. It was just a matter of time and the law of averages. Fate was stacking against her. She was a university student. Surely she could understand the math.

"Ok, love," he purred. Give me the particulars. Gender. Age. Make up some occupation and come up with some amusing name, too. That stuff. And I'll see what I can do. I assume you have money,"

Buffy nodded, her coat pocket stuffed with all the cash Giles and Jenny could manage…and a few food stamps to boot in case it wasn't enough. She pulled it out and gave him all of it. He eyed the bills and chuckled at the stamps. These people obviously meant something to her. Could it be the girl she would only refer to as "Red" and the boy she called "X-Man"? Or maybe her mom and sis? Buffy didn't say. She grabbed a notepad from his kitchen table and started scribbling.

It was late, and Riley and Xander were off fetching the ladies' coats. That left Tara and Willow standing together in the lobby of the grand hotel. They faced each other, warmed by champagne and dancing. They smiled at each other in affable silence, comfortable in each other's company. Willow thought she could stand for a long time just watching how the lights played off Tara's skin, and how the blue of her eyes seemed to change colors depending upon how the light hit them.

Willow was taken aback by the use of her new name and was dragged back to the reality of the true distance between them, between herself and anyone, really, the things that would remain lies beneath the veneer of her new life. Xander was wrong. She'd developed no back-story for Wilma. Tonight had been pure Willow. Part of her wanted Tara to know that girl.

Tara picked up a bit of the sadness as Willow replied. "Yeah, it was really nice to meet you, too, Tara. I had a great time." She teetered a bit unsteadily on her feet. "Maybe too much of a good time, truth be told."

Tara steadied Willow's arm and found herself wondering where the pretty redhead who was not Xander's girlfriend was headed to now. "Do you have other family in the area you can stay with?"

It was as if a cloud momentarily passed across the sun. "No family," she said. "But I have friends I can stay with until I find a new place."

"You're lucky to have friends," Tara said, an ache in her heart at the realization she could really use some herself.

Willow tossed a rock up to Buffy's bedroom window. It was her sister Dawn who drew open the sash. "Oh. Willow?" Dawn whispered.

"Yeah. I'll climb up. Just give me a moment." It was freezing cold, but Willow didn't want to risk tearing the only nice dress she had – one of the few nice things she'd bought with an advance from the newspaper office. Mr. Gruber had been kind and understanding, what with the fact that Willow's apartment had been destroyed by the evil Allies and all. It was cold out, but Willow peeled off her overcoat and tossed it up to Dawn, shivering. Then she slipped out of the dress, feeling a bit more than daring standing half-naked in the alleyway. She carefully tossed the dress next.

While Willow climbed, Dawn's fingers ran over the garment. "It looks so good on you. And I think it might fit me, too. Do you mind if I borrow it sometime?"

Willow wasn't really listening. "Sure." She was more focused on keeping her balance. At the windowsill, Dawn grasped her wrist and pulled her inside.

"Wow! It's freezing out there," Willow hissed against chattering teeth. And then next: "Where's Buffy?"

Dawn waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, she's out with one of her boyfriends. She should be climbing up the wall any time now. I thought you were her."

"Buffy has boyfriends?" Willow pondered aloud. Her friend had never mentioned it.

Dawn was sketchy. "I think she's dating some SS guy. Or maybe two. I don't know. She doesn't talk about it much. Maybe she thinks mom would disapprove."

Willow shook off her surprise, kicked off her shoes, quickly got ready for bed and then slipped in next to Dawn. She fell asleep thinking about dancing, the shape and temperature of Tara's hand and the list of things Willow wanted to do before she died.

Sometime near morning, Willow felt a cold body slip into the bed between Dawn and her. Buffy snuggled down and burrowed her face into Willow's hair, drawing herself up tight against Willow's warm back. "Geez, Will, when did you take up cigar smoking?" she chuckled against her friend's neck. It tickled. Willow smiled, replying, "All the Nazis are doing it."

Spike strolled into the SS office of the secret police a bit late the next morning, a corrugated box under his left arm. He stubbed out his cigarette in the lobby and headed for the stairs up to his office. On the landing he spotted the clerk at his desk. An affable enough guy. Just a regular Joe. Young and a little soft. Interchangeable with any of the rest.

"Morning, Harris," Spike said as he glided by in his long overcoat. Harris barely looked up. "A fine morning it is, Mr. Blood." Spike chuckled. The kid greeted him differently every day. Sometimes it was, "Morning, did you say?" or "Right back at you, Mr. B." Always something. Spike let the chipperness follow him into his office like a soothing breeze. He flipped on the electric light and tossed the carton on his desk and hung his hat and coat on the tree behind the door. The sun was shining a tad too brightly, so he pulled the blind down half-way. That was when he trained his attention to the box. Taking a seat at his desk he began pulling out items and inspecting each of them for clues. There were always clues. When his boys had cleaned out a nest of Jews a few days ago there were a couple of occupants unaccounted for. The other Jews wouldn't fess up, of course. They always ran thick as thieves and couldn't be trusted to give away their own kind. No, his men had questioned the neighbors instead, giving them polite but firm treatment, accusing them of knowingly harboring Jews. That sort of thing always made the Good Germans a bit nervous and was usually enough to get them to cave. From the report he knew he was looking for a couple of young women. Names of Willow and Jenny.

Now he picked through the small belongings of the former occupants of the squalid little apartment, bits of cheap jewelry, a hair brush, a lipstick, old letters and a myriad of strange little mementos that these folks so often latched onto when they left their former lives behind to live on the lamb. He shoved each one of these personal things impersonally aside. He was looking for something specific. Papers, passports or…ah, yes, here they are: snapshots. Sepia-toned and a little blurry. Nothing written on the back, which was a shame. That usually made things easier. But there were definitely photos of two women who were not among those folks picked up. They were pretty, one a bit younger than the other – obviously not related by blood. From their smiles it was clear the snaps were taken in happier times. As was always the case.

Spike stubbed out another cigarette in a crystal ashtray on his desk (a souvenir from just such another box a few months back) and sighed. He began the task of the real detective work: trying to piece together the stories of these two ladies. How well did they know each other? Were they friends from way back? Might they be on the lamb together still? The first order of business was figuring out which one was Willow and which was Jenny. He always felt a better hunter when he could put a name to a face.

He sauntered down the hall to the office of his partner – an evil fuck named Caleb. Spike never cared for him. He was about the most heartless bastard Spike had ever met, and Spike considered himself fairly heartless. Caleb was a real piece of work. Hurting girls made him happy. Spike hammered his fist on the closed door, setting the window glass shaking.

Caleb opened the door, his coat and hat in hand. He tossed them on quickly and then inspected his handgun before pocketing it. His eyes flicked briefly over the photos Spike showed him.

"Pretty ones," was all he said for a long moment. Then, as the two of them were ambling down the hall: "It's the pretty ones who always turn out to have the darkest souls."

Spike had long since chosen to ignore the former preacher's twisted good-and-evil mutterings. Today was a workday. He had work to do. They both had work to do. And so fuck the wacky bastard. They would just go do it.

Tara woke early. The apartment was cold and the sunlight bright. She rolled over to find Riley there beside her. She was in a small satin nightgown. He was fully clothed. Well, except his shoes were off. Socks. But no shoes. He was huddled up beside her, sleeping like a baby. In fact, his face seemed so serene and angelic, his breath tickling at the nape of her neck. She let out a sigh and leaned back into the pillows, staring up at the shapes in the tin ceiling above her. Why wouldn't he touch her? It wasn't like she hadn't been forward. Hell, she was half-naked. She'd practically thrown herself at him last night after he'd brought her home from the dance. No. Actually, she had thrown herself at him. He had seen her practically head-to-toe naked and still he fell asleep on her. Riley hadn't been her first boyfriend, and in the past she'd never encountered anything quite like this, so she was worried. What did this mean?

Had he been drunk? There had been a lot of champagne last night. Maybe he passed out. Or – or maybe there was something wrong with her? She wasn't pretty enough or strong enough, or something enough. Did she do it all wrong? Should she have let him take the lead? Was it the man's job to decide things like this? Should she get up now and put on some clothes and just pretend nothing had happened? Did she want to stay here until he awoke, to see if something might happen? What is it that she did want, really?

She frowned. For all of this she blamed in an odd sort of way one Wilma Hermann. She had seemed so certain and self-possessed. And it was certainly not lost on Tara how the girl had maneuvered Xander so that she was leading their dancing. A bold move that made Tara feel kind of funny inside, as she thought about it. She'd never danced with another girl that way, letting another girl lead, and so she thought about that, about how that might feel, if Wilma had been leading her. Or if she herself were the one doing the leading.

There were so many things a woman might do that Tara had never stepped outside her prescribed role to imagine. She could hold a job. Wilma did. She could have men as friends and keep it at that, the way Wilma seemed to with Xander. Would Riley be happy with Tara as a friend and companion without the complications or obligations of sex? She glanced at him again, his peaceful face and thought that, yes, perhaps all he really wanted was this simple, unnamed thing they shared. He called her whenever he was in town. They'd go do things. She'd go to events with him. He'd take her to dinners. He was handsome in his uniform, and she knew she was lovely on his arm. He liked talking with her. They spent long hours talking. Or listening to the radio. He'd sleep here sometimes, with her pulled tightly against him. In her presence he was absolutely as vulnerable as it was possible for him to be and she let him be vulnerable and did not judge him.

He'd done terrible things. In war, how could one not? Tara chose not to dwell upon it. Of course he'd killed people, and killing is an evil thing, right? No matter how just the battle. He'd spent time at the Front. He'd led men into combat who had never returned from it. That had to haunt him. Tara tried to imagine herself in his place and knew that killing was something far beyond her. In fact, she couldn't imagine it. Or wouldn't.

So if he lay here peacefully, and if she gave him some real comfort, made him feel whole, even, if that were possible…then that was worth something. He didn't ask much of her in return. He didn't pry into her life, or try to direct her. To a certain extent she was free.

She slipped quietly out of bed and drew on her robe and walked to the window, gazing out over the street far below. The city was waking and starting to stir. That meant that people would be going to work. That industry would rise in its natural rhythm and life would go on as usual, even despite the war and the rubble and ruin. And Riley would rise and ready himself to go back to the front today. He was leading men to the eastern front to engage the Russians, who were proving difficult to defeat given their great numbers and the difficulty of traversing the cruel winter terrain. She knew he must be frightened. She was frightened for him. And she would miss him. She would be alone.

She headed to the kitchen to make him breakfast. It was another measure of comfort she could give him and that he would accept. While she poured water from the tap into the teakettle another thought struck her. She set the kettle on the stove and fetched a pad of paper and a pen and began composing a letter. To Wilma.

Things were all abuzz at The People's Press office. Willow glided in quietly and found her desk. There was a stack of copy there for her to proofread, but she let it sit there a moment. She looked up to where Mr. Gruber was, in his office pacing back and forth, visible through the window. He was talking on the telephone. The men of the newsroom were busy at typewriters or on phones. Willow moved past them to the pressroom, just as she had every morning since coming to work here. The typesetters were a friendly lot. They liked having a pretty girl in the newsroom – especially one who seemed to take an interest in what they were doing. They teased her gently and she went about her business scanning the galleys for anything interesting. She knew she could always wait until the paper came out. But she was drawn to the information. She had a compulsion to know the latest news – any scrap that might give her encouragement or be useful in some way.

There was a lot of hateful bullshit to wade through. But whenever she felt her face redden, she'd remind herself again that she was someone new. Today much of the news was a recasting of the "progress" on the eastern Front. She knew the truth of the situation must be truly awful because it sounded bad enough even in its sanitized presentation here. She looked at the casualty counts and felt sickened. Was all of this so worth the cost, really? She glanced at the jovial men setting type. They joked and chuckled and went about their work as if the world hadn't come unglued. When many of their neighbors had disappeared, their businesses burned, their possessions stolen by the government, or even by their neighbors. When many of their brothers had marched off to fight and die. And when what it took for them to still feel good about themselves was to believe in the words that appeared on the sheets of newsprint issued from this office everyday – or the words on the radio. All that stood between them and self-loathing, shame and fear were words.

She gave a little wave to the boys and headed back to her desk. She turned her mind off as she went about her work proofing copy. She was good at grammar and could diagram any sentence, finding comfort in the almost-mathematical rules of language.

It was almost noon before Gruber came out of his office and greeted her. The expression on his face made her think that perhaps she wasn't the only one saddened by the drubbing the Germans were taking at the hands of the Russians. "These are trying times, indeed," was all he would say, though, running a hand through his silver hair. He was a consummate wordsmith, of course, but his eyes were at odds with his understatements. She nodded gravely in return. He smiled in fatherly fashion at her. "Ah, yes, you know what I mean," he said. "You always do."

With that he handed her an envelope. "I wonder if this might be from an admirer?" he asked casually, perhaps trying to lighten the mood a bit. Willow was confused. Was it something from Xander or Buffy – or Jenny? And if so, it couldn't be good news, because why, if it were good news, would they try to so desperately reach her, right?

Gruber saw her trepidation as she took the letter from him. He chuckled. "Come on, it can't be so bad as that, Miss Hermann. After all, the letter is perfumed."

Willow was startled and confused, not only at the fact of a perfumed letter addressed to Wilma Hermann, but also at the knowledge that Mr. Gruber was not above sniffing the morning mail.

It took another 15 minutes to get Gruber to go back to his office and stay there so that Willow had some privacy with which to open the envelope in peace. He'd already popped out twice with silly grammar questions for her to answer, as if she were the newspaper's schoolmarm. She was fairly certain he was toying with her. She guessed that was good. Meant he liked her enough, anyway, that she didn't have to worry about keeping her job. She patiently shooed him away one last time with the flick of her wrist, and she could see a crease of smile on his face. She hated that he was making a big production out of something that, well, might just be worthy of a big production.

Finally, with shaking hands she opened the envelope and slipped out a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

It took a moment to register, and then she realized the letter was from Joyce, Buffy's mom. She scanned it quickly, heat rising up in her cheeks as she did so. She wasn't expecting this. Well, maybe she was, but not the news coming to her in this way.

"I sincerely hope things are going well for you with your new job. I'm glad to know it has so much promise for someone as bright and talented as you. I'm sure you'll do very well there, as you seem to do well in everything you put your mind to. I hope the job affords you a bit of independence, perhaps even the ability to rent an apartment. I think that's why you'll understand the request I'm going to make of you. And I surely hope you will understand that this has nothing to do with how dear you are to me, or to my daughters. It's just that I feel as a mother that I need to look out for their well- being first and foremost, and so it would be best if you found some other place to stay. I hope you will be happy, and I'll be eager to hear news from Buffy about how you're faring. Joyce."

Willow craned to see around her desk. She noticed that the letter had come with a suitcase.

Spike lit a cigarette and stretched his legs. From this comfy spot he was merely a watcher as Caleb did all the talking. In fact, Caleb could do the whole thing. The whole good cop-bad cop routine. Spike was really superfluous to this task. Caleb liked "interviewing" neighbors. The detectives were enjoying the afternoon sunlight in Mrs. Eberhardt's parlor as Caleb presented first the one snapshot and then the other for the old lady's inspection. She had politely told them that there were so many people coming and going from that rented room that she never had learned everybody's names.

"This is very serious business, Mrs. Eberhardt. They have committed grave sins against the state. We're asking good citizens to step forward and aid us in their quick apprehension," Caleb said with such solemnity that you'd have thought the girls in question were murderers.

"Goodness, what have those people done?" Mrs. E asked, her mouth slightly agape.

Caleb chuckled softly. It was a perfunctory and mirthless sound as if he were reciting from a worn out playbook. "I really can't tell you. That's state business. But suffice to say you're considerably safer with that bad element gone from your building. I can only hope that these two women do not try to come back here. It would be dangerous for you if they did. These women are dangerous."

That last bit was a damn lie, of course. If those two girls in the photos were capable of violence he would be shocked. He'd never met a woman yet who had resisted arrest. A few ran. They were easily dispatched with a handgun. But there was never fisticuffs. The ladies never wore weapons, though you'd think these days it might not be such a bad idea.

Caleb looked Mrs. Eberhardt hard in the eyes. He held up one photo. "Willow?" and then the other: "Jenny?"

Mrs. E pursed her lips and practically trembled. That meant she definitely knew these girls. Liked them, even. Caleb just about had her. He reversed the order of the photos. "Jenny? Willow? If you know, Mrs. Eberhardt you have to tell me. Failure to cooperate is a crime against the government during wartime. And I assure you these two fugitives are not worth getting yourself arrested."

Spike could see the self-loathing as the old woman caved in. With a slight head nod to the left she said, "That one's Willow, the redhead."

Here a few hours later it was after quitting time and Spike sat in the tightly-packed trolly as it made its way across town. He'd picked up the evening paper, The People's Press, and was trying to read despite the poor light and the jostling. A heavy-set woman knocked into him at one stop and interrupted his reading. In frustration he folded the newspaper under his arm to read later. Instead he scanned the heads of the folks ahead of him. That's when he noticed a girl with red hair sitting a few rows up and to the right.

Of course, now that he knew one of his fugitives was a redhead he'd suddenly start spotting a million of them everywhere, probably. This girl was a tantalizing specimen because he couldn't see her face. From behind she seemed small and slim. He could just catch the slightest curve of pale cheek. Certainly not enough to compare to the snapshot he carried in his pocket. Besides, he was off-duty, right?

Still, what the woman had said had stuck with him. This Willow was a redhead. Made chances of finding her a lot easier. But there was a twinge of trepidation as well. Could he be on the tail of Buffy's friend "Red"? He sure as hell hoped not. And yet he was curious to know things about Buffy's life – to know who she was close to, what she liked to do, where she liked to hang out – even what she was studying at university. He found himself wanting to know her friends, to see the people who'd won the heart and loyalty of Buffy, when clearly he himself hadn't. Maybe he'd find he wasn't so unlike them, after all.

He couldn't say exactly why, but when "Red's" turn to get off the trolly came, Spike purposely ignored his professional impulse to follow. No. Not this time. The red-headed thing: That was an advantage to him. He knew he would find his frauline Willow in time. But if she truly were Buffy's friend, then he owed her a break. Just one. He wasn't completely evil. As the car started again, he watched the red-headed girl walk away from him, a suitcase in hand, looking like she didn't have a friend in all the world.

Willow kept her head down, walking quickly and hating the awkward weight of the suitcase. It would have been better if she'd had two. Then she could have balanced one in each hand. She could have gotten a better and more efficient rhythm going in her step. But it seemed over time she traveled lighter and lighter. It had been a long time since she had enough possessions to require two suitcases. So, yes, she was down to the one. And stuck walking like a peg-leg.

Down the street a bit she passed an open-air market. This was not her neighborhood. She wasn't very familiar with this part of town, but she slowed down. And then Xander was magically there beside her, matching her stride.

"Hey there, beautiful," he smiled. His very presence made her finally want to let her guard down and cry. He took the suitcase from her hand, and at last she could walk straight. He took her hand in his and squeezed reassuringly.

"If it's any consolation to you, and it's probably not, Buffy feels really bad about this," Xander said. "Joyce didn't even tell her about it. I did. After you called me."

Willow let the words wash over her. She didn't care. She had more pragmatic issues on her mind. "I should find Jenny. Maybe she's found another place to stay."

Xander shook his head emphatically. "Buffy says no way. It's not safe. Jenny's staying with Giles, and she's scared of the heat. Buffy's trying to get them visas to England." He paused. "She can get one for you, too."

Willow stopped and looked up at him warily. "Is that what you want? You want me to just pick up and go to England?"

Xander let out an exasperated sigh. "Willow, what is there here for you? Why stay?"

Now the tears threatened to come again. How could she explain to him that this was her home, the place where she'd grown up. The place where her parents died five years ago during what the Nazis called Crystal Nacht, but was basically Aryans rioting in the streets, destroying Jewish businesses and killing their neighbors. She thought again of that spooky Dr. Ehrhart she'd run into at the Opera house the night of the air raid. He'd been her father's business partner, and she suspected to this day he was the reason her father was dead. Jackals and opportunists and cowards. She wanted revenge. She wanted to spite them. For the past five years her complete identity had built around disobedience. She'd transformed into someone entirely different from the girl who hid under the dining room table as neighbors bashed in the windows of her house and dragged her parents away.

Fear was no longer enough pull to get her to go. She wanted to beat these bastards. She wanted to win. She did not want to give up everything. Xander and Buffy were all the family she really had. And she believed too much in her own skills at hacking the Nazi system to really believe the Big Bad would get her. She'd evaded it so long now, it was just part of her life, nothing extraordinary.

Xander saw he was making no headway. "I love you, Willow. I want to know you'll be okay. That's more important than anything else."

She knew he meant it, and he was being sweet. "I know. I'm just not ready to go is all, you know?"

With that, they fell into step again, side by side. "I knew you'd say that," he smiled. "That's why I've already been working on Plan B."

Willow wondered what the hell they were doing in such a nice building, climbing floor after floor of a grand circular staircase up and up. She was glad he was the one carrying the suitcase. At last they hit the fifth floor landing, and Xander led her down the hall to a dark and heavy wooden door. He knocked. They stood staring at each other, trying to catch their breath and straining to hear whether anyone was home.

"Where are we?" Willow whispered. Until now she'd let Xander lead her. Now they were both waiting awkwardly in a strange hallway. They could half make out voices through the door – a man and a woman, And they were clearly arguing about something.

But then the door swung open suddenly, stopping them both like deer in headlights. A young disheveled woman clutching the throat of her bathrobe was at the door. "Yes?" she impatiently asked. It took Willow a moment to realize this was Tara.

"Who's there?" came the man's voice. That would be Riley. The same nice, dull Riley from last night? Willow had never pegged them for the Bickersons.

"Xa – Xander?" Tara asked, and Willow almost rolled her eyes. Great. The boy had gotten himself wrapped up in a Nazi love triangle. "Why are you here?" Tara asked, impatience winning out over politeness. They were clearly interrupting something.

Willow tugged at Xander's sleeve. "We should go," she implored. But Xander wouldn't budge.

Tara finally saw Willow there. Her face registered surprise. "W – Wilma?" She glanced from one to the other. "What are you doing here? Please, come in."

Inside the door, all three of them were bathed in light from the overhead lamp in the apartment's entryway. Willow could see that Tara had been – what? Crying, maybe? She looked flustered. Tara could see that Xander was carrying a suitcase. The fluster became confusion.

Then Riley was there, hastily buckling the belt of his uniform and tucking in his shirt. He looked red-cheeked as well.

"My, my. Company." He commented dryly. There was none of the boyish civility of the night before.

"Where's Willow?" Buffy swung into the booth across the table from Xander. Her concern was plain. She pulled off her gloves and scarf and ran a hand through her blond hair, which hung loose to her shoulders. Xander had prepared a little thing to say.

Buffy nodded. "That's good. Safe is definitely good." She paused as if waiting for him to say more. When he didn't her eyebrows shot up. "What? Nothing else?"

"God, I feel so rotten. I can't believe my mom would do something like that without even talking to me first." The house wouldn't seem the same when she went home tonight. "I mean it's Willow. Not some stranger. She's – she's family. I'd do anything for her."

"She's Wilma," Xander said. "And, you know she'd do anything for you, too. It has nothing to do with how any of us feel about each other. There's Dawn. And your mom to think about."

Helmut was there with a white cup, pouring the black gold for Buffy, who shook her head deep in thought. "But this is also about Willow. Why isn't she here? She must think she's been totally dumped."

Helmut walked back to the bar contemplating the complexities of young love. It was clear the redhead had lost out this time. He smiled. Willow was a pretty name.

Giles turned the key, and the door to his apartment opened to darkness. His heightened senses could detect nothing. He looked down the hall. No one else was about. He shifted the weight of the grocery sack in his arms and ducked inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

With a click, a floor lamp switched on, illuminating Jenny under a cone of soft amber light. She retracted her hand from the switch and remained motionless on the couch, seated upright, like a still-life. It was a little unnerving. Giles realized she must have sat that way in the dark for hours now, since it would have been dusk at about 4 p.m.

"I've brought us a few things. The kitchen was a little lacking," he apologized softly.

Jenny stretched. "It's okay Rupert. Quiet place you have here. The sort of thing you don't notice. Until you have hours of silence to think about it." To Jenny, it had actually felt claustrophobic, coffinlike, completely absent of any outside stimulus. She would have welcomed Allied bombing, Anything but the darkness. It felt as if she were waiting for death.

Giles came and sat beside her on the couch and she reached out a hand, touching his knee reassuringly. He was there and warm and real. He drew her into an embrace that told her she was loved. She allowed herself to sink into it and felt tears melt their way up to the surface. He ran fingers through her hair, feeling that if only he could hold her tight enough it would be all right, that nothing bad could happen to them if only he could squeeze her tight enough. She clung back as if for the last time. It wasn't lost on her that any time could be the last time. She was old enough to not allow herself the luxury of naïveté: the kind of blind optimism Willow seemed to have in bucketloads, and Xander and Buffy, too. Giles worshipped them like they were his children. And he was their helpless father who could do nothing for them but pray they had the smarts and luck to stay safe.

No, Jenny didn't have that optimism. All she had was love for this frumpy, fatherly professor who could have returned to England years ago except he loved her more than his own well-being. She worried that had been an incredible mistake. Of course, back then nobody knew how bad this Big Bad would become. Things like this are always clearer in hindsight.

Spike sat alone in his apartment, a single light bulb illuminating his armchair. He'd finished the evening paper, cheered to hear that the government thought the war on the Russian Front would be over soon. More reinforcements were on their way at this very moment. More young men to feed the appetite of pure evil. He took a drag on his cigarette and pulled out the two photos he'd been carrying all day in his pocket. He gazed at them for what must have been the hundredth time. The dark one, Jenny, was a lovely woman. Hard to think of her as a criminal or degenerate. There was a bit of a hard edge to her, a knowing. He liked that in his women. They didn't have to be pure as driven snow, though snow wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He gazed at the photo of Willow. That one had a doe-eyed innocence that a Jew girl didn't deserve to have, not this many years into a wholesale ethnic cleansing campaign. She even had a bit of a sense of humor to her smile. A real sweetie, he bet. She'd cry like a schoolgirl when he caught her. He wondered what her most desperate cries might sound like. It gave him warm tinglies.

From the way the snapshots fit together, he figured they were taken the same afternoon, somewhere near a lake, maybe. There was tall grass in the background. Part of being a detective was being able to piece together people's stories. Spike prided himself on taking the time to appreciate the subtleties of human motivation and behavior. He found people inherently interesting. It was his line of work. He was the outsider, an observer, a watcher.

That's where he and Caleb clashed. Their styles couldn't be more different. For example, while Spike was here in his cozy apartment thinking about the hearts of pretty ladies, Caleb was most certainly still out on the street, stalking in his own cruel way. He had that righteous intimidation that all zealots think is their birthright.

The door to the apartment had closed behind Xander, and the silence hit them as Tara and Willow turned to face each other. They could barely meet each other's eyes. But then Willow didn't want to seem to be staring at Tara's bathrobe either. It was a nice robe, soft and of light material, like it was made to go over some lovely nightgown. It had been a long time since Willow had seen such a thing. Her mother had had some nice pajamas. Willow herself had only the slip she wore under her dress.

"Uh, Xander was a little out of line. You don't really have to take me in. I have my own income and I'm sure I could find a perfectly nice place to stay. I just haven't had a chance yet. I only just today learned that I wouldn't be able to stay with our friend Buffy's family while I took time to look for a new place. That hit me as a bit of a surprise, I have to say, or, more exactly, like a kick to the gut, but I'm really not looking for a hand-out. I don't want to bother you. You-you have your own place. Your own routine, and I bet if you wanted someone staying with you, you already would have had a roommate. So I understand. Really I do." Willow looked around helplessly. "But maybe I could stay here, um, tonight? I mean it's pretty late, and I'm really sorry to inconvenience you. Xander didn't tell me what he was up – or where he was taking me. I – I think I'm as surprised and confused as you are. Uh, and it's late and all. I mean if it's an inconvenience, I could probably find a place to sleep at the newspaper office. I think there's even a shower there. And they keep coffee there. And I think Gruber also has some scotch, which I've got to say sounds pretty darn good right now. Al-Although I don't want you thinking I'm a total lush, what with the champagne and now the bit about the scotch. Of course it's not like anybody could really blame a person these days for wanting to blot out reality. Though I'm not a blotter…or blotto. No, definitely not blotto. Except the other night and that's because I'm a lightweight. And, speaking of the other night, I, uh, didn't do or say anything inappropriate, did I?"

Why did Tara keep looking at her that way? Why didn't she say something to stop her? To stop this stream of words that kept tumbling out in a nervous cascade. This was all too unnerving. To break the tension, Willow turned and strode over to the couch to fetch her suitcase. "I'd better go." She grabbed her overcoat and scarf.

Tara finally spoke. "My brother's room is right down the hall. You could stay there," she said.

"For tonight," Willow said, nodding. "I'll clear out in the morning. You'll hardly know I'm here."

Tara sighed. "You can stay," she said, simply. It had been a hard day and she just wasn't capable of much more energy, but it was true: She wanted Willow to stay, and not just for one night. "I've been lo – lonely. It would be nice to have someone to – to talk to."

Tara felt herself warm as the nervousness left Willow's face, replaced by about the most beautiful and open smile she believed humanly possible. The relief was palpably rolling off Willow in waves. And in its emotional deluge there was also some excitement. Tara let it swirl around her in eddies and felt herself buoyed.

"And I h – have scotch, too," Tara said shyly. "So you don't need to go all the way back to the newspaper office to have some." She paused. "Unless you want to."

She took Willow's coat and hat. "Sounds like we've both had a hard day. Let me get you a glass."

Willow wordlessly followed Tara down the hall. They passed the first bedroom with its rumpled bedclothes thrown wide and pillows strewn on the floor as if Riley and Tara had had a real tussle in there. The sight gave Willow a weird thought that maybe the impassioned yelling hadn't so much been yelling at all as something, well, more passionate. It gave Willow a strange blow low in her belly to think of it. She averted her gaze to Tara's back and followed her down to the next room. This one was a bit larger. The bed was neatly made with a dark red coverlet taut across it. The bureau was tall and held simple man-things: a shaving kit, a small beveled mirror in an adjustable frame, a family photo of a much younger Tara and a boy she presumed was the brother laughing and holding a golden retriever. God, even the dog looked Aryan. Tara opened the top two drawers and pulled out her brother's things, making room for Willow's.

"You – you don't think he'll mind, you know, some stranger staying here?" she asked in a voice that sounded small and uncertain even to her own ears.

Tara gave her an impassive look and then softened. "He's been out on the Front a long time. Got a letter from him last week. I don't think he'll be back any time soon. She pulled back the covers from the bed and fluffed up the pillows. "Besides, it would probably give him a charge to think that a pretty girl was sleeping in his bed while he's gone."

"You know, if it makes him happier with the arrangement, I can sleep naked," Willow said and then mentally kicked herself.

Tara giggled and grabbed Willow's hand, leading her back to the parlor and seating her on the couch. "Just a minute," she said, making it clear Willow was to go nowhere. So she stayed put. Tara returned shortly with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. She set them down on a small table, poured them both a generous drink. Willow really wanted that drink.

Their fingers brushed as Tara handed her the glass, and Willow's heart jolted just like it had the night before when in the space of a few casual touches, she somehow had managed to memorize the entirety of Tara's hand. She looked up to find Tara gazing back at her funny. Had she felt that, too? The other woman smiled and tipped back her head, blond hair falling down her back as she swallowed the liquor. She set the empty glass on the table. Her eyes encouraged Willow to follow.

Willow held her glass a moment longer, letting the scotch swirl around, coating the sides a bit. She was afraid to meet Tara's gaze. With a breath, she put the glass to her lips, tilted back and let the scotch slide down, hot, warming Willow's body from chest to extremities in the fraction of a second it took the aftertaste of the liquor to reach her tongue. She felt a sensual wave engulf her as she steadied the glass on the tabletop. Tara was watching her, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and Willow realized she knew exactly what Tara's mouth would taste like. And wanted to know what that mouth would feel like against her liquor-fired tongue.

Wow. Usually when Willow drank, she found herself loose-lipped, but not like this, as in literally wanting to loosen her lips. Her mouth slackened. Tara said nothing, just smiled and lifted an eyebrow in a silent invitation for another shot. Willow felt herself nodding, wanting nothing more than to sink further into this warm oblivion where the only sound was the ticking grandfather clock and Willow's own breathing and the pounding of blood in her ears. She leaned back into the pillows of the couch and watched Tara pour. Her gaze flicked over the crescent of pale skin visible at the throat of Tara's robe, which had fallen open slightly since she'd stopped clutching it closed. That same otherworldly smoothness of her skin caught the light and shimmered like it had last night. And suddenly Tara was every bit the goddess Willow had seen at their first meeting.

The second shot of scotch went straight to Willow's thighs, which felt rubbery and tingly. She wasn't sure she could walk. She was sure she didn't want to. Those deep- ocean eyes regarded her, half-lidded, from where Tara was curled on the opposite couch. The physical distance felt like nothing, like a sigh. Willow was sure her mouth was unable to form words, which is really saying something.

At last Tara stood and extended her hand to Willow, who rested a moment longer before gently taking it in hers, testing the warmth and fit of it. She rose wordlessly to her feet and followed Tara down the hallway, past the first bedroom. Again, the strewn sheets and pillows, again the flutter low in Willow's belly, this time accompanied by a mental image of Tara semi-naked lying there, and Willow was standing in Riley's place. Or was it Willow who was naked and Tara gazing down at her? The flutter was followed by a kick. Wow. Down girl. She tore her gaze away from the dirty linens and found Tara looking back at her. Willow didn't know Tara enough to read her expression, but one might have described it as curious. At the second doorway, Tara stopped. The lights were off.

"Uh, guess this is where I get off," Willow joked, and then realized she was only half-joking and cleared her throat. Her entire body was tingling. She'd never exactly felt this way before – at least not from wanting another woman. Or anyone else, truth be told. She wanted to pull Tara into an embrace, to learn her scent, to chart not only the shape of her hand but also the rest of her, to physically join. But they were strangers. Strangers throwing some sparks, But strangers, still.

Even in the darkness, Willow could see the pink flush across Tara's cheeks. They stood close, connected by hand. As if she only just noticed that fact, Tara let go, and Willow felt something she hadn't noticed earlier as her hand slipped down Tara's fingertips.

"A ring?" Willow heard herself say. Tara hadn't been wearing one when they'd met.

Tara's expression changed, as if she'd only just remembered it herself. "Oh," she said. "We got engaged last night."

"Oh," Willow replied, trying to keep the strangeness out of her voice. "Congratulations." It was what you say to little announcements like that. Even confusing announcements like that one. Willow turned to her new room. "A big day," she said, nodding. "And more tomorrow."

It was a weird good-night, but it was the best she could manage. Her feelings clashed with all the messiness and jumble of the eastern Front.

Another jolt, and not in a good way. Willow turned and slipped through the doorway. And as she slipped out of her clothes and in between cold sheets that smelled like Tara's brother, Willow realized that this, too, was a place that could never be home to her. She rolled onto her side, missing Buffy and Dawn's warmth – and the warmth of Jenny from before that. Tonight, she lay in the cold bed of a stranger, in a room with unfamiliar shadows and unfamiliar things, nursing an unfamiliar arousal for a woman she'd only just met and who didn't even know Willow's name. And then there was a little surprise of jealousy she knew she had no right to feel. As always, she was a day late, a dollar short and a pound too Jewish. The warmth of the liquor was long gone.

Tara retreated to her room, leaving the lights off. She picked up the pillows and threw them on the bed, dropped the robe from her shoulders and climbed in naked, dragging the covers up over her. Her body was on fire. All she'd wanted all day today was sex. She ached for want of passionate consummation. But Riley had resisted. She couldn't understand why, after he'd given her his ring. Was he that much of a prude? She'd neglected to get dressed all day. She'd let the fabric of her robe fall open for him, but he wouldn't move. So driven by the fuel of all the frustration that had built up inside her so long made her bold. She took his hand and brought it to the warmth of her breast. He'd moaned, his eyes registering want and pain. He even kneaded the tender flesh there, and then he withdrew with a simple, "Tara, I can't right now. The time isn't right. I've got to go. I love you, but I can't do this right now."

Was it that he believed in waiting until marriage? If so, he'd never mentioned that before. Was it was the war? Was he scared and sad and needed to steel himself for unspeakable horrors to come and against unspeakable horrors past? A long scar across his forehead and cheek only barely hinted at the things young Riley Finn had endured in his five years of military service. Or was it weirdness from his childhood before that? There were so many experiences that shaped a person. But what kind of thing had he been shaped into?

Tara wanted to be his anchor, but it was hard, because she wasn't an inanimate thing or a marble statue or whatever else he needed her to be. What the hell was wrong? The longer she thought about it, the more angry and agitated she became. Her face had flushed red with humiliation, and she'd taken his hand again, and this time placed it lower on her belly, letting the robe drop to the floor. His eyes darkened, and at last he pulled her to him, dragging her down on the bed, kissing her and running warm hands along her back, along her thighs. His breath warmed her throat. And for a while, they kissed and took turns leading, first she pinning him beneath her, her hands working at his clothing, wanting to feel skin. But he would eventually still her hands and roll her over, biting at her neck, kissing her shoulders, hands running the length of her, and still refusing to meet her eyes.

This infuriating game made her ache and rage. She had implored him verbally to take her with a directness and ferocity she didn't know she was capable of. How hard could this be? But he wouldn't be moved. She'd gotten up and stalked angrily around the apartment.

She had yelled at him, and he at her. She had cried in frustration. And then, just at the height of the insanity, there was the knock upon the door. And then Xander was there, toting a very uncomfortable Wilma Hermann with him. And Riley got off the hook. He donned his uniform, gave her a sweet and sorry kiss, and left.

Lying here in the dark she thought how strange it was that the girl sleeping down the hall from Tara right now had hungrier eyes for her than her own fiancé had. Looking up at the ceiling she thought about that and felt her heart quicken. She thought about the letter in her robe pocket, the one she'd written and meant to send to the newspaper office today but hadn't. It had been a letter inviting Wilma over for tea and a walk to the park. She'd wanted to get to know Wilma better, to see what she looked like in daylight, in everyday settings. She imagined sunlight glinting off red hair and stream- of-consciousness soliloquies and that animated energy that Tara had seen last night. To Tara, here in winter in wartime, there was no one who seemed to be more alive.

And then, tonight, as if answering a prayer, Xander had delivered Wilma to her. To stay.

Running. That's what Spike always liked. It gave him a real charge. Caleb was right there with him. They both stood planted in place, impassively, as the dark-haired woman ran. Spike raised his gun and shot her. She crumpled to the ground and lay still. So animated and alive one moment and so still and dead the next.

There were a few workaday people milling about the street. It was midday, and life went on around them, pretending that two detectives had not, in fact, just gunned down a neighbor. Truth be told, they didn't want to know about it. So callous and scared they'd become since Crystal Nacht, when neighbors turned against neighbors, the hatred of Jews and anyone else who fouled the gene pool bubbling up to the hideous surface. Since then the Good Germans preferred to have agents of the government do their dirty work, and so people like Spike and Caleb had jobs.

Caleb was standing over the woman now, tentatively testing her with the toe of his boot. His gun was still drawn, as if she might rise from the dead and plant fangs in his throat. Nope. That one was going nowhere. Spike turned his attention to the man. 50-ish, hair graying at the temples. Bookish glasses broken on the pavement. A dark pool of blood spreading across the tweed coat and collecting under him. He looked like a dead librarian.

The detectives had stopped the pair. The woman fit the description of their fugitive Jenny. Dark hair, smart, defiant eyes. Caleb had asked to see the couple's I.D. The pair of them fumbled in their clothes a moment mumbling unconvincingly. Then the man yelled at the woman to run. Spike had shot him dead on the spot. And then, for a bit of fun, they let the woman run, though not too far. The sound of the shot reverberated among the tall buildings, bouncing off the stone at odd angles, distorting like multi-toned chimes or brittle glass. And then the silence. There was always silence that followed.

Spike found that his own heart was beating faster as Caleb approached with something in his hand from the dead woman's coat pocket. Each step closer curiously filled Spike with hope and dread. Caleb just shook his head. "It's not her." He tossed Spike the papers he'd fished from the woman's coat. "But good news is we put a bullet in another fucking Jew. So, all in all, not a bad morning, if I do say. What about him, there?"

Spike realized that the papers Caleb had handed him were a travel visa, and by the handiwork, he knew it to be one of his own special forgeries. His guts went cold. That meant that Buffy had given the woman these papers. His head snapped to the man lying dead at his feet. He bent down and rolled the body over onto its side and reached inside the coat pockets. Presently he withdrew the man's identification. He flipped it open.

"A Rupert Giles," Spike spoke as if announcing the man for dinner. His voice trailed off: "University professor…and a British expat." Spike wiped sweat from his own brow and felt the dread seep into his bones. Buffy was a student at the university. Damn her! Now their worlds were beginning to collide. He'd told her to be careful. He'd warned her about this.

Caleb kicked the dead man. "A good Brit's a dead Brit." He lit a cigarette. "Come on, William," he bade Spike. "No one will miss this bastard."

Spike rose to his feet and chuckled. "Well, except maybe a few students. I wonder how long they'll wait in class for him this afternoon?" The words were Spike's, but somehow to his own ears they didn't seem very funny.

Caleb led the way down the street and Spike followed. They'd have a crew from the office come out to pick up the bodies. Caleb let out a long stream of smoke that colored the winter air bluish white. "We should check out the university. If the former Mr. Giles is a Jewish sympathizer then we just may hit a little jackpot.

The apartment was dark again. Jenny had watched it slip from light to black every night now for almost two weeks. This day had been no different. Rupert had a fine collection of books here, and she'd whiled away the hours reading and staying quiet as a church-mouse, lest the neighbors hear her and know that he had someone living with him.

Living. What kind of word was that for what she was doing? She couldn't live with Rupert. Only stay a for a bit. Until her travel visa came through and then she'd head for England, where he'd shortly join her. All of these days while she stay put, she knew it was just a matter of time until the authorities found her. They always caught up to people. She'd seen too many of her friends and family disappear to doubt it. It was just a game of timing now. Would she win?

Today Giles had gone to pick up her visa. It was too dangerous for her to be out and about, but he could do it, and it was the sort of thing he did for his students and friends all the time. But as the shadows grew and it became later and later she wondered why he hadn't returned yet, and she worried. It was too dark to read. And she couldn't smoke. And they'd consumed all the wine in the house. All she could do was sit as patiently as possible and wait for him.

And wait. And wait. It was growing later than it ever had and still no Giles. She trained her ears for footsteps on the stairs. One by one, the neighbors had all come home from work. But still no Giles. The barest tendrils of fear began to rise like weeds around her heart. She thought she might be sick, except she hadn't eaten anything since this morning.

The blackness drew in around her, tight like a blanket, and claustrophobic. Jenny sat still, concentrating just on breathing.

Then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She strained her hearing. The sound of keys jangling and then in the lock. Jenny held her breath, every muscle flexing, imagining this could go one of two ways: good or bad, and that was about it. The key turned in the lock and then the door swung open slowly. And in the silhouette of the hall light, she could see it was not Giles.

"Jenny?" the voice was a strangled whisper. It was Buffy. Jenny rose to her feet and walked to the door silently. If nothing in these past two weeks she'd learned the art of silence. Buffy startled when she saw Jenny emerge from the blackness. Jenny waited.

Jenny pulled Buffy by the arm into the apartment and closed the door. The two of them were enveloped in darkness. They stood still, Buffy catching her breath from running up the stairs.

Jenny nodded, though of course Buffy couldn't see her. This was all harder without body language.

Buffy didn't really need to say any more. The details were irrelevant at this point. She felt fear and anger rise up in her like a bubbling cauldron. Jenny kept nodding into the darkness. And nodding. "I know," she said softly. "I could feel it." And as soon as she said them she knew the words were true. She pulled Buffy into her arms and gave her comfort, much in the way Giles might have if one of his favorite students were faced with the same terrible news. And Rupert had loved Buffy above all others. She was like a daughter to him – someone brave and just and focused on the greater good, just as he was. He had been a great teacher. Buffy was no star pupil. But she belonged to him just as much as his soul. Of course it would be Buffy who came to give her he news.

Buffy dug her hands into Jenny's shirt, burying her face in Jenny's shoulder, and allowed herself to bitterly cry. Lost. They were all becoming so lost right now. Their lives like icebergs separating into the open ocean. Everything was changing, and time was against them. Dizzy, disorienting. They clutched each other in a search for some steadiness.

A racket outside the apartment drew their attention. It sounded like people stomping up the stairs. Buffy stiffened in Jenny's arms. "Shit!" the girl hissed. "We've got to go."

Jenny knew it, too. If Giles were dead at the hands of the police, then all roads would lead back here, to his apartment. And to Jenny. Buffy knew that, she had just banked on having enough time to get here and get Jenny out. Jenny knew what to do. She'd had two weeks to work out her escape plan.

"This way," she whispered, taking Buffy's hand and leading her as a blind person would, around the furniture-shaped hazards around he apartment, toward the kitchen, where a small window opened out onto the roof. With a shove she lifted he sash, sending in a burst of cold air. The stomping in the hall grew closer. It sounded like they had dogs with them. Buffy and Jenny wiped the dishes off the counter in their haste to escape. They clashed to the floor and shattered. The dogs barked and whined at the apartment door, excited that their cornered prey were so close. Jenny pushed Buffy up and through the small window. The girl turned and clasped Jenny's hand and pulled her after.

They both fell to the rooftop below, rolling heavily together. Above them they could hear the splintering of wood and shouted voices. Jenny climbed to her feet and pointed to the far side of the rooftop, where the iron ladder of an old fire escape beckoned. Jenny's body felt funny and disconnected from her brain as they ran. It felt like it took a lifetime for them to traverse the rooftop to the ladder, the angry voices drifting out over them on the wind. She pushed Buffy. "Go!" she said. "You first."

Jenny laughed. "Come on, Buffy. You have your whole life ahead of you. And I'm a dead woman."

"I can't believe we're arguing about this," Buffy growled, giving Jenny a shove. The girl was deceptively strong. Jenny clutched the cold iron rails and swung herself over the edge. The ladder led to another rooftop, this one lower. From there they could slide down a drain spout the storey and a half to the ground.

"When we get down, I want you to go," Jenny hissed as they reached the far side of the second rooftop.

Jenny sighed heavily. "I mean spare my fucking life. You can do stupid shit and get yourself arrested, or you can let me go and give me a chance to get free."

Jenny's laugh was bitter. "What. Like Rupert's chances were better because of you?" As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't.

Spike lit a match against a lightpole and watched as Caleb and his wrecking crew blew into the dead Brit's building like they were hot for blood. His eyes were burning and his face felt flushed with the same anger and fear he'd felt all day, following the little bread-crumb trail Buffy had left for him-and all because he'd given Buffy the bread in the first place: those damn travel visas. Her friends were going to be seriously dead because of that. And Buffy, too. And probably Spike himself as soon as the trail wound back around his way. He was a detective. He worked for the police. He knew how the game was played. Hell, that's why he'd offered to help Buffy in the first place a couple of years ago. Now it was all blowing to hell. Upstairs in that apartment, they'd find the Gypsy (for they'd discovered that Jenny was Romani when they'd questioned kids at the school) and arrest her-best-case scenario, of course. And, because he'd spotted Buffy entering the building as he and the rest of the police were arriving, he knew that chances were good they'd find Buffy there, too.

"Caleb," he shouted. His partner turned and glared impatiently. That made Spike smile, making Caleb wait to enjoy the mayhem a moment longer.

Spike nodded his head toward the building. "You know old Mr. Giles has probably had a mess of students over here already to scare the bitch off. Stupid university types all think with one brain. We're here way too late. She probably slipped out an hour ago or more."

Caleb's face turned red. "Well, then, Mr. Blood, we'll see. But if you're right about that, where do you think we should be looking next?"

Spike squinted up at the black sky. For effect, of course, since it was dark out. In a flash, he knew exactly where Buffy would take her-or, rather, where he would take her if he were Buffy. He looked Caleb level in the eyes. "The cemetery."

Tara heard the sound of soft footsteps in the hall. She'd become expert at recognizing Willow's approach as she came home from work. Ever since moving in, or coming to stay, since Willow's suitcase of possessions hardly qualified as "moving in," the girl had risen early and worked late. Though a bit remote, or at least preoccupied, Willow was perfectly polite and sweet. Her smile was enough to illuminate the entire apartment, and Tara liked to think she reserved that smile only for her. Tara sought out what moments she could with Willow, staying up late and intercepting her with some leftovers from dinner, or a drink, or both. In the morning she rose early to make coffee, or what passed for coffee, since rations were limited. She asked Willow about the news from the Front, or the latest from the Fuhrer, since Willow's work at the newspaper gave her information that Tara's neighbors generally didn't get until the evening radio shows came on or the evening paper arrived, if they got it at all. She, of course, assumed that Willow's working late was because she was inclined to fervently support the war effort. It made Tara feel somewhat connected to her brother and Riley out on the eastern Front to know that Willow would know first if there was news of a victory. Letters from the Front had become more sparse as of late. She hadn't heard from her brother in nearly three weeks, and Riley…well, he hadn't written at all yet. But most of all, she just looked forward for Willow herself to come home and draw her away from the monotony of waiting, for Willow to take away the pang of loneliness and replace it with warmth and breath and light.

So it was with a thumping chest that Tara received Willow each night at the front door, ushering her inside, asking about her day. And each night Willow welcomed Tara with eyes bright and warm, and perhaps with something small – a hard candy, or an apple or a bit of chocolate, a small bottle of brandy, even, once. They were sweet little gestures. She had no idea how Willow came by some of these things. She halfway suspected the girl was a shoplifter, or perhaps her position at the newspaper gave her access to special things. Or perhaps she was a spy or insurrectionist. Or maybe all of the above. Willow was mischievously tight-lipped about it, and Tara enjoyed the romance of not knowing.

This particular night, Willow came through the door with her usual shy smile and produced a rose. Tara accepted it dumbly, wondering where in the world that could have come from at the heart of wartime winter. It was small and lovely. It made her heart ache.

"Ah, th – there's someone here to see you," Tara said, breaking their ritual moment of greeting. The girl's eyes grew wide with fear. Tara could swear she took a step back toward the door as if to run.

Xander climbed to his feet from where he'd been sitting on the couch in the parlor. His eyes were sad. He'd been crying. "Willow…" he said softly, as if trying not to frighten her away.

"Xander?" She stood rooted in place a moment, and then practically ran to him. "What are you doing here? I mean, I thought we agreed, you know…" Her voice was a scared whisper.

"It's Giles," he softly replied. "He died. Earlier today." His eyes darted to Tara, and then he whispered. "I – I don't know the details."

Her back was turned, but Tara could tell from the slump of her shoulders that the girl was devastated. Xander took her by the arms and pulled her into a tight hug that surely was the only reason she didn't sink to the floor. They swayed silently together, disappearing into their own turmoil, until Tara felt like she should leave them alone. She went to the kitchen to put on some more water for tea.

She set the kettle to boiling, her mouth rolling over a strange name on her tongue, trying out the shape of it: Willow. Xander had called her Willow. A nice name, delicate and strong. A nickname, a small endearment?

Xander had shown up about an hour ago, eyes red-rimmed and so sad. She had instinctively wanted to reach out and pull him into her arms. But his voice was steady and distant as he asked after Wilma. Tara let him in and he'd waited silently in the parlor until his friend came home. He'd said practically nothing, except that someone who had been like a father to them had died and that Willma was going to take it hard. Tara could tell that Xander was taking it hard, too.

The teakettle whistled, and Tara turned off the gas, leaving the water to cool. She took a seat at the kitchen table and left her grieving friends to themselves for a while. There was nothing Tara could do right now, but later, after Xander left and went home, Tara could lend Wilma – or Willow – her friendship. Perhaps little consolation in comparison to losing home and family and friends, but it was all Tara had to give. She put the rose in a small vase and set it on the windowsill. And waited.

Buffy and Jenny were in the dark again. But now instead of climbing rooftops, they were traversing the subterrain of the Berlin sewer system.

Buffy swung around. "Another rat?" she whispered, hoping it wasn't anything worse.

"No. It's ok. I mean. It's not. I just-I just can't. I can't believe we're doing this. Where are we going?"

They were crouched beneath a manhole cover, the silver light of the moonlit night sifting down through the small holes in the iron grating. The smell was rotten, but at least it was a bit warmer down here than up above in the wind. There hadn't been time to grab Jenny's coat. Buffy tried not to dwell on the fact that Jenny now officially had only the clothes on her back, and that wasn't even really enough. Buffy tried not to dwell on the fact that if the police knew about Jenny, then they'd surely be looking for Willow, too. She was glad that she had no idea where Xander had hidden her.

She and Xander had made an arrangement to minimize exposure along their chain. He wouldn't know where she hid Jenny, and she wouldn't know where Willow was. That way if either of them were interrogated, they could honestly say they didn't know. It was a small measure of protection against the seemingly all-knowing Gestapo, and on some level neither of them liked it. She missed Willow. It had been two weeks since her mother had asked Willow to leave. Xander had taken her then, and Buffy had no idea now when she'd see her again – or even if ever.

"You're not moving in here. I'm just buying time to think," Buffy said to Jenny. She had no idea where she could take Jenny that she'd be safe. The visas were long gone by now, in the hands of the authorities. She hoped that didn't come back to bite Spike.

"I give up." Jenny's voice was small. Buffy almost could pretend she hadn't heard the words.

"Won't help at this point," Buffy said, unable to overcome her practicality. "They'll just keep working their way through each of us. Turning yourself in won't stop this."

Willow hadn't wanted to talk after Xander finally left. It was late. She accepted a cup of tea with hands that seemed not to notice they were now occupied. She carried the cup and saucer with her down the hall, wordlessly, into her room and closed the door without even turning the light on.

That was over an hour ago, and Tara found herself unable to fall asleep. Willow was hurting. Tara didn't know what was the right thing to do. She just knew she couldn't do nothing. She rose helplessly – or was it helpfully – to her feet, pulling her robe on against the chill of the apartment and padded down the hall to Willow's door, which was half-open. She could only make out the barest shapes of the furniture. If Willow was awake, she didn't say anything. But then Tara wasn't looking for an invitation. She wasn't looking for anything. She simply walked in and slipped into bed behind Willow and wrapped her arms protectively around her. At first the girl's body was stiff and unyielding. Tara didn't retreat. She rubbed her cheek against Willow's neck and planted a small kiss there.

"I'm with you," Tara whispered. It seemed like a completely inadequate thing to say in a situation like this. What do you say to comfort someone who has lost everything and practically everyone? Or is this one of those times where words are useless, anyway? Tara decided to let her arms do the talking. She wrapped Willow tightly to her. After a long moment, Willow relaxed into the embrace with a small, choked cry. Then the cry became crying, and Tara held her, absorbing every sob with her body, lending the strength and warmth she could give. She curled her legs up against Willow's, closing whatever space remained between them, from head to toe. She nuzzled soft hair and pressed her lips once more, this time against Willow's bare shoulder, then settled herself in for good.

Some time later Tara woke when Willow reached down to pull the covers up over them both. Tara gave Willow one more squeeze of reassurance, and then smiled as Willow relaxed again into her embrace with a sigh. Tara knew she hadn't made things perfect, but she hoped somehow she'd made them just enough.

Spike sat in his favorite armchair. He took a drag on his cigarette and gazed thoughtfully at Buffy. The girl was limp like an old flower and smelled something awful. The perfume told him he'd guessed right earlier. She'd taken her friend Jenny to the sewers. He felt smug satisfaction that he'd directed Caleb to the cemetery. The police, along with Caleb and Spike, had been there almost until daybreak, searching every crypt and cranny. They hadn't scared up a soul.

"What's wrong, love?" he cooed softly. She'd simply appeared without sound and had been sitting on his couch for a long while now, giving the place the thousand-yard stare. Spike glanced through the curtains to the gathering day. He'd have to be back at work soon enough, and Buffy had to be getting to school sometime. Or home. Wouldn't mom and sis be worried?

"The police. They killed one of my professors today," she said, finally, all zombie- like, a huge, wet teardrop clinging to her lashes. He noticed she wasn't saying anything about the Gypsy or her friend "Red." She shot an angry glare across the room, the first emotion she'd shown. "This is just the beginning, isn't it?"

A cryptic question, deserving of a cryptic answer. "The police have a lot of people on the list for questioning. Gets longer every day."

"They're going to go after the university professors. And the student activists," she said. "Like me."

Ah, yes. This topic was bound to come up sometime. He sighed. "You know I can't tell you anything. You know what I am, that I'm SS, that I have a job and you have a job and every here and there we help each other a bit."

"I can't tell you," he said. In his mind's eye he saw visions of bloodiness, guns, marching boots and lots of screaming kids. The universities were hotbeds for political opposition. Buffy wasn't really a rabble-rouser in the way a lot of them were. Her style was more subtle. She and her friends worked on their own, and he knew it was less about politics than protecting a few innocents from evil. And here was Spike. Employed by the big evil. Buffy and her chums weren't going to stop the war or sew seeds of dissent. They were just trying to get people they loved the hell out of harm's way. He loved her, wanted to protect her a bit. She was small fry.

"What I can tell you," he said, carefully choosing his words, "is that I will give you a high sign, and you'd better be ready to clear out when I say." He jabbed his finger at her for emphasis. "You're right. It's going to get big and messy. And maybe that's better for you and your friends. You can slip to the margins and out of sight."

Willow woke to find Tara wrapped around her, a hand resting squarely on the middle of Willow's belly and a leg entwined with her own, as if they were lovers, well, except they weren't. Were they? That would presume some level of nakedness. Willow ventured a small peek, discovering that she was still wearing her slip. Her relief was offset, however, by the sight of Tara's body stretched out along her own, a creamy thigh, blond hair splayed across Willow's chest, warm breath sighing across the hollow of her throat. A strange energy emanated outward through Willow's body from where Tara's hand lay to points beyond, infusing her with heat and kick-starting a pulse deep in her belly. She recognized it as: Want.

Where did that come from? She'd slept countless nights curled against Buffy or Dawn or Jenny and never woke to this feeling. It had a heaviness and an urgency to it. She felt the flutter again, teasing and tickling inside her, begging her to do something. Tara was beautiful, sensual, soft. Tara made Willow's heart pound whenever she was near, which was frightening enough, and yet Willow needed her to be near. She craved it more than coffee or chocolate, food, warmth, safety. And safety was what was at stake here: If she crossed a certain, undefined line, she would be out of a place to stay. Where was the line between friend and more-than-friend? And wasn't there perhaps another line between more-than-friend and lover? Could she cross one line and not get her ass kicked out of the house? What was this want that made her body hum, and, well, what did it want?

She lay a while longer, trying not to succumb, trying to relax and pretend this was Buffy. But this wasn't Buffy. This was Tara. She tried to intellectualize it away. Left column, the pluses. Right column, the minuses. But her brain went all fuzzy and refused to be linear, as if kicked offline by this insistent pulsing want. And it was definitely a pulse. The longer Tara's hand lay against the flat of Willow's stomach, against the pulse-point there, rising and falling heavily with each breath Willow took, the stronger its beat became. That hand: the weight of it she could feel against the pumping of blood. Tara was oblivious, of course, to the gathering of energy, of electrical charge, of magnetic surge that was setting something in motion inside Willow. And with each breath and pump and pulse, fear and inhibitions ebbed, replaced by something more urgent than want: Need.

Willow couldn't be still. She needed to roll the sleeping woman over, and wrap herself around her, lay heavily upon her, to anchor her and be anchored.

So she did. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Willow edged up slightly and turned Tara over without breaking their embrace. Tara didn't wake. Her face was absolutely serene and beautiful as her head settled into the pillow, and Willow slid slowly upon her, resting her forehead on Tara's shoulder, and drawing her hand in heavy, slow circles across the woman's stomach. The satin of Tara's nightgown felt heavenly against Willow's palm. She especially liked the sensation of soft skin beneath it. She drew in a breath, acclimating to a level of arousal she'd never felt before – this realization that she very much wanted to push up the fabric and draw slow circles skin-to-skin. Her body absorbed the new sensations of being on top: of Tara's legs tangled in hers, of the rise and fall of Tara's breathing that carried Willow upon her breast, the warmth emanating up through her skin and infusing Willow with a dangerous chill. The only word that sprang to mind was: "mine." That's what she wanted to make Tara. She scarcely knew what that meant, or certainly what it entailed, sexually speaking, but she knew in this moment there was no way she could possibly get close enough to Tara; she had only this deep insistence that she be inside. She wanted to sink in and be swallowed whole, consumed, obliterated, reborn.

She knew it was pointless. They had so much standing between them: the fiancé, the Jewish thing, being on the lamb from the Gestapo. But right now, in this moment, held firm under Willow's weight, Tara was hers. She could at least pretend for a while.

She's not awake yet, Willow told herself. She doesn't know what she's saying. She lifted her head to find those ocean-blue eyes gazing back at her with a mixture of amusement and wonder.

Tara ran warm hands up along Willow's sides and down her back, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake. Depth charges went off inside Willow as she realized that perhaps Tara did know what she was saying. Oh, god. Stop looking at me that way. I'm going to start moving. I'm going to start moving. I want to move. I want – I want…

But apparently Tara was fluent in incoherence, because her eyes said she understood. And with a sweet smile, she shifted, drawing Willow on top of her completely. Willow found herself meeting Tara's blue gaze that, though surprised, was unflinching. Oh, god. Please stop looking at me that way. I'm going to start moving. If you even breathe I'm going to start moving. Oh, god, I want to move. I want – I…

"I-" Willow said and then her voice was stifled as Tara took a deep breath, and Willow's entire being suffused with the knowledge of every contour of Tara, conveyed from flesh to flesh. Willow reached for Tara's hands and clasped them, and Tara's eyes darkened. Her expression changed from one of affection and maybe a little teasing to one of need. And then the worst possible thing happened, from a self-control standpoint, anyway: Tara began moving, her hips shifting at first just once, twice, and then an actual rhythm took over, so small, so slight, barely perceptible at all, but Willow's senses were on fire, from her thighs and belly and twining out to her fingertips, which clutched Tara's hands with such desperate certainty, outstretched and pressed into the sheets. Tara was moving at a modulation for which Willow's body was a finely calibrated receiver.

"Oh, god…" Willow uttered, a guttural sound, a plea, an invitation, a warning that a line was crossing, and along with it, self-control. "Tara?" Her eyes were locked on Tara's. Where's the line? Where's the line? Here? Tell me. Is it here? Now? Now?

Tara said nothing, but her eyes darkened even further as her lips parted and her breathing intensified, taking pace with the slow and steady rocking of her hips. That's when Willow realized that she, too, had begun to move. She closed her eyes against the impulse to let go completely, luxuriating and holding back in equal turns.

Willow kept her eyes closed, letting the conflicting forces pull against her in this delicious yes-no, yes-no, yes-no rhythm they were setting together. Huh. Together.

"Willow," Tara said again, a musical sound, barely more than a sigh, but still a command. Willow met that gaze with the certainty that in fact she did want Tara to know this girl, the real girl. Willow. The light in Tara's eyes said it was Willow she welcomed.

So Willow bent down, giving Tara's lips the softest contact, just a small tug at the fullness of Tara's lower lip, which she caught delicately between her own. Tara tilted her chin, capturing Willow's mouth in a tender and insistent kiss. Willow felt another electrical jolt course through her body, sapping the strength in her arms, as Tara's lips parted and accepted Willow inside. Willow melted, feeling her muscles liquefy. Tara's hands were free again, and she ran them up Willow's back, pulling the thin slip up over her back, stroking the bare skin Tara found just beneath. More skin. Now. More. Willow shifted, letting Tara pull the garment over her shoulders. They broke their kiss as Tara drew the slip over Willow's shoulders and head and discarded it. Their eyes locked once more, transformed by the gravity of need. Then their mouths met again, and Willow gently explored the depths there to see if she'd possibly found a route to that place inside Tara she craved to dissolve into. And Tara drew her in deeply. God. Inside. Inside. Deeper. Must. Let me. Deeper.

Instead, Tara took her higher. Willow felt the soft strength of Tara's thigh rising under her, between her legs, meeting the gentle rhythm of Willow's hips and giving it a bodily counterbalance. Willow was surprised at her own carnality as she broke the kiss with a growl and rolled her hips against Tara's smooth skin, spreading her legs and reigniting her rhythm with a new muscularity. Tara tangled a hand in Willow's hair, dragging their eyes back to each other.

"Please. Look at me," Tara commanded quietly, her voice low. Her gaze was tinged with wonder and desire. She kept her fingers twined in Willow's hair, and arched her body, to give Willow every bit of contact she could create. Willow understood, then, Tara's need, and she shifted ever so slightly, so that each thrust of her hips brought her into contact with the soft wetness between Tara's legs. The opposing twin sensations of sliding and resistance were intoxicating. Willow ran her hand up Tara's belly, dragging the nightgown with it. Their rhythm paused, deliciously, for another brief moment as Willow drew the satin material over Tara's shoulders and liberated her from it.

When their bodies resumed contact this time, it was skin-on-skin, and all higher brain function was gone. Willow threw herself into Tara with a thirst that would have been frightening if Tara hadn't met it with equal ferocity. But she did. Her eyes flashed want and urgency, and it lifted Willow higher, if that were possible, realizing she was responsible for Tara's need. No one had ever looked at her with such complete, vulnerable wanting. She had never seen so deeply inside someone else, seen something so achingly, so all-consumingly, real.

"Oh," she growled, a sound that escaped her mouth with a gasp. Followed by another, pleading this time: "Oh." And then again, in time with the thumping of her heart, "Oh," as her hips struck a rhythm that not even a freight train could stop now. She could feel it then, a dark cliff approaching and beyond it, she knew, lay oblivion. She was drawn steadily toward it. "Oh," she gasped, this time with a lightness, and her eyes closed.

Then Tara's hand was there, sweetly, stroking her cheek, cupping her chin, demanding that Willow meet her eyes once more. It took everything Willow had not to let the sweet darkness fall, but to stay here, open and present, with Tara. She fought to keep her orgasm at bay, trying to relax, wanting to prolong this. But the relaxing only made it want to come faster. Tara's eyes told her she knew Willow was struggling, and Tara let out a low moan.

"Oh, god, Tara. I-, I'm-" Willow couldn't believe she was still even capable of words, but she wanted Tara to know everything, to be here with her, to be inside her, feeling everything, inside, from inside. She wanted to feel Tara's hand, Tara's anything, all of Tara, inside her, but she couldn't break from the course her hips were currently on. So close, so close.

"Wait," Tara breathed, her eyes conveying raw lust. And something Willow hadn't seen there before: possessiveness.

"Wait," Tara said again, more urgently, and Willow could swear it was the most erotic word, the one command she knew she would never obey. She gasped.

And then her orgasm pulled her under. And she fell into it with a long, drawn cry that exploded from within her.

Tara's eyes were wide, accepting, registering want and tenderness, her body absorbing the energy and light rolling from Willow in great waves. She kept their rhythm going, carrying Willow on the rise and fall of her hips. Willow's cry settled into a low growl, a sound that came from deep in her belly and centered her there. Moving. Still moving. Move. Oh, god, moving. Now Tara's body kicked into low gear, heat rising up through her skin, her breathing infused with a moan that set Willow's blood on fire again.

Tara took Willow's hand and gently pulled it down, lower and lower, until it met the place of her need. Willow nearly came again at the sensations there: an amazing softness, all tender flesh, swelling and wet, so, so wet. Tara's hand guided her, her fingertips running the smooth channel there as Tara moved. Willow knew that entrance lay just the slightest pull away, and she wanted in. She flexed her hand almost imperceptibly, wanting to know Tara wanted her there, and Tara's cry of arousal gave Willow her answer. Tara's hips slowed a moment as she plunged Willow's hand inside herself. Inside, wetly, securely, deliciously. Deeply. Willow groaned in amazement as Tara's hips kept their slow, steady pulsing against the solid resistance of Willow's hand. Willow explored the depths there, soft, fleshly and yielding. Slickened with Tara's arousal. Warm. Willow flexed her fingers, pulling them upward, curling back, to see what effect the pressure had. Tara's muscles squeezed in response.

Tara gasped in surprise a half-moment later. Willow gleamed with new knowledge. On the next upstroke of Tara's hips, Willow pulled again. Another muscular flutter met Willow's fingertips. Tara cried, this time higher, the sound of her breathing rising. "Oh, god-"

The rhythm of Tara's hips slowed and became more of an insistent thrusting. Her legs spread farther apart to allow as much of Willow in as possible. Willow's hand found its way deeper inside. Deeper, wetter, if that were even possible. It was Willow's turn to moan. Tara thrust her hips again and held still, waiting for Willow's tug in response. "Oh, god," Willow whispered. "I – I want-, I want to-"

Oh, god, she wants me to fuck her. Willow's own body throbbed with this knowledge and with the abject conviction to do so. Thoroughly.

"Deeper," Tara pleaded. She reached back for the headboard and twined her fingers there, opening herself completely to Willow, and thrust her hips again, the muscles of her arms and stomach flexing. "Deeper," Tara repeated, this time a command. Willow bent herself to the task, pushing and then pulling, alternating with the movement of Tara's every stroke, which Tara punctuated with a throaty, "Oh." "Oh." "Oh."

It was the most provocative song that had ever been sung for her, and she was drawing it out with her hands, pulling it excruciatingly from deep inside Tara. There was nothing separating them now. Every stroke Willow felt inside herself. Every command Tara gave was a vocalization of exactly what Willow also needed in that moment.

"Faster," Tara gasped, and Willow instinctually picked up the pace of her own hips in time with the movements of her hand in Tara. She wanted to never stop and felt the tightening in her own belly as she saw the same threat of climax begin to cloud Tara's eyes and her cheeks flush pink. Willow slid up Tara's body so that her mouth was at Tara's ear.

To her amazement, Tara obeyed with a labored gasp, and the two of them lay motionless, staring hungrily into each other's eyes, as their bodies struggled with the concept of stillness. Willow felt the fluttering inside Tara as well as the clenching within herself.

And then Tara came. She came mightily, with an unexpected growl and a tightening as muscles clasped Willow's fingers, pulling and releasing in turns. It was amazing. In reply, Willow resumed the pumping of her own hips, as Tara's began their rocking again, wringing every ounce of release from her orgasm. In between gasps, Willow managed a feeble: "I want – , I need-I-"

And then Willow came, too, this time in sympathy with the pressure and release she'd ignited within Tara. She cried out, her voice joining and mingling with Tara's, loud at first, and then gentler, until their release gradually equilibrated to a baseline low rumbling. They continued to move together for a while, drinking in the sensation of each other's skin, muscle, scent, taste, breath, absorbing this knowledge carnally. Tara finally let go of the headboard, wrapped her arms around Willow and rolled them over so she was on top.

Willow felt the flutter again and knew they were far from done, that the entire day – or even entire days – could be spent in this manner, and it would never be enough. She gazed up at Tara in wonder, with understanding of an entirely new language, a whole new knowledge of human relations, a whole new meaning of the word desire. How wonderful and terrible to be sated and starved at the same time.

Tara's voice was shy, but her eyes were not. "Ca – can I touch you?" she asked softly.

Willow sighed, stretching her arms back until she now gripped the headboard as Tara had before. "I think I'll die if you don't," she whispered, a challenge.

Tara's eyes flashed possessiveness and delight. She ran a soft fingertip from Willow's lips, tracing a line down her chin, along her throat, over her breast, where she lingered a bit, then down her stomach, lingering a moment there, too, to tease Willow's navel, before slipping her hand between Willow's legs, caressing the soft wetness there and leaving her throbbing for more. Willow amended, in voice high and breathy: "Or – Or maybe I'll die if you do."

Tara chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made Willow certain that she was definitely in trouble. In a good way. Tara slowed her stroking and edged a finger inside, lightly, teasingly, eliciting a groan from Willow, who arched for more. Tara accepted the invitation, slipping her fingers deep and stilling them there. She held her breath, watching Willow's face intently.

Willow felt her arousal build steadily into a surge: "Oh…," one kick low in the belly. "My…," another, even deeper. "God," she whispered, and then she was helpless to keep from moving her hips, starting a driving rhythm that surprised them both as she bore herself down on the delicious resistance of Tara's hand. So this is fucking. Huh. I like. Must. Have. More.

"Is this?" she gasped, "Is this what it was like for you? Is this what it felt like? Uh – like this? This?"

"Oh, god. I want-, Want you. Want you. Please. Tara. I want you. Oh, god. Like that. Inside. Inside me. Deeper. Deeper. Tara. Please…"

Tara's eyes glittered as if she were surprised and aroused by the knowledge she could make Willow want this so much. Willow wanted there to be no doubt.

"Oh, god. Tara. I need. I need you. I need you to fuck me. Please. Fuck me. Yes. Like – , Like that. Uh-" Willow had never spoken the word aloud, but now it embodied everything she needed, and she wanted to know the shape of it on her tongue and to see what the word did to Tara when she heard it, what it did to Tara when she understood the power Willow wanted her to wield.

"Tara. I want – . Don't stop. Like that. Fuck me. Please." Willow could hear the cadence of her voice rise with the tightness gathering within her. She wanted impossibly more. As in: I want you inside me. I want to hold you there. I want to melt into you and become nothing. I want you to take me. Do anything to me. Do everything. Make me yours. Make me yours.

Tara's answering kiss told Willow that maybe Tara understood all the words that lay in a jumble behind that one.

But Willow needed air. She broke the kiss with a cry and Tara answered with one of her own. Tara's body echoed the pace demanded by Willow's. Their hips synchronized, their breathing aligned. The tightness gathered inside, drawn there by Tara's insistent rocking and the power of that beautiful hand, which Willow had thought she'd mapped before, but now with great certainty knew she had not. Tara literally held her now in the palm of her hand, stroking firmly inside, plunging deep, then retreating almost completely before plunging in again, each stroke now eliciting a flutter and a cry from Willow.

Tara gasped with the effort to form them. "I want to fuck you. God. I want to fuck you speechless."

"I've – I've wanted this," Tara gasped. "To feel you, to fuck you. I've thought about it. About how good it would feel."

"God, I want to come. I – I'm trying so hard not to. I don't want to. I want to feel you. Feel this. I want to feel."

Tara took this as a challenge. She pushed deeper, reducing Willow once more to speechlessness. Willow changed her breathing, trying to relax, to stave off the rush at the cliff Tara was driving her toward. She danced along the edge of the chasm. But the lightness in her belly was coming again. Willow felt herself lifted almost against her will.

"Tara. Please." She breathed the words as spots appeared at the periphery of her vision. She was slipping. "Don't stop, please, I – I'm going to – ."

And Willow did, with a shout this time, arching into Tara's body, Tara's hand, wrapping her arms tightly around Tara and savoring every pulsation, releasing, only to feel the tightness gathering again. Willow felt her muscles squeeze Tara's hand inside her.

"Please, baby, come for me, too. I need you," Willow pulled at Tara's hips, setting them rocking again against her thigh, which was slick with Tara's wanting. Willow's body spasmed, still riding the high of her orgasm, and Tara rode it with her, clicking back into rhythm, thrusting once, twice. "Willow, I-"

"Come, baby," Willow whispered, her body bucking with another aftershock. But the tightness continued to gather in her belly, and she realized she was climbing higher instead of drifting down, buoyed by the knowledge that Tara was so close.

"Tara, I've never been with anybody like this before. I – I have no idea what I'm doing. B – but it's like I'm on fire. I have this animal need. This absolute arousal when I'm with you. I didn't know it could be like this. You're so beautiful. I want you so much. I want to give you everything I have. I want to never let you go. Your hand – it belongs to me. And-And my hand…" Willow looked at her own hand as if seeing it for the first time. She drew her fingers into her own mouth, sucking them a moment, gazing directly into Tara's eyes before moving her wet hand down between Tara's legs and slipping it inside, giving Tara one more piece of her to writhe against. "My hand belongs to you."

Tara's eyes grew serious; her brow creased. "Willow-" she gasped. And then she came. Willow accepted Tara's collapsing weight and the sound of her own name and the way Tara's muscles encircled her fingers and held them tightly as if she'd never let them go.

"Oh, god. Oh, god. What's happening to me?" Willow breathed excitedly. "I want you. I want it all."

Eventually, as the shocks subsided, and Willow drew Tara into her arms, stroking the woman's blond hair, enjoying the tickle of it across her chest. Tara clung to Willow, catching her breath.

"I'm sorry," Willow was saying, gazing up at the ceiling, which gazed back at her whitely, except for the light fixture, which was white porcelain with little painted roses. "I talk too much. I don't know when to stop."

Tara gave her a mischievous half-smile. "I'm fairly sure that was the first time someone actually talked me into coming."

"You know I'm not anywhere near done here," Tara said, tangling her hand in Willow's hair and drawing her in for a kiss.

"I think I'd die if you said you were," Willow smiled, but the words felt absolutely true.

Willow gazed up at the ceiling again. "We're good. I have at least two lives left," she murmured, a little of the real world seeping into the room at last.

'Well, I'm pretty sure I'm a cat, too," Tara chuckled. "I mean, if you are, then I must be."

Willow turned in Tara's arms and nuzzled the hollow of her neck. "Well one thing's for sure, at least: You're a cat person."

It was Willow's day off from the newspaper, so after breakfast and dishes and some laundry, Tara wanted to something special, make a special outing, go for a walk, buy a cup of coffee somewhere, go to the park. She wanted to see Willow in daylight, outdoors, to do something extraordinarily mundane together. The sun was coming out from between white clouds. That meant no chance of rain. And for a January day, it felt unusually warm – a premonition of spring in the air. Hopeful. Clean. Suggesting life.

But Willow stiffened when Tara suggested it. Just an offhand remark: "Let's go outside for a walk."

Tara watched now-familiar emotions passing like clouds across Willow's face, a face she already knew she could never grow tired of – would always see something new in.

Tara nodding, believing she understood. "Right. It's pretty traumatic having your apartment blow up and lose everything. It's natural that you'd want to stay somewhere safe and comforting. A bit gun-shy?"

"Well, yeah, there's that. We could, um, you know, uh…There are whole rooms here we haven't made love in yet." Those wide eyes so bashful and pleading. They pulled Tara inexorably in. Just that one sentence and Willow's expression set off a whole series of images in Tara's mind. And sensations.

But Tara snapped herself out of it, with a smile. "I promise you, Willow. We will wreck every surface in this place. I will fuck you in ways you haven't imagined yet, and you'll do things to me that you never knew you were capable of." For someone usually so quiet and reserved, Tara was emboldened with Willow. And she savored the effect her promises had on her. Damn. She wanted Willow again. Right here. Now.

A tentative smile in reply. "Just a warning…I, uh, have a pretty good imagination."

Tara chuckled. "Come out with me. We – we could call Xander and invite him along, if that makes you feel safer. Or-what was your other friend's name? Buffy? We could meet them somewhere."

Willow pondered this a bit, growing serious. "I'd really like to see them. Especially Buffy. She's got to have taken Giles's death pretty hard. He was practically her dad."

"We all were. Years ago, that is. But then things changed. I was in this place where I pretty much needed to find work. Xander, too, for different reasons. Buffy's still at university. And Giles is still her mentor. Was her mentor. We used to hang out at his apartment a lot. It was like Giles's Home for Wayward Youth. It was the place we'd meet up at the end of every day. We went and did things together, like the daytrip we took once out to the lake, and another we took out to the country. He had a lot of great books – all of these really rare volumes on history and folklore. I wonder what will happen to them…"

In the space of a few sentences Tara had learned more things about Willow than she had revealed in nearly two weeks of living together. Earlier this morning, Tara had caught a glimpse into Willow's soul and found it achingly beautiful. Now she wanted to also know her mind. And, damn it, she also wanted to see her in the sunshine.

Xander had met Buffy at the pre-agreed trolley stop. He was wearing his heavy wool coat, but the day was actually quite warm. The city smelled fresh and new, if that were even possible for Berlin. There were a lot of people on the streets today, probably most of them compelled outside by the beautiful weather. He'd been surprised to get Willow's phone call. But then again not surprised at all, after yesterday's news about Giles. Willow had been so far outside the circle lately. She'd pretty much been dumped with Tara – lovely though Tara is – and would certainly be hungering by now for contact with her best friends. He'd arranged things so that he wouldn't reveal to Buffy where Willow was staying, and, of course, none of them would ask Buffy where Jenny was.

Buffy looked radiant and confident, as always. For such a small person, she packed considerable presence. She walked up to him with a tense smile on her face. "Beautiful day," she remarked.

"As days go, I'd have to say this is indeed lovely. And the lovelier because I get to spend it with the two women I love best." He pulled her into a hug. "I'm really sorry about Giles." He was stoic about it now. He'd cried his eyes out last night, probably spooking Tara and Willow. Man, Tara had only ever seen him at his absolute least manly.

They linked hands and strolled down the street toward the park where Willow had suggested they meet.

"Is Willow – Is she in a good place?" Buffy asked, delicately, wanting reassurance but not too much information.

"She's staying with a woman named Tara. I think you'll get to meet her today. Tara doesn't know anything about Willow's background. To her, she's Wilma Hermann, that goofy, lovable gentile."

"And brilliant girl reporter. Don't forget that part," Buffy added. "My mom looks for her by-line in the newspaper every day."

"Right! Me, too!" Xander enthused. "God, I love how she does the Reich proud. Still, I don't know what kind of backstory Will's cooked up for Tara, so we'll have to follow her lead, conversationally speaking."

"Gotcha," Buffy chuckled. "Which won't be difficult, since it is Willow we're talking about here. All we have to do is make sure she has some caffeine, and she'll provide all the conversation a few chums could need."

A few blocks further, they reached the park. It wasn't hard to spot Willow. The sun glinted off her red hair like mad. Buffy squinted into the light and cursed. "Conspicuous much?" she muttered, removing the hat from her own head and walking toward where Willow was animatedly chatting with a lovely blond woman Buffy assumed must be Tara.

As Buffy drew Willow into a hug, she pulled the hat down snugly on the girl's head. "Couldn't miss you," she smirked. Willow's eyes grew wide, understanding. She left the hat where Buffy had placed it. "God, Buffy, I've missed you."

The two of them locked into a comfortable embrace, wordlessly sharing the weight of the death of Giles, while reaffirming their love and devotion to each other. It was like drawing electricity to ground, and after a while they both visibly relaxed.

"Tha – That's why I suggested to Wil – Wilma that she call you. She's be – been spending too much time working," Tara said, her nervous stutter reappearing, as usual when confronted with a new social situation. She wanted to avoid mentioning Professor Giles. She didn't need to.

Buffy rubbed Willow's shoulders, affectionately. "That's my Will, always throwing yourself into whatever you do."

"I always was an extra-credit kind of gal. Oh, hey, Buffy, I'd like you to meet Tara. She's my new roommate. Xander introduced us after my apartment, you know, went kablooey."

Buffy took Tara's hand in greeting, liking the warmth of the woman's eyes and the steadiness of her hand. Xander was right: Tara was lovely. She had a simple honesty about her. A Good German. "Nice to meet you, Tara."

He chuckled. "Well, let's just say bombs dropping from the sky tend to bring some people together. Maybe it's all of that scared-huddled-masses kind of thing. Which I would totally be more than happy to never experience again in my life. No offense, Tara."

There was a cafe on the edge of the park that the foursome retreated to for some friendly chatter. Buffy maneuvered their party to a table in a corner, off and away from the sightlines of most of the other patrons. And she ushered Willow into the chair of least visibility. Only then did Willow take off Buffy's hat.

Tara blushed shyly. "Well, I'm 28. I grew up on a farm outside the city. My cousin Beth still lives there. My brother and I share an apartment here. Only he's off fighting on the eastern Front. I haven't seen him in a while. I look after his three boys. His- his wife passed away. But – but I sent them to the countryside to live with my cousin Beth, since things have been so crazy here lately."

Tara blushed more deeply, nervously turning the thing on her hand as she shot a sideways glance at Willow, whose face remained remarkably impassive. "I, uh, my fiancé is also out on the eastern Front. He just left two weeks ago. When – when Wil – Wilma came to stay."

Xander piped up. "So Riley gave you a ring, eh? I guess congratulations are in order." Xander's grin was just a bit too happy. Buffy had his number: He always liked the pretty girls.

But while Xander enthused, Tara looked down awkwardly, as if she hadn't thought of it that way. "Yes, I suppose so," she replied.

"We should throw a party, maybe." It was Willow who said this with a yay-voice Buffy could tell was even faker than Xander's. All eyes turned to her, but none with more astonishment than Tara.

It was Willow's turn to blush. "Uh, maybe not an engagement party, because, like, Riley should really be here for something like that, right? I mean, otherwise it would really be just a party. Though I'm thinking that these days a just-a-party kind of party would be kind of…nice." She redeemed herself at the end with one of the sweetest Willow- smiles Buffy had seen in ages.

Willow sighed inwardly. She hadn't forgotten about Riley. She simply preferred to think of Tara and Riley as a couple headed for disaster. Of course Tara wanted to be a missus. And probably to have a bunch of blond, blue-eyed kids, too. Of course Tara was lonely. She had days upon days now with nothing to do. No Riley, no brother, no brother's kids to look after. She must be bored silly. What's there for her to look forward to, except more long, empty days until the war is over?

She put herself in Tara's shoes some more: Willow knew now that Tara was sexually experienced. And talented. And forward. And here was Willow – someone available and interested and non-threatening. She imagined that, to Tara, Willow was someone who could help occupy her evenings and weekends. She could satisfy Tara's appetites for sex and conversation. She could be her friend, lover, whatever, until Tara's conscience catches up with her. Or Riley does. Until then, this was all a dream she could conveniently wake up from.

Or maybe this morning had been an aberration. After all, it was Willow who pressed the matter, whose hormones had led one thing to another. She was certain Tara had only climbed into her bed last night thinking of providing comfort. Tara was used to taking care of people. It had been almost certainly a motherly – or sisterly-thing to do, right? And Willow, in her desire for sexual knowledge of Tara, had pushed things. And Tara probably responded in wartime fashion: Everybody does what they need to to get by until it's all over and then it would be back to life as usual. This world was a fantasyland. Granted, a very sick, disturbing and dangerous fantasyland. But it definitely had the heightened realism of a really bad dream.

And Willow didn't even know what she was doing, as a lover. She'd never been a lover before. Wouldn't Tara always be comparing her to Riley, or whoever else came before him? Willow lacked experience – and some equipment – that Tara's other lovers probably had. Thinking this way made her realize just how indulgent Tara had been earlier. Willow's entire being right now was enflamed with wanting her. And Tara had wanted to go to the park.

Willow looked across the table at the beautiful girl with whom she'd just shared some of the most personal moments of her life. She felt a bit in awe, a bit in fear, a bit in love. Whatever came of this, it was more than she'd dared to hope for. She didn't dare to hope for more.

The rest of the afternoon was golden. Tara thoroughly enjoyed the company of Willow and her friends. It was clear they adored one another. They had a siblings' way of teasing, of finishing each other's sentences, of speaking in their own shorthanded way. Xander was the same warm, chivalrous and real person who held her hand in the basement during the air raid. There was no pretending to be more than he was, unlike so many uniformed men – like Riley, for instance – who needed special clothing and rank to define them and how they should be. She could see in the space of a few meetings with Xander that he was always absolutely himself.

Buffy was a bit more hard-edged. She had a gravity about her. It was clear she was a bit of the ringleader: the pretty, self-possessed girl who'd caught up Xander and Willow in her orbit – willingly, of course. Tara could tell that if you needed something done, or a plan made, that Buffy was the one to do it. Had she been a man, she definitely would be an officer, like Riley and her brother. As a woman, she carried herself with a different kind of command. Tara could see what Willow and Xander loved about her. Buffy was someone who would be fiercely loyal.

And Willow. Where to even begin? Tara watched her with new knowledge dawning moment by moment. There was the way the light glinted off every surface of her. She looked deceptively innocent and amazingly happy, perfectly content in the moment, surrounded by people who were her people. She glowed. Tara wanted to think that perhaps she had something to do with the glowing, but she suspected that this was just Willow's normal comportment. Smart, funny, sweet, devoted, lovely.

After a bit of walking, the park lay behind them, the grass turning to pavement, the sun slanting low in the sky, picking up the fire of Willow's hair and illuminating the tangled strands of Buffy's as it blew hat-free in the wind. Willow held Buffy's hand as they walked and they shared a few private moments talking just between the two of them.

Tara fell back into step with Xander, the two of them admiring the gathering evening. She thought it was interesting how at first she might have assumed it would be Xander she would connect with. From their first meeting, had she had it all to play again, she would have sworn he would have been the one she fell into bed with. But now, as she watched Willow moving along the street ahead of her, her heart was filled with a sense that there was absolutely no other way it could have gone. And that same heart quickened knowing they were headed home. Her mind filled with images from this morning of those beautiful green eyes staring into hers so sweetly, so intently, so certainly, holding her whole. The fact that she was engaged and the fact that Willow was, well, a woman made the situation complicated. Maybe even a huge mess. But she only wanted more.

They came upon their trolley stop, and Willow let go of Buffy's hand, turning to Tara with bright eyes and extending the same hand to her, a lovely and loving gesture. Tara accepted it, lacing their fingers together. The touch sent shivers through her. She turned to Xander and wanted to thank him for bringing her the gift of this homeless orphan who'd come to mean so much in so little time. But she just couldn't form the proper words. Instead she leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for sharing your friends with me." He looked at her in surprise and then smiled warmly. "Thank you for taking care of her. She means the world to me."

Spike stubbed out his cigarette and felt totally ashamed of himself. He'd endured the chummy tableau before him for the better part of the afternoon, since he'd decided to tail Buffy for the day. This morning he told himself he was doing it in part to protect her. If he understood her movements and the people she interacted with, he could possibly deflect attention from her if the time came for that – provided he had the power to do so. But here today, he'd hit a veritable jackpot, and not in a good way. Here was "Red." The fugitive Willow. Caleb would give his left nut right now to have her in his sights. But somehow the sight of her just made Spike sad. She was cute as a button. The photo didn't do her justice by a long-shot. And Harris – that lackey from the very SS office Spike worked for – what was he doing wrapped up in all of this? Who knew the little bastard was so sneaky? The other blond, the one holding Willow's hand now, he didn't know her. Looked a little too old to be part of the university activist crowd Buffy ran with. Didn't look Jewish. Probably a sympathizer. He'd follow her and see what he could learn about her. Professional curiosity, of course.

Safe back inside the door of Tara's apartment, Willow threw Buffy's hat finally off of her head, grabbed Tara and shoved her roughly up against the wall of the dark entryway. Tara's eyes widened in surprise, then flickered in fierce anticipation as Willow leaned in to kiss her. The closer their mouths came, the gentler Willow's hold on her grew and the more tender her gaze. When at last their lips met, the kiss was agonizingly sweet. Tara felt herself relax, melting as Willow's mouth gently explored her own, taking her time, maybe even slowing time entirely. Tara ran a hand along Willow's shoulder, to her neck, twining fingers in red hair and cupping the back of Willow's head as she tried to deepen the kiss. Willow growled and intensified their contact. Tara's free hand began wandering of its own accord, tracing a path up Willow's chest, where she fought with the buttons of the girl's heavy wool coat. She demanded access to the softness and warmth inside. Willow moaned without breaking the kiss and helped Tara with the buttons, pulling roughly at them, as she pressed her hips into Tara's. Willow shrugged out of her coat, which dropped to the ground behind her. Tara took the opening to run her hand up under Willow's shirt, across the smooth skin of her stomach and lightly across her breasts. Willow broke the kiss with a gasp – but only momentarily.

Before today, Tara had never let her hands wander over another woman's body. She loved the delicateness she found there. Just as she loved the sensation of impossibly soft lips, skin, hands. Even inside, Willow was incredibly soft, warm, smooth. The scent of her was new, familiar and intoxicating. Tara felt her own breathing quicken. An eagerness to undress and be undressed overtook her and she applied herself toward the goal of liberating them both of their clothing as quickly as possible. Tara could see a whole chain of events unfold before her: She would gather Willow up in her arms, wrap the woman's legs around her waist and carry her bodily into the bedroom. That would be the first order of business. From there, Tara would throw her down on the bed, pin her down there and fuck her until her eyes grew wide and scared and she screamed Tara's name. As if understanding what Tara wanted, Willow yanked Tara's coat off, running hands under her shirt to the clasp of her bra, which she opened expertly. Willow's eyes were intense with need, her kiss-swollen lips searching out Tara's mouth again with a tenderness that belied the urgency of their mutual disrobing. Tara wanted to feel that soft mouth, those tender kisses, in many, many places, but first she wanted to wield raw power over her new lover. She was sketchy on the details of exactly what she wanted to do to Willow, but she imagined this is how if she were a man she might feel, this hunger – this all consuming need to press inside, possess and swallow everything Willow could give her, every bit of welcoming openness, every bit of resistance and delicious friction and muscular release.

Willow was still half-clothed, but it didn't matter. Tara grabbed the girl's thigh and drew it up around her own waist. Tara had become impatient. Willow leaned hard into her and began moving her hips. Tara groaned and bit at Willow's throat. Willow wrapped both legs firmly around Tara, and Tara was suddenly thankful that her back was still against the wall, so she could bear the weight and the motion, the glorious grinding of Willow. "Please…" Willow whispered. "I need…"

Tara lifted Willow and spun them around so now it was Willow's back against the wall and Tara was pushing hard into her, matching her rhythm. Willow's eyes were wide with surprise and excitement at the physical roughness. Tara was fairly sure she was going to skip the part about carrying her to the bedroom and have her right here instead. Or maybe on the dining room table.

Tara wanted everything, all of her, all at once. Tara wanted Willow almost savagely. She wanted her to writhe and resist, to come and collapse, thoroughly wrung out and sated, conquered by the power of Tara's own hand. She wanted to do this to Willow, and she wanted Willow to know this.

"I am going to fuck you," Tara said with great conviction. The words produced their desired effect. Fear and lust flickered in the girl's eyes. Tara thrust hard, pressing Willow's back up the wall. She positioned herself so that each stroke produced just the right friction, the right pulse between Willow's opened legs. And every thrust produced a muffled slam as Willow's back rubbed against the woodwork, steady as a drumbeat.

"Fucking: That's me giving it to you and you taking it until you can't any more. I want to fuck you – scary, messy, crazy. Hard."

"I want you to. I want it." Willow bent down and bit Tara's ear. "No mercy," she whispered.

Tara hefted the weight of Willow up in her arms, the girl's legs locked around her waist, and started toward the bedroom. Yes, for the things she wanted to do to Willow she wanted her lying down.

It was the clatter of a cup in the kitchen that brought the whole thing to a stop. They came to a standstill, breathing heavily, not moving, both straining to hear. There was another scrape and then a voice. "Tara, is that you?"

With a quick glance around the darkened apartment, Tara finally noticed the uniform hat and coat on the back of the couch and the light on in the kitchen. Shit! It was her brother Donald. Willow clawed her way back to the floor and straightened her clothes, while Tara tried to steady herself – or at least slow her breathing.

"Donald?" she called in reply. Her voice was more steady than she could have imagined possible. "Is that you?" A quick glance at Willow assured her that that the girl was more than a bit surprised, but composed enough for introductions. To anyone else the flush of Willow's cheeks and the redness of her lips might have been a dead give-away, But a soldier like Donald probably thought all women looked that way: He was simply going to find Willow adorable.

Her brother strode out of the kitchen and into the darkened dining room between them. He reached for a lamp and flicked it on. "I didn't hear you come in. I was making some tea." He stopped short, noticing Willow. Tara could tell he was surprised, and he liked what he saw.

Tara stepped forward. "Donald, this is Wilma Hermann. She's a friend. She's staying with me here. Her apartment was destroyed in the last air raid."

"Fucking Brits," Donald spat. He stood tall and extended a hand to Willow. "Welcome to our home, Miss Hermann. I hope you'll be comfortable here."

Willow answered shyly. Or perhaps she was shell-shocked to find a stranger in a place that had become a private sanctuary. "Tara's made me feel very welcomed, thank you. Uh, I've been staying in your room. I hope you don't mind."

The look on his face told Tara she'd had him pegged. She could tell he liked the notion of a pretty girl sharing his bed – even if the thrill of it was vicarious. She quickly visualized the room with its messy sheets and was thankful she'd stripped the bed this morning.

"No problem," he said. "I'll only be home a few days and then it's back to the Front." He turned to Tara. "Where are the boys?"

"I sent them out to the country to stay with Beth. I thought it was too dangerous. I – I didn't know you were coming, or I'd have made arrangements for them to be here."

He looked a bit disappointed, but nodded just the same. "No it's a wise choice keeping them safe out there, just for a little longer. Until things have settled down. Those Brits have severely underestimated our German resolve. They'll recognize that soon enough."

Then his eye caught the glint of Tara's ring in the lamplight. "What's this, Tara? A ring?"

Tara was beginning to tire already of everybody making a big deal out of the ring. They were all too happy for her, when she herself felt…ambivalent. The stricken look on Willow's face told her everything she needed to know about Willow's feelings on the matter.

But Donald was elated. His sister, who was practically an old maid, was finally getting married. What a relief. He ducked back into the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of scotch, shaking the contents with a frown. "Looks like someone's been partaking," he said good-naturedly enough.

Donald set out three shot glasses at the dining room table and gestured for the ladies to join him. The wooden chair creaked as he sat down, resting his elbows heavily on the table. He was a big guy with strong forearms. His hands were battle-scratched and roughened. Tara was his opposite: quiet, delicate, serene and smooth. Donald was swaggery and tough. Still, despite the polar opposites, there was something about him that was so familiar as Tara. Willow never had a sibling. She'd only appreciated from a distance the randomness of genetics that allowed two people to be at once similar and different in this way.

"So, Wilma," he said with a charming wink, or what might have passed for charm if she were a different kind of girl – one who went in for big, strong men. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Willow almost spit scotch across the table. She swallowed hard, and the hot liquor scorched its way down, radiating its heat from her belly. "Uh, no," she replied, politely, meeting his eyes with as sweet a smile as she could muster. She could sense Tara's discomfort with the line of conversation. "Uh, there is someone I have my eye on, though."

Donald gazed contemplatively at Willow a moment, then let out a hearty laugh, tipping the bottle to fill her glass again. He raised his glass in toast. "Well, as long as there is love in this world, the Reich will stay strong."

He slugged his shot and then got on a roll, verbally: "I dare say that despite the damn war, things are a hell of a lot better here now that the dirty Jews are practically eradicated. We've chased them out of our cities and farmlands, and we're beaten them back across Poland. All the scourge that's weakened the master race. Whole towns are gone. The slate is clean. And it's on the shoulders of you, Tara, and you, Wilma, to produce the next generation to carry us to greatness."

Willow certainly got enough Nazi party line bullshit at work. But this was different, here in what was beginning to feel like her home, a supposed safe place. Her cheeks flushed hotly. Yeah, the slate was clean. The Jews were fewer by the millions, cornered and trapped, unable to flee, accepted nowhere. Willow's life was swept clean, as well. Just a small woman overlooked so far. A coward. Living and hiding while everyone else she knew and grew up with – her family included – was dead or disappeared.

Tara opened her mouth, and Willow found herself hanging to see what her lover would say, where she would weigh in.

"They – they took away our neighbors across the hall last month. The Schraders," Tara said. "It ended up that they were Jews after all. Schrader wasn't even their last name. It was Schragenheim."

"Ha!" her brother beat his hand on the table. "We were right about them. You said they smelled like Jews."

Willow was alternately deeply appalled and bitterly angry. The irony wasn't lost on her, either. "Well, I certainly would never have believed one's sense of smell could be so finely tuned," Willow managed, slipping the second shot of scotch down her throat. Huh. So this was hiding in safety. Why did she suddenly feel so not-safe?

Donald turned to his sister. "I'm proud of you, Tara. You were the one who turned them over to protective custody, then?"

Euphemism! Willow pondered that she could kill herself of alcohol poisoning if she played the Nazi euphemism drinking game.

"I – I think I mentioned something to Riley. Just wondering," Tara shrugged. "He has friends with the SS. The whole affair was rather civil, really."

Of course, how civil it must have been. The Schragenheims had no choice but to go or be shot. They must have gone with their heads high to god knows where. Willow's mouth had a metallic taste. When her own time came, would she go as civilly? Or would she rather be shot? Or would she even have a choice in the matter. She thought about it.

"How about another drink, Donald?" Willow asked, at last. More euphemisms were surely coming.

Donald chuckled appreciatively. He liked Willow. "Now, here's a strong German woman. We need many more like you."

"This war will toughen many Good Germans. We'll bend, sure, but we'll never be broken."

Indeed, Willow could agree with that. She'd bend. And she had. But she'd never break, damn his Nazi ass.

"I joined the Hitler Youth as a young teen," he grinned proudly. Bingo. She'd had him pegged. That much indoctrination followed by military service was usually a dead give- away.

"So your family must be big supporters of the Fuhrer, then, I expect," Willow's voice was even. She was detaching. She felt herself floating.

"Our father joined the Party back in 1933. He was a field leader in the town where we grew up."

"Wil – Wilma works for The People's Press," Tara smiled, offering up evidence of Willow's Nazi street cred.

Donald beamed at her as if they were family. She was on the inside. She understood. "That's really great," he said warmly. "It's a shame you have to work, though. Your fella – the one you're sweet on. Is he a soldier, then?"

"No," Willow replied from some inner reserve of bullshit. "Just a Good German, is all."

Willow slammed what would be her last shot of scotch this evening down her throat, placed her glass down firmly and replied with a flat: "No." She didn't dare look at Tara. She couldn't.

She addressed Donald. "Hey, I'm feeling pretty tired. I think I'll turn in, if that's ok."

Donald looked a bit disappointed, clearly enjoying the female company. But then nodded amiably enough.

"Ah," Willow continued. "Donald, why don't you take your bedroom. Please. You're only in town a short time, and it's the least comfort I can give someone who's putting his life on the line every day to protect our homeland. Is there another room? The boys' room, perhaps, that I might stay in?"

"If you don't mind," Donald said with a sweet smile, "It would be nice to rest in my own room."

Willow imagined that she couldn't possibly feel more foolish. She was tucked in a child's bed: the lower bunk of an undersized bunk-bed. She was curled on her side under a comforter covered in embroidered stars, gazing vacantly out the unshuttered window at a full moon that stared back, equally blank and cold. In the shadows around the room she could make out the shapes of toys – toy bears and toy tanks, wooden blocks.

This had been one of the most surreal days, a cap to one of the most surreal months of her life. This morning, she had opened herself up completely, met another person completely, and poured herself into the experience with everything she had. She'd spent a wonderfully normal afternoon with the two people she loved most in the world and whom she missed miserably. And then this evening reality threw a huge wrecking ball through the middle of it.

She could tell that Tara didn't understand what happened, why Willow didn't slip down the hall in the dark and join her now. She simply couldn't. The fire just wasn't there.

Humboldt University was in mayhem. Buffy walked into the building, headed toward biology class as usual and encountered an unsettling scene: students clutching books, scattering in panic – or at least on the verge of panic – dispersing as if an army had just marched into the place with rifles drawn. Her heart pounded with confused fear, her senses heightened. She couldn't see the threat.

She grabbed the sleeve of a fellow student as he dashed by. "What's happening?" she asked.

A rifle crack from the direction of the courtyard outside yanked their attention away. Buffy released the student's arm. He scrambled out the doors. Buffy didn't follow. Instead, she moved against the current of bodies rushing to escape and toward a bank of windows that looked out on the courtyard.

There, in the rain, were a handful of men in long overcoats and two soldiers, all with guns drawn. A line of five students stood shocked before them. Two others lay motionless on the ground. A plainclothes man was flipping though the identification papers of one of the slain students. He tossed them onto the body and turned to one of his comrades for a discussion.

"Double shit!" Buffy breathed, fear and anger rising inside her. Spike had promised to warn her when the "example-making" started. He'd promised to give her the high sign, so she could get out of harm's way. She scanned the police's faces. Were any of them him? Was Spike involved in this? No. She felt a small wave of relief to know he wasn't there.

Then another commotion erupted and her eyes caught sight of something that sent her blood running cold. They'd grabbed another student, this one a woman. Dark hair, dark eyes flashing, resisting with more than a bit of struggle. Buffy could tell she was throwing expletives at them. "Faith!" Buffy nearly yelled, her heart lurching. The men roughly searched her coat for her identification, ripping it from her as if unafraid of tearing off a limb while they were at it. Buffy's palms were pressed flat against the cold glass. Her heart pounded so hard that she thought it might stop altogether. "No," she groaned, helplessly. "Faith!"

The men shoved the young woman down with a splash as her knees hit a puddle in the gathering rain. She kneeled beside the other two slain students. Buffy could almost hear the long line of profanity her friend continued hurling at her interrogators. One of the plainclothes men said something to her that made her shut up and her face pale. "No," Buffy groaned, scraping the glass with her fingers, willing herself to watch.

On what must have been a command, one of the soldiers stepped forward and clocked Buffy's friend in the chin with his rifle stock. She recoiled from the force but remained on her knees. Faith was one tough girl. She spat blood and looked back at the cops, her eyes scared. She answered a question with a couple of words and a helpless shrug.

Buffy's body shook with the reverberation of the sound that split the air like a lightning crack. Faith's body wavered a heartbeat, and then toppled forward, landing face down beside the other two. A spray of blood spattered across the remaining four students, whose faces were absolutely stricken with fear, grief and repulsion. Buffy felt herself begin to slide down the glass, lightheaded.

A firm hand clutched her shoulder just then and spun her around roughly. She found herself staring at Spike through cold tears. She gave a start. But while Spike's manner was rough, his eyes were not: They were concerned and more than a bit scared. Over his shoulder, Buffy saw another plainclothes man. This one taller, square-jawed, black-eyed and smiling grimly.

"Your identification, please," Spike demanded. He held out his hand for it. Buffy dug through her breast pocket vacantly, tears rolling down her cheeks until her shaking fingers found it. She handed the papers to him. Spike flipped them open and inspected them, glancing at the photo of her there and seeming to compare it to the woman before him.

The other man scratched down the name in a notepad and then spoke up, his tone arch. "Miss Geist. You must forgive what you see out there." He gestured toward the window. "Believe it or not, some of your classmates are enemies of the state, seditionists. They would undermine the authority of the Reich and unfortunately risk the safety of us all. As is often the case throughout history. The young can be extremely naïve. And stupid."

The other man stepped forward, pulling something from his pocket: a photograph, which he held up for her inspection. Buffy's eyes darted to it and fought to keep her expression impassive. It was Willow.

She shook her head no. "Is she a – a student here, maybe?" she ventured with as much uncertainty as she could muster.

"No, I don't know her," Buffy said quickly, wracked with fear. "Please. I'm scared, I want to leave."

"We're not going to get much from the rest of the students here today," Spike told his partner, the tall, grim-faced man with the black eyes. "Let's call it a day."

Buffy gently slid past them and rushed back toward the double-doors to the street.

The other man called out to her one last time. "I know this is upsetting, Miss Geist, but Good Germans have nothing to fear."

Buffy willed herself not to stop, not to hesitate, not to shake. She plowed through the double doors and practically ran down the block, stopping mid-way to fall to her knees and vomit. In the space of five minutes she'd learned many things:

That her friend Faith was dead: one of the first batch of student dissidents rounded up by the police. That if the Gestapo had Faith, then they'd certainly have already caught up with Jenny, since Buffy had sent Jenny to stay with her. That Spike and his partner were hunting Willow, and they even had a photo of her. That they were looking for Buffy herself, too.

And she suspected that they were not above gunning down any of their quarry in broad daylight.

The newsroom was all a-scramble. News flashes were coming in. Willow stood in Gruber's office and watched the confusion through the glass windows that separated his office from the newsroom. From inside here the air was calmer, but not by much. Calls were coming in that the SS was moving to arrest student dissidents. Gruber was on the phone, and Willow was jotting notes as he barked statistics at her.

Gruber handed the phone to her. "Miss Hermann, please take down the rest of the information and see that the newsroom gets it." He was a man of short patience for details. Funny that he should be running a news organization. Well, except this wasn't a news-gathering-fact-checking type of operation. It was really more of a print-all-the- information-you're-given newspaper. Reporters here didn't ask questions, unless it was to check spelling, which is what Gruber was putting her in charge of doing right now.

She accepted the phone, scooting into the desk chair Gruber vacated so he could go stalk the floor of the newsroom. "Hello?" she said with a small voice. "This is Wilma Hermann, Mr. Gruber's copy editor. I'm ready to take down your information now."

She frowned as the man on the other end of the line gave her the names of those arrested. Five men and two women. To her relief, she didn't recognize any of the names. She double-checked spellings.

"Did I hear correctly that the seven were arrested, sir?" she asked. The man said yes.

"Ok," Willow said, gingerly. "I'm happy to take the names of the seditionists still at large if you have them." She paused. "So that people in the community can come forward with information to aid in their arrests."

Willow faithfully wrote each one until her heart stopped. Buffy. With a shaky hand, she purposely wrote the name Betty instead. After she had all of the information and had hung up the phone, she looked at the names on the paper before her.

Should I give them the names of the ones still at large? If I don't, will the source know I discarded them? Will he call Gruber? Will Gruber wonder what's up with me? Will he and his Gestapo buddies do a little looking into Wilma Hermann? Will Xander get in trouble for signing false documents for me? Will they give us both the euphemism treatment?

Her mind set, she carefully recopied all of the information on another sheet of paper. When she came to the names of the students still at large, she intentionally misspelled each one. She could honestly claim there was too much commotion in the newsroom to hear properly.

She sat stunned a moment, scared for Buffy. She picked up Gruber's phone and dialed Buffy's house. Dawn answered. Willow froze. She didn't know how to announce herself to Buffy's sister. She decided to go with the familiar.

"Can you – can you please have her call me? It's really important. She knows where to reach me."

She hung up, feeling panicky now. She dialed Xander's office next. Fortunately, he was there.

"It's about Buffy." She kept her eyes on the door to Gruber's office, thankful for a few more moments of privacy. "She's on a list. I need to warn her. Do you know how to get word to her? She's not at home."

"Yes," Xander said unequivocally. There wasn't much more they could say since neither could trust they wouldn't be overheard.

He promised he would. She hung up feeling better. A little better, anyway. She stood and walked like a good German into the belly of the newsroom bearing the piece of paper that announced the death sentences – if not already the deaths – of seven people. And gave four at least a slim measure of a chance.

Willow opened the door to the apartment to find Tara there waiting for her, with anxious face. She must have heard the footsteps on the stairs. Enacting her ritual greeting, Willow extended her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal…nothing. Tara at first looked confused and then a warm smile spread slowly across her face. The offering that Willow was bringing her today was…Willow. Tara accepted Willow's hand in her own with affectionate rubbing and a small kiss. Willow's smile was radiant. Tara seemed much relieved.

Willow hated how last night had ended with her storming off to sleep in the kids' room, with no explanation for what had set her off. And then this morning, Willow had left the house early before Tara or Donald were even up. She'd had a whole day and half an evening to acclimate to the reality that the siblings were the product of about a decade of bigoted propaganda and that their dismissal of the Jews as a scourge was simply expedient. Had the Nazis had it in for the Irish, they would have hated all things Irish – made lepers out of leprechauns. She was here to play a part. And if she played it well enough, maybe she'd get to live.

Besides, tonight she was more concerned about Buffy. So it wasn't difficult to push aside the Jewish thing and just appreciate this beautiful woman who was making kind of naughty eyes at her.

A loud cough from the parlor interrupted their more-than-friends moment. Oh, yeah. Him. Donald was still here, of course, taking up space. Willow pulled on her best Wilma face, took off her coat and followed Tara into the living room. When not in uniform, Donald looked like any other guy you'd pass on the streets of Berlin. You'd hardly give him a second look. Well, certainly Willow wouldn't because she'd never had much of an eye for boys. But she thought he sat rather averagely in his armchair with the evening paper spread open before him. The People's Press, of course. The radio was on, too. Tara had been listening to the news. Blah, blah, blah, said the radio.

Donald eyed Willow appreciatively. "Wilma! Missed you this morning, love," he said a bit too familiarly.

"Busted a nest of political dissidents. It's all here in the paper. Makes it a great day in my book," Donald smiled pleasantly.

Tara still had a hold of Willow's hand and now pulled her surreptitiously into the kitchen. Willow almost had to trot to keep up with her. Once around the corner, Willow thoroughly expected a kiss. What she got instead was a very serious look of concern from Tara.

Willow blinked. Was Tara showing concern or paranoia? She honestly didn't know the woman well enough to tell.

"God, I hope not," Tara breathed. Again, Willow couldn't tell where she stood on the issue. Willow waited awkwardly to see what came next.

Willow almost let out a sigh of relief, realizing that whatever her ideology, Tara was a human, caring person. She must be concerned that Buffy might be upset about police and arrests and guns and other very non-university activity.

"Xander talked to her," Willow said. "He said she's ok. Kinda surprised and shaken up about it all. We were both at work. There wasn't really time to get much in the way of details." A pause, and then she remembered, "Oh! But he said he'd phone us here tonight. He might know more."

Tara rubbed Willow's shoulders, leaning close. The rubbing felt good. It loosened tenseness Willow had hardly noticed she'd been carrying. "You should invite her over here. She might need your company," Tara was saying. Willow nodded. She wanted to see Buffy and know she was ok.

They hugged, swaying together a bit. Tara buried her face in Willow's hair, her breath warming Willow's neck.

"I'll take this one," Spike said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it into the wet pavement. He and Caleb stood outside a house rented by university students. The light from the windows was warm and homey. Caleb nodded soberly. He'd cleared out the last two places. It was fair to give his partner one. "Be my guest," he said. "My turn to stand around smoking and doing nothing."

Spike threw up his arms in disgust. "What's your problem, Caleb? We can't stand around looking all menacing, or we wouldn't be 'secret police,' now, would we? Average Joes smoke when they're out for an evening stroll."

Spike glared at him and knew it was true. For an evil whack job like Caleb, executing a bunch of college students was fun. "Just stay out here. If I need help, I'll give a whistle," Spike growled.

Caleb raised his hands and waved good-naturedly. "See you soon. Happy hunting. I'll just slip around and cover the back."

"You do that." Spike turned on heel, straightened his hat and marched up to the front door. He took a deep breath and rapped lightly. A friendly, neighborly knock-knock. Not the usual Gestapo-style chest-rattling pound-of-intimidation. He didn't want his prey to spook. But he had to be quick: Any moment now the evening papers would be hitting curbside announcing this morning's dirty work. And in about an hour, the radio show would come on with news of the day's events. No, right now, he was just knocking neighborly.

He could see the shadow of someone moving behind the curtains. He removed his hat. Gestapo always wore hats. Heck, he'd drop the overcoat, too. He slipped his pistol in the back waistband of his trousers. He looked about as harmless as an evil guy like him could, in just his shirt and tie.

The doorknob gave a subtle jiggle that announced the weight of a hand on the other side. Spike caught his breath. "Come on," he whispered to himself. It was cold out.

"Hey, there. It's cold out here," he said aloud to the person indoors. "I'm looking for Faith. Is she home?"

A moment later, the door swung inward slightly. A woman was silhouetted against the warm light within. He let the glow illuminate his face, which he expressioned to be innocent and friendly. He was pretty sure he was looking at Buffy's friend Jenny.

He shivered a bit, to make a good show. "Um, she said she'd meet me." He looked at his watch. "Yeah, she said she'd meet me at the coffee shop a half hour ago, but she didn't show up. I figured she might have forgot."

"She's not here right now," the woman said carefully, but Spike could tell he had her. "Do you mind if I wait a few minutes?" he asked in his best school-boy voice.

The woman acquiesced, swinging open the door and inviting him in. The light caught her fully, and it was, indeed, the fugitive Gypsy Jenny. He stepped politely inside. She was a lovely creature, dark, a bit flinty, and womanly as well. She smiled. He might have liked getting to know this woman, if circumstances were different.

"William," Spike supplied. "And, yes, it's a bit cold out there. Tea would be most appreciated." They smiled at each other in a friendly, neighborly way.

She stopped cold in her tracks. "Shit," he could hear her say under her breath. She said it like she knew she'd been stupid. Spike couldn't help her there. She had been.

Spike quirked a smile at that. He liked a lady who swore. Especially a smart and pretty lady. "It's true. My partner's outside covering the back in case you decide to make a hasty exit. Although I think you'd be wise to stay here with me. I'm not half the beast he is."

Jenny frowned. "I'll go with you. Into protective custody, or whatever you call it. Please don't drag Faith into this. She doesn't know anything. I mean, I wasn't up front with her. She thinks I'm just her roommate."

Spike admired Jenny's chivalry. "Faith is dead," he said, watching Jenny's face drop and then mentally kicking himself. He told himself he wasn't going to be cruel. "Not because of you, Jenny," he quickly added. "You mustn't blame yourself. She was arrested by police this morning at the university. For sedition. If anything, it's because of her that we found you."

Jenny stared up at the ceiling. Spike took a step closer. The gun was now within inches of the woman's forehead. She was crying. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

"I'm afraid I'm not," Spike said softly. "But then I think you knew that right away."

Spike continued. "I want to make this easier for you. That's why I made my asshole partner stay outside. He'd have just blasted through the door and been done with the whole thing in a hail of bullets."

"So instead you're here for, what? Verbal torture instead? Just fucking shoot me."

"I didn't want to find you. I kind of tried not to," he confessed. "I have this job, though. Trouble is, I'm a friend of Buffy's. And I know it's kind of whacked, but I swore to myself I'd be humane with the people she knows."

Jenny laughed. "Humane? Come on, William, if that's even your name. Just fucking do what you came to do. Your so-called job." She made a grab for the gun, to force his hand, to make him shoot her. He hit her in the face with it instead.

"Ok," she said, bent over and clutching a bleeding jaw. "That hurt." She straightened and stared him straight in the eyes. "So, you want that tea, then?"

He chuckled at the absurdity of it all. After a moment, she chuckled, too. "So what's your 'humane' plan?" she asked. Spike shifted on his feet. He hadn't thought about the fact there might be options – or that she might be open to brainstorming with him.

"Well, I was just going to shoot you. Nicely," he said, aware that the words sounded extremely stupid.

She laughed out loud again. Damn, but if circumstances were different, he thought.

Jenny clapped her hands together. "I know!" she exclaimed, a bit too brightly. "Why don't you fuck me and then strangle me?" He couldn't tell if she was joking, but he kind of liked the picture it brought to mind.

He shook his head. "How about a big bottle of scotch or vodka or gin or whatever your roomie Faith has lying around? You get nice and buzzed and feeling no pain, and I promise to make it quick and clean."

Jenny gazed at him sharply a moment and then nodded. "I could use a drink," she sighed, turning to the kitchen again. He had half a mind to shoot her then, execution- style in the back of the head. But he hesitated. And the moment was lost. Shit. Caleb was probably out there getting impatient, ready to knock the windows out. He had to finish his fucking so-called job.

In the kitchen, Jenny pulled a large bottle of vodka down from the high shelf and took a long draw straight from the bottle. Funny how he had her pegged for a drinker. She turned, bottle in hand, and offered him some. "If these are my last moments on earth, please don't let me drink alone." She was razzing him, of course. But there was a grain of sincerity there, too. Spike accepted the bottle and took a quick swig, enjoying the afterburn. He handed the bottle back to Jenny, who took another long draw. He watched the bubbles rise as she swallowed. Yeah, she was a drinker.

"Feeling better?" he asked, solicitously, as if he might be asking a patient in an infirmary if she might like another pillow.

Jenny sat at the kitchen table and placed the bottle down in front of her. "I used to be a schoolteacher." She said the words aloud, but it didn't really feel like it was for Spike's benefit. "I used to play violin. I was really a very good dancer. And I loved a man who gave up his life so he could stay here in Germany with me because I couldn't leave. I would have given anything to leave."

Spike moved to the wall and pushed the switch. When he turned around, Jenny's back was to him. She was sitting still, her hands flat on the table before her.

He raised the gun. She certainly must have heard the sound of his sleeve moving, but if she did she didn't flinch. Her breathing was steady. She was waiting. He didn't want to keep her waiting long: That would be cruel.

The night was amazingly quiet. The only sounds Xander could hear were their footsteps on the pavement. He held Buffy's hand tightly as they made their way to Faith's house. It wasn't a good idea, he knew, to be out here like this and going where they were headed. But Buffy had been so upset and all that would console her was having a job to do: She had to know. So Xander had offered to accompany her. He was conveniently dressed in his SS uniform, so that they might pass as a Good German couple out for a romantic stroll. After curfew.

He was making up stories in his mind in case they were stopped. Time had slipped away. He had to get her home or her father would have his hide. Stuff like that. He worried about her papers. If they were stopped they'd know she was one of the student insurgents.

Insurgents! For handing out a few flyers around campus Buffy was subject to forfeit her life. Certainly everyone knew that with the secret police running about it wasn't safe directly criticizing the government. Hell, the daily work of his own division of the SS was to take down information from citizen informants, who for most purposes, were either paranoid or hateful and certainly not above reporting their neighbors for any number of suspicious reasons, real or fabricated. The plainclothes men of the Gestapo generally were sent out to research some of the more egregious-sounding of these. The rest got filed away for future sussing out. Right now it was clear someone had it in for a few college kids. Or were there many? Buffy said that another friend of hers in the SS had made it sound like there would be a real housecleaning over at the universities. If someone as small-time as Buffy was on the list, there must be a long, long list of names the police intended to tick through.

"It's this way," Buffy whispered. She'd been remote and zombie-like ever since she'd appeared on his doorstep earlier in the evening. He'd been surprised to see her. But she'd had nowhere else to go. Xander turned the corner with her.

A small graystone place with darkened windows. They moved slowly to the front door. Buffy gave Xander a worried look, then composed herself and rapped lightly on the door.

"I sure hope we're not, you know, interrupting anything…important," Xander chattered nervously. Buffy hesitated, listening intently. He had a point. She decided not to knock again.

Xander followed her around the perimeter of the place, stopping to tug at each sash, but it being winter and all, none of the windows were open. On the backside of the house one of the windows was illuminated by a light. "Give me a boost up," Buffy said. "I want to see in."

Xander stepped up and cupped his hands together to form a foothold for her. Buffy weighed nothing, and he almost propelled her skyward. "Watch it," she yelped. Hands firm on the window-ledge, she pulled herself up to look in. Xander held her legs from below.

A heartbeat and then: "Ok. Let me down. Let me down!" Her whisper was urgent, like she'd seen a ghost, and Xander almost dropped her in his haste to comply with her command.

Buffy shook her head, straightening and running nervous hands through her hair. "Nobody's there…but so much blood. I – I think that was Jenny. And – and if they'd do that to Jenny…"

Xander couldn't meet her eyes, but he could finish the thought: "Then they'd do that to Willow…and you."

Buffy was moving back around the place again with great purposefulness. "We gotta get in there."

He grabbed her arm. "Whoa! Wait a minute. I say we get the hell out of here. What more can we possibly do?"

Buffy spun on him. "I'm sure they sacked the place. I have to see what they took. Faith…had records. She kept them in a notebook. I know I'd recognize it if I saw it. People's names, dates, plans. If they have all that, then I've got to find a way to put a warning out."

"Forget the notebook. Your life isn't worth some paper. Put a warning out anyway."

"Someone's in there," Xander hissed, bodily dragging Buffy with him as they retreated to a safe place around the corner.

After a moment or two, the front door swung open and three men came out. Two in soldier uniforms and one plainclothes. Buffy and Xander both recognized the Gestapo officer.

"Shit. That's the guy who stopped me today," Buffy said, leaning flat against the wall as if he'd just swung a search beam at them.

Xander looked closely. "That guy works out of my office. We all call him Preacher Caleb. Used to be a man of the cloth. Now he's, you know, more a man of the plainclothes. And just about the nastiest one of them. And 'nasty' is actually saying a lot, since it's in the job description."

The muscle in Xander's jaw flexed. "Don't worry. He won't find her. Tara's a very Good German. And so's Wilma."

Another plainclothes man came out of the building, stopping a moment to light a cigarette. He looked tired.

Buffy gasped and her body went rigid. She nodded toward him. "That's our problem: I know that one."

Xander pondered this. "Huh. Everybody's gotta be a Big Bad these days. As if Blood isn't a name that's Big and Bad enough," He sighed. He turned to Buffy, shaking a finger at her. "And I'm not even going to ask how you know him." He paused for dramatic effect. Buffy refused to take the bait.

"You know, despite the war, there are still plenty of decent guys a girl could go out with."

"Ok, so he's not as bad a Caleb, but then that's hugely relative. It's like we're talking about one serial murderer being less bad than another." He paused. "Actually, that's a pretty good analogy."

"He saved me," Buffy whispered. "When he took my ID, he told the other guy I was someone else."

"Nice. But you can't count on him to do it again. Caleb would gun him down just as fast as he would, um, just about anyone. They're all a bit…twitchy like that. I'm going to need to get you some new papers. And you're going to have to wear a hat. Maybe forever."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. But Xander remained tight-lipped. She wasn't going to like his idea, and he could tell she already knew that.

They watched as the two soldiers went back into the house and came out again with a body bag, carrying it heavily between the two of them. Caleb and Spike fell in beside them and the four walked quietly to a parked police truck, where they loaded the package inside a bit roughly, but, then, hey, Jenny was dead anyway. They got inside and drove away.

The sight raised the hair on the back of his neck. After a long moment, Xander spoke up: "I'll be an extremely happy man if I never see anything remotely like that again."

"We're done here." Buffy's tone was more world-weary than any twenty-year-old deserved to be. The look seemed to be all the rage this year.

Willow and Tara had a new game to try: How quiet can you be? That was Tara's sultry question to shadow-Willow who had slipped silent as a cat into her darkened bedroom after everyone had retired for the evening.

Willow stood in silhouette a moment, absorbing Tara's question. "Uh, am I'm too loud?" Tara almost laughed and then ached at the uncertainty in Willow's voice, a tone that spoke volumes about the vulnerability her lover felt, being young and having no idea what she was doing, with a woman, no less, and one who was older and supposedly more knowledgeable.

Tara reached out and took her hand, silently cursing the fact that the darkness made it impossible for her to read Willow's expression. She hoped Willow could see her. If so, she'd certainly see nothing but the warmth and acceptance she felt.

She could hear Willow draw a breath of protestation, so she pre-empted her: "And I love every word. I – I've never had a lover talk to me like that. You make me feel completely with you, in the moment." Tara's voice grew shy. "And I find it amazingly sexy. Please don't ever stop talking to me."

Tara hugged her. "Yes, except tonight. I really don't want to have to explain to Donald."

Willow hugged her back. "And at the risk of sounding a bit old-fashioned, I really don't want any weird sibling stuff happening while I'm, uh, naked with you."

Willow leaned in to kiss Tara and missed her mouth. The kiss landed somewhere on her cheek. It took a moment before she was able to orient herself in the blackness back to Tara's lips.

Tara leaned back into the pillows, chuckling softly. "Ok, after a comment like that I think enforced silence might not be such a bad thing after all." She watched, enthralled as Willow in silhouette pulled the slip over her head, exposing the long expanses of smooth Willow-skin Tara knew were there, in spite of the darkness. The deprivation of sight heightened her other senses. She could pick up Willow's scent, faintly, that announced her arousal. And she detected the barely audible shallowness of her breathing.

Tara sat up and withdrew her own nightgown, tossing it off the bed. She reclined again, feeling the cold that chilled her flesh and hardened her nipples.

"Your – your skin – it's glowing. And if it's too dark to see, then it must be some kind of heavenly aura. Or what I imagine an aura would look like. If I were in Heaven. And if I were in Heaven, I'd be dead, right? So am I dead?"

Then Tara could feel the depression of the mattress as Willow's knee pressed down and she climbed onto the bed. In fact, Tara could sense through her skin the motion of Willow as the girl moved over her, straddling without touching. She stretched out her body, so that she hovered just above the length of Tara. Heat passed between them, and Tara longed to close the gap. "We'll just see about this quiet business," Willow purred. "I may talk a lot, but I'm not the only one who's vocal. You have a lovely singing voice. I could listen to it again and again."

Tara sighed, "I do love to growl out a tune, it's true. You'll have to find some way to silence me."

This time Willow managed to find Tara's mouth just fine. But Tara was far from convinced kissing would be enough to keep her voice down. And she didn't know what she was going to do about Willow.

Particularly since she had a plan in mind that was calculated to knock her socks off. Not that Tara could be sure she was wearing socks, it being so dark and all.

Willow settled her weight down on Tara, warming their skin. She ran a hand through Tara's hair. "You are kissing me, silly." Tara could feel Willow's breath on her cheek, warm and sweet.

"Oh, That's a kiss, eh?" Tara teased. "Your powers of non-visual observation must be keener than mine." Then she bodily lifted Willow and rolled her over so that Tara was on top. "But, I have other strengths. For example, I'm stronger than you are." From this vantage point, she could see that, in fact, what small amount of light came into the room did indeed illuminate skin – this time Willow's skin – glowing it a supernatural and highly-sheened silver.

"Fuck that, sweetie. I changed my mind. Just whisper." She leaned in close, her breasts gently covering Willow's and her body settling firmly between the girl's legs. "Do you trust me?" Tara repeated. She wanted to know the answer.

"Without hesitation," Willow breathed. Her eyes sparkled. In the reflected light of the darkened room they shone blue, but Tara had memorized their green, the way the color shifted depending upon the light and Willow's mood.

Tara covered Willow's mouth with her own, demanding entrance, which Willow gave her slowly, slowly. Tara smiled. This was going to be a fun game.

She pressed deep with a gentleness and insistence that told Willow Tara was in charge. Willow's mouth was so soft and yielding, giving Tara the opportunity to explore, to languorously stroke, to see what delicious groans she could elicit from Willow's throat, to notice the moment Willow's hands encircled her shoulders and the back of her head, drawing Tara deeper and moving slowly, tilting her chin giving Tara pleasure in return. God, she could kiss Willow like this for hours, pressing in, retreating, barely touching, breaking contact, only to have one or the other of them demand it all over again, pulling hungrily to deepen the kiss again, to find the warmth and softness there, and the deftness. Tara had no doubt that Willow's tender mouth would feel heavenly between her legs, But then, she was fairly certain Willow hadn't yet imagined doing such things. So that's where the fun part came in: Tara was going to show her how it felt.

But she was going to take a roundabout way of getting there. She loved Willow's openness, her responsiveness, her willingness to meet her fully. Tara felt in awe of this gift Willow bestowed upon her: the gift of making love to her wholly, without reservation. Tara couldn't help but notice the way they matched each other perfectly, instinctively. She wondered if sex with any woman would be like this. But then Willow gasped, and Tara felt her body kick in response and she knew that, no, it was indeed this very special girl she shared this beautiful connection with.

Tara discovered the source of Willow's pleasure and surprise: While lost in the moment, Tara had drawn Willow's thigh up around her waist, tilting Willow's hips so that now Tara's belly was able to give her lover a new pressure, a new source of friction, and Willow responded by wrapping both legs tightly around Tara and beginning to rock slowly, achingly, her breath deepening, her hands moving down Tara to the small of her back, demanding deeper contact. God, she wants me to fuck her. She needs me to fuck her.

"Talk to me," Tara implored, rolling her hips in counterpoint, wringing every possible sensation the movement produced in both of them.

Willow was silent a few moments more, letting her hips and the gathering wetness on Tara's belly do some of the talking. Tara was keenly aware of so much: the scents of Willow's skin and the earthy musk of her arousal, the flex-and-release pressure of Willow's thighs against Tara's hips, and the muscles of her belly.

Then Willow was back. "Uhn. No dreams. Just coming. And coming. And coming. Please." Her breath was heavy as they rocked together, Willow's fingernails raking the skin of Tara's back before settling once more on the small of her back and pulling Tara into her, in sync with the pulse of her need. After a moment, she chuckled, admonishing herself: "Wow, greedy much?"

Willow chuckled again. "Yeah, I've noticed. Guess that's why we're here, when I should be down the hall. I like it. Greedy looks really, really good on you. I wish I could see it. I mean, I know it in my mind's eye. I know the look you get. But I really, really want to see you, see the want, wanting me."

"I want you," Tara said in a voice that made it clear there could be no other truth. "Maybe you can't see me. But there are other ways I could show you how much."

With that, Tara bent her head and wrapped her lips around the tender flesh of Willow's breast. That got her attention. She writhed a bit, unsure about the contact. Then Tara drew Willow's nipple into her mouth, sucking gently though insistently and running her tongue with the same tender worship she'd shown Willow's mouth. Willow moaned, her breathing increasing. Tara loved sending her lover nonverbal. She could see the girl's head thrown back, the blue-white light bathing her throat a pale alabaster. Tara wanted to go there and bite…and suck, but her destination lay further south instead. She'd come back to that lovely throat a little later.

Still kissing Willow's breast, Tara tucked her hair behind her ear and moved a hand low across Willow's belly, lower, through the gathering of hair between Willow's legs. The move meant that Tara had to break the rhythm of Willow's rocking against her stomach. And in response Willow whimpered a small, "No," at the loss of contact. Tara felt the loss, as well, the air chilling Tara's belly where Willow had marked her with the wetness of her need. But the loss was fleeting. Tara had plans.

She drew her fingers into the wetness, tracing a line achingly slowly along this slim channel that begged to be run and entered and fucked lovingly, roughly, thoroughly. And God, Tara wanted to oblige. More than just oblige, actually. Tara wanted to make a statement, to fuck Willow in a way that laid claim to her, that moved heaven and earth and inscribed on Willow's flesh and very soul that she belonged to Tara.

Tara knew that's what Willow wanted. In perhaps not the same words – probably in more words, in fact – Willow was about to ask for just that. She moved quickly, before Willow could verbalize. She pulled away her hand and replaced it with her mouth.

"Oh," Willow uttered softly in response to the change. It took a moment to register what was different, and then she amended: "Uh, wow."

Tara knew what this could feel like. Perhaps she'd never quite been treated to it exactly the way she'd wanted. The boys she'd been with had agendas that were slightly different. They saw this type of kissing as a prelude to something more conventional. But ever since Tara had first made love to Willow, she'd had this in her mind: the notion of lavishing appropriate attention on this amazingly sensitive zone. She'd mulled it over repeatedly, thinking through what she'd like herself and then determined to show that to Willow.

She knew the tongue could be incredibly soft, that the lips and breath working in concert with such a clever organ could produce sensations more delicate and precise than any hand. She knew what the warm wetness of a kiss could bring to the wet and swollen flesh between her lover's legs.

What Tara didn't know were the feelings that being so close to the source of Willow's arousal would draw out in herself. The tastes and scents were intense, concentrated. They were alluring and absolutely compelling. This was Willow's body begging at its most base and animal level to be dealt with and satisfied. As Tara drew her tongue slowly, wetly along the length of Willow toward the little nerve center where Tara intended to concentrate, she watched Willow's alabaster skin move in response: the deep intake of breath that made her smooth chest rise, the arch of her back, the arms which reached back so she could curl her hands around the headboard. Tara could feel Willow's legs spread wider, her heels digging into the mattress, and the flexing of her thigh muscles as she tightened and released, moving her hips to gather in the sensations of Tara's kiss.

All of this excited Tara in a way that shocked her. With just her mouth, she completely owned this woman. Perhaps not in every sense of the word, but in every sense of this moment. Willow literally was hanging on the anticipation of what Tara's mouth was about to do. And Tara knew that Willow had little idea of what was coming.

She stilled her lips a moment, and then brought her tongue forward to flick softly, precisely. She wasn't yet sure how much pressure and direct attention Willow could take, so she paid close attention to her lover's reaction.

Willow flexed, throwing her head back and gasping a low, "Oh." Her hips rose to meet Tara's mouth. Ok, Tara thought, that's a good sign. She repeated the motion, this time a bit harder. Willow's vocalizations grew louder and her hips thrust forward against the pressure.

Willow gazed helplessly at the ceiling. "I'm fairly sure there's no way you can continue on your present course, which of course I wholeheartedly hope that you do, that I can guarantee anything short of a full-throated scream."

Tara smiled. "I'd really like that, baby. God, it would drive me crazy. Uh, it would drive the neighbors crazy, too."

She ducked back down to her task, running her tongue softly along the length of Willow's wetness, taking a moment to dip inside, just a taste – which earned her another gasp and a chuckle – and then finished her journey at her lover's swollen clitoris. There was no mistaking she'd found the right spot. It fairly begged her to take it in her mouth and suck. So she did. A loud moan from Willow was the response. Without releasing her hold, Tara snaked a long arm up Willow's torso in a quest to find her mouth – and put a clamp on it. She couldn't quite reach, but Willow got the hint and quieted down.

A sharp intake of breath and then Willow whispered: "God, what are you doing?" The question was part marvel, part ecstasy and part academic. Tara decided to answer her later. Right now she was intent on torture.

Which was working. Willow writhed as if the pressure were just on the barest reaches of "too much." Tara calibrated moment-by-moment as she watched her lover's face and felt her body react to each subtle variation. When she found just the right placement and pressure, she knew it from the way Willow's breathing synchronized with the movement of her hips and thighs. Tara sighed, a hum, against her lover's enflamed flesh. And then she introduced the next variable in her lovemaking equation. She drew a hand up from underneath her and deftly entered Willow, adding penetrating pressure to work the clitoris from both inside and out, rolling the length of it between her lips, tongue and fingers.

Ok, that got a much bigger response. Tara knew her hand couldn't reach Willow's mouth. So she grabbed a pillow from nearby and tossed it teasingly up to Willow's chest. Willow nodded her understanding, but instead of quieting down, she found her words. Tara decided this was less conspicuous than screaming, at least, so she kept her mouth and hands intent on her task.

"Maybe-maybe you could, uh, show me. Later. Not like diagram it out or anything…"

A little more pressure. Tara pulled her fingers hard from the inside and increased the urgency of the tempo she'd started there. She wanted Willow to feel this, to be absolutely beyond describing it, to let all of her energy and attention focus on this one small spot, this spot that Tara controlled entirely. She wanted to tear down Willow's natural tendency to rationalize and instead reduce her to muscle and skin, nerve and fluid, to feel her want for sex, and to surrender helplessly to it, to surrender to the fuck, to the all-consuming rutting and pumping of it so that it wouldn't matter if Donald walked in or the Furher himself or if the building were to fall down around them, but that Willow would be oblivious to it all-to anything but satisfying this brute drive to come. And come hard. Her body would carry her there, held aloft by the bidding of Tara's mouth and hand, the strength of her shoulders and arms, the strength of her desire to break Willow and rebuild her in a new knowledge of the world, a new knowledge of herself and of Tara, of the two of them as lovers. Tara wanted her to come. And come hard. She wanted Willow to experience orgasm as if understanding the shape and power of it for the first time. Not the polite kind of orgasm you have when you rub yourself to satisfaction. Not even the kind of orgasm they'd shared the other day, gazing into each other's eyes and experiencing what the French called "le petit morte," the little death, together, in a beautiful trust fall. She wanted Willow to experience orgasm as an entirely muscular thing, oblivious to Tara or herself or her surroundings, only aware of the powerful, intoxicating inevitability of the fucking: that savage, explosive release.

"Good girl," Tara thought, as she felt Willow stiffen and her muscles begin to clamp down hard on Tara's hand. She kept pumping into her lover.

"Please scream. Don't roar. How would I explain a roar?" Tara thought, knowing full well there was no way she was going to quiet Willow now. Her only option was to fabricate an explanation, which she was certain would be the far easier thing to do.

God, Willow was beautiful. Tara watched the long expanse of her body fairly glitter in the darkness. Her arms were outstretched, hands still wrapped around the headboard, her chest heaving with the laboring of her breathing, that beautiful throat needing biting, her nipples hard and wanting to be sucked, but Tara was too busy to do so. Willow's hips and thighs flexed and released, flexed and released in time with Tara's pumping hand.

"Come on, baby," Tara silently urged, bending even more vigorously to her task. She could tell Willow was high, that she'd need to find her bearings in order to know how to begin to come. Tara slowed her hand and lightened the pressure of her mouth, slowed the flicking of her tongue, and Willow's hips and thighs slowed with her. Willow took a deep breath, and then Tara felt the clenching and unclenching inside her, the first waves of orgasm beginning deep within her, before their effect could even reach her lover's mouth. Tara knew the sensation that Willow would be feeling: as if sand were slipping out from beneath her. She waited only a heartbeat and then built the pressure with her hand and mouth again, the furious teasing of her tongue. The clenching inside Willow grew more intense, until the girl's body stopped moving altogether, as she did, indeed, scream her release.

A beautiful sound. Willow had told her she didn't have a good singing voice, but Tara begged to differ. With a little practice…

"Come on, baby, move with me," Tara wanted to urge, as she felt Willow's orgasm roll from her in waves, but the girl remained rigid. Tara continued fucking, letting Willow ride as Tara did unto her. She knew how lovely it could feel to lay back and be fucked, and Tara wanted to give it to her.

And Willow did lay back and let Tara continue to give it to her, her legs still open wide and flexed hard as Tara fucked and Willow accepted it. Tara thought Willow might go back up, but finally the tightening of muscles inside Willow began to let go of their tension; the girl began to relax and her body was reduced to a series of spasms, which grew fewer and farther between. Only then did Tara release her mouth, gently kissing and running her tongue along Willow's swollen sex.

A knock at the door. And Donnie's concerned voice. He wanted to know if everything was all right. Tara was surprised his military training hadn't led him to just barge right in. Tara was even more surprised at how level and steady her own voice was. "It's ok, Donnie. She's just having bad dreams. But I've got her and she's ok."

That seemed to satisfy him because he did not barge in, and Tara climbed up her lover's body to suck those nipples, bite that throat and kiss that mouth. Willow wrapped her arms and legs around Tara, rocking her gently, savoring the afterglow of her orgasm. Tara basked in it with her for a while, until her own desire for release outweighed her desire for comfort. She wanted to fuck.

She drew Willow's thigh between her own legs and showed Willow how wet she was with wanting her. Willow's hands roamed along Tara's back to settle low. "My, god, baby, you're so beautiful," she uttered, as if to a goddess.

"I'm not done with you," Tara growled, biting Willow's throat again and eliciting a small whimper. Then, Tara's attention was drawn to the overpowering need to be fucking Willow. Right now.

Her hips started a rolling motion as if all on their own, hard, urgent, against Willow's increasingly wet thigh. With each thrust, Willow's hands pulled Tara to her.

"I want to be fucking you," Tara found herself whispering. "Inside you. I want to feel you. God, it feels like I'm fucking you."

She concentrated on that for a while: on the thought of each stroke, each thrust, pushing her inside Willow. She knew-or imagined-what that might feel like, enveloped in warmth and wet, fitting perfectly, deep, tight, Willow gently squeezing with muscles that contracted of their own accord, in sympathy with the motion of Tara entering and withdrawing. Tara grew dizzy at the power of her own imagination and the realization she really wanted Willow like that, to know Willow that deeply, and for Willow to absolutely understand the rhythm of her.

"I want you to come, baby. God you smell like sex. You're covered in me. Every inch of you. I want you. I want to feel you come. I want to hear it. Let go on me, baby."

"Can't. Sometimes…sometimes, god, I love this. I just want to fuck like this all night. Oh, god. Relax, relax, relax." Tara took deep breaths, keeping the motion going, but relaxing thigh and stomach muscles that were pulling the tautness inside her-the gathering tautness she knew that with just a few more pulls would absolutely unravel her.

Willow was on to her game. She commanded Tara's hips, rolling them into her, with each thrust. "I want to feel you come. Inside me. Can you feel me? I can feel you, and I know you want it. I know you want to let go. You can scream or growl or roar, and I don't give a fuck what anybody says or thinks. I just need you to. It's just you and me. Come, Tara. And then fuck me again. And come again. God, you make me so crazy. I want to feel you let go on me, in me. All of the above. I want you to come. I want to feel you inside me. I want to hold you there until you can't help it. God, you're so wet. You feel so good. Please, baby?"

Tara knew that the excitement she'd felt making love to Willow had aroused her completely. She didn't want to come. But it would be so easy. Like sand slipping out from beneath her feet, like water pouring, she could let her orgasm take her. God, it would be so easy. And then she let it. She gave a low groan, willing her voice not to rise, and let her orgasm pour from her its intensity and light, while the world and everything in it disappeared for a few moments, replaced only by flashes of gold and red and heat. She and Willow rocked together while the sensations slowly ebbed to a low throb. And then there was only the two of them locked together. Willow ran her hands through Tara's hair and kissed her sweetly-her brow, her cheeks, her lips. Tara caught her breath and nuzzled her lover, amazed at the way their bodies fit together so perfectly, at how they both seemed to know exactly what the other needed. And Tara became aware that she had another kind of need-this one not physical at all. She simply needed Willow, despite all the messiness and impossibility.

Tara collapsed into Willow, who continued to rock her gently. Willow's mouth was near her ear, and her breath tickled. "I love you," Willow whispered.

The whisper sent a jolt through Tara. She wasn't sure what to say in return, so she let kisses say for her what her words could not.

Spike woke in a foul mood. Far below him the street sounds of an average Berlin morning were stirring. He was naked in bed and spattered in blood. It was all over his sheets. Not that he was a total neatnick, but he really hated bringing his work home with him. And last night that work had to do with decommissioning and disposing of one of Buffy's girlfriends-or at least a girl in his beloved Buffy's beloved circle. So some of the blood came from that. And some belonged to Spike himself. And maybe some from that fucking preacher Caleb.

They'd gotten into a rotten tussle after he'd shot Jenny. Of course Caleb had heard the shot. Of course he came into the house and started inspecting Spike's work, the fucking wanker. Like Spike wasn't an expert in killing for nothing. He'd earned the right to dispatch his prey as he saw fit.

"What the fuck was that, Blood?" Caleb had demanded with a colorfulness of language that most preachers would not ordinarily use, at least in public.

"What the fuck was what?" Spike snarled. He had Jenny's blood on his shirt. Her blood traced a delicate spatter arc across the walls and window of the tiny kitchen, crimson speckles against white. It smelled metallic and meaty in the room. Spike had killed many times before, but not in such close quarters and not with such mental agonizing.

"Why the fuck didn't you just shoot her the minute you got in the apartment? It was her, right?"

"It was her. The Gypsy," Spike grumbled. "I – she was pretty. I just wanted to mess with her a bit."

"Great. Thinking with your cock." Again, not very preacherly. Had Caleb actually ever been a preacher?

Caleb gestured to the red incrimination etched across the walls, the windows, the table, and Spike. "What is this? Amateur night? All this blood and mess. Shall I get a bucket and brush and start washing down the walls? Is this sloppiness worth ‘chatting up a lady?' Is it worth the reputation of the SS? Do you want Good Germans fearing us? The SS should be heroes in their eyes. Not making them feel scared in their beds."

Spike turned on him, bumping Jenny's hip, as he maneuvered in the tight space. "Oh, what now? Like we're not butchers already? Everybody knows there's a Gestapo. We're like the great big pink elephant in the neighborhood that nobody will talk about. Everybody knows about us, and everybody knows we deal in death. So what if I decide to play a variation on a theme?"

Caleb stepped forward and flicked something off Spike's shirt. "Got some on you there, maybe?"

Caleb shoved him back. "Fuck you, Spike." He took a roundhouse swipe that connected with Spike's jaw. Spike hurtled back into a red-streaked wall, bumping Jenny to the floor."

Spike rubbed his jaw and scowled. "You stupid fuck. What was that for? I killed the bitch like we agreed. Let's finish the plan. Let's get the notebooks we came for. That Faith bitch said they'd be here."

Caleb turned on heel and headed for the other side of the house. "Get a bucket and mop and clean up your mess. I'll call backup and then get the notebooks."

Spike rubbed his jaw, still pissed. But he knew the notebook would make Caleb very happy. Lots of names, lovely names, in there. The names of all those beautiful young and stupid university students who were going to die one by one or in big groups. When they found the leaders, those lucky kids would be guillotined. To make a public point. The People's Press would be there, of course. All very maudlin and cautionary. It's always the young and stupid who are right and get punished for it.

After a while, Caleb came back into the kitchen to inspect Spike's progress. "Nice apron," Caleb smirked. "And I see you've bagged our girl. Thanks."

Spike punched his partner in the mouth. Caleb's lip came away bloody, but he chuckled an angry, mirthless little laugh. "You're not fooling me, Spike. Something about this girl made you soft. Am I right? Or, wait, was it hard she made you?"

"Save your attitude. I know, Spike," said Caleb with a malevolent gleam. Like he really did know. Spike's blood ran cold, and he fought to keep his face impassive.

"I know, Spike," Caleb repeated. "You've held onto that one's photo for a long time. Sleep with it under your pillow, maybe? And the little redhead, too? Why?"

The question hung there between them like soiled underwear dangled in front of Spike's nose. It was hard to meet Caleb's eyes.

Caleb continued: "There are hundreds of people we've rounded up. Lots of pretty women, lots of little girls. You've always been nothing but top of your game…until lately. Why didn't you just strangle the Gypsy bitch? Why didn't you beat her? Hell, even stab her and leave her to bleed to death in a nice, compact puddle? Or, if you couldn't do it properly, why didn't you whistle for me to come bail you out?" Caleb took out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke filled the tiny kitchen like a polluted blue fog. "Did you know her, Spike?"

Spike shook his head, honestly. But Caleb's guess was pretty damn close. Too close. For an evil and heartless bastard when did he get so damn sympathetic-or empathic? When did he start crawling inside Spike's head?

"You know what I'm asking. Are these two ladies Willow and Jenny just a bit too close to the skin for you?"

"I fucking shot the bitch's head off. What's soft about that?" Spike's voice raised in anger.

Caleb smiled smugly. "Why don't you fess up to me? You know there's no shame in knowing the people we arrest. It's a small enough city. Every now and then we're bound to be called upon to round up people we've known."

"She was pretty upset with me," Caleb chuckled. "But she refused to stop selling to the Jews. How hard can it be to comprehend the government's agenda here? The imperative to be done with them?" He took a long drag on the cigarette, speaking again on the blue exhale. "Anyway, she wasn't locked up for long. I sent her a Christmas present. We're good."

When he returned to his original topic, his voice was calm and smooth. "You need to tell me what you know about the girl Willow," he said. "Let's get her and get this business behind us. I don't want to fight. You and I, we've been partners a long time. We've got a lot more ahead of us. I'll let tonight's sloppiness pass. But I wanted you to know I noticed it. I don't ever want to feel like you're wavering on me. Fair enough?"

The words sounded reasonable, but Spike understood fully the menace behind them. Caleb would be watching him like a hawk for any wavering of allegiances. The next moment of weakness would be Spike's last.

So it was with a heaviness he woke this morning, the morning after, still bathed in the blood of one of Buffy's friends, readying himself to go kill the other one.

The morning light had crept into Tara's room, seeping in through the windows in its gradual way, sneaking inevitably upon them. Tara felt Willow stir beside her a moment before the girl sat up ramrod straight and scared.

Tara reached a warm hand and stroked the lovely expanse of Willow's back reassuringly. Ok, also appreciatively. The young woman's skin was unreasonably soft and smooth. It was sometimes hard to imagine that a creature so lovely had landed in Tara's lap. And all she wanted was more. None of this scared whispering.

Tara gently pulled Willow back to the warmth of her embrace. "Shhh. Donald doesn't come in here. And he won't go in your room. In fact, you're safer here with me than anywhere in the house."

Willow relaxed into her. "I feel safer here with you than anywhere, period. God, Tara, sometimes I wish I never had to leave."

"I have my job. It's important. I need the job," Willow mused aloud, chanting, almost as if talking to herself. "But I'm not just talking about the job." She paused to turn so that she was gazing earnestly into Tara's eyes. Tara didn't understand what Willow was trying to say. In fact, it was hard to concentrate at all with Willow looking at her like that.

"Riley will come back," Willow said. Tara made some move to protest, but Willow stilled her lips with a soft kiss and then gazed seriously again. "He will come back."

Tara knew that the gift Willow brought home to her each night was the most rare and precious thing Willow could give anyone. And she chose to bring that each night and lay it bravely at Tara's feet.

Willow silenced her with another kiss. "My name is Willow. I want you to call me Willow. It's – it's important to me that you do."

Tara stroked Willow's red hair, distracted by its softness. "Why not just go by the name Willow, then?"

"Just people I'm closest to. When I'm with you I'm just Willow. Out there, that girl is Wilma, girl reporter extraordinaire."

Willow smiled a lovely smile. "Something like that. More like nom de coeur, maybe. Willow is my heart."

Tara thought about that a moment. She knew exactly what that heart felt and sounded like. She knew the tempo of it when she slept and the tempo of it after she came. With a little mathematical extrapolation she could probably calculate its tempo after she climbed the stairs, or wandered around the apartment. She knew the sound of Willow's blood, the amazing scents and tastes of her, the warmth of her hands and the cold of her toes. She knew the sharpness of her mind. And the oddness of the connections it sometimes made. She knew her voice in whispers, in laughter and in passion. These were subtle nuances that nobody else knew about her. And Tara had been given the privilege of knowing all of them.

The newsroom was already abuzz before Willow arrived. There were rumblings that the SS were going to have a big day today. Official sources were sketchy, but Gruber had gotten a phone call at his home, and one by one he'd contacted the reporters to get them in early. Since Willow was a copy editor she didn't rate a call, but there was plenty for her to do and Gruber seemed genuinely happy to see her.

"Miss Hermann," he called, waving her over to his office. She grabbed her notepad and joined him.

"We're expecting some important calls from the SS today. I need you to stick close to the phones. Any information that comes in, you take it down and get it to me. Understood?"

Willow nodded. "Do we know what it is yet?" she asked, the energy of the newsroom infusing her with urgency. A good day for the Reich didn't necessarily mean a good day for her, but it was hard not to get swept up in the excitement of the work.

Willow took her seat and began reading over the stacks of copy already piling up on her desk. She made quick, clear editing marks as she went, cleaning up the text for the typesetters. She had a sharp eye and a quick mind for grammar. She liked all of these rules that tried to contain the unruliness of language.

The lack of sleep took its toll on her concentration. She rubbed tired eyes and decided to get a cup of coffee.

Tara set a plate of bread and cheese before Donnie and took a seat across from him at the small kitchen table. Two cups of coffee steamed between them. On the counter a third sat cold, where Willow had left hers long before the siblings had risen this morning. As she did every day, Willow had gotten up early and slipped out of the house for work.

"So," Donald said a bit brightly. Tara looked up expectantly while her brother took a sip of hot coffee and cleared his throat. "Wilma…She has bad dreams, then?"

Tara sat still, unsure of what to say exactly. It was true that she did, but Tara doubted that was what her brother was getting at.

Donnie's face reddened but he kept his tone light. "Didn't sound like her dream was that bad." He smiled.

Tara was confused. Donnie pressed on. "I've heard that sound before. Believe it or not. I mean I have children. I came by them somehow." Tara was still confused, but in a different way now.

"Is that ring hers?" He nodded at the metal band that seemed to mean less and less to her.

Tara nodded slowly. This wasn't the sort of thing most people talked about, and she wasn't sure what to say. Was he going to give her a piece of brotherly advice, as man of the family? Or maybe a sermon? Or would he make a joke of it?

She took a swallow of coffee waiting uncomfortably for him to say whatever he was going to say next. Donnie was contemplative. He sipped his coffee and regarded the ceiling for a moment.

"I expect things will straighten themselves out once Riley's back," he said, not unkindly. "It's got to be lonely just waiting. Lord knows I haven't been a perfect saint myself. Maybe that's just a family trait. I don't know. But Riley's a good man, and you're a good woman. You're so wonderful with my children. I know you'll be a wonderful mother. We're blessed to have such a good family."

It was the most effusive he'd been toward her in a long time. The soldierly veneer came down and he was human, acknowledging her humanness. It made her want to hug him for being so understanding about something that really was objectively a mess. What made her feel uncomfortable was the way he acknowledged and accepted in one breath that she and Willow were lovers and then rationalized it away the next as a lark, a bit of nothing that would be swept out of the house once Riley returned. His assessment wasn't unreasonable. Tara did want a family and a future the way she'd always imagined it. But her heart ached.

The conversation was done. What more was there to say that wouldn't tread into the unseemly? She didn't want to know his opinion of sex between two women. She didn't want to create an opportunity for him to be judgmental. And it seemed he didn't want those things either. They let the words hang between them, their meaning simple and clear. And troubling, at least for Tara.

Spike had gotten Tara's name off the mailbox downstairs the other day when he'd tailed her while she was out running errands. She'd opened the mailbox and retrieved some letters. He'd stood off in the shadows, lighting a cigarette and watching. A Good German like Tara-what need did she have to be careful? She didn't skulk around, watching her back. Come to think of it, she had a nice back. Shapely. Nice face. Long blond hair pulled back in a simple knot. It would be easy enough to step forward and loosen it; And it would be fun to see the tresses fall about her shoulders. But he trafficked in people who weren't Good Germans. The only women he touched were tainted. So for now, he'd been content to be a ghost.

Today was different. He had Caleb attached to his hip, a gun figuratively pressed into his ribs. It was time to play Big Bad. That was his job and he was on notice. He couldn't afford to be a softy today. The two men marched up the stairs of Tara's apartment building on a raiding mission.

Spike rapped on the door, using his Very Official Knock, the one meant to intimidate a bit, get the occupants hopping to the door. Like always, it worked.

Tara opened the door with some trepidation. She didn't like the sound of the knock, the aggressiveness of it. In the hall stood two gentlemen in long gray coats and gray hats. Their shoes were shiny black. They had an official air about them, despite their civilian attire. One was taller, square chinned with eyes so dark they might as well have been black. The shorter one was equally intense. His blue eyes regarded her with a flicker of warmth and then it was gone. Her nerves tingled, and not in a good way.

"Tara Maclay?" the smaller one asked, although it was clear he already knew he had the right person. Gestapo, she assumed. They made it their business to know things.

"I'm detective Blood and this is my partner Caleb. We're looking for a fugitive, and we have reason to believe you might know this person."

Tara shrugged and invited them inside, closing the door against the prying curiosity she knew such a scene would stir amongst her neighbors. The last time the SS had been here it was to arrest the Schraders across the hall. That had been the talk of the floor for a while. She assumed it was something similar this time. She was right, but not in a way she was prepared for.

Detective Blood pulled a photograph from his breast pocket. "We're looking for a Willow Rosenberg," he said flatly, watching Tara intently for her reaction.

Tara felt her body turn ice cold and her heart pound. There was no mistaking it. That was Willow. The surprise on her face gave her away, she was sure of it. Donnie came up behind her, dressed in his military captain's uniform. He'd heard the knock at the door. And he saw the picture the officer held in his hand.

The SS men seemed surprised to see a soldier with Tara. "This is m-my brother, Ca- Captain Donald Ma-Maclay," Tara stuttered. Damn that stutter!

She returned her gaze to the photograph of Willow smiling in the sunshine and felt a whole new worldview snap into place. This one not good or fair or honest or safe.

Tara nodded. "Yes, she's be-been staying here. But I-I know her by a di-different name-Wilma. She said her apartment had been bombed out in the last air raid."

"Her apartment was raided," Mr. Blood corrected. "We were taking a group of Gypsies and Jews into protective custody. This one got away."

Her mind worked at several things at once. Willow was a Jew. She was wanted by the Gestapo. And Tara knew that protective custody had nothing to do with protection. This was very serious. What was she willing to tell them? What could she not tell them? It took pretty much all she had to remain standing.

Donald spoke up from behind her. "Jewish? Are you sure?" He sounded extremely skeptical.

"Well," Donald continued, hotly. "She's a real charlatan, then, bringing such scandal into this household. I'm a captain in the Reich's army. And my sister's fiancé is as well. I assure you we would not knowingly harbor a Jew in our home. If you go back through your files you'll see that we're the family who turned in the Schraders from across the hall when we suspected them to be Jews."

"What in – information c-can we give you to-to aid in your investigation?" Tara asked.

Blood gazed at her squarely. "What name does she go by? And where can we find her?"

Donald continued to speak for them. Man of the house, of course. "The name she gave us was Wilma Eberhardt. Works at the phone company." Tara was shocked at the ease with which her brother lied.

Her heart sank. They intended to camp out and wait for Willow. Honestly, Tara didn't think she could take such a confrontation. She couldn't meet Willow at the door tonight only to deliver her to the SS men and watch them drag her away. Her mind played out the disturbing scenario so that she thought again that her legs might give out.

"I did. She was," he nodded. "But I threw her out…She…I'm sorry. This is very difficult for me to say…She made unseemly advances toward my sister. It caused much distress. This morning…" He stopped, uncomfortably, and then scraped up the words to continue. "This morning I discovered them in bed together. The woman you're looking for – that perverted thing seduced my sister."

Three sets of eyebrows shot up. Tara felt hot tears roll down her cheeks. She was helpless to stop them.

"My sister's fiancé is serving on the eastern Front right now. He's a very fine soldier. But I'm afraid he's left Tara very lonely. That lying wench clearly took advantage of her. First her kindness and then her person." Donald took a shaky breath. "I sincerely hope you do find her." Through his own emotion, he choked. "Let me know what I can do to help."

Mr. Blood gave Donald his card. "Do you mind if we search the apartment? As a matter of routine, of course?"

Donald shrugged. "Fine. If she left anything, I assure you it was in her haste to get away from me. I was pretty upset. You're welcome to any of it."

Tara sat numbly on the parlor couch while the men wandered purposefully through her home. Donald accompanied them. She felt utterly violated, and not only by the police.

Spike always kind of liked this part of an investigation: poking through people's houses, seeing how they lived, what they ate, what they read. He could see from the bookshelves that indeed Tara and her brother were Good Germans. Mein Kamphf sat next to a copy of The Bible. There was a healthy stack of The People's Press by the reading lamp. The kitchen was tidy, all the morning dishes put away, a bit of a lingering scent of coffee. Further back in the hallway were the bedrooms. It was still early enough that Tara hadn't yet gone around to straighten things up.

The first bedroom, he knew, belonged to her. The bed was a mess, a tangle of sheets, and the room was heavy with the scent of sex. And, yes, interestingly, the scent was decidedly female. Made him kind of wish he'd been there. Just a fly on the wall. Maybe more. They were very pretty girls, after all. Caleb was sucked into the room, too. The two of them and the brother stood staring at the bed, stupidly, really. The picture was clear enough. They were just breathing in the perfume. And dreaming.

Spike finally turned and led the party back to the hall. Next room was the brother's. One quick pass inside said it all. Smelled like a man's room. Shaving kit on the bureau. Socks and pants thrown about in typical manly fashion. It was clear that Captain Maclay was home for just a short leave.

The last room surprised him. It was a children's room. One of the siblings-probably the brother – had sons. Counting the beds, it seemed there were three or possibly four. The room was covered in dust, and it was cold and stale. Clearly the boys had been gone for a while. One of the beds had been turned down, and there were a few women's items laying about-a comb, a lipstick, a skirt. Miss Rosenberg had been staying here. But there wasn't much else. No suitcase or anything else that would indicate she actually lived in the apartment any more.

So far the story was panning out. As they made their way through the place, Caleb had been on hideout detail, opening closets, checking under beds and couches, kicking up carpets-all of the usual places you might find signs of hiding spots, or, if you were lucky, your fugitive. "The place is clean," Caleb said quietly.

They returned to the parlor where the sister sat looking miserable on the couch. Her face was beet red and her eyes red-rimmed. Everybody had learned some secrets today. And Miss Tara's were the most embarrassing of all. Spike's heart went out to her momentarily, and then he shoved the tenderness back down again. Tara wasn't off the hook yet. They'd have to tail her for a while longer to see if her lover came back. If Red had the nerve to screw a captain's sister in his own house, then she was clearly nervier than he might have thought from the doe-eyed photograph he carried. Now this Willow interested him.

Tara answered, her voice broken and defeated. Spike liked that. It suited her. "I sent them to the country to stay with their aunt after the November air raids." That seemed to track with the evidence.

"They're my boys. My wife is dead. Tara looks after them, since I'm away from home for long periods of time," Donald said.

"Why didn't you go with them out to the country where it's safer?" Caleb asked Tara.

She shrugged. "This is my home. I guess I thought they'd be back here by now. And they would have been except for the last air raid. Plus Riley was here with me part of the time."

"That's her fiancé," Donald added, helpfully. Oh, yeah, brother, nice opportunity to remind us your little sister is only a part-time lesbian.

Caleb and Spike left shortly after that, leaving the Maclays with the standard call- us-if-you-have-any-contact-or-information. On the street, they both lit cigarettes and compared notes.

"Good job, Blood," Caleb said as he puffed to light his cigarette in the wind. "We practically had her. How did you know she was staying there?"

Spike blew a stream of smoke out onto the wind. "I'd spotted her with a redhead a couple weeks ago. I couldn't see if it was our girl, but I got a good look at the blond. Came back a few times until I had a chance to follow her. I wasn't sure. Just a hunch, but it panned out. Lucky, I guess."

Spike chuckled. "Who'd have thought little Red would turn out to be a firecracker."

Caleb shook his head. "The damn Jews! The ones who are left are getting desperate. Seems like they'll do practically anything to ensure they get off the streets. Our girl Willow happened onto a very good thing. Who knows how long it might have gone on if the brother hadn't caught them."

Spike worked at being casual. "So where shall we be off to next? The phone company?"

Caleb nodded. "Just perfunctory, though. You and I both know she's not there and never was. Just more lies. But I guess it's on the way to our next stop."

"Back to the university. This is going to be a big day over there. Wouldn't want to miss it."

Tara couldn't have moved off the couch if she tried. She felt like the entirety of her had curled into a hard little ball. She'd stopped crying. Donnie was still standing in front of the door, staring at it as if he expected the SS men to return. Or as if he kept replaying their conversation in his head. Finally, he threw up his hands in disgust and paced back into the parlor. Tara waited for the other shoe to fall.

"Good God, Tara. I just lied to the Gestapo!" He was clearly agitated. He paced back and forth in front of her. "Do you understand what that means? If they ever find out I essentially aided and abetted a wanted criminal!"

He stopped short, staring at her like she was insane. "Tara, Wilma wasn't truthful with us. She put us in a very bad spot. But I don't want to see her dead. Which is what she'll be if they catch her."

For the second time today-or was it third-Donnie was surprising her. Basic human compassion was winning out over strict military training.

But his flexibility only went so far in this regard. He pointed a finger at her. "But. I meant what I said about her being out of here. I don't want to see her again. If I see her again, I'll turn her in myself. You call her up at work and tell her she's not welcome here. Or I will."

"And you understand, of course, that you can't see her again. You've got to break it off. If they catch you together again, you'll be as dead as she is. And, really, a little roll in the hay, no matter how good, isn't worth it. It's not worth your safety or your future. They'll be watching you. You don't know what the secret police are capable of. But I do."

Tara felt amazingly detached from her body. She didn't know how to absorb all that had happened. She was left mortified and scared by the visit from the detectives and unsafe knowing that they were watching her. Which meant the neighbors would be watching her. Which meant that anything strange she said or did would be likely to prompt a phone call to the authorities for suspicious behavior. That's if the authorities who would be watching her like a hawk didn't pick her up for something innocuous. Why did it seem like the whole world wanted to hurt each other? She felt angry at the times. She felt angry that Willow had endangered her without saying anything. Rationally, she understood why Willow felt like she couldn't tell her. But the dishonesty of it hung there, revealed and stark. She felt stupid for thinking that the two of them shared some rare connection that was completely real and honest and present. Tara should have been old enough to see through that, that people will do and say anything in bed like it's all make-believe. Maybe she thought with a woman it was different. Mostly, Tara felt unfathomably empty.

Donnie was in another room. He was angry with her for compromising the safety of the family. He knew she didn't mean to. He'd get over it. But for now he was mad. And she was mad at herself. What had started as a great day had turned black so quickly it made her head spin.

She picked up a discarded copy of The People's Press from the floor and searched inside for the office phone number. Damn that girl. Tara didn't know whether Willow was exceedingly clever and brave or exceedingly dumb and suicidal to be working for the Nazi newspaper.

She asked for Wilma Hermann and was placed on hold for what seemed like forever. Finally with a click a voice was there again.

There was a long pause as the girl on the other end of the line processed. Tara now understood that the hesitancy was fear that her identity had been found out. Then there was a relieved sigh as Willow apparently finished going through the short list of people who knew her by that name and recognized her voice.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you at work. I need to tell you something," Tara replied.

"Something as in good news or something as in a bad something…or a neutral oh-by-the- way something, maybe?"

A pause, followed by a shaky sigh. Tara pictured Willow sitting hunched over her desk, her forehead resting on her hand, trying to make herself small and quiet and quite possibly invisible.

"Oh, God, Tara. I'm so sorry. Are – are you all right? They – they didn't…"

Willow was silent on the other end of the line and then pressed again. "They didn't hurt you? Or – or threaten you or your brother?"

Tara thought of the stinging humiliation of the men pawing through her bedroom and what conclusions they came to. She struggled to keep the edge out of her voice. "No, they didn't threaten or hurt us. But you can't-"

"You ca-can't come back here," Tara said. "And they'll be wa – watching me, so…"

Another pause as they both sat a moment with the heaviness of it. Life had gotten impossibly harder.

Tara was almost insulted by that question, by Willow's lack of faith in her, her underestimation of Tara's humanity. "No."

"Are you going to kill me?" The question floated lightly, though its meaning was anything but.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean to drag you into this. It wasn't fair of me. I just-I just wish we'd have had more time. I know that's selfish. Everything's selfish. And stupid…" Tara could tell Willow was crying now.

"Shh, sweetie. Don't fall apart in the middle of the newsroom. You've got to keep it together. It's going to be all right." She wasn't sure of that last part, but it seemed like the only thing to say.

" Tara, I'd give-I'd give anything for more time. This can't be over. I just-It just was getting really good, you know?"

"I – I can't believe this is happening. I don't want to go. I don't want this to be it. This can't be it."

Tara was silent. She didn't know. Suddenly, she became aware of the finality which Willow seemed to have comprehended all along.

"I meant what I said earlier." Willow's voice dropped to a whisper: "I love you."

Tara couldn't find words. Willow sighed. Tara imagined her nervously running a hand through red hair. "I'm – I'm sorry…I – I should go. God, I'll miss you, Tara. I miss you." She chuckled ruefully, "I already do."

When the line went dead, Tara felt stung and floaty. She clung to the receiver a moment, as if doing so would preserve this link of metal wires that led directly from her to her lover. Former lover. She imagined Willow holding the phone on her end, as well.

Finally, Tara set the phone back in its cradle. Her life didn't feel any simpler.

Hans Gruber looked up from his desk and surveyed the newsroom. Reports were coming in from the universities that the government was rounding up more students and faculty members for traitorous activities. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling depressed. This time it wasn't just a handful. Days like this made him feel tired and raw. Then he spotted Wilma Hermann smoothing tears away from her eyes, looking like she was doing everything she could to hold it all together. His heart went out to her. He swiveled out of his chair and sauntered to his office door, calling to her.

The girl jolted in her chair as if she'd been shocked, locking eyes with him. She looked terrified. He motioned to her to come into his office. She rose slowly and marched as if expecting to be fired. Gruber was puzzled. He wasn't an expert in young women, but then with Miss Hermann he didn't need to be. She was an open book to him.

As she entered his office he invited her to take a seat. He went to his desk drawer and yanked it open, pulling out a revolver and dropping it heavily on his desk. The young woman jumped in fear.

"Settle, settle. I'm not going to shoot." He quirked a smile and reached into the desk drawer again and this time withdrew a bottle of gin which he set on the desk beside the gun. He raised his eyebrows in entreaty. "You look like you could use this."

"The revolver?" Miss Hermann quipped. He liked her. That brought the first smile to his face all day.

He set out two glasses and poured. One for him and one for her. He handed her the glass and then took a seat at his desk. He squinted at her a moment. There was something about her that he found very interesting. She wasn't like other girls in the office. She had a sharp mind and worked harder than just about anybody in the newsroom. Himself included. He felt a fatherly pride in her. As if he really wanted to see her succeed in life. But life these days seemed to be treating everyone hard.

He tipped back the drink and let the liquor slide down his throat, warming him. He eyed her carefully as she did the same. She held the glass out for a refill. He chuckled and obliged.

"I know why I'm in a bad mood today," he said carefully, "but I don't know why you're blue. Perhaps you could tell me."

Those pretty eyes were red-rimmed. And still they were pretty. She rubbed them again as if to erase the evidence of her tears. As she composed herself, he tried to guess what she'd say. Boyfriend problems. He had his money on that.

"A – a fight," she said, her voice small and shaky. "A bad one. It – caught me by surprise. I'm really sorry it's affecting my work today. I'm very interested in the stories about the student arrests. I'm really paying attention. I – I'm just-, I just…It's not a great day for me."

He smiled a fatherly smile, pleased that he'd guessed right. He could always read her.

"Your work is fine," Gruber dismissed her worries with a wave. "But you look like you could use a distraction."

The girl held up the glass. "Uh, this is a fairly, um, effective distraction. And I must say that for not being much of a drinker, I seem to have a glass growing out of my hand lately."

Touché. He chuckled again. He regarded her as she swallowed down the second glass of gin, her face contorting with the fire in her throat and bitterness on her tongue.

It was decided. "You're coming with me to dinner tonight. I'm meeting a few SS officers, and I think they'd like your company."

Miss Hermann shook her head. "I – I really appreciate the offer and the kindness, but I really feel like being alone tonight. And besides, I'm not dressed for it."

Donald was watching Tara closely. He didn't even try to conceal his scrutiny as they ate their meal across the table from each other in uncomfortable silence. Tara kept her head down. Over the course of the afternoon and evening his mood had darkened considerably. It took everything she had in her to ignore him and pretend that nothing had happened, that nothing from the day bothered her in the least, that it was back to life as usual-back to life before. She was a terrible liar, though.

A deep sigh and then Donald finally set in on her. "I'm closing up the house," he announced.

"You'll go out to the country and stay with Beth and the kids. It's safer outside the city. I should have sent you a long time ago."

Tara didn't think a 28-year-old woman deserved "sending." She could make her own decisions. She gazed at him ruefully.

"Don't give me that crap," he spat, as if she'd argued with him. As siblings, they didn't really need words to have a conversation. "You know I'm right. And if you refuse me I'll know it's because of her."

He proceeded as if she had taken the bait. "You're an engaged woman. You have a fiancé. You'll get married and start a family. It's time you stopped with these big-city notions. You've had plenty of time to play. I dare say you've had more time than I took before I started my own family and the obligations caught up with me as they will with you, too. You should thank me for being an understanding brother. But there's too much temptation here. I mean, that's fairly obvious. You can't deny that. There are too many opportunities to fall in with the wrong crowd, and it's not only disrespectful to your future husband, it's also dangerous to this family. Some time out at the farm will give you some perspective on this. I know you don't like what I'm saying now. But you'll understand the wisdom of it later."

She doubted that. Tara had never considered her brother particularly wise. Especially when it came to her. He had her pegged to a certain extent. She was a romantic, and she did have romantic notions about living in the big city. What he never understood was how wrong the farm felt to her, how stifling, how suffocating. That's why she'd chosen to send Donald's children to live with Beth while she risked bombs falling on her apartment to stay in Berlin. It had taken an extreme effort to go against her family's wishes and move here in the first place. She knew if she left now she'd be stuck there until the end of the war. And then she'd be Riley's wife-expected to follow him wherever he'd have them go next. Her chest tightened with the knowledge of her own future and how much suddenly she couldn't stand the thought of it.

Had one month with Willow dumped her world-view so upside down that she'd never be satisfied with the life she was expected to live? Four weeks had made one thing crystal clear: She didn't love Riley. Her heart ached instead for something much more dangerous- even deadly. A Jewish girl named Willow. It was all madness and passion and lust, given and received in equal measures. It was perfect, in fact. But it would never work. There was no family in a future with Willow. There was no comfortable home, with a cozy front porch. In fact, there was no future. There never could be one. Willow wouldn't be able to evade the Gestapo forever. They had her assumed name. They knew she went by the name Wilma. Willow was a very brave, very stupid girl whose time was running out.

His voice was quiet, taking her silence for acquiescence. "Everything will be right when Riley gets back. You'll see."

The house fell into a hush then, with just the sounds of scraping dishes as they continued to eat their dinner. The phone rang, making them both jump. Tara was closer, so she rose to answer it. She fought to keep her voice steady, succeeding more than she thought possible. It was Xander calling for Wilma.

"She – she wasn't at work when I tried her there. I really need to talk to her, to know she's safe."

Tara crafted her words carefully. She knew Donald was watching her. "Wilma's not here…Wh – why are you concerned about her safety?"

Xander paused, clearly trying to figure out how much to tell Tara, finally giving in to: "It's another friend of ours. She's dead, and I'm worried about Wilma."

There was shocked silence on the other end of the line, and then: "Shit! Please, no." He hung there a long moment. "Is she – did they – ?"

Tara's voice was harder than she intended. "Some detectives came by earlier today. I – I called her at work and gave her a heads-up." She paused. "She won't be coming back here."

Xander's tone grew more desperate. "Do you know where she intends to go? Did she say anything?"

She told me she loved me. Tara sighed. "She didn't tell me where she was going. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait for her to contact you."

Tara flicked a cautious look at her brother who was frowning. "They know her name is Willow Rosenberg. And they know she's going by the name Wilma."

Xander composed himself and then ventured a last question. "The detectives. Were their names Blood and Caleb?"

"They work in my department," Xander offered. Then he stopped, as if he'd realized he'd said too much, as if it just occurred to him that she might not be on Willow's side. And Xander's side. It clicked in Tara's mind at the same time that Xander was just as brave and stupid as Willow for working for the Nazis.

His voice was small and helpless. "Please, Tara. You must realize how bad a situation we're in. Please don't tell them anything. Or we don't have a chance."

"I – don't have anything else to tell them," she assured. In her estimation they already didn't have a chance. She wanted to wish him luck, but with Donald watching her, she had to play it neutral.

"Thanks, Tara…And I'm really very sorry I got you mixed up in all of this. Really, I am. You're too good a person to have done that to, and I'm sorry. It's – it's just that I need Willow. I love her. She's my family."

Tara felt hot tears want to come, but she forced them back. She said nothing. She didn't trust her voice.

The line went dead and Tara found herself holding the receiver a moment more for the second time today, wanting to prolong a connection that was severing and realizing it had been destined to sever all along. She just hadn't known it.

When she finally returned to the table, Donnie had a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Her friends are worried, now, eh?" he said. "Means the hounds are closing in. It won't be long, and all this will be behind us." He seemed relieved.

That was the mantra that seemed to revolve around and around Willow's mind all day since she'd received the phone call from Tara. That phone call. The terrible one that would resonate with all the devastation of an avalanche until her dying breath, which was probably not far away now. She glanced as casually as possible around the table of the restaurant and her head swam at the sight of the sea of officers' uniforms. All she could see were the outfits. The faces had all become a blur. She'd been fueled by adrenaline all day. Her head ached from the gin and her mouth felt cottony and sour. Gruber was her anchor, sitting to her side, chatting the Nazis up as natural as can be.

There were a couple of other women at the table. Wives or girlfriends, perhaps, of the officers. She was there as Gruber's date. Well, not a date, exactly, since he was her employer and old enough to be her father, and he seemed interested in her company as a father might. She told herself that again. It was better than thinking that he was leading her into a trap, that he'd figured out she was a Jew-or someone had told him-and he was just biding his time until he deposited her with one of these fine officers at the end of the evening. Or maybe he'd coerce her into a compromising position in order to retain her freedom. How far was she willing to go? What would she put on the line in order not to die?

She'd already put Tara on the line. That was why Tara had been so mad. She was scared. Understandable. Well, welcome to the Hellmouth. For a few days Tara would experience some of the fear Willow had felt practically every day of her life for the past five years, since neighbors had taken her parents away on what the Nazis later came to call The Night of Broken Glass, or Crystal Nacht-really too pretty a name for what should have been called Hate Night. She'd been 16. And in the space of a few hours, the years of politicking that she'd tried not to think too much about before the November 1938 riots settled firmly into her young mind. It became real in the way a verbal threat becomes real when it's followed by a punch to the gut.

So at 16, she understood the evil that stalked the streets of Berlin-and every hamlet in the nation-in a way that the gentiles never would. Because the seeds of darkness were held in their own hearts. People like Tara lived in a different Germany than Willow did. One that affirmed and celebrated their inherent superiority. Which was based solely on their race. Which was a load of baloney, if you looked at it objectively, with all the facts. Which the gentiles had no motivation to do, apparently. They were too busy being aggrandized-and loving every minute of it. After five or ten years of being told over and over that you were God's chosen people, the most magnificent people to ever walk the planet and that the Beautiful People could only maintain their status and purity by driving out all that was supposedly dirty, as if scrubbing the streets clean of disease germs living among them, people like Tara had been taught to think of people like Willow as the equivalent of gangrene. Conveniently, they didn't think about the disinfectant the government employed to wipe out the germs. And to try to reveal it, as Buffy and her student dissident friends had tried, was senseless. Because the Chosen, Beautiful People were too invested in seeing themselves as perfect to accept something so ugly. It made them want to rid themselves of those germs, too.

Even as she smiled at the officers now and made appropriate small talk, she was mentally slapping herself for letting herself sink so fully and comfortably into her life with Tara, into Tara herself. If Willow stepped back objectively she recognized her own folly. She could pretend to be a Chosen, Beautiful Person all she wanted. But she wasn't one. She was a germ. She was gangrene. Her worth as an individual was irrelevant. She was disease.

Tonight, sitting in a fine restaurant, surrounded by the sworn protectors of the Good Germans she'd foolishly assumed she could blend in with, she was filled with the reality that she couldn't. She never would. She bore her germ status just as surely as if she wore the Star of David on her chest, like she was supposed to. It filled her entire being because it was her entire experience. This-this was just farce. A few weeks of practice based on what she thought Nazis and their sympathizers were like. She was a terrible liar.

But tonight, she had to be a superb one. As if everything depended upon it. And it did. So she smiled and laughed and raised her wine glass in toasts that the men suggested in their merriment and engaged in yet another set-piece of normalcy that was part of the stage play of Wilma Hermann's life. Knowing that at the end of the evening the curtain would fall on her performance and she'd be out on the street, apparently, since her warm and loving home was wrecked. Yet again.

Funny how everything came back to Tara. All her mental ramblings led back to the one thing, the one huge lesson she had just learned: She loved Tara. She couldn't have steeled her heart and not have loved her. She'd risked everything to cross that line and taste joy. Their relationship hadn't required words. Words these days were hurtful, hateful little knives sharpened by evil men. Words were not to be trusted. Instead it was actions that spoke truth. Willow knew what Tara was saying with every kiss and every touch, and Willow had conversed with her in a similar tongue-a language built on touches, on physical and emotional openness, the small intimacies that couldn't be faked. What had sprung up for Willow was a knowledge of Tara's beauty that had nothing to do with her Aryan perfection but with her Willow perfection: They simply fit. If there was one thing she was sure of in this fucked-up world, it was that. But what she didn't know was whether Tara could set aside the hateful indoctrination of words and see the real language that flowed between them. And even if she could see it, feel it, crave it in the same way Willow did, would she risk her Chosen-one status to be a germ? To Willow it felt like there was no choice. She had to make every day count. She had to love and breathe and eat and drink and pack as much living in to her waking hours as she could. Tara had only to wait out the war. Tara had a whole life ahead of her. Willow's whole life was now.

Damn it, busy brain, stay on task. For a moment. she wished she could follow Xander's advice to let alcohol turn off her rapid internal multi-tasking and just focus on having a good time. In Tara's presence she'd been able to do that. It was trickier here to stay focused, what with all the mental untangling going on in her head. Willow-brain was a very busy place tonight.

She could tell by Gruber's glowing that she was doing a fine job. That reassured her a little. But she hoped he wouldn't try to be her friend. The veneer that was Wilma Hermann was far, far too thin to bear it.

At the end of the evening, Gruber gentlemanly offered to drive her home. She grew quiet. They were out on the street now, at his car, and he was asking where he could take her. She made up her mind quickly and gave him the address. She wasn't ready to give up everything just yet.

It was late, but Tara insisted on sitting up and reading the evening's edition of The People's Press. Donnie had gone off to bed with a few terse words about heading back to the Front the day after tomorrow. She'd offered to do his laundry. He'd made her agree to go to the country, though she'd got him to agree to let her stay in town for a short while longer to close up the house and put all their household affairs in order.

She couldn't fool herself. She wanted another chance to see Willow. That's why she insisted on staying. That's why she was reading the newspaper. That's why she sat up late, listening intently for familiar footsteps on the stairs. If the detectives had not come by today, Willow would already be here now. She would have arrived hours ago for dinner. They would have greeted each other in the darkened hall. Willow would have pulled something small from her pocket-a colorful rock? A paperweight from the newspaper office? A love poem? Tara was certain she would have kissed Willow there in the entryway. Not some chaste peck on the cheek. She would have drawn Willow in, holding her wind-chilled face in warm hands and kissed her gently, waiting for that moment when Willow's mouth would seemingly melt open, and they'd be simultaneously suffused with the longing and comfort of being inside each other.

Tara knew she wanted to watch that beautiful mouth as they ate dinner together, watch it later as they sat in the parlor talking about the news of the day-the funny bits and pieces, the silly observations, the interesting or unsettling conversations she'd had on the telephone as she interviewed news sources to check facts. And then, right about now, in fact, she'd be watching again as that mouth worked its way down Tara's body, setting it on fire.

Instead, she sat here under the glow of the floor lamp beside the chair, learning about the bits and pieces of the day from text, instead of from her source. She was having trouble imagining the funny parts that had gone on behind the scenes. She tossed the newspaper to the floor beside her and watched out the window instead. She wondered what Willow was doing right now.

Gruber's car pulled to a stop outside the tall apartment building. He cut the motor off. Willow flashed him a smile that made him smile back. But there was something in his eyes that said she wasn't fooling him. Damn. She was a really, really bad liar.

"I'd hoped that a night out would help get your mind off your worries," he said.

Willow's smile grew more sincere. "Actually, that was a nice dinner. Much nicer than I was going to have, for sure. And – and it was amazing meeting some of those men…They're the people who are shaping the nation. They're like mythological figures you only read about in the newspaper-our newspaper, of course. And there they were in the flesh, with wives and girlfriends and everyday interests, just like anybody else, you know?"

"Yes. I do know. I still feel amazed sometimes to be let into their inner circle. And I've been with them, reporting on all the major events from the very beginning."

"I kind of imagine it's hard to be both on the inside and be a newspaper man. You've got a pretty important job."

"So, not to be disrespectful or anything, but why invite me tonight? There's a whole newsroom full of reporters-guys with a lot more experience than I have…and – and a lot more responsibility. Shouldn't-shouldn't one of them been here instead?"

Gruber chuckled. "It's simple. I knew you'd really cherish the chance to meet these people. More than any of the others would."

Willow had to admit it made an impression on her she was sure the other newsroom hacks would not have had. She also understood he trusted her. And she really needed someone to trust her right now, even if she didn't deserve it.

Gruber nodded. "But now you need to go patch things up. Your fight from earlier?" He looked like he hoped he was getting the nuances right.

Willow smiled and looked up at the building. "Well, yeah. Though I'm not sure what's broken can be mended. We – we're in a pretty difficult place."

This was something he could do: He could impart fatherly wisdom. So he did: "You're young. With a few years you'll have a bit more perspective to know that life's too short to let wounds fester. Better to do something about it than worry about doing something about it."

With that she bid him goodnight and walked up to the front door of the building, taking the steps two at a time. She caught her breath gazing up at the tall wooden doors and then pushed her way through them and on toward the stairs. She took these two at a time for the first two flights and then had to slow down for the remaining three. She was winded by the time she hit the fifth floor, but walked on sure feet to the familiar door and knocked.

A moment later, it swung open to reveal a very surprised Xander. He grabbed her immediately into a tight bear-hug. "Oh my god, Willow! We were so worried about you. Where have you been?"

When Xander finally released her, Willow replied, "Oh, you know. Hanging with the Big Bad. I was out to dinner with a bunch of Hitler's muckies and my editor. Seriously. I think I'm going to have an aneurism over how stressful this day has been."

Xander rubbed her shoulder and led her to a seat on the couch. She felt amazingly relieved to be among friends.

"Yeah, we sort of heard from Tara that, well, you wore out your welcome over there."

Xander shook his head. "I was kinda phoning to check up on you and got an earful." He paused. "No, strike that. She was fairly tight-lipped, but my interrogation skills are excellent. I guess my job at the SS is finally rubbing off on me."

"I apologized for the both of us profusely," Xander said. "I think she'll get over it. Either that or she'll turn us all in."

"Speak for yourself," Buffy piped up. "This doo-doo is your doing. You're the ones who thought pretending to be Nazis was a great idea."

"Well, guess who else has been chumming it up with the fun-and-guts-loving Gestapo? Our own Miss Buffy Summers."

Willow suddenly noticed something different about Buffy's appearance. "What's up with the hat?"

Buffy removed the cap she'd been wearing, but no long blond hair tumbled down from beneath it. Willow's eyes widened as she aligned the image of the Buffy before her to the one she had known for years. "It's, uh, very Hitler Youth."

Xander chimed in. "It's got that tough-but-adorable thing going for it. Not everyone can pull it off."

"It's way bad," Buffy repeated, pulling the cap back down over her head. "How am I going to get a boyfriend looking like, well, a boy?"

"Oh, men will still notice you-just not the kind of men you want to go out with," Xander teased.

Buffy nodded. "That's the idea. It was Xander's idea, anyway. I have the whole uniform. Cute shorts, suspenders, tie…"

Xander rose to his feet. "Long, long story, Will. And not much of the good, I'm afraid. So I'll just go and make a pot of coffee and we can settle in for a thorough catch-up."

While Xander was out of the room, Buffy came to sit across from Willow. She leaned in close, her eyes serious. "The other day, the student arrests-or the first wave of them anyway? I almost got picked up," she said. "And by picked up, I mean as in firing squad on the quad."

"I – I looked for your name. At the newsroom. A source called in and gave me your name. And a few others. You know, to print in the newspaper. I kind of, well, I kind of butchered it. I think I referred to you as Betty something."

Buffy laughed out loud. "No way! I read the story and was seriously wondering who those people were. I'd never heard of any of them."

"I just thought that you and the others and everybody deserved, you know, another chance. Plus abuse of power? Very heady stuff. I could get used to it."

"The detective who asked for my papers. I knew him," she said. "He pulled a Willow and purposely butchered my name in front of his detective partner. He saved my life. But the other guy's seen me. And I think now with the second wave of arrests, pretty much everybody who goes to Humboldt is going to be more than ready to sell me out. Did I mention the firing squad on the quad? Killing your classmates on campus tends to freak people out."

Willow grabbed Buffy's cap. "Let me see your hair, silly," she said gently. Buffy's blond hair fell in a lock across her forehead. Willow reached out to tuck it behind her friend's ear and brushed her fingers through the bristle of the shear-cut swath that ran from Buffy's temples to her neck. It was soft as velvet.

"Wow," Willow breathed. "You could be your own brother. I mean, if you had a brother. Which you don't, but, wow."

Buffy pushed Willow's hands away with a self-conscious laugh. "Stop looking at me that way."

"Xander did it all. Cut my hair, got me my cool new uniform and my cool new coat."

"I could do you, too, Will," Xander said breezily as he came back into the room. He was clearly smug about his craftiness. "It would be like Xander's Youth Troop. Me in my big uniform. The two of you in your little uniforms. I have so much to teach you."

"No thanks," Willow said. "I mean, not that it's not a good look, because on Buffy it's definitely a good look. Well, actually, it's wrong. Really wrong. But in a good way, if that makes sense. But I think I'd rather keep working in the newsroom instead of, well, being the newspaper delivery boy. The pay is better. I – I can get my own place." She looked helplessly at Buffy. "You could live with me. You'd be my nephew or something like that."

Buffy dismissed the notion with a flick of her wrist. "Like I'd let you be the boss of me."

"Not loving that, either." Buffy heaved a boyish sigh. It was cute. "I'm not loving any of it."

Xander grinned, trying to keep it all together. "Ladies. Life on the old Hellmouth right now is pretty much a suckfest. Buffy's going to stay with me. She's my nephew." He pointed at Willow who'd made a move to argue over that. "Willow, you don't even have a place to live right now. Really. Little Buffy needs more stability than that, all right? And, Buffy, if you'd like to earn some extra cash to help out around the Harris household maybe you could take Aunt Wilma up on that paper route job."

"Fuck this." Buffy was on her feet pacing the small apartment. "God, I can't even laugh about it right now."

The three of them fell into silence. The coffee began to percolate on the stove. The clock on the wall showed that it was nearly midnight.

"So Tara's really pissed at you?" Buffy finally asked, her back turned as she gazed out the window.

"The detectives have a photograph of you," Buffy said, without turning. "They showed me. It was a nice shot, really."

"That's bad. They know what I look like and they know I'm going by the name Wilma. Looks like I'm screwed." But the part that really stung was the part where she'd disappointed Tara. Everything comes back to Tara. Willow shook her head and asked if the coffee was done. She needed sleep, but doubted it would come anyway. Xander moved quietly back to the kitchen.

"The detectives, the ones who approached me, the ones who went to Tara's apartment, they…" Buffy struggled to find words. Willow watched her friend's back with growing worry and impatience. "They found Jenny."

The words hung there until Willow couldn't stand the very shape of them. "God!" she shouted. "Will this hell never end? Everything we do, everything we touch, it's just…This detective saved you but he's gunning for me, like he was gunning for Jenny?" Willow was aware her tone was accusatory. She couldn't help it. She was choking on tears.

"I know," Buffy said grimly. "It helps that I know him. But, unfortunately only up to a point. He has a job to do."

"Why can't he misplace a couple of files, like Xander does? Sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean it to sound like you're not a conscientious worker…Couldn't your friend, you know, misplace my photo? Or maybe get bored and move on to somebody else? Can't you talk to him?"

"I can try. But I've never had a direct conversation about you or Jenny or Xander or my family or anybody. I just don't know how much he can do. Good news is that the SS is tied up with rounding up student baddies, and they'll be tailing Tara, of course, for a while."

"I'm not going to see her again, am I?" It was the same question she'd asked rhetorically earlier on the phone with Tara and it was just as doubtful now as it was then, if not more so.

Xander patted Willow's knee. "That's the least of your worries. In fact, it's good. Let them follow her. She's a Good German. She'll be fine. It's not like you two have that much in common. Unless your plan is to marry some soldier friend of Riley's."

Wow. So wrong. But Willow couldn't bring herself to say more on the subject of Tara. It was too raw and too complicated. And too depressing. Instead she turned to Buffy. "So what do my Gestapo stalkers look like?"

Willow shot Xander an indignant look, growing increasingly flustered. "You know these people, too? And you can't find a way to somehow-I don't know-lose a file, or something like that?"

Buffy jumped in. "Down, Will. We're all just figuring this out as we go here. And with all three of us in a room together, we have a lot more information than we had a couple of hours ago. The three of us here in the same room? This is of the good. Lots to be thankful for."

Willow frowned. Damn. If Tara were here the picture would be even more complete. It would all be more complete. Everything kept coming back to Tara.

"I call dibs on the couch," Willow said, heavily, leaving Buffy and Xander to fight over the bed and the floor.

Tara stood outside the SS building, looking up at the heavy stone façade, her stomach doing flip-flops. She wasn't doing anything wrong. Well, except she'd lied to Donnie about where she was going. And the thought of being watched by the secret police made her more than a little paranoid. But she sucked up her courage and followed through on her plan.

She walked into the building and headed straight for the front desk. She asked what floor she could find Detective Blood on. Third. She took a deep breath and headed for the stairs. As she entered the third floor foyer her eyes quickly scanned the room. She let out her breath in relief when she spotted the man she'd come to see. She walked quickly to his desk and stood a moment, waiting for him to look up.

Wow. Xander looked up from his file to find Tara Maclay standing before him. She wore a smart-looking suit under a fur-trimmed wool overcoat. She'd removed her hat. She looked more than presentable. She was easily the most beautiful woman to walk onto the third floor in all his time working here. He was struck speechless. And then his brain finally registered the statement she'd given, the one that made him look up in the first place.

"For Detective Blood, actually," she said, but her eyes flashed something else. That wasn't the whole truth.

She raised her arm to reveal a small suitcase. "I thought the authorities should have Wilma Hermann's property-what she'd left at my apartment, in any case. This is everything. I thought – thought maybe you'd fi-find something helpful among her things. And – and I don't expect her to come ba-back for them. I'm leaving them with you. I – I trust you'll know what to do with them."

Xander stared at her dumbstruck, unable to tell for certain what side she stood on. He came around the desk and reached out for the suitcase she offered. "I'll make sure Detective Blood gets this," he assured with an uncertain smile, his heart pounding.

As he accepted the handle, though, he noticed something papery wrapped around its grip. He smiled politely, ignoring it for now.

"Is – is there anything else official that I need to do?" Tara asked, and Xander wasn't sure what she meant. Was she wanting to do everything by-the-book to avoid becoming further ensnared in The Wilma Hermann Experience?

Xander grinned. "I – I think that about does it. I'll make sure Blood sees this. Thank you for being so thoughtful to help us." He paused a moment and she gazed at him expectantly. Oh! He reached onto his desk for a card and quickly jotted down his phone numbers-office and home. He handed the card to her with a quick, "Call me if there's anything you need, or if you come across anything else that might be…helpful."

She accepted the card with a smile. Guess he'd guessed right. "Thank you," she said. Her eyes were warm and relaxed now. She nodded, reluctantly, it seemed, before turning and walking out the way she'd come. Xander watched her go, thinking again how lovely she was. Once she'd disappeared down the stairs, he placed the case behind his desk and unraveled the paper from the handle. It was a small envelope addressed, simply: "Willow."

Xander mused at that. Tara should have addressed it to "Wilma"-right? Even if the agents had told her Willow's real name, Wilma was the woman Tara knew, right? Or did Tara know Willow? And if so, how…and what did that mean? He carefully folded the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket.

On the way home on the bus, Tara watched out the window, her mind a mess. She was noticing new things. Not just the earliest indications that spring was just around the corner. She noticed a police van parked outside a brownstone and officers escorting a family into it. Was it just a coincidence that she was noticing this today? Had she passed by other similar scenes in the past and not noticed? As the bus clambered by the train yards, she looked at the trains sitting at the station as if for the first time. Every German knew that the police used the trains to transport prisoners to work camps. She watched now, wondering which trains might hold passengers bound for the countryside or Munich and which might be headed someplace considerably more grim. She knew the government must rely on this type of labor to help with the war effort. It was helpful to the nation. But she also had to stop and think about the human toll, to have so many people relocated to these internment camps, where they gave up their worldly possessions and status to be laborers. Were the Schragenheims from across the hall working at just such a camp? She thought about Mrs. Schragenheim, with her arthritic hip and wondered how useful she'd be as a laborer. Her mind would allow her to go no further than that.

She watched everyday people walking along the streets, shopping, working, going about their everyday business. She knew each of them must, as she did, wish every day that the war was over and that the nation could rebuild, that they could share in the prosperity of making a better Germany and a more cohesive Europe. Would things really turn out so rosy in the end? It seemed she was only beginning to appreciate a new level of sacrifice being made to ensure this future: not only were good men like Riley and her brother on the line, and not only did every German citizen have to "do without" in order to save resources for the war. But also now the liberties of the people were being sacrificed. Those of the Jews were the most obvious, of course. But now there was also the liberty of speaking out against the war, which was causing a severe backlash at the universities. Someone on the bus today whispered that the arrests had spread now to universities in Munich. Tara herself was under suspicion and surveillance for actions she'd had no knowledge of. She craned her neck to look at the faces of the other people on the bus. The woman with the crying baby. The young soldier with a duffel bag over his shoulder. The older couple sitting primly, their mouths set in straight lines. Were any of these people under the employ of the SS and tasked with following Tara?

She decided she didn't care. Or at least she'd not let it cow her into fear. If she was being followed, then fine. She'd show them what an everyday German woman did every day.

Spike heaved an enormous sigh. Tara Maclay was a pretty but very boring woman. Aside from that thing with Red, of course. Which, now that he thought of it, put a smile on his lips. You just never can tell a book by its cover.

He'd picked up Tara's trail after she'd left SS headquarters. The Harris boy had brought the suitcase in to him. The one that Miss Maclay had been so kind to drop off. He'd invited Harris to stay while he checked out its contents. Of course, he was just yanking the boy's chain. He knew that Red was his friend. Maybe even his girlfriend (though a pretty shitty one, if that were true). So he'd made a great show of inspecting the goods.

"Step up, sonny, and let me show you how the pros go about their investigations." Spike knew that Xander would be helpless to leave. He'd want to know what Tara had packed in Red's suitcase. Hell, Spike kind of wanted to know, too, and not in a strictly professional sense.

"Don't I wish," Spike had huffed. "Or, on the other hand, that would depend upon the lady. This lady? Yes."

Xander feigned detachment. "Yeah? Why's that?" For a Jewish sympathizer working for the SS, Harris was a rotten liar. Or maybe just when it came to his chums.

"Well, she's pretty, for one. Miss Maclay, I'm talking about." Spike popped open the clasps on the case and opened the lid. "And her lesbian lover Red, too."

Harris visibly paled and seemed to have some difficulty wrapping his tongue around the word: "Uh, le-lesbian, you say?"

Spike smirked. "Yep. As in girl-on-girl. Miss Maclay's brother claims he busted in on them. Says he was pretty shocked, actually. Ever know someone who was, well, like that?"

In the meantime, Xander seemed to be turning the concept over and over in his head without it all adding up. "The lady who dropped off the suitcase. You're saying she's a lesbian?"

Spike shrugged. "Part-time one, anyway. Seems she's engaged to an army officer. So there's probably still some hope for her. Plus, she was mightily embarrassed when we questioned her about it. She has quite a cute little blush when she's flustered."

"Well, enough chit-chat. Let's see what Miss Tara has packed here for Fugitive Red." He shot Xander a sidelong glance. "Ever looked inside a lesbian's suitcase?"

Xander shrugged. "Uh, until today I didn't know there was such a thing. Seems like there's a word for everything. And a thing for every word. Go figure."

Yep, young Mr. Harris blushed when he was flustered, too, Spike noticed. He turned the case around on the desk so they both could examine its contents. Spike bit back a grin as his finger caught the waistband of a pair of women's panties. He spun them on his finger a moment or two, appreciatively of course, and then put them down. He ran his hands through the rest of the items there. A couple of nice-looking suits. A few other undergarments, and a very pretty black lace dress.

Spike fully expected Harris to deck him on that one. He could tell the boy was upset. But he kept his cool, saying lightly, "I'll, uh, just leave you here to your laundry sorting. Thanks for the teaching moment. I learned a lot. And now I've got to get back to my desk."

Spike let out a sigh and shoved the suitcase across the desk at him. "Here. Take it. I'm done. There's nothing here. Dispose of it in the usual way," Spike said. But at the last moment he'd grabbed the pair of panties back. "I think I'll keep these as a souvenir," he chuckled, spinning them on his finger again before tucking them in his breast pocket where the lace of them stuck out like a fancy handkerchief.

Xander's eyes were filled with anger, horror and disgust, and he took the suitcase with no comment. The little chummy smile he tried to give fell flat. Spike chuckled inwardly. He'd have to remember to invite Harris over for poker some time.

Xander took the stairs slowly. It wasn't that the suitcase was heavy. It wasn't. Willow owned next to nothing. But he was still fuming over Detective Blood's torture. Of course, Blood had no idea Xander knew the ladies whose honor he was wiping his boots on. He was just being the same evil pig he always was. But then, Xander also now had a rather personal thing he wasn't sure he wanted to know about Willow. Or that Willow would want him to know. Because if she wanted him to know, she'd say something about it, right? In fact, he wouldn't have believed Blood's story at all, if it weren't for the little Willow-addressed letter Tara had passed to him. That had made it all click into place. If there were something important, she'd tell him. He and Buffy and Willow had no secrets, right? The three of them were on the inside of the circle and everyone else was on the outside. That's why they relied on each other and risked for each other, right?

He composed himself and then opened the door to find Buffy and Willow enacting a warm family tableau in his bachelor apartment. Buffy had on an apron (Where did she find that? Xander didn't even know he'd had one). She seemed to be actually cooking something in the kitchen. He'd never imagined her cooking. There wasn't much about her that had ever screamed domesticity. And the teen cross-dresser look just made it seem all the more incongruous.

"You look like I should give you some kind of Scout merit badge. Maybe for science," Xander quipped. Buffy gave him a playful scowl.

"It just so happens I do on occasion cook things," she retorted. "I'm just not sure what it is I'm cooking yet."

"My guess is chicken," Willow piped up from the table where she was hunched over a stack of textbooks. "She's been at it a while. And, well, it smells kind of chickeny."

"I didn't know I had a chicken. Of course, I didn't know I had an apron, either, so maybe you happened upon both of them in the same drawer."

"No drawer," Buffy chirped. "Auntie Willow took me to the butcher shop. And now, what a good auntie, she's helping me with my homework."

Xander put down the suitcase by the door. "Homework? Like a wanted political fugitive can turn in homework assignments?"

Willow looked up sheepishly. "Nah, it's just me. I needed something to do to keep my mind off, well, other things. And, hey, I'm all about doing homework that never gets turned in. The whole learning for learning's sake thing?"

Xander took a seat at the table across from Willow and pulled the little envelope from his coat pocket. His voice was gentle. "Uh, Tara dropped by my office today."

"She brought your suitcase…and this." He slid the envelope across the table and watched her expression brighten at the loopy letters that spelled her name.

"She – she brought you my suitcase? As in she walked right into SS headquarters and gave it to you?"

"Up three flights of stairs, and yes." Xander smiled. "I had to let the detective take a look inside the suitcase-you know, for clues or whatever. But then I was told to dispose of it in the usual manner, which I took to mean I could bring it home to you." He decided to omit the part about Spike keeping a pair of her panties. He'd felt violated enough just watching the bastard go through her things. He couldn't imagine how Willow, the owner of said things, would take that nasty bit of…nasty.

"She gave me the letter separately. I haven't opened it. It was addressed to you."

She smiled thoughtfully and nodded. "So it is." She fumbled with it nervously, as if she were afraid to open it. Or felt awkward opening it. "How did she…? I mean was she…okay?"

Xander nodded. "She was fine. She really looked great. Walked in like she owned the place. Not nervous at all-well, except for the nervous stutter. But then that's just part of her charm. She took my home phone number. Maybe she'll call."

Their eyes met in kind of a quiet understanding. He wanted her to know he knew and that it was okay. He rubbed her hand affectionately and rose to his feet. "I think I'll go see what chickeny dish the young master is preparing for dinner." With that, he left Willow to herself. And her letter.

The last letter Willow received had been Buffy's mom kicking her out of their house. So her heart pounded wondering what this one might contain. There were any number of reasons that might have spurred Tara to write. For example, maybe she needed to rationalize to herself why it was for the best that she and Willow be apart. Or – or maybe she wanted closure, or whatever. A more formal and wordy good-bye than was possible during their brief telephone exchange. Then there was the possibility she'd say that what had happened between them was a fluke-hopefully of the nice variety, as opposed to something hellfire-and-brimstoney-and that this was the sort of thing they'd both get over. God, she'd die if Tara went on about Riley and how she'd suck it up and marry him and be happy about it, too. Maybe she'd try-and fail-to be more sensitive by suggesting Willow look for some other girl who was more like her and shared more of the same interests. You know, like, survival? Or maybe she'd make Willow's stomach tie in knots by saying that she missed her. Yeah, longing was probably the worst thing Tara could express. Because that would just fuel hope for something hopeless. Willow felt her face redden. There was no way this could turn out good.

Xander tipped his head out of the kitchen. "Will. You're over-thinking again. Just open the thing."

"It's – it's what I do: I think. I'm an over-thinker. And I kinda think I'm going to die."

"Get the squirrels in your attic off the treadmill and open it. Tara cares about you. How bad could it be?"

"…which I so totally did not rifle through or even touch…and, uh, now I'm going to shut up."

What she didn't know was that this was only one of two letters Tara had written and sent this day.

A letter from Riley had arrived in the morning mail. Donnie had pulled it from the mailbox with a smile and deposited it on the table before Tara.

"A letter from your future husband," he said a bit too chipperly, she thought. She'd be glad when he was gone. Which was a terrible thought, considering that meant she wished him to go back to the eastern Front, which she certainly did not: She just didn't want to be here with him. It was too hard. They were quickly accumulating animosity between them.

She took the letter to her bedroom and climbed up onto the bed. She hadn't changed the sheets. On purpose. She wanted Willow around her-or at least something of Willow around her-and especially now as she read the letter. She slipped her fingernail under the flap and pulled the letter out. It was relatively short. She smiled as she recognized Riley's handwriting.

"I'm writing for two reasons. First, I feel the need to say how sorry I am about the way we parted. You are my lifeline, my everything when I am out here. I feel so far away from anything human or safe or kind or civilized, and it helps immeasurably knowing you're at home where everything is familiar and normal. It helps me to know that you're carrying on with everyday living when everything here is so surreal and frightening. You are my rock. I love you. You're the bright and shining future I hold on to. You're the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing I think of when I go to sleep. I'm sorry to be away so long and that you worry so much about me.

That's why my second piece of news should brighten your spirits a bit. I've been transferred to a new post. Instead of fighting on the Front Line (guess I'm being rewarded for serving my time here), I'm headed for an administrative post at Ravensbruck. It's a concentration camp for women prisoners of war and their children. Mostly gypsies and Jews. It's not too far north of Berlin. So I'm hopeful that from time to time I'll be able to make it back to Berlin for short visits. And you won't have to worry about me being in the line of fire. I'm headed there immediately, and I'll write again soon. Take care. I love you.

Tara fixed her gaze out the window, trying to imagine what it could mean that Riley was coming off the Front and closer to home. She felt immense relief. She'd always feared the worst for him, and now he'd be out of danger. Ravensbruck sounded like a much better place. She didn't know much about the camps. Germans tended not to think too much about them. She knew there were many, and that for the most part they were collection points for captured enemies who were put to work to support the German war effort. She imagined they were hard places to be-difficult to keep peace and order-but she had never heard or read anything else about places like that, so it was hard to picture what his new job would be like. That Riley was going to be an administrator at a women's camp gave her some hope. He'd be safer. It would be easier for him. He deserved that.

But what did it mean that he'd be closer to home? She looked around her room as if looking at it for the first time. She'd be leaving in a few days-a week tops, maybe. She'd close up these rooms, and along with them her life here. Riley and Willow. A chapter ending? A new one beginning?

She went to her dresser and retrieved some writing paper and a pen and went to her desk.

I'm extremely relieved to hear you've been transferred someplace much safer. I know I'll sleep better at night not worrying about you out there. Please see what you can do to get my brother transferred there with you! I know it's not as easy as that, but I worry about him, too. He's been here the last few days home on leave. We've discussed closing up the house and having me go out to the country to stay with Beth until things cool down here. So it may take a while for your next letter to reach me if you've addressed it here. I'll be sure to leave instructions for the mail to be forwarded.

I know you love me. It's good to hear you say it. And I'm sorry, too, for how we left things. Sometimes I just get angry at having so little of you. I think I took that out on you. I hope it wasn't too much of a burden on your mind. I want you focused on keeping your head down. Don't let thoughts of me distract you from what's important. I love you.

The things she wanted to say to Willow she had no words for. Or perhaps that wasn't entirely true, because she'd said some of them aloud. The rest, though, existed more in muscle memory and impulse, in touches both sweet and urgent, in scents and tastes and in sounds decidedly nonverbal. She felt a heat rise in her cheeks as she stared at the page, letting her defenses down gradually, shyly, as if a button at a time. The things she wanted to say were there, just beneath her skin. If only she could will them to flow through ink the way they naturally did through her blood.

You've been gone for only hours and it seems like forever. I can't stand it. I'm sitting here in my bedroom and it feels like our bedroom. It is our bedroom, and I'm wishing you were here. I hope you don't mind that I'm keeping the slip you wore the other night. In return, I'm sending you something of mine to wear.

And this is either the most foolish thing in the world or the bravest. But I love you. I need to find a way to see you.

You're not going to like this next bit: Donald is making me close up the house and go out to the country. I've convinced him to let me stay a week or so before I go. You'd said something once about wanting to ride horses? Maybe there's some way you could visit. I don't know how. And please-though you're clever enough to find some way out there-don't come if it's too much of a risk. I can travel more easily back and forth.

My brain is going over a hundred different plans for how to make this work. I don't know if it can. But it's all I can think about. You're all that I can think about. I have to know what this is. I can't lose you. I only just found you. My need of you…it staggers me.

Willow's heart was pounding. She'd sat holding Tara's letter for what seemed like a half hour. She'd read and re-read the thing, absorbing everything about it: the words, the loveliness of Tara's handwriting, imagining Tara sitting in her bedroom writing the thing, imagining what she must have been thinking when she wrote it, what she must be feeling now, wondering what she was doing right now. It was past 9 p.m. Dinner was over and she and Donnie would be reading the paper, right? And, mostly, she was near exploding at the thought that Tara wanted her in the same way she wanted Tara. This was all something marvelous and new, and, yes, she'd ride a damn horse if she had to just to be near her. In fact, she'd risk very much. In fact, if Xander and Buffy weren't here right now she'd slip out the door and over to Tara's – and damn the secret police, anyway. In fact, she could wait until her friends were sleeping and slip out then. She'd keep to the shadows. She'd wear a dark coat and hat…Thoughts like these kept tumbling in her mind. Each plan more outlandish than the previous one. She even contemplated borrowing Buffy's Hitler Youth costume, except it was bedtime for all the little junior stormtroopers…She dropped her head in her hands, frustrated with the intensity of wanting to be there instead of here.

Buffy bustled into the room and stopped short. "Oh, no," she breathed, her eyes like saucers. "Who died?"

Willow looked up and met a gaze that was absolutely serious and absolutely terrified. Of course, it was the first conclusion any of them would jump to at the sight of emotion. She laughed. It started as a chuckle and then grew. Buffy relaxed and joined in. The tension they'd been holding, trying to keep their shit together with first Giles's and then Jenny's deaths, slowly released. Their laughter was the equivalent of whistling past the graveyard.

"So you're…happy?" Buffy looked like she was trying to guess at charades. Had she guessed right?

Willow nodded, though she knew Buffy could spot the sadness there, too, of course. That girl had an intensity of focus that was sometimes a bit unnerving.

"Yeah. I know that happy tends to look all unhappy these days. But this is definitely happy. And kind of sad, too, I guess."

"Is it more happy or more sad?" Buffy seemed to be testing this notion of shades of un-happiness.

"Definitely more happy. Until I think about it and then it all feels hopeless. That's where the sad comes in. Oh, and there's definitely some mad in there, too. I'm really pissed at Hitler right now. I think I just may have to misspell his name in the paper."

"You mean something like Shitler?" Xander had come in again, carrying a stack of plates and silverware. He motioned for Willow to move the textbooks so he could set the table for dinner. The air was indeed smelling rather chickeny, and Willow was famished. "All assholes get what they deserve in the end, and he'll get his," Xander said lightly.

"Yeah, but I hope it's kinda soon because I don't know how many more nice people I can watch get what that asshole deserves."

"Here, here," Xander agreed. He looked first to Buffy who seemed deep in thought and then at Willow who seemed equally in her own world and wanted to bridge the gap among the three of them somehow. "Wait! I have just the thing to make this little dinner perfect."

Buffy and Willow finished setting the table. Buffy presented her roasted chicken and potatoes, laying them at the center of the table. And Xander brought in three glasses and a tall bottle of what appeared to be Polish Vodka.

"Where in the world did you score something like that?" Buffy chuckled disbelievingly. It was hard to get coffee, let alone imported liquor. And people these days seemed like they could use a healthy supply of both.

"Buffy's friend Spike at the SS office gave it to me today. After he made me promise to come to his next poker game. Well, and that was after he made me help him go through…uh…some evidence…from one of his cases."

Willow frowned and looked at Buffy. "Which one is Spike, again? Is he the SS guy Dawn said you were seeing?"

Buffy looked shocked. "I am not seeing Spike. He and I have…Well, I don't know what we have. A sometime thing, maybe."

The color was rising in Xander's face, and it wasn't from embarrassment. Willow motioned to the meal lain out before the three of them and suggested they eat it. They took their seats in silence and spent a moment dishing up plates. Xander opened the bottle of vodka and liberally poured for the three of them. He slammed his shot, his face still red.

Buffy grasped his hand, and then Willow's, nodding for them to do the same. Willow took Xander's hand in her own. Prayer time?

"Ok," Buffy began. "The three of us. We're a team. We've been a team all along. And the three of us together are going to help keep each other from, you know, getting what Hitler deserves." She looked at both of her friends solemnly. "Amen."

Willow's voice was light, though she definitely caught the tension in the room. "That was a really nice way to keep the prayer, you know, secular."

Buffy shrugged. "As far as I can tell, religion is a perpetrator in this whole war and ethnic cleansing thing. I think the God everyone invokes is really a hell-god. For all the good that's doing, I prefer to place my faith in myself. And a couple of people I care most about in this whole stupid world."

"Ok, that was some good stuff," Willow nodded. "The Poles know their potatoes. Very nice of your friend Spike to score you a bottle."

Xander's face was still dark. "Her 'friend' Spike is the guy who wants you dead," he said flatly.

"Of course, Xander. Everybody at the SS wants me dead. I'm a Jew and therefore in need of cleansing. It's ok. I don't take it personally any more."

"You don't understand. Spike. Killed. Jenny. And he's the guy who showed up at Tara's for you. He's the detective. William Blood. He's probably out there right now tailing Tara waiting for the two of you to slip up."

"Whoa," Buffy said. "What do you mean that he's waiting for Tara and Willow to slip up? Slip up how?"

"Wait," Willow interrupted. "What do you mean you're having a 'sometimes thing' with the guy who killed Jenny?"

Buffy shot back at Xander: "And what do you mean you're going to play poker and chum around with this guy if he's so bad? Which I'm not denying-the bad part – by the way."

"Spike is not my boyfriend. He's not my lapdog. He's bad. He's in it all for himself. I pay him money and he gets me papers. Ironically, he arranged to get Jenny and Giles' papers. Anyway, he's not someone we can trust. But who knows? Maybe he's got just enough of a soul to let things slip every here and there. Like he let me pass when he and his partner had me cornered at the university fair and square. And he showed me your picture, Willow, because I think he wanted me to know he was following you and that he knew what you looked like."

"He knows I'm your friend?" Willow's voice was small and troubled. "Should I even be anywhere near you?"

"I think he's cutting us some slack, but he's SS, so he can't let us completely off the hook. He has that partner…"

"The Preacher," Xander filled in. "Creepy black eyes. Way more evil than Spike. Spike just thinks he's bad. That Preacher Caleb is the real deal."

"So that means The Preacher would probably turn on your friend Spike in a heartbeat if he thought something were amiss," Willow ventured.

Willow turned to Xander. "So you work with them. Do you think Spike knows you're Buffy's friend, too?"

Xander pondered this a long moment. "God, I hope not. He's always treated me the same way: like I'm a doorstop. Well, until today."

Xander and Willow exchanged glances. Buffy nodded at him. "Come on. Let's get everything out. No secrets."

"Well, today, he invited me over for poker. But that wasn't until after he had me help him rummage through the suitcase Tara brought in for Willow."

Buffy shook the cobwebs from her head. "Tara walked into SS headquarters with a suitcase for Willow?"

Xander sighed. "She played the game. Handed it to me with instructions to give it to the lovely Detective Blood. But she was palming a letter for Will when she handed it over. I kept the letter to give Willow. And gave the suitcase to Spike. He and I had a bonding moment over your underwear. Which I'm so very sorry about! I am trying to black out those memories! God help me! But after a cursory look through your things he gave it back to me. To dispose of. I suppose he could have known I'd bring it to you. Maybe he even wanted you to have it. I'm just really confused. He should be here right now if he really knew I was a part of this. I have student dissident Buffy and Jewish fugitive Willow staying at my apartment eating chicken and drinking vodka."

Willow felt the heat rise up into her face and her stomach did a flip-flop. "What did he say?"

Xander wouldn't meet her eyes. It took him a moment to put the words together: "He said you and Tara are, uh, close."

There was a pause and then Buffy jumped in. "Well, that just sounds like Spike yanking your chain, Xander. Just typical bullshit…"

"It's true." Willow's voice was barely a whisper, but she didn't look away. She looked at her friends helplessly. "…And it gets worse. I'm in love with her."

She kept going, fueled by fluster. "And see, this is wherein the happy and sad thing becomes an issue. Because she loves me, too. Even though I totally lied to her about the Jewish thing, and her brother is sending her to live out in the country, and now the Gestapo is following her around. Oh, and I'm screwing up her thing with Riley. I just couldn't help it. And her letter to me-the one she gave to Xander-it's clear she can't help it, either. She loves me. She wants to see me."

It took a couple of moments of silence and toe scuffing on the floor, but then her friends got over the initial shock of Willow's confession. Xander smiled softly, tipping the vodka bottle to fill Willow's glass again. She really looked like she needed it. "You're a very lovable person. I'm glad that someone finally sees it and appreciates you for it."

"So how do you like your lunch?" Xander asked his date. He was in uniform from the office, enjoying the ambience of the nice hotel restaurant as a break from the boring sandwiches he usually ate at his desk. And enjoying the company of Tara. The young woman was distracted. She kept looking over her shoulder, as if the long days of being followed by the secret police had trained her to be overly cautious and scared. She hadn't eaten a bite of her food. Xander would have been offended, but then he understood what she was feeling. He knew that Tara would foot the bill anyway. And he was more than happy to spend a little time with her even if her thoughts were a bit elsewhere.

"So you said that Spike and The Preacher are on another assignment today?" she asked with some trepidation.

Xander nodded. "I make it my job now to know their agenda. That's not to say that they wouldn't change their minds and follow some other lead if one presented itself. But Spike's been a fairly regular kind of guy as of late. And their focus is really on the universities right now."

"I can't believe how many people they've rounded up. Where are they taking them?"

Xander frowned, not certain Tara would really want to know. But then, after the Vodka and Chicken summit at his apartment a few days ago they'd all agreed to be completely honest with each other. He took a deep breath. "I think the first wave-the folks they rounded up in the first two or three days – they executed on the spot. Buffy watched one of her friends get shot right in front of her. Unfortunately that same friend was keeping our Gypsy friend Jenny at her house. And that's how Jenny got caught…"

Tara looked upset at she took in the information, but she held his gaze, so he continued. "The men, they're sending to Bergen-Belsen in the west. The women I expect will go to Ravensbruck north of here. That's the women's concentration camp."

Tara grimaced. "That's where Riley's stationed now. He sent a letter saying he's been assigned to administration there."

Xander pondered that a moment. "Huh. Better than the front lines. For Riley, anyway. But those camps I hear are pretty depressing places. They have a hard time controlling illness. A lot of people get sick." For Tara's sake, he tried to keep the contempt out of his voice. Concentration camps were a travesty. There was talk that the government was setting up "death camps" in Poland to deal with the millions of undesirables they were accumulating on their eastward march.

Tara nodded unhappily. Xander was saying aloud-and rather casually-some of the things she'd worried about when she'd first heard Riley's news. Her fiancé might in fact make it home alive after the war. But there was no way he was going to come home unscathed.

Xander shook his head. "I'm not privy to any strategy talk. I just know the things I hear in the halls after the fact. I expect they'll keep at it for a while. It takes time to root out their targets. And they want to be sure that people don't forget this. They're making a statement."

Xander smiled. "Don't worry. She'll be here," he said, reaching across the table to pat Tara's hand.

Tara smiled at him. "I know she'll be here. I just don't like all the uniforms is all. Makes me nervous for her…And me, too, I guess. And you."

"We've made it this far by blending in with the crowd. Willow's a clever girl. Besides, she has Buffy and me to help make sure everything's ok."

Just then a woman passed brusquely by their table, moving in a straight line for the back of the restaurant. Tara glanced up to see a long black coat and a black hat. No red hair. She frowned in disappointment.

Xander's face was impassive, but his eyes smiled. "That was Willow. Wait a minute and then follow her."

Tara looked surprised, clearly trying to reconcile the matter-of-fact woman who walked by with the girl she knew.

Tara blushed and she swallowed hard, like it took everything for her to remain seated. Then she quietly collected her coat and purse and rose to her feet, sparing Xander one last glance. "Thank you," she whispered, squeezing his shoulder affectionately.

"Think nothing of it," he said. "Maybe we can meet again for lunch some time. When you make it back to the city."

"I'd like that," she smiled, meaning it. And then she was gone, walking her own confident beeline to the back of the restaurant.

Xander reached for the check. She'd left money there to pay the bill. He waited patiently for the waiter to come, humming to himself a bit.

Tara pushed open the door to the women's lounge, her heart in her mouth. There inside was Willow. She'd dropped the coat and hat and was standing at the mirror powdering her nose. The bright look she gave Tara as the door swung open almost knocked Tara over. Her eyes were round and hopeful. And filled with desire. Tara knew that Willow's expression must have mirrored her own.

Tara trained her hearing to determine whether they were alone. They were not. She slid into the room and joined Willow at the mirror, fumbling to find a lipstick or something in her purse so that they might both appear to be occupied by the sort of activities women do in places like this. Willow smiled and leaned into Tara's shoulder in a happy nonverbal hello, sending tingles through her body at the contact.

A woman left the restroom stall behind them and went mechanically to the sink, washed her hands quietly and then left. As the door swung closed, Willow caught Tara's eye in the mirror, her look slyly darkening from detachment to need, and she grabbed Tara by the arms, pushed her up against the back of the door and kissed her. Tara circled her arms around Willow and pulled her in closer, needing to feel the contour of them together, almost as if verifying their coupleness by testing the familiarity of the way their bodies fit. Willow shifted, locking herself firmly in place.

"God, I've missed you," Willow breathed into her ear, slipping to nip at Tara's throat.

Willow kissed her words into Tara's skin. "I know. I had to see you, too. Need you."

Willow slipped back, pulling Tara with her to the mirror again. "I don't know. Maybe a couple of hours?"

A moment later the door swung open again, this time admitting a small woman in a heavy black head scarf. It took Tara a moment to realize it was Buffy. Willow was grinning as Buffy held out her hand and deposited a key in Willow's palm.

"Don't say I never did you any favors," Buffy quipped, a smug smile on her face. She turned and gave Tara a quick hug. "Be good to my girl, " she said and then slipped back out the way she came.

Tara blushed as she caught the drift of the plan. Willow gazed happily at her in the mirror. "You go up first. I'll be right behind you. Hurry, though. I've missed you."

Tara accepted the room key with a broad smile. She kissed Willow's cheek and then headed out for the hotel lobby. She'd never been in this hotel before, but she made her way easily across the foyer to the grand staircase, walking as if she belonged here. She climbed the stairs, taking a moment to glance down at the room number to ascertain which floor she was her destination. Her shoes made a steady and reassuring clacking sound with each step. When she finally found the door, she took in a deep breath and opened the lock, opening it to reveal a simple but nicely-appointed room. The heavy curtains were drawn so that it was dark, but the heating registers clanged with their hot-water hiss, and Tara was grateful the room was warm. She stepped inside and closed the door. She moved to the window and drew open the drapes. She wasn't going to spend her short time with Willow in darkness. There was a table with two chairs. She dropped her hat and coat across one of the chairs and scanned the rest of the room. There was a comfortable- looking bed, a telephone and a dresser.

A moment later there came a soft knock upon the door. Tara opened it and let in Willow, stopping only a moment to hang the do-not-disturb sign on the outside door handle before closing it firmly behind them and twisting the lock.

They hesitated only a second or two and then both began to remove their clothes as quickly as possible, not touching yet, but watching each other as if they hadn't seen each other in months. It wasn't lost on Tara that she'd never felt this kind of need for Riley no matter how long they were apart. Tara felt the pumping of her blood as her heart raced. Willow finished undressing first and took deliberate steps across the floor to Tara, reaching her hands around Tara's back to gather the fabric of her slip and draw the soft material up over Tara's head and arms. She stopped a moment to admire Tara's breasts, a small, sweet smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Then she placed her hands gently on Tara's hips and slid her underwear down.

Willow looked Tara up and down a moment. "God, you're beautiful," she crooned, and then dragged both of them over to the bed with a momentum that landed Tara on top of Willow. Tara slid her hands under her lover, pushing them both up onto the bed completely and then sank into a deep kiss, her body screaming at the sensations of Willow's cool skin, the shifting of muscles as Willow moved beneath her, the instinctual tangling of their legs together. Hands were suddenly everywhere, running up and down her back, tousling her hair, moving to caress her breasts, clutching needily at her thighs. And Tara was on fire. She couldn't think about what the hell she was going to do tomorrow-or even two hours from now. She couldn't think about the farm or Riley or the detectives. Her entire focus was on this small space-this square of a room and its square of a bed. Unfamiliar and unremarkable except for the woman writhing beneath her.

"My life was a lot simpler before you," Tara whispered some time later, looking up at the ceiling. Willow tucked herself closer, laying her head on Tara's shoulder.

"I know," Willow whispered. They fell silent for a while, and then she ventured a very small, "I'm sorry."

Tara frowned, feeling uncertain. She stroked Willow's arm and twirled a bit of her long hair in her fingers. "Actually, my life was pretty boring."

That brought a smile to Willow's face. "Boring. It's so hard to imagine. It's never boring in my world. I sometimes wish it was. But, you know, double the identities means double the fun…or trouble…or just double the double…" Willow waved her hand as the thought fizzled.

Willow nodded. "Yeah, I think I know that story. Read about it once or twice." There was nothing grudging in her voice, a small playfulness, in fact, and Tara realized that maybe for Willow part of the thrill of living was the absurdity of it all. Making it up as she went. Playing at living. And Tara had been drawn in, more than happy to play, too.

She gave Willow a nudge in reply. "Hey, there's a difference between book learning and the actual living of it."

Willow propped herself up so she could see Tara's face. Her eyes were gentle but more serious. "I'm not saying that I have specific knowledge of how your life was meant to go before I came along and metaphorically blew up the railroad trestle. I just meant in a general sense. As in generally girls grow up, do some sort of domestic service, find a guy to marry them and then become wrapped up in family. At least that's the way it seems from the outside. From a news reporterly perspective, anyway."

"Well, that's about right," Tara nodded. "Except you forgot the part where the girl generally never questions any of the steps along the way. There's just this script, and you follow it."

Willow nodded. "I have a hard time with the not-asking of the questions. Maybe that's why my personal script is less a script, per se, and more improvisation."

Tara smiled in spite of herself. "Well, improv-girl, perhaps you haven't noticed, but I haven't exactly followed the script, either. And I don't mean just lately. Have you wondered why a 28-year-old woman isn't already married? Do you wonder what I've been doing all this time?"

Willow looked confused, as if she were seeing Tara differently. "Are you a spy?" she asked without a bit of irony. Life in Willow's world must be very cloak-and-daggers, indeed.

"These days that's just about as bad," Willow chuckled, rubbing her hand in small circles on Tara's belly. The motion was instantly distracting. Tara had half a mind to let the sexual tension build between them again. It would be so easy. She could definitely stand to hear Willow's growl as Tara made her come again. In fact, she made a point to add that to this afternoon's agenda: more sex. But first, there were words.

"I need…I don't know. I guess all this time I've just needed to feel something raw and dangerous. So when things became too comfortable I'd get cold feet and back out. I've been with a few men and near to marrying a couple of them. My family thinks I'm a freak. But I can't describe how suffocating it's felt to me. Maybe I'm meant to be alone. Who knows. But it makes me scared…about us."

"Us? There's an 'us' in this equation somewhere?" Willow asked doubtfully. Her eyes spoke volumes about her insecurity. How could a girl who was so transparent have escaped protective custody for so long? So many years of wearing her fragile heart on her sleeve.

"Of course, sweetie. This is all about the us, as in you and me, and what am I to do with you."

Willow's voice tightened almost imperceptibly. "Just say you'll come visit me once in a while. Not enough so that you get to feeling suffocated or bored or get tired of me talking all the time. If it helps with the dangerous part, I'll come up with some outrageous hobby, like maybe fortune-telling. Jenny taught me some tarot card reading. A little palm reading. I – I could get Xander to give me another new identity, maybe as a university professor debunking the dark arts and then on the side I could do readings for people. Maybe make a little extra money…No, wait, I have an even better idea for something even more dangerous…"

"Ok, stop. Believe me. Being with you is already more dangerous than anything else I've done. By far."

"Do I scare you?" Wow. Tara was really hitting all of Willow's buttons. She felt uncharacteristically oafish-she who was usually taking great care with everyone else's feelings-was apparently trampling Willow. Did she mean to? Was she testing Willow's bravado? Or was she merely trying to be honest, and being honest right now was being confused.

"No, you don't scare me. I love you. You're right as rain. It all feels so amazing. Everything about you. But the world isn't just the two of us. It's everybody else that makes me scared."

Willow sighed, knowing she was in a no-win situation. Tara loved her, but loving was only half the battle. Or maybe even a third. Because there was always the looming question of "what then?" Would Willow suffocate her? Could she actually make a life with a woman in 1940s Germany? And, depending how she answered those two questions, wasn't Tara objectively better off with Riley, with whom she could at least start a family? She wasn't 20 anymore. Or 23 or 25. These days women her age were on to their third children by now.

Willow leaned down and kissed Tara's lips, smiling sweetly, radiating nothing but love. "Baby, everybody else makes me scared, too. And I, for one, can attest that sometimes just breathing is scary enough."

"I know. I am, too. But it's ok." Willow was making those small circles on Tara's belly again-the ones that were probably meant to be comforting, but actually were so damn distracting. She bent down and kissed along Tara's throat to her collarbone, doing the thing that Willow seemed to do best: turn her on.

Tara smiled and smoothed a lock of hair behind the girl's ear. "Nowhere near too much. I want very much. I want more than much. Just one last thing, though." With that, she twisted off the ring she was wearing on her right hand and held it up.

"Is this like a backup ring for when you go out, so his doesn't get lost or something?"

Tara chuckled. Willow could be so dense. "No, sweetie. This is not some backup ring. This is my ring. One my mother gave me. It used to be hers. Anyway, it's mine and I want you to have it."

"I – I don't think I could accept something like that. It's – it's your mother's ring. It's special to you. It's your ring. And, uh, why is Riley's ring at home?"

Tara took Willow's hand and slipped the silver band on her ring finger, shushing her with a kiss. "Don't fight with me about this. You'll lose. I want you to have it."

"But why? What's it supposed to mean?" There was so much in Willow's eyes just then: fear, hurt, longing, hope, caution. It made Tara's heart hurt. She felt all of those things as well. But there was one other thing in Willow's eyes: powerlessness. She was worried that Tara was teasing. Tara knew the tone of her next words had to be just right.

"It means I love you. This ring is a part of me and I want you to have it because if you do, you'll always have a part of me with you. I want to think of you wearing it. I want you to have something that's important to me…because you are…"

"But you're not leaving Riley." Willow cut straight to the chase, her eyes dead serious now.

"No," Tara said with more certainty than she felt. She couldn't overpromise. "Me giving you this ring isn't about Riley. It's about us."

"But what about Riley? He's kind of the big pink elephant in the room. How can I just, I don't know, overlook him and – and the fact that you're marrying him and when you do, then what you and I are doing now won't just be immoral in the one sense. You know, the 'unnatural' sense. It'll be adultery, too, which would make it doubly bad. And that's on top of the Jewish thing, too. So, aw, fuck. This is a total train wreck. I can't believe I'm even doing this. Fuck!" Willow had disengaged from Tara and now sat on the edge of the bed gazing into the daylight streaming into the hotel room.

Tara lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Well, that didn't go right. She sighed, trying to mentally pick up the broken shards of conversation strewn all about them. She reached out her hand and wrapped it around Willow's wrist, rubbing her thumb along the skin there.

"Baby, this is probably already adultery. And, yes, it's immoral in ways too numerous to count. Or even bother with. All I know is that everything does not come back to Riley. If it did, things would be simple. And I wouldn't be here. But it's not that simple because everything does not come back to Riley. And that's because, for me, it all comes back to you."

Tara smiled. "Yeah. Whatever that means. I'm still trying to figure it all out."

"I'm the one who generally overthinks everything. And, huh, go figure. I'm not the only one."

Tara propped herself up on one elbow and ran slow circles along the skin of Willow's back, making the girl shiver. "Thinking can be over-rated. Sometimes you just go with your gut. And my gut really wants you to wear my ring. And be my girl. And for me to be your girl."

Willow crawled back onto the bed and straddled Tara, a playful smirk on her face. "Your gut, huh? You should listen to it more often. You are very gutsy."

Tara relaxed, running her fingers up and down Willow's thighs. "Maybe I'm just very easy."

Willow leaned down. "That, my dear, is a given. I like easy. It's really good on you."

"Singular is definitely better than plural. Except in the plural 'we,' as in us, you and me."

Tara reached up with both hands, cupping Willow's face gently and drawing her in for a tender kiss.

Willow pulled back a moment, nodding breathlessly. "Great idea. Less talking. More kissing."

Tara kissed Willow again, thinking back to her earlier agenda item. What was it again? Oh, yes: more sex with Willow. That plan of spending a couple of hours was quickly going out the window. Tara intended to keep Willow here the rest of the day.

Spike stood stomping his feet in the cold. Damn, he was ready for spring. More than ready in fact. He'd had a rotten and disconcerting day. He was tired of dragging away crying 20-year-olds and loading them on trucks bound for the camps. He could barely still summon the righteous indignation required to believe that these kids were truly enemies of the state. He personally didn't feel that the kids could possibly build enough traction to overcome the fear the German people lived with that prevented them from even thinking bad thoughts about the government. But maybe the powers-that-be were right: The minute somebody declares the emperor has no clothes is the minute the tide of public opinion turns. Until then, every one of us is complicit.

It made his head ache to think about it. So instead he admired the bouquet of flowers he'd just laid at the foot of his mother's grave. At this time of year, they'd cost him a few deutschmarks, that's for sure.

"Mother, I've been a very bad boy," he intoned, smiling at the understatement. "These are very bad times. I'm rather glad you missed them, and you should be, too. Nothing but trouble these days. Dog-eat-dog and all that. And we're all dogs: German shepherds, Dalmatians, Dachsunds, poodles. I'd like to think I'm a Rottweiler. But I'm probably a poodle. I hope one day to see you again. But I somehow expect that none of us 'God's Chosen People' will make it to the glorious place you're at. In fact, for all I know Heaven is full of Jews and Gypsies, and the joke is really on the rest of us."

And speaking of jokes, where was Buffy? She'd called him up and told him to meet him here in the middle of the afternoon. And to bring flowers for his mother. He'd been standing here 15 minutes already with his hands in his pockets conversing with a slab or marble like a madman.

Then he noticed a young lad out of the corner of his eye. The boy was laying flowers at another grave nearby.

The boy approached. It wasn't until he had come within 10 feet that Spike understood what was up.

It was Buffy. She made a rather handsome Hitler Youth, and that knowledge disturbed him quite a lot – the "handsome" part, particularly. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Yeah. University was getting a little too tough for me, so I decided to go remedial."

"So I've been told. Apparently it's a hit with the gentlemen as well as the ladies."

He frowned uncomfortably. "Is this why you wanted to meet – to show off the new you?"

"Not exactly. Though you realize I'm taking a big risk in showing you my new get- up."

She scuffed her feet at the grass. "Yeah, that, too, I suppose. Anyway, I wanted to thank you. You know – for protecting me when you could have picked me up. I was on your list."

Spike shrugged. "There are a lot of people on the list. Seemed little harm enough in letting one get away. Can't promise it'll happen again."

Spike's ears pricked up." So I was right you knew the Gypsy. I'll have you know I helped you get her away from the professor's apartment. Sent my men over here to the cemetery to look for you. And I know you think I'm a monster – but I made sure it was me who…" He searched for a word that wouldn't earn him a right hook to the jaw. "I made sure I was the one who captured Jenny – and not that evil, woman-hating fuck of a partner of mine. I couldn't save her. But I could show…mercy…and at least a little human decency."

He didn't know why saying it made his eyes sting. Maybe it was because he could tell that his words upset Buffy. She stood beside him, gazing at his mother's gravestone as if paying her respects. Maybe she was paying Jenny hers.

"This is way fucked up," she mumbled. She reached up and wiped away a tear, like a young lad trying to be strong. "What about Willow?" she asked.

Spike chuckled in spite of himself. He had her underwear in his coat pocket right now. "Red's a bit of a shocker, really. Although considering your attire here, I'd say the pair of you could be the belle and the beau of the ball."

"More or less. We're following her girlfriend around a bit right now. Imagine if they're lovebirds they'll find a way to see each other eventually. Tara was quite upset when we poked through her apartment. But I have to say Tara's a bit of a bore, really. Just shops for groceries, mostly. Your friend would be better to find a more exotic girl."

Buffy sighed, ignoring that last part. "What could I pay you that would get you to drop Willow?" Buffy gritted her teeth, waiting for her answer. She knew what she asked was a pretty risky thing for Spike.

"Caleb's already on my case for going easy on the Gypsy. He thinks I know Willow. Which I don't. But anyway – he sees I'm soft on them, and he called me on it. If I screw up again you won't have me to come to for your visas…or anything else, I'm afraid."

"Tell me how cases like this get transferred away. Tell me anything I can do to make this work."

She shoved him. "Again with the not funny. She's my best friend. She's like family. She's practically all I've got."

"Other than your mom and little sister." Spike left the words hanging there – a wakeup call.

"I'm only saying you're a wanted woman. They will be interrogated. I trust you've told them nothing and you've stayed far away. Am I right?"

Spike shot back: " I assure you I don't. Did you see my surprise at your little makeover? Last time I saw you was that day at the university." He paused and added: "Red's been a bit scarce, too, I'm afraid. We've lost her trail."

Spike looked at her dubiously. He didn't want to say it. Didn't want it to be real. But he blew out a trail of smoke and replied, "That kid Alexander Harris. I have got to say he's one stupid fuck operating right under the SS's noses. I'd had no idea until I spotted you two together one day. And well, then Tara brought him Red's suitcase, and that really clinched it in my mind."

Buffy slapped her forehead. "Ok. Ok. The three of us. How much do you want to completely leave us alone – call off the dogs?"

"Remember Xander's on the inside with you. Maybe there's some – I don't know – paperwork the he could help with?"

Spike shook his head. "When you and Red turn up dead or as captives, that's when they'll reassign us."

"I have to hand it to you. The three of you and Miss Maclay are tricky. You've got a lot going on upstairs. Maybe I should be watching my step."

Buffy shook her head and took his hand in hers. "No. You've done good. You saved my life. You were…merciful… .with Jenny. I owe you so much. I just want the people I love to be safe."

Spike wondered ruefully if that included him. Was he a person she loved? He didn't want to ask. He hadn't the stomach to hear her lie. So he let her words stand at face value. And that was enough.

"I've got nothing on her. You want to give me something – point me in some hopeless direction? Or is she missing and you have no idea, either?"

Buffy shook her head. "No." She paused. "We'll just stay as far out of your way as possible."

He had to give her that. She was an angel who appeared from time to time on his doorstep.

He crushed out his cigarette and then bent down quickly to flick the thing away, remembering this was his mother's grave they were standing on. "Sorry, mom. Manners," he mumbled.

He gave Buffy one more long glance and then said, "Guess you'd better run off to school, young lad."

He watched her walk away, wondering when next they'd cross paths. He hoped it was a long time from now. Sometime after the war, when they were no longer on opposite sides. His chest felt tight. He stood still and let her go.

The day had been warm enough that Gruber hadn't even taken a coat with him on his walk at lunch. Willow watched him return to the newsroom, walking through as he always did and hanging his hat on a hook behind his office door. There was a small smile she could tell had been put there by sunshine. And she was not above using a pretty day to get what she wanted where he was concerned.

In fact, the blue skies visible from the office windows seemed to buoy everyone's spirits a bit. The rounding up of the university students had subsided finally. It had been a while since the Brits had tried any serious aerial assaults. And Willow's life had settled. She'd taken a small apartment in a reasonably nice building near where Xander lived. Buffy stayed there with her sometimes. She felt like she was finally tasting what "normal life" must be like among the Good Germans. She worked, came home, met her friends, did homework (some routines were hard to break) and did voluminous reading. In winter it had seemed like enough, but with Spring now upon them, she was restless. The whole city was restless. But Willow Rosenberg was particularly restless. It had been more than two months since Tara had left Berlin for her family's home north of the city.

She'd received letters-very sweet descriptions of the farm and of Donald's boys and Tara's cousin Beth and very sweet descriptions of how much she missed Willow. Every one of those letters was tucked in a little pocket of her suitcase, with Tara's name and return address carefully blackened out with India ink. Just in case some Nazi asshole ever got a hold of her suitcase, she didn't want Tara being branded a Jewish sympathizer, which, depending upon the mood of the authorities on any given day, could be tantamount to political insurgency.

And over the past few weeks, as she'd listened in more and more to the talk around the newsroom among the reporters when it came to the concentration camps, she had come to realize that political dissidence was really not something she wanted pinned on Tara or Xander or Buffy or anyone. The camps were on her mind these days because Riley Finn was out at Ravensbruck now. And because that's probably where they'd send someone like Willow if she were ever caught and the SS were not in a mood to shoot her on the spot.

She'd become curious. She'd pricked up her ears when the newsmen talked about rampant illnesses running virtually unchecked. Or about the staggering numbers of prisoners currently under "protective custody." Could there really be 60,000 at Bergen-Belsen alone? There were even rumors that the government had set up supposed "death camps" in Poland. It sucked to be a Jew in Berlin. But from the bits and pieces she heard it sounded far worse to be a Jew in Poland. The evil empire was growing more malevolent, the cancer of it spreading. The more vast Germany's holdings grew, the harder it was to maintain human decency. They were getting sloppy and it was becoming harder and harder for even the die-hards to ignore. The whisperings turned her stomach, filling her with a queasy kind of anger. Interestingly, the other reporters sounded just as disturbed by the news. The only problem was that it still wasn't the kind of news The People's Press- or any other newspaper-would dare to print.

But somebody had to do something, and she realized that she was the perfect person to do it-as if it were fate or kismet that drew her to take a job at this newspaper in the first place. And over the past few weeks, since Gruber had taken her out to dinner with the government bigwigs, she'd managed to get him to let her do some reporting…small news stories, rewrites of communiqués from the government. She understood the "Party lines" so she never betrayed her distaste for her sanitized subject matter, and little by little Gruber's trust in her had grown.

She saw her opportunity as Gruber took his seat at his desk, and so she rose and followed him.

"Sir," she said as she softly knocked at his office door. He turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Very well, sir. It's almost finished. I'll have the draft to you by two o'clock."

Gruber nodded affectionately. "Excellent, Miss Hermann. What else can I do for you?"

Willow felt her face redden, and her skin flush with sweat. This was hard….He noticed her discomfort and nodded toward the chair in front of his desk. She gladly took it. "I, um, have a request. There's a story I'd like to do. It's very important. But it's also very big, so I'd understand if you thought another reporter might be better for the job. Though, really, I think I would do a really great job with it. It's just that I feel really strongly about the subject matter and the need to reassure the people. There's- there's a weakness. Or perhaps not a weakness, per se, more of a gap, maybe, that needs to be filled with information. With something. So that the people don't have to worry. And-and I think if we wrote an important piece in the People's Press, it would help…"

"Miss Hermann," he interrupted softly. "What is this piece you feel the need to write?"

"I'm – I'm not criticizing the government when I say this…" She stopped. When had she become such a major liar? Were her untruthfulness skills growing? Was she just as guilty as the government for using words to manipulate? With a breath, she clicked back on mental track: "I think people are starting to wonder about the camps."

Gruber's eyebrows just about hit his hairline. "The concentration camps? You want to write about them?" He said it as if she had just announced she wanted to do a story about how Hitler liked to kill kittens and puppies. Which, come to think of it, wasn't such a bad analogy.

Willow had rehearsed some of this, but her little speech fell apart and she just went from the heart. "I've heard whisperings…even around the newsroom here. Nobody is criticizing the government or questioning its agenda. It's just with a lack of information, it's natural for people to start thinking the worst."

Gruber's eyes narrowed. "Just what exactly have you heard that makes you think the worst." He was dangerous. As much as he might like her, she knew he'd turn her in to the authorities in a heartbeat to protect himself and his newspaper.

"I've heard a bit about illnesses…and about huge numbers of prisoners. I mean, really, really big numbers of prisoners."

"We're at war. The fact that we have many prisoners means our efforts are effective. The people should be proud."

Willow pounced on this. "Exactly. They should be proud. They should be relieved. That's the story I want to tell. I want to reassure them that everything is under control…" Her voice trailed off. She knew this was an extremely huge can of worms she had just opened. Was that look on his face because he thought if she learned too much she'd turn traitor? Usually, the reporters stayed close to the newsroom, writing from what their sources told them. There was no source stepping forward here to offer information. She was suggesting going to get it. Until this moment, the word 'proactive' was not part of the vernacular of this news organization. Nor was 'enterprising.' However, 'helpful' was a word that described The People's Press, and that's the one she latched onto.

Gruber leaned back in his chair, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. She noted that the sunny-day smile was gone. After a moment, he asked her tentatively, "How do you propose to go about getting this story?"

This part Willow was ready for. "I'd like to meet with the administration of one of the camps. They can show me anything they want. I'd like to bring a camera and take photographs-again of whatever they want. This is their opportunity to tell their story."

Gruber nodded. "I believe I have a source in the administration at Bergen-Belsen. I can ask them to draft something-perhaps send some photos along. And, yes, you can edit the piece. I'll give you the by-line on it."

Now the tricky part. "Sir, I'd like to go myself. I believe that as an outsider-and a woman-I can capture exactly the right tone."

"There's no way I'd send a woman reporter-even a very bright and capable one-out to Bergen-Belsen."

"I have a contact-an official at Ravensbruck. Captain Riley Finn. I would work with him. I met him this winter through my, uh, fiancé, who works at SS headquarters. It's a women's camp, and perhaps my fiancé, Alexander Harris, could accompany me-as a chaperone. I think Captain Finn would trust me and welcome me. He's told me he appreciates the work I do here at The People's Press…"

"Miss Hermann. That sounds all well and fine, but what makes you think that anything you write about a women's camp would be reassuring to the German people? They don't want to know that the Government has women and children locked up."

"That's exactly why this is the story we should write and why I'm the one to write it: They will believe me, as a woman and therefore sensitive, when I give my first-hand account, photos and all. They will know that a woman will have a sharp eye toward the safety and comfort of women and children. I guarantee you everyone who picks up a copy of the newspaper will want to read that story. And if they see the fairness with which women are treated, then they'll think less about the men. Isn't that really what people fear-that the government could be treating the most vulnerable unfairly? By showing them we are not, they'll have renewed respect and peace of mind."

He sat silent for what seemed like an insufferably long time. And then he sighed. "You're right," he said grudgingly. "You are very astute. It's a shame you're a woman and not a man who could be performing strategy work for the government instead of editing government communiqués and news releases."

Willow took this as a compliment, though it was certainly a weird one. "I don't mind being a woman," she smiled. "As long as there's something I can do."

He acquiesced completely. Even made a few phone calls to Ravensbruck, SS Headquarters and to the Nationalist Party to get clearance for her to take on the assignment. He was successful in getting Captain Finn assigned to escort her on her reporting mission at Ravensbruck. And he was also successful in getting Alexander Harris assigned to accompany her, so that she'd have an SS man to keep her safe on the road. The rest of the afternoon was occupied with finding her the equipment she'd need: a camera and rolls of film. In the meantime Willow finished the story she was working on so that she could turn it in to him by two o'clock as promised.

At the end of the workday, Gruber intercepted her on her way out. He handed her the camera bag, with the camera and film and with three reporter's notepads. "Meet with me first thing in the morning, so we can map out your itinerary…and so that we can discuss the outline for your story. I need to submit that to the Nationalist Party before they'll give final approval. But, overall, I must say, they were very pleased with your personal initiative…"

Willow beamed. Praise like this meant a lot to her in a fundamentally Willow sort of way. "I'm glad. Thanks for all of your arrangements. And thank you for entrusting this to me. I won't let you down."

Gruber chuckled. "That I know. You never have. I've asked for Mr. Harris to come in tomorrow, as well."

That caught Willow by surprise. Gruber chuckled again. "Well, it's only right that I meet your fiancé…and the man who I'm entrusting your safety to. I want to make sure we have everything covered."

"If you like him, I'm sure I will," Gruber said, and with a wave he bade her good- night.

The next afternoon, Willow was grinning as she tossed a set of car keys to Xander. He was dashing in his uniform, and she was feeling giddy. They were down on the street, getting their car from the newspaper motor-pool. A couple of checkmarks on a form and a signature from Xander, and they were suddenly with wheels.

Willow stopped, wondering where that expression came from. Was that literally so that the passenger could shoot while the driver, well, drove? She thought again of the SS- issued handgun Xander carried. And then of the one Gruber had pressed into her palm as they'd readied to depart. It was the one he usually kept in his desk drawer, so she knew this was a Very Special Gesture on his part.

"Get your fiancé to show you. It's merely for backup. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. And you, young man, make sure to return my reporter to me in the same working condition she leaves in. Understand?"

Sometimes talking to Gruber was like talking to your dad, she thought. At his gruff bark, Xander snapped his heels and saluted him. "Yes, sir," he reflexively answered. That had almost made Willow giggle. Was there such a thing as free will? She inwardly sighed. Not officially, according to the government. But if she and Xander played the game just right what they were about to do was a huge in-your-face to the Big Bad.

Willow nodded, thoughtful for a moment. "I'm pretty sure it's both. And thank you for doing this with me anyway."

Willow rolled her eyes. "How else was I going to get him to request your services?"

"My services don't come cheap, you know. How come I haven't noticed the ring before? Looks like it could be worth some cash."

"I'm not hocking it to pay you off. It's from Tara. I guess it means I'm engaged to her, huh?"

He smirked. "More like engaged with. I'm fairly certain no church Christiany or Jewish would let you two lovely ladies get married. It would make the Baby Jesus cry. And the Baby Moses. But it is nice to know that when a woman woos another woman she resorts to jewelry just the same as us guys do."

"I'm no expert, having never actually had a ring to give somebody. Nor somebody to give the ring to, of course. But I'm told the ladies like the rings. Hard to go wrong there."

Xander was holding Willow's hand in his, thoughtfully inspecting her ring. Helmut had brought them pie and coffee-just a little something for fun before they hit the road for Ravensbruck. "So is that really an engagement ring?" he asked.

"Maybe more like an indecision ring. There seem to be a lot of rings rolling around her jewelry box these days. It's hard for her to know which one to go with."

"Well, this one is nice. Simple. A bit understated. But then, you're not one for being flashy. It suits you."

"That's so funny. I'm quite sure she doesn't see me as nice, simple or understated in the least."

"Uh, I don't know…She has a side to her that's definitely not understated, either. Or nice."

Xander leaned back. "Ok. I'm beginning to get disturbing little pictures in my mind again. I think I'd prefer to think of you two holding hands and…well…just holding hands…"

Willow arched her eyebrow. "What's this 'again' business? Just how much have you been thinking about us…holding hands?"

Xander looked uncomfortable. "Well, there was that one time, with Spike…and your suitcase."

Xander turned to look out the window looking for something-anything-to change the subject. Uh, oh. That was too easy. And too hard.

"What?" she said, turning to look at the man who wanted her dead. Who'd stared at Buffy as if he were the grim reaper, and who had followed Tara just wishing she'd screw up so he could cart her off to a concentration camp. Oh, and who also was Xander's coworker. His eyes were indeed an inky black, his jaw stern. He was a little younger than she had imagined. How could someone so young become so jaded and filled with hate? Oh, wait. He was a Nazi.

Xander's hand was on her arm. "I think he's coming in here. You'd better duck into the restroom and stay there until I come get you."

Willow nodded and did as she was told. She grabbed her hat in case she needed to tuck her conspicuous red hair up under it. Then she pushed her way to the back of the diner and disappeared behind swinging doors. Xander turned his attention again to his cup of coffee. And waited to see if Caleb would notice him.

Of course he did. Gestapo were trained to notice things. And here was Xander. Someone he would, of course, notice.

"Afternoon, Harris," The Preacher said, strolling over to Xander's table and towering above him. Xander looked up. It seemed somehow incongruent to see the cold-blooded killer Caleb holding a white café coffee cup just like any regular person. He was definitely not a regular person.

"Caleb," Xander replied with a smile. What else should he say: "Nice to see you?" No. "Beautiful day?" Yeah, he could do that one.

Caleb nodded with a smile. An actual smile. As in upturned lips. As in Caleb has lips.

Those damn Gestapo types and their propensity to interrogate even in casual settings. "I'm enjoying a cup of coffee like yourself. Taking a little break before getting back to work."

"How right you are. With your keen detective skills I bet you're like a walking tour map."

They regarded each other a moment over the rims of their coffee cups as they both took another sip in silence. Caleb was still standing, comfortable in an intimidating way. And Xander was in a cozy booth with a half-eaten slice of pie, two forks and two cups of coffee.

"So when's she coming back?" Caleb asked, coolly, that little smiley non-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth again.

Crap. "Well, that depends upon what you mean by coming back. And of course who you mean by she." Xander was blathering now. What did Caleb know? Was he being played? What could he say? The truth? What was the truth, anyway? Caleb stood patiently, waiting for the answer to his question. And Xander was determined not to give it to him.

"Do you always play detective? I mean, do you ever have a conversation that's not all…questionny?"

"Ok. You're going to have to do better than that to call yourself a conversationalist. It's no fun being the guy who has to play 20 questions to get things started."

Xander chuckled again. This was quite possibly the longest conversation he'd ever had with Caleb. Either the guy was truly being friendly or he was about to drag Xander's sorry ass out to a paddywagon. All he knew was that either way he couldn't afford to stay here chatting with The Preacher. Eventually, he'd lose. He rose to his feet, pulled out his wallet and tossed some money onto the table to cover the pie and coffee. He didn't dare look at Helmut or do anything else that might suggest this was a place Xander went often.

"Well, nice chatting, Caleb. But I'm heading out. I'd better let you get back to your detective work."

Xander did his best not to freeze. He turned slowly, letting his heart choose his words.

"Wait for her? I'll wait my whole life for her. I love her with all my heart. Maybe one day she'll understand just how much."

And with that, he clapped Caleb on the shoulder and walked out of the diner, leaving Willow behind.

The dogs were barking down by the road, disrupting what was otherwise another quiet day. "What is it?" Tara called upstairs to her cousin Beth who was making the beds while Tara finished the breakfast dishes. Three young boys dashed around her legs making a beeline for the window to look outside. Not much happened on the farm.

Beth's voice floated back down from above. "Looks like some soldier. Not from around here. Wonder what he wants."

Tara tossed her dishtowel aside and replied. "I'll get it." She walked to the door with a surprising sense of dread. Riley. She remembered she wasn't wearing his ring. That's the first thing he'd notice. She had no idea how she'd greet him. A kiss to the cheek? A warm embrace? How would she explain the ring? What if he planned on staying over? Could she tell him she was uncertain and that she had feelings for someone else she needed to work through? Wouldn't he demand to know who his competitor was? And then, being tight with the SS, wouldn't he run a background check? Damn. Every step she took became heavier.

"Look at the uniform!" Donald's oldest boy was saying. "I want one just like it."

"War is overrated," Tara wanted to say aloud, but she held her tongue. With a deep breath she opened the door.

Willow's friend looked uncomfortable. "Sorry to just show up unannounced. Hope it's not too much of an inconvenience."

Tara took a step back so that Buffy could come in. Suddenly her emotions swung away from fear of Riley to fear of something else. "Willow. Is she…?"

"Wilma's fine," Buffy smiled as she shrugged off her Hitler Youth hat to reveal short-cropped hair. Which itself was a bit disorienting. Tara hadn't seen Buffy in full scout mode before. That day at the hotel-the last time Tara had seen Willow-Buffy had worn a scarf and a long coat. Today she was every bit the adolescent male. It was kind of cute, though disorienting.

"In fact," Buffy was saying, "Auntie Wilma sent me here ahead of her. Seems she's covering a news story up north and expects to stop by here on her way back to Berlin. She put me on the train here to meet her. I hope you don't mind?"

Tara had nearly stopped breathing. "Y-you mean Wil-Wilma will be, um, paying us a visit?"

"Right. If that's ok with you. She really should have written you first, but this business trip came up rather suddenly…"

There was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs as Beth came down to see who their visitor was. "Um," Tara began, "This is my friend Wilma's nephew…"

"Bert," Buffy jumped in quickly, extending her hand to Beth in a businesslike handshake. Tara had to work to keep the smirk off her face.

"Nice to meet you, Bert," Beth said in her talking-down-to-youngsters voice. "You look very handsome in your uniform. Would you like a cup of tea?"

It had been a long time. Too long. Willow felt her anxiety rising with each breath she took. What was taking Xander so long? Was The Preacher still out there? What was Xander doing? She looked at her watch, but it had stopped. She wound the gears to get it going again, but she had no idea how long she'd been waiting. Well, she'd memorized the wallpaper. That was one clue. She clutched the edge of the sink and stared at her own reflection in the mirror. She could wait. She could. But not knowing about Xander: That was the hard part. And she couldn't stay here forever.

Spike strolled into the diner to meet Caleb. They'd set this little lunchtime rendezvous to go over work items. They had a nest of Jews to take care of this afternoon. As always, it was the neighbors who'd turned in the unlucky family. But it was the executions of the university students that was the triggering event. In the weeks since the university raids, Spike and Caleb had a lot more business on their hands than usual. Seemed like everybody was trying to deflect attention or settle up old differences. It was no secret that the neighbors were usually the ones who scavenged the apartments after Spike and Caleb had apprehended their quarry. Many, many people were quietly making out like bandits while their former friends and neighbors rotted somewhere. Probably literally.

Spike lit a cigarette in disgust, hoping it would distract him from his dark thoughts. The day was too pretty for darkness. "What's up?" Spike smirked, noticing his partner turning the salt shaker in his hand contemplatively. Caleb was the quiet sort, for sure. And he was crafty as all get out. But Spike had never seen him in an actually contemplative mood. The killer the other agents called The Preacher smiled a bit.

Spike flicked ashes into the ashtray. "It's a bit far of a stroll from headquarters."

Caleb grinned wickedly. "That was exactly my reaction. I was almost sure the guy's a homosexual. I've just been waiting for proof to nab him. They actually have nice places for the perverts at the concentration camps. And, well, we wouldn't want him weakening the gene pool, would we?"

"I imagine if he's a faggot then we wouldn't have to worry about the gene pool, eh?" In the midst of his own cruel chuckling, it occurred to Spike that he shouldn't encourage this line of conversation. Buffy would never forgive him if something happened to her pal. He backtracked. "But I think you're wrong about that one. I happen to know he has lady friends."

"Lady friends? As in more than one? When he marched out of here he made it sound like there was one undying love of his life. And then he scooted out of here as if I'd caught him in some illicit tryst."

Spike grew annoyed. "Ask the owner if you want to know who Harris was here with."

"Not a bad idea." Caleb rose and sauntered over to Helmut. Spike couldn't make out the conversation, but then he had a sinking feeling. Maybe asking the owner wasn't such a good idea after all. If being here with someone gave Harris the jitters, then it was probably for good reason. He was hiding something. Or someone.

Caleb came back to the table, grinning. "Helmut there tells me young Harris was here with a redhead and that they appeared to be admiring an engagement ring together. Apparently she left before he did."

Caleb looked self-satisfied…and predatory. "But. Something tells me they aren't together. Something he said. Or didn't say. I still think he's homosexual. I think the girl is a friend. After all these years, how often have I been wrong about a hunch? How many things have I missed? Maybe a little surveillance…"

Spike waved his hand dismissively and took another drag off his cigarette. "I can't believe we're even wasting breath on all this. Let's work out our plan for capturing the Weismans this afternoon."

But Caleb wouldn't let it go. "No. Harris really has me thinking: Just how well do we know the people inside the SS? I think we should secretly double back on our own people and scour the headquarters for traitorous activity."

Spike sighed heavily. He knew there was a reason it was better to never actually talk to his psychopathic partner. But he was also worried. A sweep of headquarters could reveal not only Harris's deceptions, but his own. It chilled him. "I had no idea you were bucking for promotion."

The Preacher grinned darkly. "I would get a promotion, wouldn't I? But, really, I'd do it even for nothing."

Out on the street, Xander was pacing and muttering to himself. Upset almost beyond words. He was half a block away from the diner, so that he could see when Spike and The Preacher left. But far enough away he could duck so they wouldn't spot him. His thoughts were entirely on Willow.

"God, she must hate me. She must think I abandoned her. Or that The Preacher and I got into it. Which we did, didn't we? And I managed to hold my own, didn't I? Maybe for once talking got me somewhere. Except that somewhere is out here, which is bad. I am such a chickenshit."

It had been half an hour. He felt utterly helpless. He knew what would happen next, and it made his insides go ice cold.

That was it. Her anxiety finally won out. Willow steadied herself in the mirror, tucked her hair up under her hat, turned to the door and took a deep breath. She swung the door wide and walked out, heading from the dark back part of the diner and toward the light. The place was narrow, just a row of booths up against the windows and a long row of chairs along the bar. She had maybe 40 feet between her and the door at the far end. Her eyes flicked to The Preacher. He was sitting in a booth, his back to her. That was good. But just then she locked eyes with his partner. There was the cold glint of recognition in his eyes.

Holy mother of god. That's Red. And she was about to stroll past him casual as could be. Spike's heart picked up its pace, the inner predator in him responding first. It would be so easy to nab her, and Caleb would be impressed. But he bit back the impulse, his fingers tightening against his coffee mug instead. He wanted to reach out and grab her wrist, give it a good twist, hear her whimper in pain and fear. And yet he himself was feeling fear, too. Such an odd and unexpected feeling. The chat about Xander had been intellectual. Almost philosophical, really. But here was flesh-and-blood prey before him. He felt both savage and protective. How disconcerting.

For her part, Red faltered. She hesitated like a small rabbit. Those green eyes went round as saucers. He'd never seen her up-close like this. She was pretty, all smooth white skin, tender and unblemished-a slim little slip of a thing, hardly bigger than Buffy herself. She blinked at him. Clearly she knew who he was. Right. Xander had spotted Caleb coming and told her to go wait in the back. But then Xander left, and here she still was. She couldn't hide forever. She had to find her own way out. And walking the gauntlet was it. He had to hand it to her. She was never a coward. He gave her credit for hiding among the Gentiles, seducing the fiancé of an Army officer and befriending traitors like Buffy and Xander. And now walking straight past the two detectives who could arrest her on any of those accounts and ship her off to a concentration camp in a heartbeat. Unless Caleb was in a twisted mood, in which case she wouldn't make it that far. Or probably even to the end of the street.

Spike stayed motionless, trying to make his eyes seem impassive. He didn't want Caleb turning around just now. He flicked Red a spare little smile. He meant it to be encouraging. He didn't know whether he was successful at it. She still looked scared, but she picked up the rhythm of her steps again, staring Spike straight in the eye as she walked past. He could smell her cologne and feel the brush of her coat, the aisle of the restaurant was so narrow. The contact made his skin tingle. If Caleb knew what he'd just done, he'd be a dead man. Even as he felt Red go, part of him wondered if he shouldn't do some dramatic double-take and alert the bastard to the chase. He imagined what would happen next, how it would unfold:

The two detectives would bolt from the table. The commotion would spook Red, who'd streak off at full tilt, banging through the glass doors and out into the street. She'd probably turn right and head toward the blocks with the narrow alleyways, hoping to shake them, but they'd be tight on her tail. She'd lose her hat in the chase, red hair flowing out behind her as she ran for her life. And Spike and Caleb would be burning with blood-lust-the desire the job required that you relish your kill. They'd run her down like jackals. And if she managed to make it into an alley, they'd draw their pistols, take steady, practiced aim, and shoot. The bullet would hit her in the middle of the back. She'd stumble, the momentum carrying her a step or two further before she crumpled to the ground. She'd hit hard. Maybe she'd be dead straight away. Or maybe not. They'd jog up to her to find out what their prize was, exactly. One of them would shove a toed boot in her side to see if she cringed. Maybe she'd be struggling, coughing up blood, whimpering, begging for mercy, uttering the word "please" as if clawing desperately at the edge of the abyss. They might let her go on for a bit. The word "please" had such a pleasant ring to it. In a case such as this another bullet would be called for. This one to the brain. It was Spike's turn to do the honor. They traded off. Then, mission accomplished, they'd amble back out into the daylight at the end of the alley, panting and feeling exhilarated. The killing always made Spike want to fuck something. And that's when he'd think of Buffy. And that's wherein the problem with this little death fantasy went awry.

He gripped his coffee mug and listened to the jangle of the door as Red bolted outside. Yet again, he let her slip away.

"Will!" Xander shouted as he watched his friend pop through the doors of the diner, looking scared and in a hurry. A sense of relief washed over him suffusing him with warmth.

"Over here!" He caught her attention, and then she was running full-barrel down the sidewalk toward him. She risked a glance over her shoulder-but just one-and then kept running until Xander caught her up in his arms.

"I guess the pie was a bad idea," he deadpanned, unsure exactly how he even could crack a joke at a moment like this. But she chuckled into his chest. "No, the pie was a good idea. It's your coworkers that suck big-time."

Xander kept his eye on the door, making sure The Preacher didn't emerge. "He didn't spot you then?"

"Who? The Preacher? No. But Buffy's buddy Spike did. Or at least I assume it was Spike. A guy this tall, blue eyes and with a perpetual smirk on his face?"

"Sometimes it's more of a sneer, but, yes, that would be Spike," Xander affirmed. "He spotted you and let you go?"

"I swear he knew who I was. He looked straight at me. We recognized each other."

"I wouldn't say we were properly introduced, and there were no actual sentences exchanged, but, yes. I think we definitely shared a moment."

Xander shook his head. "Man, Buffy must really have him whipped. But he's still evil. Let's not give him a chance to change his mind, shall we?"

Ravensbruck was not far from a quaint little town called Furstenburg, about 75 kilometers north of Berlin. A train went there fairly regularly, but Gruber had given Willow a car instead, suggesting that she and her "fiancé" take a few days up there, look around a bit, enjoy the countryside, hoping she'd bring him back a package of stories, talk to locals along the way, and record the stoic and resolved good people of the small towns. He had such romantic notions sometimes. Willow had shyly asked if she could use the car to visit a friend who lived in a in another village on the way home. She asked if she could have an extra couple of days and promised to call him every day to check in and let him know she was safe. Apparently, either she deserved vacation or they had just slipped into a new phase in their relationship in which he could deny her nothing. But then, she knew that was only because he thought she could do no wrong, while in fact everything she did and was about to do…and, in fact, everything about her…was wrong.

Xander grinned at her from the driver's seat as they bounced along the road to Furstenburg. They were outside the city finally, with the windows rolled down. The day had warmed considerably. It was almost like the dark pall that had seemed to hang in the air was dangled merely over Berlin. Here as the landscape sped by were lush greens against dramatic blue skies. For a few moments Willow truly loved being alive…and this time not only because she'd managed to cheat death another day. She was going someplace. On an important mission for the paper and for the resistance. Her best friend was with her, and in two days time, give or take, she'd be reunited with Tara. That alone was enough to put a smile on her face. Memories of her encounter with the detectives at Helmut's cafe receded into the background further and further with every mile they traveled.

"So this source you mentioned," Xander was saying, "The one who you plan to give your photos to…How did you find her?"

"She found me. I think she's a Russian national who's been living in Germany for a long time. Kind of laying low. They're not rounding up Russian expats unless the Gestapo thinks they're sympathizers-or their neighbors think they're sympathizers. Anyway, this woman is working with the German government in Munich. She was helping me check facts about the university raids there and we got to talking. I told her what I wanted to do…you know, about going up to Ravensbruck and taking photos, and she got excited about it. She wants to join us in Furstenburg. Gruber made hotel arrangements for you and me there-hopefully no honeymoon suite (sorry, sweetie)-and I invited her to stay with us."

Willow frowned. "I said no honeymoon suite. At least I hope. That's all we need-to make a big scandalous scene up there."

Xander sobered a moment, growing thoughtful. "How do we know we can trust this person?"

The phone rang at the Maclay residence. It broke the silence and jangled Buffy's nerves. She almost leapt off the couch where she politely sat with a cup of tea and a plate of cookies, chatting with Tara and her cousin Beth. Jesus, it's quiet out here! She'd never noticed the constant background hum of the big city until she'd been enveloped in the absolute silence of the countryside.

Beth patted her knee and smiled as she rose to go stop the infernal ringing. After Beth left, Tara smiled from her seat across from Buffy. "You make a really great boy," she whispered, slyly. Buffy just smiled. She'd had a couple of months now to get used to male impersonation. She'd worked out a lot of the mannerisms, and she'd learned not to say a lot, figuring that the more she played a background role the less likely she was to draw really close scrutiny. Tara's compliment was reassuring. Tara was certainly scrutinizing her closely, and clearly she was passing the test.

"Thanks…I think," Buffy said. "But you're looking at me the same way Willow does, and it's a little unnerving."

Buffy laughed-not the boyish laugh, but a real Buffy laugh. "No worries. I just wouldn't want your cousin thinking you have a thing for younger men-as in way younger."

Just then Beth called across the house for Tara. "It's Riley on the phone," she announced.

Buffy watched Tara's smile fade as the woman rose to go take the call. Yes, Buffy thought to herself, Tara's life was definitely already complicated enough.

Spike was rolling a cigarette and daydreaming when Caleb busted into his office with red-flushed cheeks and a wicked grin. Uh-oh. This couldn't be good. He tipped back in his desk chair and licked the cigarette closed, warily meeting his partner's eyes with a guarded, "What? Send your mom back to jail, or something?"

Caleb frowned at him. "Bastard. No. I have something very interesting on that Harris kid."

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes, trying to dampen the feeling of dread that gathered in his chest. "Don't tell me you're in love with him…One cup of coffee does not a romance make."

"Fuck you," Caleb sputtered. Spike liked it when he riled The Preacher. It was like poking a tiger in the ass with a sharp stick.

"It so happens that young Mr. Harris is on a special assignment to escort someone to Ravensbruck."

"This wasn't just putting someone on the one-way train. I hear he's on a personal escort job. Why wouldn't he have mentioned it when I saw him at the diner earlier today?"

"Maybe he didn't think it was important." Spike pointed a finger at Caleb. "Or maybe it's classified information and he was just doing his job keeping his tongue."

Caleb seemed to consider this. "Maybe. But I just think there's something more to this."

Inwardly, Spike agreed. They'd both been at this job long enough to know to pay attention to the small things-the little things that just didn't add up quite right. It was quitting time. He wanted to make sure that Caleb didn't start his investigation tonight. He took a deep breath, preparing to do something he really didn't want to do.

"Come on, pal. The day's over. We'll pick back up on Harris's trail tomorrow. Let's go grab a beer and chat up some ladies over at the Officers Club."

They lived in dangerous times when anyone could send another person off to the concentration camps upon the flimsiest of pretenses. Caleb was smart. He accepted the invitation.

The room at the inn was no honeymoon suite, but it was comfortable enough. One large bed, a couple of chairs and a beautiful view of the countryside. The air out here smelled fresh, and Willow opened the window to breathe it in while Xander carried their luggage upstairs. The proprietor had given them the name of a restaurant in town when they'd inquired about good eateries, and, fortunately, it was the place they'd agreed to meet Willow's contact from Munich.

Now the two of them were sitting quietly at a small table ordering drinks and waiting. A handful of locals shared the place with them, dressed in simple clothes. Willow stood out a bit in her more stylish city dress. She'd let Buffy help her shop recently. All the shopkeepers thought "Bert" was a darling for putting up with Auntie Wilma's trying on of various dresses and outfits. But the outing was actually a vicarious thrill for Buffy, whose wardrobe had essentially been reduced to men's pants, shirts and sweaters in varying shades of gray-green and gray-blue. Fortunately, she looked good in those colors. And, even more fortunately for Willow, Buffy had really been jonesing for some style. Hence, Willow looked every bit the romantic part of the urban woman reporter in a flowing red-print dress. Xander had on his uniform, since ostensibly he was still on official business. Clearly being so close to Ravensbruck meant that the townies here were not unfamiliar with men in uniform. So it was Willow who stuck out. So much for blending in and not causing a scene. Even now Willow and Xander could pick up the surreptitious glances from the locals and the restaurant staff.

But if they were worrying, they shouldn't have been because the scene was about to become much more colorful. There was a rattle as the door swung open wide to reveal an attrative blonde woman in a figure-hugging white wool coat trimmed in some kind of fluffy white fur. She strode in with her chin held high and swept her gaze around the place until she spotted Willow. She made a swift beeline straight for their table. Willow and Xander scraped their chairs in their haste to politely receive their dinner companion who was extending her hand in greeting.

"You're the only person in this whole room who remotely looks like she's seen a city in recent history, let alone a hairbrush. Wilma Hermann, right?"

"The red hair kind of gives it away," the blonde chuckled. "You're just the way I imagined you over the phone. Only prettier."

"Uh, I guess you're not exactly what I was expecting, either…You know…phones…They leave things out, or something like that," Willow smiled. In fact, Willow was expecting someone older and, frankly, a bit more pinched. Yet here was someone young and beautiful who had the directness of an old lady and tended to talk as if she were hard of hearing. Or thought everyone else was. Or didn't care.

Xander was dumbstruck. He shook her hand and introduced himself and then helped seat the ladies. "Well, with you two ladies as my dinner companions, I certainly am the luckiest man in this fine establishment tonight," he said smugly.

"He's here to make sure the folks at the concentration camp don't try to keep me," Willow translated.

"Of course it's not funny," Xander said heavily. "It's just-Well, it never hurts to step back and appreciate life's little absurdities now and then."

"Why are you here, Anya?" Willow asked, gently deflecting Anya's own question back at her.

"Yeah, I mean, I know what we agreed to on the phone and all…about the story. It's just that I don't know why. As in why travel all the way here and meet me?"

Anya regarded her coolly a moment and then with a stiff nod spoke. "I'd rather not say."

Xander leaned forward again. "That's not playing fair with the non-answer. We're sticking our necks out trusting you here. Help us out with a little get-to-know- you."

"Generally speaking, I think that's highly unwise," Anya insisted. She turned to Willow. "I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of things you'd rather people didn't know about you, right?"

Willow felt a blush rise up in her cheeks and nodded. "Maybe a couple of things. I guess." In a moment, she understood Anya's shrewdness. A Russian expat had to be extremely guarded. Perhaps even more so than Willow, who could at least pass as a Good German. One look at Anya and you sorta knew she wasn't from around here. Or anywhere remotely near here. With this new perspective Willow smiled. "It's ok, Anya. I get it. Let's not leave an information trail a mile wide, here."

Xander shook the cobwebs from his head. "Well, I'm not! I'm sure we can find enough 'safe' things to talk about to fill an hour or so of polite dinner conversation."

Anya regarded him with some doubt. "Ok, then. You start. Tell me something about yourself."

Xander was flustered at this. He clearly had to stop and think. Willow smiled, truly wondering what he'd say.

"Ok," he sputtered. "Fine. How's this: I'm 22. I grew up in Berlin and I'm unmarried."

Anya nodded. "I see. Well, it seems like you and Wilma are very good friends, and I gathered from our introductions that she's unmarried as well. Why haven't you married her?"

Xander stopped. Willow looked at him. "Yes, sweetie. I'd like to hear the answer to that one, too," she jabbed.

Anya turned to Willow. "And I see you're wearing a ring. Is that an engagement ring? And if so, why are you traveling with Xander and not your fiancé?"

Willow felt the blush creep up again and grinned. She couldn't help admiring the ruthless way Anya's mind worked. This might be a fascinating dinner, after all. "Ah, let's skip that one, too."

Willow thought hard. What could she say about herself that wouldn't potentially draw Tara or Buffy into the conversation? She realized the only way to converse with Anya was to be completely truthful. And therein lay the danger and the lesson.

Xander was understanding as well. "What are you? Gestapo? You'd make a great interrogator."

"You have firsthand knowledge? Your uniform suggests you might work for the Gestapo, but then perhaps your knowledge comes from being questioned yourself."

Or both, Willow thought, smiling ruefully, as Xander again pled the Fifth. "I'd rather not get into it too much. Though, yes, I do work with the SS in their civilian investigations department."

Xander looked around the room, confused. "I – I don't think so. Will, do you see anything?"

Willow chimed in. "Believe me. This is no trap, unless you're some kind of double- agent. Xander and I are harmless."

"I am not a double-agent. I am not an interrogator. And I don't believe that anyone is harmless. Just by being here you're doubtless putting people in harm's way. You and I are not innocent. Maybe some of these bumpkins who live in this backwater are harmless. But you and I are powerful. We have access to people and information that could help…or hurt, as the case may be."

She looked first at Xander and then at Willow. "And clearly we all have our backstories that are a little too prickly to go into. Probably because we're protecting others as much as ourselves. So, no, I don't believe that any of us is harmless."

She paused and regarded Willow closely again. "And yet, you must certainly know this. You must know that you have to be extremely careful what you say these days. And who you say it to."

"And yet you don't seem very careful. You wanted to talk, to 'chit-chat' and get to know one another."

Willow considered this a moment before answering. "I guess it's because I want to live my life the way I did before the war. I want to be a regular person, with a regular life with people I care about. I refuse to just roll over and give in to fear and intimidation. I'm doing what I'm doing because I have to. It's who I am. It's who I want to be. I've found people I trust. People I trust my life to, because that's what's required to even have a life. And they trust me to do the same. Yeah, there's more risk, but there's more of everything else, too."

"So you're wanted by the SS," Anya said evenly. There was no hint of judgment, just a statement of fact.

"I understood your point. And you've just described my existence to a 't.' That's why I said you must be wanted by the SS…I'm right, aren't I?" When Willow refused to answer, Anya smiled gently. "It's ok. I think we understand each other just fine."

That is, if Hell were a cozy room in a cottage inn shared with two beautiful women, one of whom was his lesbian childhood chum and the other a psychotic. He'd just stepped out of the small bathroom down the hall to find Willow dressed in the pajamas Xander had packed for himself, and Anya was wearing something he'd only ever seen in pinup-girl pictures. She still had her high heels on. The two women were squabbling over the bed. Xander blushed furiously, stopping flat. "Ah. Please. If there's going to be a pillow- fight, do you mind if I watch?"

Willow and Anya both turned to him, obviously interrupted mid-squabble. "What," they said in near unison. A question that begged him to restate his reason for existence rather than repeat the bit about the pillow fight.

"Heh. Pillows. Pajamas. Go together like…like…" Xander mumbled, trying to rally. Didn't work. He turned on his heels and headed back to the bathroom, where he intended to sleep in the bathtub.

Buffy knew it was unseemly to be knocking upon a woman's bedroom door, so she rapped softly. After the phone call with Riley, Tara had unceremoniously disappeared upstairs and sequestered herself away in her room. Buffy had been left on her own to have dinner with Beth and the four boys. Which had been an interesting experience.

Beth was a nice enough person. Pretty, though not as lovely as Tara. And a little uptight, perhaps, for being someone so young. She was maybe 19 or 20 and saddled with holding down a whole household and small farm on her own. She had help from Tara's brother's boys. But the eldest of them was only 11, so their help was limited. Really, it was like Beth was a stand-in for Donald's deceased wife, and she apparently found purpose in fulfilling the role.

And she'd been a delightful hostess, clearly taken with "Bert." Such a well-spoken and thoughtful 14-year-old. Of course, Beth didn't know this 14-year-old inhabited the body of a 22-year-old. Buffy did her best to be charming and interested. And she deflected as best she could questions about the Hitler Youth, training and other military-stuff. She'd studied up on it, since she knew her disguise required some working knowledge, but she hated making herself vulnerable by potentially saying too much. It was a bit tough with the boys peppering her with questions about the kinds of things the Hitler Youth do-like did she get to shoot guns, or learn how to operate intelligence equipment? Had she ever turned in a Jew? Had she ever been in a fist-fight? What was her rank? It was a bit dizzying and a little disturbing, but they were boys and their questions weren't out-of-line.

When it was time for bed, Beth had ruffled "Bert's" hair affectionately and showed Buffy to her room (fortunately there was a guestroom, so Buffy wasn't forced to bunk with the kids). She watched closely to see which rooms belonged to Beth and the boys and then surmised that the other one was Tara's. She waited until the house quieted down for the night and then crept down the hall to Tara.

She knew she could just wait until morning…maybe draw Tara out for a walk on the property to talk. But the light was on in Tara's room, and Buffy wasn't sleepy, so she decided to at least say good-night.

After a soft rap at the door, Buffy could hear Tara moving in the room, and then the door opened a bit. Tara's eyes were red-rimmed. It was clear she'd been crying.

"Hey," Buffy whispered. "Thought you might like someone to talk to…You know, someone who maybe understands?"

Tara looked bone tired for a moment, but then nodded and opened the door to Buffy.

Tara's room was simply-appointed. There was a small brass double-bed with a white bedspread, a couple of stiff wooden chairs and a bureau with a mirror. On one wall was a framed photograph of Hitler. On another wall, there was Jesus. And that was about it. On the bureau Buffy noticed that Tara had out a pen and paper.

"I – I was writing a letter," Tara explained, noting the object of Buffy's gaze.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you…but I thought, you know, the whole Riley phone call…and then you retreating up here. I thought maybe something bad had happened. Tough phone call?"

Tara sat on one of the chairs and put her head in her hands. "One of the toughest. Seems like I've had too many of those lately."

Buffy took the other chair and rubbed Tara's shoulder encouragingly. "What happened?"

"I – I told him that I didn't think I could marry him…that I have feelings for someone else. He'd wanted to come down here to visit after he met with Willow at Ravensbruck. He – he thought they could both come down and spend some time here on the farm. But I just couldn't do it. I just can't have them both here. It was way past time to say something-or do something. I'm not being fair to either of them…"

Buffy continued to rub small circles on Tara's shoulders. "But it's confusing…" she nodded.

"Yeah. And it shouldn't be. I should marry him. It's more than time enough to be married and having a family. He's a wonderful person…"

Tara sighed heavily, meeting Buffy's gaze finally. "I can't get her out of my head. I can't stand being away from her and yet I'm scared to be with her."

Buffy nodded. "Yeah. The fear part is not unreasonable. The Jewish thing, the woman thing…" She looked around the room. "But you and Beth are here, living together and people probably don't give it a second thought."

"We're family. And the neighbors expect that we'll find nice men and marry them, eventually. Beth's young."

"And Willow's charming. And bright. And ambitious. If anyone could win over the neighbors and make them love her, it's Willow."

Tara nodded. "I'm less worried about Willow-I mean I am worried about Willow. I'm always worried about Willow-but when it comes to being together I'm worried about me. That some part of me will feel self-conscious and scared. She doesn't deserve that. I'm afraid I'll be too weak."

Buffy gestured around the room. "What's weak about you? You're the person who stepped up and loved our girl when you didn't have to. You've stuck by her even after you found out she's a Jew. And after being embarrassingly interviewed by the Gestapo…"

"Right. And they followed you around. You marched into SS headquarters. You stood up to your brother. You've come out here to hold down the fort with your cousin. You accepted Xander and me even after you learned that we're kind of dangerous to be around, too. And you just broke up with your fiancé. I don't see any weakness in you at all. And if you think Willow or Xander or I are never scared, then please know right now that's not true. I've hid in sewers. I ran away from home. Hell, I've gone back to grade school. And changed genders. I'm scared all the time. And Willow puts up a great front but she's scared, too."

"I don't want to be another thing that scares her or puts her at even greater risk."

Buffy chuckled. "Tara, I think I can safely say you are the one thing that's holding her all together. You're the one thing she's not scared about. You're this shining thing she holds onto-you represent what life could be like after the war. Xander and I are her family. But you're her strength." She looked closely at Tara. "And I think she's yours, too."

Tara thought about this for a moment. And then smiled. "She's so strong already."

"Yeah, she is strong. But stuff always comes along to weigh her down. The notion of marriage is a partnership, where two people support each other. Ok, so you two might not have white gowns in your future, but between the two of you I think you've got enough strength to do anything."

"Yeah, I do. For the same reasons you do," Buffy smiled, then amended: "Just not in a gay way."

Tara laughed. "Yeah. I don't know what that's about. I've never felt that way about another woman." She stopped a moment. "In fact, I've never felt that way about anyone, period."

"The world's tough right now. But it can't always be. Times change. All I know is that if you hang in there, Willow is worth it. And I know she'll hang in there for you."

The appointment with Riley was set for 9 a.m. sharp. Ravensbruck was another 15 kilometers from Furstenberg. As Xander drove, he rubbed tired eyes and wished for more coffee. Willow sat quietly beside him, facing forward, her face set in deep concentration. Anya was back at the inn. They'd agreed to catch up with her after Willow finished her meetings today. The camera case lay between them on the seat.

"Fine. Her fiancé. You gotta be a little weirded out to see him. I mean when was the last time you saw him?"

"I prefer to think of him as more of an abstraction than as an actual person," Willow lightly quipped. But Xander knew that tone.

"Fine," Xander smirked, though not unkindly. He patted her hand where it lay on the seat between them and kept his eyes on the road. The Riley thing was just a distraction. He knew she was scared about much more than that.

The road to Ravensbruck was lovely. The place lay at the edge of a beautiful blue lake. On one side of the lake, the lovely Medieval town of Furstenburg. On the other, this. So much beauty for a place that hung so heavy with hardship. As they approached, Willow felt the heaviness turn to dread and tighten around her heart. There was tall stone fencing with electrified razor wire. Ahead was a guard station.

Xander was a soldier. But these soldiers, of course, were far different: helmeted, bearing heavy rifles over their shoulders and stern-faced. At the gates before them was a truck that appeared to be carrying a large number of women, all dressed in street clothes, looking strangely out of place in a military truck. They were coming to this place new, just like Willow was. Only Willow held a credential that gave her the amazing fortune to merely visit here today. She strained her gaze through the windshield to try to catch the faces of the women visible at the end of the truck-as if she wanted to remember them free, to take that memory with her so that when their neighbors had long forgotten them (or conveniently chosen to forget about them), that Willow would not. She caught the eye of a young woman, blond, barely more than a teenager. She could have been Buffy's sister. The girl stared back at her warily a moment and then turned away. After another moment, the gate swung open and the truck drove through delivering its passengers to their destination. The gate was shut again, and two rifled guards resumed their post before it.

Willow leaned far back in her seat as if her body were magnetically repelled by the place. Xander rubbed her hand again, and she was grateful to have him here. He was her tether to reality.

"Just let me get us past the guard," he gently replied. And then their car came to a stop at the small station house. A helmeted soldier leaned down to the car window, which Xander quickly unrolled.

"I have Wilma Hermann from The People's Press here to meet with Captain Riley Finn. He should be expecting her for a 9 a.m. appointment."

The guard wordlessly checked his wristwatch and then consulted a clipboard. "Your papers, please."

Willow handed Xander hers and watched him hand them to the guard. It was the first time in the war that she'd been asked for papers, and, thankfully, she had them. She smiled at Xander, who nodded a silent "you're welcome." The soldier leaned down so he could match Willow's face to her picture I.D. Without comment, he rose and handed the papers back to Xander.

"My instructions are to take Miss Hermann inside, but I'm afraid you'll need to stay out here."

Willow's heart started to pound. Xander leaned out of the window. "I was instructed to escort Miss Hermann on her mission here. My understanding of the assignment is that I go wherever she goes. She's in my charge, and her editor will give me Hell if I don't follow his instructions."

Xander turned unhappily to Willow. "I'm sorry, Wilma. I'll be back here at the gate at 5 waiting for you. If you need me sooner, call the inn. I can be back here in 10 minutes."

"It's ok. I'll be ok. I'll call you." Willow was shaken by the change in plans. She'd really counted on having Xander with her. She composed herself quickly and grabbed her camera, giving her friend a quick grin. "Wish me luck."

"You've got plenty of that, my dear," he chuckled as she climbed out of the car. She stood watching as he turned the car around and headed back down the country road toward town. She watched until he disappeared from sight and stood watching a bit longer as she comprehended the fact that she was on her own and about to enter prison. In the meantime, the soldiers had pulled up their own car and gestured for her to get in.

"Welcome to Ravensbruck, Miss Hermann," the soldier said as he drove her through gates that closed firmly behind them. A chill ran down her spine.

Inside she got her first glimpse of the place. Far back from the drive sat two rows of low-slung barracks. The compound was devoid of trees. The sun reflected from the pale, stark walls, making Willow squint.

Riley Finn was fresh-scrubbed as ever and grinning. Willow tried to ignore the haunted look that encircled him. At least he looked healthy. She shook his hand.

"Have you seen Tara lately?" he asked her, casually, as he fetched her a cup of coffee.

Willow shook her head. "Not since she left Berlin." She wasn't sure how much Tara or her brother might have said about why Tara left Berlin, so she kept her answer simple. "You?"

She watched his jaw muscle tighten, but he turned to her with a smile anyway. "A month ago. Out at her family's farm. She was good," he said offhandedly.

Willow could not believe how jealous she felt. Tara hadn't mentioned in her letters or on the phone that Riley had visited her. Did they sleep together? Was that why she hid the fact from Willow? She felt her cheeks flush and then noticed Riley's were flushing, too.

"I'd suggested to Tara that you and I join her after you're done with your interviews here. You know just take an extra day or two…But…"

Willow reddened and cut him off. Visiting Tara with Riley there was the last thing she wanted to do. "No," she blurted and then realized she'd sounded like an ass. "I mean, I promised my editor I'd get back to Berlin right away. And Xander has to get back too."

"Xander?" Riley asked with a big grin. "He came with you? But of course he would. I should have noticed the ring."

Willow looked self-consciously at the ring on her hand and found herself twisting it nervously. She didn't know what to say. "Uh. Yeah. A lot of things have changed." The words sounded lame even to her own ears, but Riley seemed to nod, thoughtfully. His jaw tightened again, and then he raised a coffee cup to her.

"Well. Where shall we begin? It's not everyday the Party newspaper sends a reporter to visit us."

Willow snapped into full Wilma Hermann mode. "I'm writing a piece to give the Germans faith and reassurance in the humaneness of the military's treatment of prisoners."

Riley just about spit his coffee across the desk at her. He laughed. Until he noticed Willow wasn't laughing with him. "Sorry," he said. "It's just that you're going to need to do some serious creative writing to make that story work. I don't mean to sound jaded." A beat, and then: "Ok, I am jaded. But this is a prison. It's not a summer camp."

Willow frowned. "I'm not expecting a summer camp. No one is. It's just that word is getting around that there are hundreds of thousands of prisoners scattered in the concentration camps. The people need a piece that will lessen their guilt and anxiety. I don't care what you show me. But that's the piece I intend to write for The People's Press."

He regarded her carefully. "I knew when I met you that you were a Good German. I think we're very lucky to have you working for the newspaper. And thank you for selecting me as your interview subject."

She couldn't help but smile at his sincere enthusiasm. "It's pretty intimidating coming someplace like this. I could only do it if I had someone I knew as my guide."

"I'm more than happy to help." He took another sip of coffee. "But I'm afraid you're going to see some things that are upsetting. I can help you make sense of them if you'd like. Maybe together we can craft your story."

Willow nodded. It felt like she should bridle at such a suggestion of censorship. But then she worked for a propaganda newspaper anyway. Of course she'd play along. "Great. Where do we start?"

They started at the beginning. With a brief tutorial on the history and situation analysis of the camp. Riley was candid because he knew Willow story would end up positive no matter what he said. "Ravensbruck was built to hold 5,000 prisoners. Right now we have about 40,000, give or take."

Willow tried to hide her shock. "That's got to be quite a burden. How do you manage?"

"It's not comfortable in the barracks. And we have a problem with illnesses running rampant from time to time. But we've beefed up the staffing here. I was brought on two months ago to help manage things. I've added 20 staff since then, but it's hard to keep up. We've just added another 10,000 prisoners. They just keep coming. It looks like we may be getting another 10,000 in the next two weeks."

"About half the women here are from Poland. Another quarter or so are Germans and the other quarter are Russians."

He pulled out a stack of colored fabric patches and placed them on the desk before her. "This is our system for keeping the ladies organized. They can find people like themselves, and we know a bit about who we're dealing with."

"Tell me," Willow asked. She pulled out her camera and shot a couple of photos of Riley showing her the various patches.

"The letters signify what country they come from. Red triangles are for political prisoners. Green is for common criminals. Yellow triangles are for Jews. Black triangles are for asocials-Gypsies, prostitutes, homosexuals…"

Willow blanched at that. If she were imprisoned here, she'd be marked twice. Or maybe even three times. And with a wince, she realized that Tara could be imprisoned here as a black-triangle-wearing "asocial," too. Here was yet another way she put Tara at risk. Anya was right last night: Willow was far from harmless.

"A lot of the Jews here are being shipped out to Poland, to Auschwitz. The government wants Germany to be rid of the Jews, and I guess that goes for the ones in prison here, too."

The whisperings around the newsroom were that Auschwitz was one of the Reich's "death camps"-set up to dispose of prisoners as their numbers grow too quickly to manage. Riley seemed to confirm that fact in his next sentence:

"Auschwitz is a pretty terrible place. There are so many people there. Too many to take care of. I wouldn't wish that place on anyone. Regardless of who they are or what they've done."

"Who are the women who are here, really? I – I saw a transport truck carrying women here today. They – they looked so young. How could they even be political enemies?"

He exhaled heavily. "I don't know why they were arrested. We don't get a lot of information. And our orders are simply to keep them here. But I wonder things like that myself sometimes. I mean, how could I not?"

"I was happy to come here because I thought it meant that I wouldn't have to continue to see the terrible things I'd seen on the Russian Front. But now I've come to think that the things I see here are even worse."

He smiled tightly. "You have to depersonalize your job. People have numbers instead of names. You don't get to know any of them. They're inventory." He shrugged. "And you drink a lot. It helps."

The camp was a chilling place, on one hand comprising so many of the mundane details of regular life-and then on the other feeling entirely alien. As they rounded the barracks on Willow's photo tour, she got her first glimpse of prisoners at work. A crew of about 250 uniformed women were digging long trenches at a distance of about 50 meters from where Willow and Riley stood.

"What are they doing?" Willow asked, certain she probably knew the grotesque answer, but she asked anyway. She lifted her camera to her eye, focused and snapped some shots.

Riley shuffled his feet in the grass. "Drainage ditches," he said. When Willow met his eyes in suspicion, he nodded at her notebook. "That's what I said. Write it down." Willow took her pen and jotted down the silly words.

She decided to let that pass. "So you said there are about 40,000 women here? What tasks have you got others doing?"

Riley took her to a machine shop. They stepped inside from the glaring sun and cool breeze to a large, dark shop that was hot, stuffy and loud with the whirring of hand machines.

"They're making components for V-1 and V-2 rockets. The Seimens Corporation pays us for the work."

Willow jotted down the details in her notebook, taking care to get the spelling right and asking Riley to explain what a V-1 and V-2 rocket were. All the while, her eyes were scanning the shop floor, watching the unsmiling women who were bent to their tasks at their hot little machines. Only one or two at the front of the room even noticed her there. A wave of self-consciousness washed over her. She lifted her camera and snapped a couple of shots here. And then lifted her eyes to let Riley know she was ready to move on.

They went on about this for the rest of the morning, stopping here or there on their tour, so that Willow could make notes and snap photographs. There was a building set apart from the others that Riley referred to as "the bunker," where troublesome prisoners were taken for solitary confinement. The building had an area where the camp's doctor practiced.

She also had asked about a smaller building that was emitting a thick smoke. "The crematorium," Riley had explained, again scuffing at the grass. There were a large company of women with red stars who were dragging barrelfuls of ashes from the back of the crematorium through a gate and down to the lake, where they deposited them without ceremony. Willow watched silently. There was no need to press Riley to explain this. Her heart felt heavy and cold with the knowledge that if the detectives ever captured her, she would end up here-and the end of the road might very well lead to the front door of this otherwise unremarkable building. But she imagined that for Riley this knowledge was far worse: The fact that he was personally responsible for what went on here clearly gnawed at him. In his eyes, she knew he cared. It mattered to him. She wondered if four or five months from now it still would, once he'd become numb to it all…but for now, while he was still new, this was terrible to him.

"I don't know how you're going to write about this," was all he could say. For her part, Willow couldn't say anything. She quietly took a few more photographs.

Willow and Riley ate lunch on the steps outside the administration building, in the sunshine. It would have been lovely except for the fact that they were in a concentration camp. Which was a very stupid-sounding sentence, even in Willow's own mind. She shook her head and set down her sandwich in favor of the cup of coffee. The two of them had been quiet for a few minutes. Willow needed a rest from information overload. And Riley had become broody. He was gazing at her hand. Or, more specifically, at Tara's ring, which was on her finger, which was attached to her hand. It was an unusual ring, not so much flashy, but with a distinctive bit of Victorian scrollwork along the silver band. Willow knew that being familiar with it now, she would recognize it anywhere. And realized that Riley could say the same thing. And he did.

Willow thought back to Anya again and the lesson she'd learned about sticking to the truth being the best course of action. "Yes," she said lightly. And then she wondered how many other details about Tara he had memorized away. And whether they were exactly the same ones she had memorized herself. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She and Riley were so different. He was tall and strong and kind, an Aryan masterpiece, just like Tara was. In fact, she and Riley made a perfect matched set. Willow was just some screwball.

"It's Xander, isn't it?" Riley inquired softly. More a demand than a question, really.

"Is he the reason she won't marry me?" Riley sounded like a small boy. Willow was shocked at his vulnerability. And equally shocked to learn Tara had apparently had a Big Conversation with Riley that she hadn't known about.

"I talked to her last night. She broke it off. Said she had feelings for someone else. I'm assuming since you all had been hanging out together in Berlin that Xander's the reason. I mean, he's not marrying you." Riley nodded at the ring. True enough. The ring was not Xander's and Willow was not his fiancé.

Willow thought about the fact she hadn't known about Riley's visit to Tara's farm. Willow knew that she herself had been secretive in the past with Tara to nearly disastrous results. But this bit of news had hit Willow's jealousy buttons. She hadn't realized until then how much she hated the idea of Tara being with anyone else. And how much a small omission could sting.

"I know Xander, and there is nothing going on between Tara and him," Willow said emphatically.

"And I bet you were headed out to Tara's farm until I mentioned this morning that I'd been planning to go."

He'd caught her awkwardness. "Don't lie to me about this," he said a bit harshly. In his place, she would have been just as anguished.

"We're headed back to Berlin," she restated. "When you suggested this morning that we might all go to visit Tara, I really thought it was too much. I felt it would be better for you to just go and see her yourself. We'd be in the way." All of this was true.

"It's got to be Xander. Who else has she been spending time with?" Riley mused aloud in frustration. "She won't tell me who it is. That means it's someone I know."

Right here looking at you, buddy. Willow's discomfort grew. Damn, she wished Tara had waited to break up with Riley until after Willow had made it safely back to Berlin. And not when she was sitting here trapped in the middle of the Ravensbruck concentration camp with the man who would lock her away in a heartbeat if he only knew.

Riley was still thinking aloud to himself. "I bet her brother will know. Wasn't he staying at the apartment for a week or two?"

"A – a week or so," Willow said, her dread growing even greater at the mention of Donald. Of course, he and Riley would be on letter-writing terms.

"Damn," Riley was fuming. "I knew she had too much free time on her hands. You, Wilma. You don't even know, since you go to work every day. I knew it was a bad thing when she sent the kids out to the country and decided to stay in town."

"Who knows. I do know that the night before I left to head back to the Front, she was…different…"

More grabby? Willow wondered and then cursed her love of words. She didn't want the images in her mind that "grabby" conjured up.

Riley was blushing. "She wasn't herself. And she hadn't been since we ran into you and Xander at the Officers Club that night."

Willow knew what he was talking about: that was the night she'd inexplicably found herself flirting with Tara. Suddenly, she was struck by the fact that perhaps Tara had felt the same way about her from the very start. The knowledge kind of warmed Willow inside. But she was in the middle of a dangerous conversation here and she couldn't let herself get distracted.

"I hear what you're saying, Riley, but I still don't believe it's Xander," she sighed.

He clapped her on the shoulder. "You are the most optimistic person I have ever met. You give everyone the benefit of the doubt."

Willow smiled a little. "I just follow my instincts. So far luck's been on my side."

She looked at him a moment. His luck really had been no better or worse than her own. He was just hurting right now. She decided it was time to change subjects. "So. You're going to introduce me to some of the people here?"

Riley snapped back into his professional mode. "Yes. I'd like you to meet our camp doctor and the women's head guard. They can both tell you a lot more about this place than I can. But I warn you, they're not happy you're here."

"Well. I'll be damned," he said, flicking his gaze up to meet Caleb's. The Preacher had a stupid evil smug face on him, and Spike wanted to knock it right off. With his fists.

Spike took a deep pull on the cigarette to calm his nerves. Well, now. If The Preacher had Red's number, then she was a lost cause. Now all that mattered was making sure he didn't start knocking all the dominoes over, leading next to Red's boy Xander and then to Spike's girl Buffy.

"The nerve that girl Red has. Working for the Party newspaper. Right here under our noses!" Caleb was ecstatic. Like he wanted Willow as his girlfriend. It was the most excited Spike had ever seen him be about a woman.

"She is a cheeky one," Spike admitted. "Screwing the captain's fiancé, working as a girl reporter for the Nazis…"

Caleb's eyes gleamed malevolently. Uh-oh. That means he has more. "What else you got?" Spike asked.

Caleb shot him a pissy look. "You have a thing for thinking about ladies together, don't you?"

Spike shrugged. While the Nazis tended to frown upon the deed, there was nothing against the law about dreaming. Yet. He waited patiently for Caleb to say what he was gonna say. Because, knowing the bastard, there was no way he wasn't going to say.

"Well, then, I suppose our job is done. A shame, though. I'd kind of like to shake that lady's hand. Or maybe kiss it a little."

"Well then you'd suppose wrong. Because she's not there as a prisoner. She's there as a reporter. She's on a story assignment for The People's Press. Our young Mr. Harris was her escort."

"And that's not all." He paused a moment and then: "She's there to meet with Captain Riley Finn."

"Wow, you've had a very busy morning," Spike said. "And that girl is off her nut completely."

Spike nodded somberly. And then he realized there was nothing else he could do. His mood brightened. "Well. Shall we oblige her, then?"

Tara was finding it extremely hard to stay focused knowing that her two lovers were spending the day together. She still couldn't believe Willow's audacity to have picked a story assignment that led her into a concentration camp. And then to choose Riley, her rival for Tara's affections, as the man to be her source. Willow had been extremely sketchy about the story. Tara received what she was sure was the "Party Line" version- the tale Willow probably told Gruber to get him to let her do it. But Tara knew that there was some other motivation. Willow would never do something so big and risky as this without a really good reason, right?

Part of her was frustrated with Willow right now. Why this story? Why now? Why with Riley? Why at such risk? To herself and her friends. Was it fair for Willow to drag everyone out on the limb with her? Was this just the reality of loving Willow Rosenberg?

She'd read about people who experienced some kind of intense trial in their lives and then developed a craving for more and more. Like an adrenaline rush. Tara stopped to consider it: Was Willow an adrenaline junkie? Was she drawn to power?

It's true that Buffy had been an outspoken university student, helping to distribute leaflets against the war. But Willow had been the one who helped Buffy with the writing. Buffy's heart and instincts were right, but she didn't really read the newspaper or stay up with current events. So Willow helped with Buffy's "homework," while Buffy networked with other student rabble-rousers. Most of whom were all long gone now.

She thought about Xander, who probably would never have taken an SS job unless he'd realized he was safer on the inside than on the outside. And that, of course, would be because of the company he kept. Willow had explained to Tara how she and Buffy had helped Xander figure out how to alter citizen documents to create new records-or new identities-for people. One of the people they'd helped was, of course, Willow. And Buffy had called upon another contact she had at SS in his off hours to do "favors" of procuring travel papers that had enabled a number of people to leave Germany for France or England or America.

Willow, Xander, Buffy-and now Tara – moved in an orbit around each other. But Tara finally realized that it was Willow who was the prime mover, the one who set everything in motion. Rather than lay low, Willow was climbing ever higher.

Tara knew there would be a price to pay for that. And that Willow would end up paying it sooner than later. Buffy even seemed to understand that. They'd taken a walk around Tara's family's farm after breakfast and talked some more. There was something about the intensity of Buffy that was intimidating, but there was also a fierce affection and loyalty when it came to Willow and Xander. It made Tara love Buffy.

"So how long do you figure you'll be traveling, um, incognito?" Tara had asked Buffy,

"What then?" Tara was curious about what her friends' dreams for the future might be.

Buffy had flashed her a sly look. "I'm going to get a good job so I can help take care of my mom and sister. My mom's had to work too hard for too long. She was helping put me through college. Until, of course, I went and ruined everything by becoming Public Enemy #1."

"Oh, yeah. Saved by the typo. I still owe Will for that. Or wait, I don't. I took her shopping and gave her all my girl clothes."

Tara smiled shyly. "I, um, did notice that she was dressed rather nicely the last time I saw her."

Tara blushed, but she pressed on. "They say that first impressions are what's important. You know, the first 30 seconds."

"I see. So the other four and a half minutes of non-naked time were essentially wasted."

Tara chuckled. "Well, from an apparel standpoint, maybe. I'd have to say that Willow and I managed to pack a lot into that afternoon."

Buffy let out an exasperated gasp. "Damn. The la-la-las don't help with mind pictures."

They were near the fence at the front of the property when a military van rumbled by, interrupting the country quiet. The sudden approach of it made Tara and Buffy jump. They watched the vehicle pass slowly, the drivers eyeing the pair of them before the car finally wound its way down the road and out of sight.

"Wow. Jumpy much? I halfway thought they were going to stop for us," Buffy confessed with a shaky voice.

Buffy patted her arm. "Willow's making me nervous. I wish she'd call. What time is it?"

"Aside from brownie points from her editor? She's always been an overachiever." When Tara remained silent, Buffy crumbled a little. "Are you sure you want to know more?"

Buffy sighed heavily, gazing off down the road where the military van had disappeared. "She's meeting a Russian woman. To give her copies of her notes and some of her film."

Buffy shrugged. "The Russian's a go-between. She's going to deliver the story to the Allies."

Tara stopped, her jaw dropping in disbelief. "How does Willow figure she's going to get away with that? The only person to get into Ravensbruck to take photos, and she thinks the government isn't going to know the Allies got the pictures from her? Is she fucking insane?"

"And Riley. Does she hate him so much that she'd betray him? He's going to end up being the poster boy of a traitor. They're going to assume he's in on it. God! Doesn't she realize that hurting him hurts me? And, that's not even to mention that they'll be all over her. What the hell is she thinking?"

Just then a faraway voice reached them as if floated on the wind. It was Beth, coming down from the house. As the young woman came into view she called out again. "Tara, the phone. It's for you."

"Hush, sweetie. Can you tell me what's wrong? Are you ok?" Tara tried to keep her voice steady. Buffy was standing at her elbow, and Beth was leaning in the doorway, her face concerned. Tara really wished for more privacy.

"Baby, it's the place. You can't believe the place. What – what they do to people. People like me. Like us. Everyday people who just happened to get up on the wrong side of the bed one day and suddenly they're political prisoners. Tara, I saw things I wished I'd never seen…"

Willow's mind was full of math. She had a very mathematical mind. And right now she was powerless to stop it from doing multiplication. The numbers ran in the background as she tried to sort out her feelings and somehow manage to be coherent on the telephone. How could she explain to Tara the small building that was set back away from the rest of the barracks and separated by razor wire? The one Riley referred to as "the bunker." How claustrophobic it was, with its narrow its passages and low its ceilings. Riley had led her around to what he pronounced to be the medical ward, which wasn't a ward at all, just a few small rooms with cruel-looking apparatus that confused Willow. She'd never seen appliances like these. Were they even from the modern era? They appeared Victorian, or perhaps even medieval. White-washed rooms with stockade-like benches. Riley had frowned when Willow snapped a photo.

But then they were interrupted by a stern-faced blond woman in a lab coat. The woman seemed to appear out of nowhere, materializing from some hole or passageway to confront them. "This is Dr. Maggie Walsh," Riley had announced by way of introduction. Dr. Walsh's gaze slid up and down Willow, as if she were examining a medical specimen. "Do you belong here?" she finally asked. And for a moment, Willow wondered what it was that Walsh saw in her when she looked at her like that. Willow felt as if her disguise had been recognized by someone who was an expert at spotting the kind of people who spoiled the gene pool.

She snapped a photo of Maggie Walsh, too. It caught the woman by surprise. Riley gave her that look again.

Willow didn't have the guts to ask the doctor how she cared for 40,000 women in a facility this small. And vacant. With sickness surely running through the camp, where were the sick people? Instead, there were spotless white rooms with sharp medical instruments. Metal picks, glass bottles of acids, shiny metal pans and shiny little knives. Dr. Walsh said little and watched Willow with a hawkish expectancy that made her glad for Riley. Otherwise she had the distinct feeling Dr. Walsh might have kept her, locked her in one of the stern little rooms with the strange stockades.

How could Willow explain to Tara what it felt like to crawl back out of that place and into the sunshine, to breathe air that wasn't tinged with antiseptic and chlorine bleach and the faint hint of meat. How could she explain to Tara the haunted looks a group of inmates gave her when they'd resurfaced. The mistrustfulness and fear and curiosity. And loathing. When they looked at her they saw a Nazi. They saw her as one of those others.

How could she explain to anyone the feelings she experienced when Riley showed her one of the barracks where the women slept, when they let them sleep at all. The only furniture the place held were sturdy wooden bunk beds. They were three-tiered, like tall warehouse shelving. But Willow's mind was good at math. She knew how many buildings were here. And how many women. And how few bunks.

"Do they sleep on the ground?" she'd asked, jumping ahead of herself. The uncomfortable look in Riley's eyes told her he knew what she was asking. And the way he averted her gaze gave her her answer. The quarters were so close. They had to sleep at least three if not more to a bed. And they probably slept on the floor, too. The hall was dark and smelled like sweat and soiled laundry. She snapped another photo, and she was sure from the look on Riley's face that he'd never let her out of here with her camera.

Willow tried to keep her voice light. She was a reporter for The People's Press. She was Wilma Hermann, here on assignment. "I need a shot of a group of women…maybe chatting. You know. Something pedestrian and everyday. That people can relate to…"

Riley looked confused. Of course he was. That's not the kind of thing you typically saw here.

Willow pressed on. "I need them to be wearing clean uniforms. And no patches. No red triangles or black triangles. And I need them to appear to be at leisure." She looked him square in the eyes as if she were instructing him how to save his own life. It took a moment and then he comprehended what she was getting at.

"You'll have to give us some time to find what you're looking for," he'd replied tightly. "But I think that's a good idea. And we can manage it."

They swung back by the office and Riley gave his instructions to two of his staff. Who'd stared at Willow with open contempt. But they'd agreed to do it because Riley was their superior, and they'd all been told to cooperate with the reporter. Willow snapped a photograph of their sour faces.

How could she explain the thick column of smoke that rose from the chimney of a building Riley said was the crematorium? "We have to deal with death here," he'd commented. "We're bigger than most cities, in terms of our population. Every city has to deal with its dead. We've found that this the best way to avoid spreading disease."

Willow did the math again, thinking about the small number of infirmary beds for a "city" of 40,000. And wondering what means of disposing of the dead they'd tried before they'd settled on this one as "best."

Behind the crematorium lay the beautiful lake. There was a large work crew of younger women prisoners, carrying wheelbarrowfulls of gray ash from the back of the building and down to the waterfront, where they deposited the material into the water itself or onto a small barge which, Willow presumed, would be taken out into the middle of the lake for dumping. Perhaps under the cloak of night. Armed guards stood all around, their rifles slung over their shoulders or gripped tight in their hands as the women trudged about their work, fine gray dust coating their clothing, their hair, their faces.

"Don't even think about taking a picture of this," Riley warned under his breath.

One of the women guards interrupted them. Willow turned to find a pretty blond woman with a dark look in her eyes. "We have your garden tableau all set up, Captain," the woman announced. Willow recognized sarcasm when she heard it.

"So quickly!" Riley said, obviously relieved to be leaving this place. "Very good. Miss Hermann, this is Glory, one of the head guards. She's worked here for several years. She's one of our best."

"Pleased to meet you," Willow had said as impassively as possible, though it was becoming harder and harder to keep her cool.

Glory merely gave a toss of her head and turned to lead Willow to the "tableau" she'd assembled for the photo shoot. Riley trailed behind them as they strode across the courtyard to the one tree in practically the whole compound. As they approached, Willow surveyed the light and pulled out her camera bag for another roll of film.

"Can't believe you've gone through a whole roll already," Riley commented, almost as if to let her know he was keeping track. Willow had felt irritation, but didn't let it show. That other roll of film. That was for Anya. This one, the "PR" roll: That was for The People's Press. Gruber didn't want to know the details. He didn't want to see the bunker and the crematorium and the cloth patches of triangles and stars. He didn't want to see the bunks or the skinny dying women in their threadbare and dirty uniforms, covered in fine gray dust. He didn't want to see creepy Maggie Walsh or even Riley. All he wanted was a wholesome photograph. One shot was all that was needed. Willow knew this. She threaded the film carefully and advanced the roll a few frames, checking the light meter and setting her aperture.

Before her were three shrunken and sad-looking women. As Willow looked closer she realized they couldn't have been any older than she herself. In fact, they were barely teenagers. But their faces were hollow and ancient. They had long blond hair. When Willow raised an eyebrow, Glory explained that these were Norwegian student dissidents. As if that explained why they got to keep their Aryan hair, as opposed to all of those other women whose heads were humiliatingly shaved. These women, because they were more Aryan than even the average German, got to keep some part of their dignity here. Willow smiled ruefully and focused her camera, snapping off a couple of candid shots of the women standing in the shade of the tree. They looked stiff and uncomfortable. Willow would have to try to get them to relax.

"I need to work with them a little. Get them at ease," she explained to Riley and Glory. "Any chance I could get you two to stand over there and let me pose the women myself?"

Riley nodded, but Glory shot her a suspicious glare. "Don't believe the shit they tell you. Fucking whores are always making stuff up. They've got it good."

Coldness pooled in Willow's belly at the thought of why Glory would tell her something like that. "It's ok," Willow nodded. "I'm not interested in anything they might say. I just need a really good photograph."

That didn't seem to sit any better with Glory or Riley, who stood aloof, off to the side and out of earshot, as Willow returned to her reluctant photo subjects.

"I'm Wilma," Willow introduced herself. "I'm just going to take a few photos for The People's Press newspaper, and I need you to just talk naturally together, like you would if I weren't here."

"If you weren't here, we'd be digging graves," one of the women deadpanned. Was that deadpan? Or was that not? Willow adjusted her camera lens, but kept her eyes locked with the woman's.

"There's nothing you can do with your Nazi newspaper," the second woman said with a tentative air of contempt. If contempt could ever be tentative, which Willow discovered, yes, it could be.

"I am taking your photograph for a Nazi newspaper," Willow confirmed. "But there are a lot of people out there who would be interested in your story…" She left the words hanging, hoping that the women understood her meaning. She couldn't safely spell it out any more plainly.

The first woman gazed at Willow contemplatively. Willow pulled the shutter, capturing her image.

Willow shrugged, advancing the film and refocusing. "Anybody with a human heart or soul."

Willow shrugged, giving the woman her best earnest look. "Tell me and we'll see." She snapped another photo.

The third woman, the one who had been silent so far, finally spoke up. She gave a little head nod toward Glory and Riley. "I'll tell you something those other two would never tell you."

Willow looked up from her camera, expectantly. In kind of a queasy way. She lifted the camera to her eye and focused. "Tell me."

The third girl furtively glanced around the compound. Women were marching in long columns. There were sounds of digging and industry and hard labor. As the girl's eyes scanned the place, Willow let her senses follow while she kept her viewfinder firmly aimed at the three women. "Look around you. Forty thousand women."

The women linked arms. One of the girls ruffled the other's hair in a rare moment of playfulness that Willow recognized as genuine. Willow caught the shot. "Forty thousand women," Willow repeated.

Willow straightened and gestured for the women to sit together in the grass under the tree. "I assume they're at one of the nearby subcamps?"

The woman pressed on. "Forty thousand women. You ever wonder how many of them came into the camp pregnant?"

A city. A city of women. How many at any one time might be pregnant? Willow's mind started doing math again. "Um, a lot," Willow breathed, pushing the numbers away.

Willow advanced the film to the end of the roll and popped out the canister. She pulled another roll from her bag and reloaded the camera quickly. "Um. I don't want to know the answer to this, do I?" she said softly as the three girls looked up at her with round eyes that should be full of youthful innocence but just plain weren't. Willow understood the answer: The Nazis committed infanticide. They killed the children and the newborns.

The third girl gestured toward Glory and Riley again. "That woman. The guard. She's the worst. She's referred to as 'the stomping mare.'"

Willow contemplated this as she threaded the film with shaking fingers. It was too horrible to even conjure mind pictures. She took several deep breaths to steady herself and then began snapping more photographs of the three girls. In silence. Because the tears had threatened to well up, and if she let them, then she wouldn't be able to stop. And Wilma Hermann needed to keep calm. The girls saw her struggle, and a wordless understanding seemed to pass between them.

"Thank you," Willow finally said, dropping the camera to her side. "I think I have what I need."

Then the armed guards were there to herd the three prisoners back to their labor. Willow turned slowly back to Riley and Glory, somehow unable to take her eyes off the woman's heavy boots. When at last she was able to meet Glory's gaze, it was cold and mean. Willow got the distinct impression that Glory knew exactly what the prisoners had told Willow. And didn't give a shit.

Willow looked to Riley, whose face was an impassive mask. How much does he know? What barbarian ways are people treated here? Or murdered? Suddenly, all of this was making a few run-ins with the SS in Berlin seem like nothing. Glory stared her down cold. Willow had no doubt the woman could snap her neck instantly with a flick of her wrist, if she wanted to. And Willow had no doubt that she wanted to.

So she found her voice. "Like I said. I'm writing a piece for The People's Press. And the people have no desire to know anything about your prisoners might have to say. What they or anyone else tell me is irrelevant. I have my assignment and that's all."

"Oh, but you're human and weak. You're not going to tell me you're not running home to your fiancé-nice ring, by the way-and tell him all about this horrible, nasty old place."

"Word games. You know what I mean. You don't look like you live under a rock. What about the boys back at the newspaper office?"

Riley was shifting from foot to foot, uncomfortably. He couldn't help her in this conversation.

"I'm not military, if that's what you mean. But I do know how to follow orders," Willow answered crisply.

"Girlfriend, I don't care who you are or who you work for, but you shouldn't have come here. You're either a dumb sheep or sly as a fox. And why is it you don't strike me as a sheep?"

I can be very sheepy, Willow wanted to say, but somehow managed to put a lid on that comment. "You're just messing with me. I get that. Well done."

"Darlin', if I were messing with you, you'd know it." She leaned in close, whispering almost conspiratorially. "What if I told you that everything the women here say about me is true? 'Cause, you know, it is. Does that make it harder for you to follow orders?" She wiggled her eyebrows, and Willow wanted to smack the smug off her face. "Or…what if I were to say someone-Captain Riley, for instance-that I think you intend to use your notes and photos for purposes other than your newspaper?"

Thankfully, Glory didn't let Willow answer. She pressed in. "Every person in this place would be tempted. Anybody who ever got out. They'd talk to people. How could they not? And your photos. They're just the thing that turns one woman's story into truth. Photos don't lie."

Willow looked from Glory to Riley and shrugged. "She has a point," Willow conceded. "The film is too valuable. And too dangerous. Even for people in the newsroom." She reached into her camera bag and pulled out a roll of film and handed it to Riley. "It's yours. Keep it. Burn it. The shots in the camera are the photos of the ladies under the tree. Those are the only shots I'd consider using."

"You saw me load the camera. Though if it makes you feel better…" She removed the film from the camera, inserted it back into its metal canister and handed it to Riley.

"Develop the roll and send us just the pictures you want us to have. In fact, when you have someone develop them, give the specific instructions to destroy any negative that's not a shot of the women under the tree."

Riley nodded. "Sounds reasonable. Under the circumstances. But I'd still like the option to send no photograph if that's what we determine is best."

"Fine. Take it up with your superiors who can sort it out with Hans Gruber. I've done my job here. Now I'm done."

That was the end of the tour. Riley had one of his men drive Willow back to the inn, saving Xander the trip. She'd felt relief wash over her to be out of that place and then intense anxiety. She hoped Riley wouldn't discover that she'd kept back one roll of film. The one with all the photos of the camp. And she ached with the knowledge that she couldn't tell anyone-except perhaps for Anya-what she'd seen there.

So here she was on the phone with the one person in all the world she wanted to break down and cry to-to share this terrible knowledge and be comforted-and she didn't dare.

Tara heard something plaintive and scared in Willow's voice that reminded her of Riley. Had Willow become bruised like he had? Would she be haunted? Was this the price of getting too close to the truth?

"I – I don't know…What's safe anymore? What was ever safe?" The math, the terrible math was running in the background, in her mind.

Tara's voice was gentle but firm. "I want you and Xander to come down here now. Tonight. Get in your car right this minute and don't stop along the way."

Willow nodded wordlessly on the other end of the line. "I need that. I need you."

She hung up the phone and composed herself. When she turned back to the room, Xander and Anya were sitting at the bar together laughing about something. They'd seemed to hit it off. Willow walked up to them and pressed her one last roll of film into Anya's palm in handshake. The little metal canister was cool between them.

"Anya. It was wonderful meeting you. Xander and I have to go. Like right now. If you need anything more, call me at the newspaper. But this is all I have for now. Please don't let these go right away. Like we discussed, I can't have them traced back to me. You'll give it eight weeks like we talked about?"

Willow nodded reluctantly, her eyes nervously focused on the floor. Which was waxy.

Anya's voice was soothing. "Well, that's their job, and they're really good at it. But no worries, Wilma. You did good."

Riley's head hung heavy in his hands. It was well after six o'clock, and the office was quiet. He sat silently in the small pool of light his desk lamp made across the desk. Before him lay the one film canister that Wilma Hermann had asked him to have developed for her. His stomach was in knots. Maggie Walsh had already been by to chastise him for letting the reporter into the bunker. And he'd endured Glory's vocal tirade about letting outsiders in at all. And they'd both expressed displeasure with the notion of The People's Press doing a story on Ravensbruck. Some stones were best left unturned, Dr. Walsh had suggested. Riley couldn't have agreed more. It's just that he had his orders. And he wanted to give Wilma the benefit of the doubt. Could she create a piece that retold the story of the camps so that for posterity people saw them as something slightly less evil than they actually were?

His stomach growled, but he didn't have the heart to go to dinner. He listened instead to the sounds of the camp that filtered through his opened window. The whistles and shouts of the guards rounding up the women and herding them back to the barracks for dinner. There were so many women moving about out there that he could hear the shuffle of their collective footsteps, their slow slog back to the barracks. For most of the women, they'd go back to work after dinner. But for this little 45-minute window, the whole camp seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief. And Riley wanted to find the peace to be able to relax, too. His world was falling apart.

A loud rap at his office door jolted him to attention. Maggie Walsh was there. "You have visitors," was all she said, her ubiquitous smirk firmly in place.

Riley ran his hands across his face and looked up to see two plainclothes men standing in the doorway before him. One was tall, with eyes so dark they were almost black. The other smaller with sharp blue eyes.

Riley held the photograph in his hands, bending it this way and that under the pooled light emanating from his desk lamp. He was silent, choosing to ignore the two SS detectives seated across from him while he gathered his thoughts. And stuffed down his anger. A flick of a glance at the detectives told him they were amused by his reaction and perfectly content to let him take whatever time he needed to finally say something. He sighed. Then Riley returned his gaze to the photo of Wilma Hermann. Or, actually, the detective named Blood had just told him she went by another name: Willow Rosenberg.

"She works for The People's Press, for chrissakes," he ground out through gritted teeth. His jaw was tight again, giving him a headache, as usually happened by the end of the day. But this headache was different. He knew it wouldn't be going away anytime soon.

He squeezed his temples, trying to tame the dull ache, to no avail. "I had no idea she was a Jew."

"That's right. She works for the Party newspaper. My own superiors cleared her to come here. How could I have known she's a Jew and a fugitive?"

The other detective, the quiet one, bent forward out of the shadows to speak at last. "Thought maybe your fiancé might have told you."

That jerked Riley out of his stupor. He shot a fiery glare at the two detectives. "Tara! You'd better be careful talking trash about…" But then he lost steam, fell back in his chair and sighed heavily, wondering: "Tara?"

Riley shrugged. "No." He was angry she knew and hadn't told him, that she'd let him be compromised in this way. But he loved her and wouldn't say anything further. He opened his mouth to deflect the conversation back to Willow Rosenberg, but Blood cut him off before he could speak.

Riley's stomach took a dive and the silence of the room suddenly pounded deafeningly in his ears. What were they trying to say? "Just tell me," he growled. Was Tara in on some conspiracy? What, exactly, had she been doing in Berlin while he was gone?

"She didn't tell you that she and Red were, ah, lovers?" Blood drawled out sweetly. "Or are. Could be they still are." The other detective nodded in agreement.

That did it. Riley swept his arm across his desk in fury, knocking everything but the desk lamp to the floor with an ugly clatter that resonated slowly back into silence. The lamp sat askew, shining a bit more now on the detectives, who squinted like a couple of raccoons caught in a flashlight beam. He wanted to knock those stupid smirks right off their faces.

"Don't mess with me," Riley yelled in his meanest go-to-hell voice. And then he collapsed again into his desk chair, scowling at them as their words started to sink in. The ring. Tara not wanting Riley to bring Wilma-or Willow-down to the farm. Tara calling off their engagement. Wilma defending Xander's honor. Shit. It did add up.

"Oh, God," he groaned, rubbing his hands across his face. The detectives sat impassively watched the emotions play out.

But Tara had left Berlin two months ago. So that meant if Wilma were her lover, they couldn't have been together since then, right? Maybe Tara hadn't told him because she was embarrassed. Trying to forget about it herself. Just a short, embarrassing indiscretion. Maybe she thought her unfaithfulness made her unworthy of him and that's why she broke off their engagement. Things started making more sense. He could just talk to her and tell her he was angry and that he'd get over it. He could forgive her.

"Do you have any idea where the woman formerly known as Wilma Hermann was headed after her appointment here with you?" Blood asked softly.

"I don't know. Back to Furstenburg? She must have been staying at an inn in town there. Of course, she could make it back to Berlin easily tonight." He was fairly sure she was headed out to see Tara. Should he say it? Should he send the SS out to the farm? What if they weren't telling the whole truth? What if Tara was in on a conspiracy and they wanted to find her? He thought again about the ring. No, the ring was something romantic. It had to be a love affair. If he sent the detectives to the farm, they'd apprehend Wilma, probably piss off Tara and make her cry, but then she'd be done with the whole business and could get on with her life. As long as Wilma was out there, Tara wouldn't be safe. Nor would Riley. If he helped the detectives capture their fugitive, things would go easier on Riley. It would take the heat off him. It would prove he wasn't somehow in on whatever agenda Wilma had for coming to Ravensbruck under the guise of reporter. He'd ask the men to go easy on Tara, in return for his cooperation. He took a deep breath and rolled the dice.

Beth was confused. The dogs were barking outside, and Tara was pacing nervously across the length of the front room. She looked impatient and…what? Scared? Bert sat stoically on the couch, arms crossed, looking somehow far older than his 14 years. He looked dangerous, like a tightly-coiled spring ready to release. Beth wanted to say something, to ask her cousin what was up. Why were they so worried about Bert's Aunt Wilma? They'd been agitated ever since the phone call from Wilma that neither of them would tell her about.

All Tara would say was that Wilma and somebody named "Zander"-her boyfriend?-were on their way and would be staying over. Beth had been busy trying to work out the sleeping arrangements: Where would the boys sleep? All together with Bert, so that Wilma could sleep in the guest room? Would Zander have to take the couch? But then Tara hadn't moved to help her make up the rooms. That was not like her. And when Beth had offered to set a kettle of soup on the stove, Tara had not pitched in to help ready the house for her guests.

And Bert who had seemed so charming and precocious before was merely broody now. He'd gone with Tara outside for a few minutes, to the garage and back, but otherwise hadn't moved from the couch in over an hour. He'd suggested a couple of times that Tara relax and sit down, but she wouldn't.

For their part, Donald's boys were disappointed that Bert was preoccupied. They'd wanted him to play with them. And when he declined to join them, they'd gone upstairs to their room to read comic books and sulk.

Then headlights swept up the driveway, illuminating a swath across the front window. The dogs erupted again into wild barking outside, and Tara and Bert jumped. The boys upstairs started stomping their way excitedly down the hallway and then down the stairs.

But before they had even hit the landing, Bert and Tara had grabbed their coats and were out the front door.

The expanse of grass between the front steps and the car was entirely too far. Tara bolted with Buffy close on her heels. First Xander and then Willow climbed out of the car, looking tired but happy to have found the place. Tara crossed the grass in two heartbeats and swept Willow into her arms in a tight embrace, which Willow returned with equal fierceness. They spun together, breathing in and acclimating to the heft and feel of each other. "Buffy's right," Tara whispered into Willow's neck.

Willow laughed and pulled back so she could survey Tara better. "God, I've missed you," she gasped and then clutched Tara closely to her again.

Buffy's arms snaked around them both, so she could give Willow a hug, too. "Glad they let you out," she said.

Willow nuzzled in closer, burying her face in Tara's chest. "Vixen. This is definitely much better. In fact, I think I'll move in here."

"I wish you would…I think I could manage to find a place to put you…" Tara purred.

Buffy stepped back. "Ok, stop with the double-entendres, please," she joked. "I'm at a very impressionable age, remember?"

Tara grinned and straightened, noticing for the first time the small nervous-looking woman dressed in body-hugging white. And beside her was Xander, who stepped forward and gave Tara a hug, since Willow had finally managed to let go of her.

He turned to Anya. "This is Tara, Wilma's…friend. And this is her nephew Bert."

For a moment, everyone stopped. Tara swung her head around to see if Beth was behind them. She was still in the house. Wow.

Xander laughed a bit nervously. "Uh, this is one of those things we don't talk about, okay?"

Buffy stuck out her hand to Anya. "Please call me Bert." They shook. "Please," Buffy said, pointedly.

Buffy blinked. "Uh…yeah?" She shook the cobwebs from her head. "But 'prefer' is probably an overstatement."

Anya shoved her hands in her pockets uncomfortably and glanced from Buffy to Willow. "I think I get it," she said, uncertainly. "Backstories. Very interesting."

"It's probably not what you're thinking," Buffy said, obviously worrying about what Anya might be thinking.

Anya blinked. "Huh. Because I was thinking that you're probably in disguise because you're on the lamb from the Gestapo, just like these two are." She hooked her thumb at Willow and Xander. "But now that you said that I'm wondering if you're actually just a little uncomfortable about your sexuality. Which, by the way, Wilma, bravo for you for living your life out loud and proud." Anya gave Tara an approving glance.

Tara watched both Willow and Buffy squirm, and she felt the color rise up in her own cheeks as well.

Xander stepped in. "Okaaay…Thank you, Anya, for making me think about my friends in entirely new-though not at all unpleasant-ways." He turned to Tara and Buffy, explaining: "Anya has almost superhuman powers of observation. Willow and I have learned quickly to just let it go."

Anya looked disgruntled. "What? I just say it like it is. It's all the rest of you who get freaked out about the truth. I don't even want to know the truth about any of you. It'll make things easier when the SS sends its henchmen down here to arrest us all."

Everyone spun around to find Cousin Beth standing on the grass, looking warily at the newcomers.

It took some doing to get everyone inside and Beth calmed down about all of the unexpected houseguests. Yes, Tara was really overstepping propriety here. It was Beth's home. Tara was just staying here until things cooled off in Berlin. So she couldn't blame Beth for being a bit upset to have her house overrun with strangers. The cousins exchanged words in the kitchen as Tara made a pot of coffee and Beth ladeled up soup from the big black stockpot on the stove.

"I half expected to see Riley here, considering your friend Wilma was interviewing him at Ravensbruck today. Of course, he'd have to sleep in the barn anyway, since we're short of flat surfaces around here tonight."

Beth gasped and her whole demeanor changed from one of peevishness to almost sisterly concern. "Oh no! What happened, Tara? Was it the war? Did he find a woman in another town?"

No, but I did. Tara bit her tongue, saying only: "The war probably had something to do with it. It was changing him, Beth. Calling off the engagement…It was my decision."

Tara regarded her in confusion. "What? No, he was a perfect gentleman. Always." Too much so, in fact.

"Did you find another fellow?" Beth asked. "Like maybe that cute Xander fellow? I noticed how he looks at you."

"He looks at everybody that way. Or the women at least. No. He's a very dear friend. And he introduced me to Wilma and Bert. They're like family to me…or were, anyway, when I was alone in Berlin."

"This is all way too colorful for my tastes. I've never lived in a big city, it's true. Things are very simple here. And you probably consider it all quite boring. But excuse me for saying I think you've let that city living go to your head. Marrying Riley was going to be about the smartest thing you ever did, and now you've given that all up- and for what?"

For love, maybe? Tara frowned. "You and Donnie seem to think the world's going to come crashing down if I don't marry somebody. Well, I'll tell you what. You don't need to worry about me being a burdensome old maid." She winked. "Old maid, maybe. But I promise to get out of your hair as soon as I'm able."

Beth shot her an uncomfortable and wary look and sighed, pulling her apron off. "You know what? Fine. If you want an evening of big-city living with your friends, be my guest. Literally. But I'm tired. I'm going to head upstairs to bed. Keep it down. And don't drink all the vodka, okay?"

Willow slipped into the kitchen as Beth was just leaving. She smiled brightly at Tara's cousin. "This must be a little crazy for you. I'm sorry we've crashed your quiet evening. And thank you for the hospitality. Is there anything I can do to lend a hand?"

Beth softened a moment, reacting to Willow's smile the way just about everybody did. Tara was certain the girl could win over Beth eventually. At that thought, Tara felt Willow's arms snake around her waist from behind, and her hands started those slow circles that always seemed to light a fire in Tara's belly. Tara was fairly sure Willow didn't even realize she was doing it, but Beth did. The woman shot Tara an unfathomable look and then left.

The door closed and the house was finally quiet enough to hear the ticking of the clock. There were whispers-Xander in the downstairs front room with "Bert," where they planned to camp out on the couches. Anya was in "Bert's" room, talking to herself apparently. Beth and the boys had turned in a while ago. Now it was just Willow and Tara, and after being apart for two months, Willow was not about to complain.

Tara had watched her all evening with a hungry look in her eyes. She was a quiet person by nature. A bit of a Mona Lisa, to be quite honest. She was there at the dining room table with Xander and Buffy, Anya and Willow, lending a certain weight and calm whenever Willow's insides felt flighty, scared and stirred up. Anya, Buffy and Xander had been charming over dinner, talking around the edges of Willow's little adventure into prison. But Willow had purposely revealed little. Later, tomorrow, perhaps, she'd tell Anya the whole story. After all, it was she who would carry the burden of delivering the photos and notes to the Allies.

Willow had looked around the table then in sadness realizing that in some ways after today things would never be the same again. She had so much to say to Tara. She couldn't wait to pull her away from the table and climb upstairs so she could begin to try to say it. But, then, this moment of togetherness around the table felt so perfect: the way Xander waggled his eyebrows at his own jokes, and the way Buffy's face lit up when she really let herself laugh (which didn't happen nearly often enough), the way Anya so earnestly tried to comprehend this world, and then just as Willow thought the moment couldn't be more perfect, she'd catch Tara's eye and see the absolute warmth reserved there just for her. The little smile that curled at the edges of her mouth-that was about sex. Willow had learned that much. But Tara's gaze communicated so much more: there was acceptance of the silly and reckless world of Willow. And there was pride, too. That no matter what happened or who said what that Tara loved her and found her amazing. As Willow's heart pounded in fear, Tara grounded her.

She knew they may have made a mistake in coming straight here, but she couldn't help it. Now closing the door, she finally turned and faced Tara alone, and she felt shy and vulnerable.

"Hey," she whispered. Her throat would allow no more sound to escape. Tara was folding clothes on the chair near the bed…big bulky sweaters and long pants. The kind of clothes a country girl would wear tending to the farm. Catching Willow's eye, Tara stopped what she was doing and crawled up onto the bed. The springs creaked noisily, causing both women to giggle.

Willow took two steps and the floorboards groaned as if she were carrying a piano across them "Shit!" she whimpered. "This is so not fair."

"Yeah, but – but that was all with the dark and the come-hither and the – that thing with your mouth. And – and you definitely had surprise on your side that time. And – and I don't have a problem with being quiet, per se. No sir-ee. It's just that the moment I even kiss you, seven other people in this house are going to know it. Heck, the dogs will probably start barking outside, even."

Willow bashfully dragged her toe on the floor, shooting Tara a meaningful look. "Maybe you, you know, might have figured out a work-around for this little problem?"

Tara feigned shock. "Willow Rosenberg, are you suggesting that I've entertained gentlemen callers here in my childhood bedroom?"

Tara sighed in mock exasperation. "Well, usually I drag them out to the barn where we can do whatever we want. As long as we want. And as hard as we want. You know me and, well, hard…And, anyway, there are some interesting games you can play with some of the equipment….What?"

Willow's mouth hung open in shock-and what? Curiosity? Lust? "Uh, can we go outside, maybe?"

Tara gave her a heavy-lidded smile and extended a very lovely hand-one of two that knew Willow so well. "Come here," Tara purred.

Willow crossed the squeaky floor without any other thought than what she might like to do to Tara in a big enclosed space with no one around…and with interesting…equipment. Tara caught her in her arms and wrestled her down onto the groaning mattress, rolling on top of her. They hung suspended like that for a moment, Tara's face hovering just above Willow's, their bodies in complete stillness. And then with an innocent smile, Tara leaned in for a kiss, capturing Willow's lips tenderly and sending warm tinglies to all points south. The net of springs sighed more than groaned with the motion, so Tara tested further, pushing Willow's legs apart with her thigh and running her hand along Willow's leg, drawing the fabric of her skirt along with it. Willow hummed with the sensations that were gathering about her: the whisper of breath against her mouth, the silky trace of fingertips along her thigh and the weight of Tara's body pressing into her, compelling Willow's body to move as if by only the magic of gravity. And perhaps a little chemistry. Tara smelled really, really good. Willow drew her arms around Tara's shoulders and tangled her fingers in her hair, pulling her closer. Tara responded with a roll of her hips. And a long, slow creak of the mattress. Willow couldn't stifle her nervous giggle, which made Tara giggle, too.

"It's cold out there, sweetie. We'd freeze." Tara gave another roll of her hips, and Willow instinctively felt her legs part wider to afford more room-and more delicious pressure. She groaned in a duet with the springs, gazing helplessly up into Tara's eyes, which were dark and naughty.

"Oh, yeah? What then?" Willow definitely liked the naughty look in Tara's eyes and how she punctuated the words with a subtle testing of the bedsprings, triggering the sounds with the slightest movement of her hips. Willow smiled sweetly, waiting to see what Tara would say.

"Well, there's a hayloft, of course. That's where we'd end up…eventually," Tara purred, rolling into Willow again and grinning as Willow answered the motion with a roll of her hips as well.

"It's soft there. I'd lay out a blanket. You'd be on your back and I'd be between your legs. Kissing. In that way you seem to like so much. In the way even my brother knows you like so much," she chuckled. Another slow roll with its answering moan from the springs. "I'd tease you. I'd get you wound up. I know the way your breathing catches when you want to grind. That little bit of you that wants to control the tempo and the pressure. You come when you want to come. But not this time. I'd wind you up, and you'd start to set your own pace, and then I'd stop."

Tara stilled her hips. And Willow lamented the loss of movement. She wrapped her arms low around Tara's back and pulled hard, straining to keep the friction and heat mounting.

"Case in point," Tara said. "You're a hard woman to say no to. I like that you know where you want to go. It's just that sometimes I want to take you the scenic way."

Willow relaxed her grip and gazed patiently into Tara's eyes. She was willing to let Tara drive. Tara was a very good driver. She just hoped Tara would drive a little faster.

Tara continued her narration. "But then I'd see you sprawled out before me in the moonlight (of course, it would be perfect with moonlight coming in), and I'd want so damn bad to be inside you that it would be hard for me to battle my own impatience. Because I know the minute I slip my hand inside you, I'd be a goner. I'd have to drag that orgasm out of you, and I'd want to. I know how much you like it. And I know the way you'd feel. How the muscles inside you squeeze when I'm fucking you just the right way. And, damn it, I'd definitely be fucking you the right way."

Willow felt her face flush and her stomach dive. Who knew that the girl she met this winter-the one who could barely stammer out a sentence – could end up being such a naughty talker?

Willow nodded, barely trusting her voice. "Please do…only, except…could you put your hand inside me? I – I need to feel you."

Tara rose to her knees, pulling her shirt over her head to reveal her lovely breasts. The sight made Willow's mouth water with wanting to kiss them. The bed squeaked as they both worked to remove clothing, the coolness of the house in the evening settling over them, making nipples hard and skin beg for the heat of friction and exertion. Willow worked her way out of her dress only to find Tara rolling her stockings down her legs, her thumbs brushing Willow's inner thighs.

Tara settled her now-naked self back down above Willow, running her breasts along the length of her until their lips met in a searing kiss. Willow could taste herself on Tara's tongue, which played languorously against her own, teasing and receiving.

"The – the way you do. You know, the right way." Willow was not above begging.

Tara sat up again then and dragged Willow's hips up onto her lap. Willow lay on her back and opened herself to whatever Tara had in mind. Tara wrapped Willow's legs around her, running her hands possessively along them, teasing Willow's wetness with her thumbs and generally sending off white sparks throughout Willow's body. All the while Willow kept her eyes locked on Tara's.

Tara pressed a hand low on Willow's belly. "I want you to stay still. I want you to stay relaxed. Think you can do that for me?"

Willow shook her head, uncertainly, earning a smirk from her lover. "Just try, sweetie. I promise to take very good care of you."

With that Willow took a deep breath and nodded, letting all of the tension drain away from her and willing it to pool somewhere on the floor, far away from her.

And then she felt Tara slide softly in. She took another deep breath and steadied herself, acclimating to the welcome intrusion of Tara's beautiful and clever fingers. Tara kept her hand still, but her breathing picked up. She definitely liked what she'd found there.

"Oh, my God. You feel amazing," Tara whispered. "I – I can feel these little flutters inside you. And, god, you're so wet and soft." Willow struggled to stay relaxed. She could feel the faint involuntary and fluttery clenching, particularly when Tara pressed her hand against her belly.

It was then Willow realized that this relaxation game was as much a test for Tara as for Willow.

"What does my body tell you? I'm all letting-go girl here. I'm not telling it what to do…Uh!"

Tara's hand had shifted slightly, setting off a big flutter inside Willow. Tara's eyes were wide. And dark. "I think it's telling me you need fucking."

Willow grinned, pulling in slow, steadying breaths. "I think it's telling you to tease me."

Tara gave another playful pull and Willow's hips started moving involuntarily. Tara smirked.

Xander grinned pleasantly. "I don't know, Buff. I think it has a nice beat. You could dance to it."

They were, of course, referring to the bed springs overhead. Xander tapped his toes. Buffy covered hear ears in frustration.

Xander wagged a finger at her. "You haven't spent two solid days with Anya like I have. When it comes to strange and uncomfortable, she's definitely right at home."

Buffy sat up on her couch. "I noticed. Like at dinner when she wouldn't answer anybody's questions. I mean, she actually pretended not to hear us."

"She's a tough nut to crack, for sure. But I think I'm on to her secret. Oh, yes: She was raised by wolves."

Buffy was thoughtful a moment. "Tara called off her engagement. Yesterday, I think."

"Maybe she didn't even know." Buffy rolled her eyes. "Of course, I'm sure Tara's shared that little bit of news by now. Hey, maybe that's why all the celebrating."

"Man, I feel bad for Riley. He's like the last to know. I mean even the detectives in my department knew. Heck, Will and Tara are like their pinup girls. Sorry, Buff. About your thing with Spike."

"I told you. There is no thing with me and Spike. We're not seeing each other. We – ah – shit. Who am I kidding? I'll just shut up now."

There was silence punctuated only by the sound of the springs, but even that eventually changed. Maybe they were, you know, done. The low sounds of murmuring drifted down now. Buffy and Xander sat on their respective couches in thought. And then a thought struck Xander.

He stopped and felt his stomach drop. "Holy shit. He could know. Spike and The Preacher…"

Tara let the curtain drop and turned back to Willow, a confused and concerned look on her face. "Two cars," she reported.

Willow was wriggling into one of the pairs of pants Tara had left folded on the chair beside the bed. "Tara, get away from the window." Her voice was irrationally anxious. Guns, windows, her beloved. No, no, no.

Willow's alarm set Tara in motion. She reached for the other pair of pants while Willow struggled into the sweater and then wrestled with her shoes. The dogs barked like wild and there was a loud thump of a car door slamming. The sound made both of them jump.

"I have to get Beth and the boys," Tara whispered, her gaze saying she didn't want to leave Willow's side.

"Meet me out at the barn if you can," Tara said over her shoulder as she pulled her sweater down and dashed out the bedroom door and down the hall. If you can. Tara regretted the sound of that.

Willow watched her disappear into the darkness, her heart pounding. And then she dashed out the door and down the hall the other way, toward Anya's room. She didn't knock-just swung the door wide. "Anya," she called out. The woman was already dressed and in a dark form-fitting coat. A dark stocking cap was pulled down over her head. She totally expected this.

"Anya, I need to tell you some things about Ravensbruck," Willow started blurting. "This is very important: There's a doctor there, Margaret Walsh. I think she's doing medical experiments-or – or torturing women. Her hospital is empty. And – And there's a head guard who's known as ‘the stomping mare.' She kills babies. An – and there's a crematorium. They're burning bodies and dumping truckloads of ashes into the lake….And- you have the rolls of film, right? You have everything?"

There was so much more she wanted to describe. She didn't even know where her reporter notepad was. This would have to do. If the fates allowed, she'd see Anya again and could elaborate.

Anya nodded impatiently, swung her bag over her shoulder and clapped Willow on the shoulder. "I have everything. I hope you don't die."

"Same here," Willow said, pressing one last thing into Anya's hand: the handgun Gruber had given her back before she'd left on this assignment. Anya's eyes grew wide. "You should keep it," she hissed. "It's your ass that's on the line."

"My ass won't be worth shit if you don't get out of here and complete the job. Ok? Just take it."

"Fine. Take my killing thing, then," Anya groused, handing Willow a deadly-looking military knife she'd stowed in her bag. Willow looked at it as if it were an incomprehensible thing, but accepted it.

And with that, the Russian swung down the stairs, tight on the heels of Beth and the boys who were being herded by Tara. Willow stood at the top of the hall watching them retreat and feeling sick to her stomach with the knowledge that she was the reason danger was descending upon the household.

Buffy and Xander had sprung to action the moment the headlights had swept across the front window. Two cars. The Preacher and Spike had back-up. Or they'd sent goons. Buffy had been worried this type of trouble might follow her friends here. She dashed to the kitchen and came back carrying a rifle she'd stowed there. By then Xander had fumbled through his things and come up with his Walther P38 service pistol. They dropped to their knees, Xander holding Buffy's hand to keep them focused. Behind them, Tara was ushering her family out the back door.

Xander drew her attention back to the danger at hand. "I'll cover the front. You take the back," he said. "Anybody comes near the house, stop them." He pocketed three more clips of bullets and then crawled up to the window, careful to stay down and out of sight.

Buffy looked uncertainly at the rifle and nodded. "There's a barn in the back. Tara and I stowed a truck back there. The keys are in it. I'll try to keep ‘em away from there. The plan is to get the truck and get everybody out."

"We can't just go out there. The first sign of trouble and they'll radio for more backup," Xander warned, grateful for his SS training. In a pinch, he could be military guy.

Buffy scowled. "Then we've got to hold up until we can separate them from their cars…I have an idea. Trade me guns," she said.

They made a quick exchange and Buffy stuffed the Walther in the waistband of her trousers, pulled her sweater down over it.

Xander gave her a quick smile. She looked like a boy hero. He crept to the back of the house through the kitchen and let Buffy do her thing.

She rose to her feet and walked to the door. She hesitated only a moment and then tentatively swung the door open and stepped outside, rubbing the back of her hand to her eyes as if she were a scared boy who had been disturbed from sleep. The headlights caught her full in her eyes. The SS men were black silhouettes. She could hear their murmurs. She counted three. There could be five others at least on the prowl somewhere around the house and property.

Two men approached. She hoped with all her heart that one of them was Spike. She stepped through the doorway and down the porch to meet them. She wanted to keep them away from the house. A few paces from her, they stopped, still in silhouette, perfect outlines of hats and overcoats.

The man stepped closer and facial features seemed to materialize. It was neither Spike nor The Preacher. It was someone new, some random plainclothes man.

"Well, Bert," he said, smiling the grim and official smile that was meant to be reassuring and still communicate don't-fuck-with-me. "We're very sorry to disturb you folks so late at night, but we have reason to believe there is a criminal fugitive in the neighborhood, and we're checking all the houses in the area."

Buffy knew that was bullshit, but she nodded. "Yes, sir," she said, agreeably. "How can I help?"

The man shifted his weight and leaned his face closer. "We're looking for a woman named Willow Rosenberg. She may also be traveling under the name Wilma Hermann, a reporter from The People's Press."

"Uh, that's the newspaper, right?" Buffy drawled, trying to draw things out to allow her friends time to think through their exit strategies. As for her own, she'd have to improvise.

Willow crouched upstairs surveying the situation from one of the front windows. There were the two cars, headlights blazing at the house. Xander's car was well behind the officers'. They'd certainly know that meant she and Xander were here. And then there was Buffy walking out to greet them. What the hell was she doing? Willow was suddenly overwhelmed by an all-consuming need to protect her friend. Two men were approaching her to talk. And two others were back behind each car, guns drawn and pointed.

There was something insanely unnerving about seeing guns trained on someone you love. In a heartbeat or a hiccup Buffy could be dead. How could she possibly talk her way out of this? Unless she intended to play along. In which case, Willow had a number of choices she could make. But only one she'd allow herself to make.

But at that moment she heard a loud gun blast at the back of the house. She and everybody outside all jumped at the sound. The dogs picked up their wild barking again. The two SS men with the pistols drawn dashed around to the back of the house, which left just the two who'd been talking with Buffy.

I'm afraid you'll have to come with us, Bert," the officer was saying even as Buffy's ears still rang with the decay of the single gunshot. One shot. That wasn't good, was it? That meant they hit somebody, right? Her heart pounded with surprise and worry. "It's for your own safety, son," the officer explained, drawing her by the elbow to one of the cars, where he kindly asked her to take the backseat. Otherwise the car was empty.

There was a second gunshot, and the two officers swung back around toward the house. Buffy took the opportunity to lean into the front seat, grab the radio cord and yank it out of the dash. The radio fell silent. She pulled the Walther from her waistband and slid over to the other side of the car, intent on getting to the second radio while the officers were distracted. Second gunshot. Good? Bad? Buffy moved quickly, her legs and arms shaking from adrenaline. She made it to the second car, wrested open the door and yanked out the radio. As she pulled back and turned there was Spike, eyeing her incredulously. Before she could even react, his fist connected with her face. And the black of night went…blacker.

"Stay there," Spike said to the woman he loved who was currently an unconscious heap on the ground. He noticed the pistol. He shot a glance around the scene and found nobody looking. With his toe, he nudged the handgun so that it was hidden under Buffy's body.

Then he turned his attention toward the house and started marching to the front door, his jaw grimly set. There was some very distasteful business that needed to be taken care of.

The house was dark and silent as Willow made her way down the slim staircase, with its creaking stair treads. Everyone was either hidden away indoors or out in the woods by now. The gunshots had scared her, reverberating in her chest and rattling her heart. This was a bad, bad mess. As she rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, she could see that the headlights from the cars outside illuminated the living room, casting an unnatural glow as they shined through the curtains. She clutched her knife, steeling herself to walk out that front door and give herself up. Perhaps if they had her, they'd let the others go. Xander could plead he didn't know she was a Jew. Maybe they'd overlook Buffy, truly mistaking her for a kid. With her knife, she'd buy Tara time to escape. Her plan was to not go out quietly, but to wreak as much havoc as she could. She was resigned in a way to her fate. She knew the math, the inevitability of numbers, the laws of averages. And she knew that sooner or later her nine lives would be gone. Well, today was the day. She could at least die proud knowing she'd crossed many things off her life's to-do list. She felt warm with satisfaction that Anya would take her photos of Ravensbruck to the Allies, and in so doing perhaps help end the war that much sooner. She owed it to her parents, to Giles and Jenny, to Buffy's friend Faith, to the Schragenheims, to the women in the military transport headed into Ravensbruck yesterday. To the women prisoners who'd looked at her with such anger and hopelessness as she took their picture under the tree. She owed it to Xander and Buffy and Tara and Riley: to do what she could to end this so they could go on to normal lives. She'd bought herself nearly six years. Her life should have ended on Crystal Nacht. Every day after that had been a gift, an added bonus. All 1,800 or more of them.

There were only so many weapons. Buffy and Xander had guns. She had the knife, and she'd wield it. She'd do her best. And she always was an overachiever. But she had to get out there before her friends fired upon the soldiers and got themselves into even more trouble. She had to buy them a chance.

She crept across the squeaky floorboards, every step filling her further with icy fear. She reached her hand for the doorknob, imagining the white light that would fill her eyes when she swung the thing open. She tucked the knife into the waistband at her back. And then the door swung open almost of its own accord. The silhouette of a man stepped inside. Her heart gave a lurch and she jumped back.

Tara tucked Beth and the boys safely into the small stone well house at the back of their property. It was black in there and smelled like cold, wet earth and decay, and the boys were crying out of fear and anger that one of the soldiers had shot their dog. As Tara moved to close the door, Beth grabbed her by the arm.

"Something very, very bad," Tara replied, her voice a frightened waver. "And I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry. But you stay here. They'll find you, I think. But they won't hurt you. Just wait in here as long as you can."

She turned to leave, but Beth clutched at her sleeve even harder. "You'll be back?"

And with that Beth pulled her into a tight embrace, her voice thick and muffled as they squeezed each other. "Please come back."

And with that she was off again, running as stealthily as she could toward the barn. She looked to the house as she ran, watching the flashlight beams swing wildly around the place like little searchlights examining the farmhouse. They'd go to the barn, too, she knew, and search the place for their quarry. She wanted to get there first if she could and retrieve the truck.

She'd have an advantage over the soldiers, given that she knew the land and its buildings so well. Her mind raced through an inventory of things she might use as a weapon to defend herself. She'd left Xander with her father's rifle. Considering everything, she was glad she hadn't yet heard it.

He'd be waiting for her to start the motor. That was their whispered plan as they dashed down the back steps. Then he'd use the gun as a diversion, to draw their attention and fire as she pulled out of the barn. All Willow, Buffy and Xander had to do was get to the truck. Which, of course, would be easier said than done. Everything was easier said than done. At most there had been a dozen men packed in those two cars parked out front. As long as four of them swung their flashlight beams around in the backyard, she and Xander at least knew where they were.

The tall, wide-open doors of the barn gaped blackly before her. She glanced over her shoulder and then slipped inside only to find that a fifth flashlight danced like a firefly in the middle of the large open room. She hadn't seen its glow from outside. Ok, she thought to herself, I can handle this. She ducked silently behind a workbench and peered carefully. The soldier was beaming the light up at the ceiling, hoping to cast reflection there that would illuminate the whole room. But the ceiling is high, so the beam only created a faint glow. The man's eyes glittered as he took in the enormity of the room, as if it were a dangerous-or even magical-place. She could tell he was listening, trying to reach out with his senses to find anyone who might be hiding. Well, she decided she was not hiding. In fact, in this case, she was the hunter, and he was right to feel unsettled in here.

As Spike's eyes adjusted to the darkness he was surprised to see…Willow. Her eyes were huge and registered recognition. She remembered him from the diner. They stood motionless a few moments, breathless, then Spike's lip curled and he took off after her. She yelped, turning on heel and dashing around a corner and up the stairs. Spike followed in hot pursuit, his trenchcoat billowing out behind him as he took the steps two at a time. His heart pounded in familiar blood-lust. He always loved it when they ran.

He caught her in the hallway, capturing a fistful of her sweater. She pitched forward and fell heavily with a frightened groan, but rolled quickly and scuttled away. She had the adrenaline-fueled speed that his quarry always seemed to have. The young ones, anyway. Which was no problem. There was nowhere to run.

The little mind-fucker Red ducked into one of the bedrooms, and he followed her easily. She tried to slam the door on him, but he caught it and shoved it open again. She was just a little bit of a thing. He could overpower her. He could snap her neck with one hand. She stared at him with fear and what? Anger? He couldn't help but chuckle. She was adorable.

"Well, well. At last we properly meet. Heard so much about you. I've thought so much about you. I'd kind of like to shake your hand, pet. Maybe sniff it a little?" Spike purred. He should just shoot her now. Do the humane thing. Like he had with Jenny. He wondered if there was any liquor in this place. What else could he do to make her comfortable?

She looked at him in disgust like he was a pervert or something, which was actually kind of funny, considering. Pot calling kettle black and all. He still carried her panties in his coat pocket. Maybe he always would. He rubbed them in his hand now as he thought about it.

She was just a little thing, so young and pretty, and he was struck again by the innocence that was undeniably there but didn't deserve to be, considering her myriad of deceptions. This one wasn't hardened like Jenny. She didn't have that air of resignation about her. Her eyes were so wide he thought he could see all the way into her soul. His heart ached for this one. He thought perhaps he could see a bit why the Nazi Captain's fiancé had fallen for her. And why Buffy and Xander and pulled together to protect her. And why Spike himself had even given her second chances.

And then she said the most amazingly brazen thing: "Let me go. I don't want to hurt you."

Spike threw his head back and laughed at the sheer audacity. "You don't want to hurt me? What you got, love? A mean left hook?" Hell, maybe she did. She was a surprising one, that little Red.

"I mean it," she growled. "I – I know you're important to Buffy. And – and you've helped me before. I'm really very grateful for that. So please. I need to go help my friends. Just let me do that."

He eyed her seriously. "They'll shoot you dead the minute you walk out that front door."

"I don't care," she said, but he could tell that wasn't true. Her eyes spoke volumes, and she was shaking. How had such a rotten liar managed to snow so many people?

"Willow. I can't save you. I'm not here to save you. But I can make it easier for you. You don't want to go out there and be shot to pieces in front of your friends. How do you think they'd take that? Buffy and Xander and your girl Tara?"

Willow stood still, wavering just a bit. She loved them dearly. A single tear dropped heavily, glittering in the glow from the headlight beams outside. She said nothing.

"The faster we do this, the faster my men stop terrorizing your friends. I give you my word I'll make it quick. I'm a professional." In the back of his mind he hated his own lie. Her death wouldn't stop the men from rounding up the others. She probably knew it, too. But he was offering her an easy out in the most gentle way he possibly could.

"So how do you propose to do it?" Willow asked, an air of almost scholarly curiosity in the question.

"Well, yes, if you're going to make it easier, then I'm wondering what my options are."

His instincts told him to shoot her right then and there and be done with it. But she was Buffy's friend, and he'd never be able to look his girl in the eye again if he did this wrong.

Spike looked at her earnestly. "I do have a cigarette, if you'd like one," he said.

"No," she replied, then thought better of it. "Oh, what the heck. I'll take one if you have it."

From his pockets he drew out a pack of cigarettes and his silver lighter and held them up for her to see, inwardly smiling at the word "heck." She walked toward him, her pretty green eyes locked on his, searching for some flicker of betrayal or disingenuousness. If she drew close enough perhaps he'd just break her neck. He'd hold her and shush her until she died.

But he was broken out of this little reverie by the glint of steel as she wielded a fairly serious-looking knife at his throat. He dropped the smokes and grabbed her wrist, the knife just nicking his arm as he twisted the thing out of her hands. It clattered heavily to the ground and he kicked it away. She was panting and cursing as he pulled her to him, one arm wrapped firmly around her belly, the other across her shoulders to pin her arms. She struggled against him, trying to lash and kick, and he felt a little bit bad about how much he enjoyed it. He breathed hotly against her neck, reveling in the smell of her hair, that luscious hint of sweat and sex. And every twist and struggle filled him with bodily knowledge of her. Buffy would kill him. But it was kind of nice, actually. And Buffy didn't have to know everything.

Spike stiffened at the sound of Caleb's voice coming from the doorway. He noticed Red had stiffened, too, her breath coming now in shallow gasps. Ah, yes, she was much more scared of The Preacher than of Spike. And for good reason. Spike felt a cold ball of dread settle in his stomach knowing that Red's chances were zero now. His own weren't much better.

Caleb chuckled that dry, humorless laugh of his and stepped closer. He was holding Red's knife. He ran a finger along the blade and then licked the blood off his red fingertip, watching the pair of them as he did it. "Is that her blood, William? Or yours?"

"Dunno. You're the one taste-testing. Now do you want to fuck her or not? Because I am." Willow wriggled helplessly in his arms as if she were a bunny, and her heart beat nearly as fast. He was sorry she had to hear this stupid charade he and Caleb were playing. She probably believed he intended to rape her. Not that the thought of fucking a pretty little dyke like her wasn't a compelling one. He ran a hand up under her sweater, inadvertently brushing his palm along the smoothness of her breast. She sucked in a quick breath in shock. Could she possibly like this? Maybe even a little bit? His cheeks grew hot at the thought.

Caleb stepped forward. Spike had him intrigued. He felt Willow's body quiver and her breathing quicken. She struggled to no avail. Spike held her firm as the asshole gently lifted Willow's chin so that she was looking him right in those evil black eyes of his, and then he said, more to Spike than to her, "You like your women fighting, William?" Willow arched her back, squirming and trying to turn away from him. The Preacher held her chin a moment more. "Well, I like mine dead."

With that he ran the blade into deep into Red's belly and withdrew it, just as matter-of-factly as if he were punching his timecard at work. Red was completely shocked, and Spike was, too. For a long few seconds, no one moved or uttered a sound. Then he felt her breaths come in ragged gasps and the room filled with the scent of her blood, which pumped hotly down Spike's arm. Caleb could truly have been a bastard and eviscerated her, but the stab wound would ultimately prove just as deadly. Spike held her until he felt her grow heavy and limp in his arms, and then he dropped her to the floor. Gently.

Tara adjusted her grip on the pry-bar, her hands measuring the weight of it. She gave it a little swing from her wrist, careful not to knock it against anything. The soldier was only a few feet away from her now and coming her way with his flashlight trained on the ceiling, illuminating the place like a half-hearted torch. He might as well have held up a butane lighter. But, actually, his light was going to help her. She passed the pry-bar to her left hand and picked up a pair of pliers in her right. She watched his eyes sweep first toward her and then away, his head turning with each careful pass. She waited until he was looking away from her, and then flung the pliers as hard as she could. They hit the far wall with a sharp clack, and the soldier spun, taking aim and firing his gun at nothing. She leapt out from behind the workbench and swung the pry-bar hard at the back of his head, silently reciting a prayer for forgiveness. The thing connected with a sound that was softer than she was expecting. What was she expecting? Her heart thudded in her chest as the man dropped and she realized she must have killed him. She watched his flashlight roll away on the floor, its beam reduced to a little sliver of light. She was standing in blackness again.

She hesitated only a moment, then crouched and collected first the flashlight and then the gun. She knew that this gunshot would be like a siren song to his buddies out in the yard. She had to move fast. She covered the distance to the truck in a handful of seconds, the flashlight throwing wild shadows around the place as she ran. She stuffed the gun in her pocket and opened the car door, sliding in and reaching for the key.

Shit. It wasn't there. Had Buffy taken it with her? No, that wasn't the plan. It must have fallen out. Her hands trembling now, she slipped out of the truck and trained the flashlight on the ground and then swept the light across the cab of the truck: the seat, the floor, the running boards. Shit, shit shit!

It was a man's voice behind her. She spun around to find a Gestapo man standing right behind her with his pistol aimed at her head. In his other hand he dangled the keys for her to see. There couldn't have been more than five feet between them. How had he snuck up on her like that? Maybe he'd known someone would come for the truck and all he had to do was wait.

"In about twenty seconds, there will be four other soldiers rushing in here to see what the commotion is about. But you won't live that long."

He cocked his pistol and she ducked, his shot missing her and making an ugly metallic sound as it ripped into the body of the truck. She didn't trust herself to quickly fire the unfamiliar handgun, so she swung it at him instead, knocking him hard in the arm and throwing off his next shot which went wild, hitting somewhere in the ceiling. She could hear the sounds of footsteps approaching fast. She knew her twenty seconds were almost up.

The Gestapo man glared at her. She'd knocked his hat off, and his eyes were wild. He swung to slap her, and she felt the bite and sting of the back of his hand. He hit her hard enough to knock her to her knees and start white spots dancing before her eyes. She was vaguely aware that she'd dropped the flashlight and that he'd bent down to retrieve it. She knew she was down to her last breaths. She looked up into the light, sending out her last prayer.

And then she heard the sound of firing. Big and loud and…from across the room. She opened her eyes to see the flashlight flying, and the body of the secret police officer tumble backwards and fall. She didn't see his head. Did he still have one? It took a moment to register that the shot had come from her father's rifle. She ducked, sprawling against the ground to stay out of the way of the volley of gunfire she was sure would ensue. Her eyes searched for the keys, spotting the glint of something silvery caught in the beam of the flashlight which had rolled some distance away from her.

Pistol shots rang from outside the barn, and her father's rifle answered with a fat roar. Xander was covering for her. "Better hurry with the truck, Tara," he risked calling out to her, which meant he was scared. His voice sent her scrambling toward the light…and right through a patch of warm, sticky blood. She felt her stomach lurch, but she didn't slow down. The keys were right there, just an arm's length away. She lifted them up from the dark ooze that spread there. They glistened wet and red. She wiped them on her pants and then climbed to her feet, taking the flashlight as well, and ran back toward the truck.

Caleb was eyeing Spike with a mean glint in his bottomless black eyes. His shoulders were hunched menacingly.

"I didn't ask what you were doing I asked what are you doing? There's something that just isn't right about this," Caleb said, not actually in reply to anything Spike said. He was just playing detective bastard and feeling entirely too clever.

A gunshot rang out from outside the house. The dogs barked again, and there were shouts from the men outside. Spike's heart pounded. They'd found another one. Which one this time? The lovely Miss Maclay, who was dragged into this whole stupid affair for no other reason than she happened to have a soft spot for little redheads? That stupid fuck Harris? Or Buffy, maybe? His stomach felt sour.

"Well, well, " Caleb growled, his voice cold and dangerous. "Looks like I guessed right. You're soft on this one. A little too close to home, eh? What's wrong, Blood? A bullet to the head is only being merciful."

Caleb swung his gun, taking aim at Spike. But Spike was faster. He pulled the trigger against his partner, blasting a hole through his chest and sending a spray of blood across the room. A solid heart shot, though Spike doubted the man had a beating heart even in there, regardless of what all the blood might otherwise indicate. As if in echo, more shots started ringing outdoors, a distant thunder of an angry god coming to take his black devil home.

"I hope you rot in hell," Spike spat as he watched Caleb slip slowly to the floor, sliding down the wall and leaving an inky streak of red-black blood that would be a bitch to wash out.

"The line's crossed. I hope she's worth it. Because you're a dead man," Caleb wheezed with difficulty.

"Such a waste of final words." Spike shot him in the head. Not to be merciful. Just to shut the stupid fucker up. He'd had enough of The Preacher.

He took a deep breath and then turned his attention back to Red. He dropped to the floor by her side and put a hand to her cheek to see if she was still with him. She was lying still, face down in a pool of blood. She was so small and so still. And so cold. Spike quickly started to remove his trench coat so he could lay it over her.

In the harsh brightness he saw Buffy standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and icy as she took in the scene. The red-spattered walls, the blood on his hands, the blood on the floor, Willow. Buffy's face fell and she dropped to her knees. "I can't believe this. I can't. That – that you'd do this. After everything. I – I thought – God, blood everywhere." She looked like she might be sick.

"Buffy, please. It's not how it looks," he blurted. Though, yeah, strictly speaking, it was. Red was nearly dead, if not a goner already. And he was just a Nazi dumbfuck who let it happen. He didn't deserve Buffy. He never deserved her. Her eyes told him what he already knew.

"I – I think she's still with us. Help me with her," he said urgently. Maybe if he gave Buffy a job. She was the type who needed to be doing something. He finished removing his coat and bent back to his task of ascertaining Red's status. He heard Buffy crawl across the floor to him. She paused, noticing the other lifeless body in the room.

"The Preacher," Spike sighed unhappily. "Fuck his eternal soul. He's the one who hurt your friend. Stabbed her with that mean-looking pig-sticker over there. She's pretty bad off, I think. We need to get her out of here."

Spike had rolled Willow over onto her back. Her eyes were glassy and half-open in that thousand-yard stare kind of way. Was she dead? No. She took a gasp of air and focused for a moment, then nodded out again. Buffy leaned down over her friend so their foreheads touched.

"You listen to me, Willow," Buffy growled. "Don't you give up. Tara's gone to get the truck, and then we're leaving. And you're coming with us."

She said it so casually and with such certainty, as if she meant that Miss Maclay had just stepped out to the garage to fetch the car. Buffy looked up at him with angry, worried eyes. "What. We're leaving. Help me carry her."

She was serious. As if on cue, Spike heard the sound of an engine starting up back behind the house somewhere. Shots continued ringing out. One of Buffy's friends had a big rifle. The other, indeed, had a truck.

He bent down and easily lifted Red into his arms, wrapping his coat around her, and followed Buffy out into the hall, pausing only to turn the light off again.

The flashlights made it easier to get a bead on the baddies. And the rifle had superior firepower. It was a nice rifle. Semiautomatic. He took a moment to reload and spared a glance back over his shoulder to Tara. That was a close call. Willow would have his ass if anything happened to her. Hell, he'd have his own ass if anything happened to her. But she seemed fairly together-in fact, more than together-as she got into the truck and started the thing. The engine kicked in with a throaty roar, and she was smart and didn't turn the headlights on. The last thing he wanted was to be cast in silhouette for all the military guys out there.

The small triumph of getting the truck started aside, he was worried. He'd heard gunshots from inside the house. Not good. Nothing of the good ever came from guns shooting in houses. He knew Tara heard the shots, too. But she was holding it together. She had the truck. And had it rolling slowly toward him. He made a dash for the running boards, climbing on as Tara rolled the thing toward the open barn doors. "There's two more little flashlights dancing outside there," he reported breathlessly. "I got two of them, so those are the two that are left. A-aside from whoever they've got in the house."

"The gunshots," Tara worried, her face looked ghostly in the green glow of the dashboard lights.

"Buffy has my gun. She went back in the house. I saw her go in." His hands were trembling. "I'm going to climb in back. You keep your head down. Please."

She smiled at him, and he was suddenly aware of the way they'd met back on the night of the last big air raid. They'd huddled like small children in the basement in relative safety compared to this. Back then only their lives were on the line. Right now, everything was on the line. Everything.

"You keep your head down, too," she said. She had the unwanted privilege of having new knowledge about how soft human heads are. And how hard she could be if she needed to be.

He gave her a wink and then disappeared up over the side-rails and into the bed of the truck. She heard him land and get settled, and then she flicked on the headlights and put the truck in second gear, leaning low across the seat so she could only just peer over the dash. She had the flashlight and the two guns she'd collected from the dead men in the barn on the seat beside her. They were within easy reach. She'd help Xander get these last two-and any more she had to. For the first time she felt grateful her father had taught her to shoot a gun. She might live in the city but she was a farm girl at heart.

As the truck rolled out of the barn, the first thing she noticed was there were no more dancing flashlights. The house was dark, too, illuminated only by the headlight beams trained on it from the front, giving it a cold silhouette. Where were the flashlights? Her heart jumped fearing the soldiers and secret police had converged inside the house.

She rolled the truck forward, knowing the thing was just begging to be shot at: one big rolling target. At this moment, she welcomed it. Anything she could do to distract attention away from Buffy and Willow, wherever they were.

"Shit!" She heard Xander's exclamation from the back of the truck and turned her attention to something metallic on the periphery of the headlight beams. It was a soldier holding a gun to Beth's head. And beside him, stood a second soldier with his gun trained on her brother's boys.

"Shit!" Tara hissed, too, in fear and sinking dread. She'd promised Beth they wouldn't be hurt. How could they handle this situation so that shooting one soldier didn't cause the other to shoot. She pulled the truck around so that her family was fully illuminated by the headlights. She idled the motor.

Xander took a deep swallow and hoped Tara wouldn't kill him for this, but he called back: "They're not ours. You can have them."

Spike chuckled to himself. That Harris kid was cheeky. He and Buffy had just slipped out the back door and were creeping down the steps, thankful for the motor noise, which muffled their footsteps. He turned to Buffy. "How good a shot are you?"

She held Xander's pistol in her hand as if it were a foreign thing. "I'm not," she replied. "But I can be menacing."

"Not dressed as a boy scout you're not," Spike replied. "I don't suppose you can hold Red for me?"

Her confident nod surprised him. "Hurry," she said. "I need Xander and Tara in one piece. I don't think I can bear any more of this."

By the time Spike had transferred Willow to Buffy (who struggled only a little a bit with the dead weight of her friend), the SS men had convinced Xander to throw down his rifle and for Tara and him to get out of the vehicle. The woman and kids must belong to Tara's family. He hadn't counted on "collateral damage" on this little raid. But it happened often enough he shouldn't have been surprised.

He knew this drill. His men would shoot Xander and Tara where they stood, and then they'd shoot the family execution-style. There was going to be a lot of mop-up on this job. He sighed heavily, feeling Buffy's eyes burning into his back, willing him to do something. He lifted his pistol and steadied it in his two hands, sighting down the barrel at the back of one of the SS men's heads. Over the years he'd become quite a marksman. And he was especially skilled at shooting folks in the back. Though usually they were moving.

But the first shot was not his. In fact, Harris and Miss Maclay drew pistols in unison and popped off shots at the men. Harris managed to peg the one holding down the kids. His talents were really being wasted on his desk job. But Miss Maclay's shot went wide. The woman hostage ducked before SS goon #2 could pull the trigger. The lady out of the way now, Tara shot again, this time nailing the guy square in the chest. Well, her talents were being wasted, too. That's for sure.

Xander's heart was racing and he thought he'd throw up. That had been the single most frightening moment of his life. He let out a deep breath and doubled over to get his nerves under control. Tara was trembling beside him. He flashed her a grin. "Nice shooting," he said.

"Just doing what I have to," she replied, but she never completed the thought. She'd just spotted Detective Blood and Buffy coming down the stairs with a body wrapped in a coat. "No," she breathed, a small half-wail that threatened to take her feet out from under her.

Xander straightened and took in the same sight. "Shit, that's Will!" No, this, in fact, was the most frightening moment of his life. Funny how each moment just got worse and worse. Or not funny, actually.

As Spike walked quickly into the headlight beams it became apparent he was covered head to toe in blood. Buffy trailed behind him, her hands and pants covered in it as well. Spike noticed their expressions. "Don't worry," he said. "It's not all hers."

But whether that was truly comforting or not, he wasn't sure. To him, it was a plus, anyway. Buffy edged around him and ran up to Tara and Xander, taking their hands. "She's bad, but she's alive. We need to get her to help right now. Tara, what's nearby here?"

"The-there's a – a doctor I – I can call. A f – friend of the family who l-lives not far."

Xander piped up. "And we passed a convent on the way here. It's not a field hospital, but I bet they have someplace clean, and not a lot of questions asked."

Tara nodded vacantly. "I – I'll call Dr. Gorman and a-ask him to meet us there."

The blond woman shook her head. Xander interjected. "Believe me. You do not want her at the wheel. You should drive. You know the way." Tara knew that was right, but her stomach dived at the thought of not being at Willow's side.

"I'll take care of her," Xander said. And Tara knew he meant it. She nodded. Spike stepped forward quickly and handed Willow to him. Xander got a small look at her face. "Oh, god," he moaned. She was gray. Tara stepped up, her voice quavering. "What is it? Gunshot wound?"

Spike shook his head. "Big-assed knife. To the gut." He probably could have used a different word-one that didn't bring up mind pictures of, well, guts. "I have the knife, if it's helpful to the doctor to know what got her."

The muscles were working in Harris's jaw. Spike knew he was outraged. There'd be time for explaining later.

"Are – are you coming, Detective Blood?" Tara asked. She could see Spike's eyes shining and upset.

The man shook his head. "Somebody's got to work cleaning detail. It's a big job. Now you kids run along and get Red fixed up." He handed her the knife. It was sticky with blood. Willow-blood.

Tara and Xander nodded. Tara's parting words to Beth, who was running toward the house: "If he asks what happened, tell the doctor it was a domestic dispute." Beth stopped for a moment, but then, understanding, she took off again.

"That's our story," Tara said firmly, and helped Xander get Willow into the back of the truck. She took off her coat and gave it to Xander to wrap around Willow. Buffy did the same. Then she hugged Xander and Tara before the pair climbed in, and with a flick of the wrist Tara started the beast and drove it uphill and out of sight.

The silence was deafening. Nothing but crickets. And the ringing in Buffy's ears. Clean-up detail. Spike made it sound like it was a routine part of his job. Perhaps it was.

"Well, she's a hell of a lot better off than if Caleb had put a bullet in her head like he tried to," Spike replied, all bravado. He pulled a package of cigarettes and a lighter out of his trouser pockets and lit it up with bloody hands. Buffy noticed that his hands shaking a bit. She didn't think it was from the cold.

Inside the house, Beth was turning on lights. Spike took the stairs two at a time and yelled in through the back door: "I'll clean the middle bedroom. Best to stay out of there for now. I'll need bleach and some old rags." With that he let the screen door slam shut again.

"Tara might not find it too homey any more," Spike mumbled. "I know I wouldn't."

Buffy gazed around the grounds, noticing the litter of bodies on the lawn. "Where do we even begin?"

Spike rubbed his forehead, smudging a red streak there. "Let's ask the lady indoors if there's a lake close by. Then we have to move quickly." He wished Harris and Miss Maclay had taken one of the cars. A truck would be handy right now.

While Buffy went into the house, Spike strolled the yard and retrieved a couple of flashlights.

The ring was nice. Simple. Not too flashy. Perfect for that non-committal way of saying "you're mine." It was silver. It had a nice heft to it, but not in a manly way. It looked old, and it was probably worth a lot, both in terms of monetary and sentimental value. It had been Tara's mother's. Maybe it had even been her grandmother's before that.

Xander found that the ring was the only thing he could look at. Not the gray face or the blood-soaked sweater or the gaping hole just below the chest that did not rise and fall. And he couldn't imagine what Tara had found to focus on. He stole a glance at her. Her face was lined with grief and she held the other gray hand in her own, rubbing little circles there.

The doctor looked very grave. Grave. A terrible, though appropriate, word for their current situation. He glanced up next at the nuns. A small ring of them encircled the table they'd laid Willow on, hovering sweetly like little angels. Willow would have liked that.

And then he looked down at his own arm, at the medical tubing that ran from his forearm to Willow's, connecting them in a way he was sure he'd never be connected to another human being again. His blood type was O. That made him a universal donor. And when he'd given her as much of his blood as he could, then Tara was ready to step in next. She was O, too. He knew they had a lot in common. He knew it the night he first met her.

He was starting to get light-headed. The doctor had told him to speak up when that happened. But Xander didn't want to speak up. He wanted to do this. He wanted to give whatever he could for her. She was his oldest friend. And this seemed like little enough to do for her. Wasn't there something more he could do? Couldn't he save her? He was strong. And true. He was definitely that. For her, he was true, and he always would be. If there was no one left on earth who could help her, he'd be her champion. He had never wavered. And he never would.

He'd do anything. He'd send up prayers to his God and hers and to every major and minor deity in the Heavens if he had to. Even to Thor and Zeus and those old gods nobody listens to anymore. He'd send a prayer out to them and he'd give them thanks every day for the rest of his life if they'd just give him the strength to save her. He could hear his own heart beat all fuzzy and muffly in his ears. He could do that. He could beat his heart for her.

She'd watched everything. She couldn't help but watch everything. This was her everything. Now, more than ever before, she was completely committed. There was no halfway anymore. No turning back. It wasn't Willow's future that hung in the balance. It was hers. Willow was slipping away from her. A part of Tara's own heart was gone, too, just as sure as if a hole had been blasted through it.

She'd never seen a dead person before, up close and personal. This was about as close as she ever hoped to come to such a thing. She'd watched as the doctor arrived grim- faced and pessimistic. She'd cajoled him into trying. She'd cried and pleaded and practically offered to fuck him to get him to try. Just try to save this girl. The one who wore her ring and was brave and sweet and stupid. She didn't know exactly what it was she'd said that convinced him. But he'd acquiesced, finally, rolling up his shirt- sleeves and ordering the nuns around to fetch him this and that and to call for more supplies. He'd worked as a field doctor, which meant he was schooled in shortcuts and make-dos. His skills would be put to the test. And Tara vowed to make sure he applied himself.

So she'd watched as he cut away the blood-soaked sweater and then lifted the makeshift dressing Buffy and Detective Blood had tied around Willow's middle. As the cloth fell away, the wound began bleeding again, a clotted, crimson ooze that bubbled up and made Tara feel woozy.

She watched as his hands delicately probed to find just what the injuries were, going in clean and pink and coming out red. He got one of the nuns to assist him, pressing white towels and sheets to sop up the blood so he could see his work. So many linens. And all the while she clutched Willow's hand, feeling it grow cooler, and her color fade. Tara had rubbed Willow's hand furiously, as though the small act could keep the girl's circulation going. She pressed her fingers to the pulsepoint at Willow's wrist as though that would provide some reassurance. It didn't. She couldn't feel anything.

And yet, Dr. Gorman assured her that Willow was still alive. He agreed not to give up. Which was good. Because Tara had a gun, and she was ready to wave it around if she had to. But she didn't. The doctor pulled Xander from his nervous pacing and got him to roll up his sleeve for transfusion. Tara watched Xander's expression of shock grow stranger and more distant. He couldn't look. He focused only on Willow's hand, which he held tight as his blood flowed to her.

Tara could have kissed him. That little red line leading into Willow's arm was like the cavalry arriving. Finally, instead of life draining away, life was finally pumping back into her. Tara watched Xander as he muttered and talked nonsense, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Was he talking to himself? Was he talking to Willow? When his eyelids began to droop, Tara alerted the doctor and helped line up the next transfusion. It was supposed to be herself, but she didn't trust Dr. Gorman to see the job through without her there to prod him. So she asked one of the nuns to take her turn.

The nuns were saints to have answered Tara's plea for help at all, but they did so practically without question. They lined up as if it were a sacred duty, something small that they could do to make a difference. In a country and a time where life was thrown away so carelessly, where soldiers and civilians were human cannon-fodder, this was one life the sisters could try to save. They couldn't change the world, no matter how hard they prayed. But they could help this one girl and her grief-stricken friends on this one miserable night.

The doctor bent to his task of delicately sewing back together what that nasty "pig- sticker" had sliced apart, as the detective had put it so indelicately when he gave her the knife. For a moment, she wondered about that: about the fact that Detective Blood had helped them. Why? But it was a fleeting thought, one she'd have to come back to later. For now she was watching. The doctor's hands were slim and delicate, the movements familiarly domestic, as if he were sewing the hem of a skirt. His handwork led her to believe him to be a most expert seamster. He moved with quick efficiency.

Tara could sew. It made her speak up. Was there something she could do to help him, she asked.

He shot her a glance over his glasses. "She's breathing, but she could use some help. Can you help breathe for her? Just till the supplies arrive. They're supposed to be bringing oxygen. But I'd rather not wait."

He explained what to do. Tara nodded her understanding. She could do this and still make sure he did his job. The more hands that helped, the more he'd be committed to saving Willow, too.

In this moment, as her lips brushed against her lover's only to find them frighteningly cold, she took solace in the fact that at least for now every one of them in this room were committed.

Spike knew what to do with evidence. Evidence was his job. He was a detective. He knew the things that people hid, and he knew where to look for them. So, to his way of thinking, bodies were just big pieces of evidence, really. And he relied on his knowledge of detective work-and of the practices of the secret police-to guide him in what to do with the seven dead SS men lying about the Maclays' farm.

He would have done the work by himself if he had to. So acute was his desire to erase the evidence that his men had ever been here. But Buffy insisted on working side-by-side with him. They tackled Tara's room first. A real slaughterhouse, that place. He'd hauled Caleb's dead ass down to one of the cars and pitched the corpse inside. Good cousin Beth had mixed up buckets of water and bleach and found some old scrub-brushes. The three of them sopped up the stains, stripping the bedding, pulling down the gauzy curtains, wiping down the ceiling light fixture and the desk. The whole place was spattered.

"Maybe you've got some more of this white paint?" he'd asked Beth at one point. "Not so much for applying now. But in a couple days when this is dry you might try a coat. Or two."

Buffy took the floor. He knew it creeped her out, scrubbing at the congealing blood of her best friend. Not knowing if the friend was dead or alive. There was so much blood that Spike was worried, too. He understood a thing or two about wounds, and about the shades of color people turn when they're bleeding out. He couldn't lie to Buffy. If there was one person he owed the truth, it was her. Thankfully, she didn't ask his opinion of Willow's chances. She just scrubbed, putting her back into the task as if she might sand the finish right off the floorboards.

When at last the room was reasonably white again, the three of them climbed to their feet and gazed at each other. Buffy's eyes were cold, hard and scared. Beth's were way beyond spooked. She had a lot of weight on her shoulders. The rest of them could run, hide, disappear. But Beth couldn't. She had to stay with the boys, and that was harder. As a detective he knew that. In a way it's harder for the people left behind, the ones who have to lie and endure interrogation. And those boys. Being in mortal peril, watching men gunned down before them , by their auntie, no less. Dark men descending upon their quiet farm for no apparent reason. How do you get over something like that? Beth had her hands full. She was so young. And this was going to be hard.

"I've got some more cleanup to do outside," he said softly to her. "Buffy and I are going to take care of it." He shot Buffy a glance, and she nodded in solid affirmative. "But I will be back, and I'll give you some instructions about what to say and do. This is my job, and I'm very good at it. I will help you."

Beth nodded vaguely, perhaps too shell-shocked right now to even let the words sink in. But he would be back. He had to make sure the loose ends were tied up just so. This was a messy, rotten job. They were in big trouble. All of them. But he would do what he could to buy them all their freedom.

He and Buffy swung out of the house then and hit the barn and then the yard, dragging and piling the bodies one-by-one into the cars. Spike really regretted showing Buffy this kind of travesty. Some of these men were missing heads. Xander had been wielding a mean rifle, and he was a dead shot. And in the barn, when they flicked on the lights they discovered that Tara had a mean swing with a crowbar. He had to credit Buffy with her toughness, for not throwing up all over her shoes.

He set her to work pitching hay down onto the barn floor while he scuffed up the bloody bits. Then, they shoveled the mess into wheelbarrows and took it down to the pigsty. All along the way, Buffy retrieved flashlights and pistols as if they were Easter eggs, slinging them into a canvas bag she'd found in the barn.

"We'll need some rope and a couple of knives," he said, and she set off to the barn to fetch them.

They met back out front. Her eyes glittered darkly. They had only a couple more hours of darkness. They had to move quickly.

He chuckled. "City girl. Come with me, then. I'd rather not be alone just now, anyway. We'll make one trip and come back for the other carload."

There was something kind of weird about driving a vehicle that was piled high with fresh corpses. Again, he had to hand it to Buffy that she sat quietly beside him, as if they were partners and this was just a job. It probably kept her mind off Willow and the others.

Shit. He should know that. Why didn't he know that? What did he know about her, really? He didn't know where she lived, or what classes she was taking in college. He didn't know her family, had never met her mom or sis. He hadn't known for sure she was wrapped up with Red and Xander and Tara until recently. He knew she liked him. She came over to his apartment often enough for some rough-and-tumble. But he didn't know her favorite color or her favorite food. He didn't know the things that made her laugh. He didn't know what she'd wanted for Christmas or even where she'd spent the holiday. He didn't know her birthday. Shit, he didn't even know how old she was.

And what had she ever cared to learn about him? Not much. She knew his mother was dead and where she was buried. She knew he was born in England and raised there before emigrating to Germany. She knew he liked to read. And that he had no friends.

Suddenly, the span of the car seat seemed like an insurmountable distance between them. He gave a deep sigh and focused on the drive.

The lake was still, a seemingly bottomless black pool that lapped only gently at the shoreline. Buffy was covered head to toe in blood. Willow's, The Preacher's, unnamed dead SS men's. Her hands were sticky. The car smelled of blood and death. It felt suffocating. Like she'd never be able to scrub herself clean again. Like the stench would follow her everywhere, permanently embedded in her skin. This whole night had been just one horror after another. And the only good part of it was that if Willow had managed to live, then this, perhaps, was the last horror.

She and Spike had the second car pointed into the lake. They'd stripped the bodies and tied them naked, weighting them with rocks. The two of them had dragged each man out as far into the water as they could before letting him descend to his watery grave. Would they stay put? Spike didn't know. She wondered how much of this he actually knew and how much he was making up as he went along. But it didn't matter. He was the best thing they had, their best hope for getting out of this mess and getting on with their lives. Yet again, his occupation proved to be an asset. For as many times as she wished he'd just quit his job and join the resistance, he always proved to be more useful for his knowledge and connections as an SS insider.

Now the car. Spike let off the parking brake and the two of them pushed the thing as fast and hard as they could at the water. It was deep here close to shore, just as Beth had said it would be. And the cold, inky blackness swallowed the car whole, leaving them cold, wet and panting on the shore. The sun was starting to rise. The first glow of dawn was appearing, and her eyes slowly adjusted to the absence of headlights.

The horrible work was done. The Maclays' house cleaned. They had just Xander's newspaper motorpool car to deal with, and they'd probably take that to the convent. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Probably for all night. And she stretched the sore muscles of her arms and back.

Spike chuckled, retrieving the dry pack from the pocket of the farm coat they'd borrowed from the big barn. He put the jacket around Buffy's shoulders and lit the cigarette for her, handing her the burning torch of it. The ember end danced in the dark toward her as though enchanted.

"The last lady I offered a cigarette to tried to knife me," Spike chuckled mirthlessly.

Buffy accepted the cigarette, but didn't really want the details. No more stories of blood and guts. "Tell me something good," she asked him.

"No, I mean something of the good. Something hopeful, beautiful and shining. I need to shake this darkness."

Spike had half a mind to tell her he loved her. That was something beautiful and shining. And hopeful. But he couldn't bear to hear her say she didn't feel the same. So he chose different words.

"I think you and your friends are amazing. You're the kind of people I wish I knew more of. You're brave. Stupid as hell. But brave. I'll give you that. And you love with all your hearts. I wish I'd had a chance to get to know you all better. The little surprises and likes and dislikes. I think the world is a better place for having you all in it. It's put me in danger more than once-like tonight, for instance-but I'd do every bit of it over again. I'd do whatever I can to help you. Hell, part of me thinks I should hang up my invisible badge and call it quits and be done with it all. I guess knowing you has changed me. For the better, I think."

He paused, lighting his own cigarette and trying to read her face in the first glow of day.

"Doesn't have to be," he replied. "Besides, there's a little more I want to do to help ensure you and your friends have a chance to escape this. It'll require a little drive. We'll stop off at the convent on the way. Maybe first put on some dry clothes."

Her friend looked a little like the corpses she and Spike had recently "dispatched." And Xander and Tara looked only slightly better. The nuns filled her in on the details while the exhausted doctor sat in a chair, his head heavy in his hands. They were all bone tired.

It was unnerving at first to see Willow half-naked. But even more unnerving to see the three-inch gash, sewn tight like the stitching on a canvas bag. Except this was human skin. This was Willow. The nuns scuttled away with amazing piles of blood-soaked towels and bedding, off to be boiled and laundered.

They looked at Buffy with sad eyes, assuming her to be Willow's brother or nephew. Or maybe they saw through her disguise and sympathized with her pain as a friend. Maybe the sisters were sad, too.

The doctor looked at her funny. Spike stage whispered, "Figuratively speaking, eh, Bert?"

For a moment Buffy had forgotten who she was. Or wasn't. Or whatever. "Whatever," she said, waving her hand dismissively.

Tara came and gave Buffy a big hug. They stood like that, practically propping each other up, for what seemed like a long time. "What are you going to do now?" Buffy asked. What were any of them going to do now?

Tara gave a big sigh. "We're staying here today. The doctor thinks he may be able to get her in to a nearby hospital, though I explained she lost her papers. An-ad I d-don't know what n-name to give."

"I may have found them," Spike said, hefting a bag from the floor. "Her notebooks and such are here. We were able to find them. Her papers may be there."

Tara looked confused. Willow couldn't go by Wilma Hermann anymore, not since the SS had sent men to apprehend her. Men who ended up dead.

Spike gave her a reassuring look. "It's ok, love. I have one more stop to make to straighten things out." He turned to Xander. "And Mr. Harris and I will need to go there together. You stay here with Red. See that she pinks up a bit."

Xander fell in with Spike and they shuffled to the door. At the last moment, Spike turned once more. "Oh, and if she wakes up and starts talking trash about me, please explain that I was only trying to help. Though I expect she won't believe it. But it's true."

Xander had an uncomfortable urge to turn over the desk and beat this guy senseless. The guy who'd invited him to the Officers Club. The one who'd shared a bottle of champagne and a lovely evening. The same one who sent The Preacher out to the Maclay farm. And now seven people were dead. Eight if his best friend didn't pull through.

Riley Finn sat there at his desk, doing whatever he did running a fucking concentration camp. Probably to him, a few casualties didn't mean much. People get jaded. But what Xander couldn't understand was what hatred could make him turn on the woman he loved and her family. Certainly he had to know what could happen. Didn't he love her even a little bit? As weird as it sounded in his head, he was glad that Spike had been on that little mission or they might all be dead right now.

For his part, William the Bloody was pretty pissed, too. He held a gun straight at Riley's head.

"I've got one thing to say to you, pal," Spike intoned with some menace. "You have fucked things up royally. And you will help straighten them out again. Do you understand me?"

Riley looked confused and more than a little spooked. What was the Gestapo detective doing threatening him? And why did he have Xander in tow? "I don't understand," he stammered.

Spike was firm. "That's not the point. See, Harris here and I are SS. And what we say has a hell of a lot more pull with our department than you'd think. We kill you, and all I've got to tell them is that I investigated it and the suspects are still at large. See? Isn't that the shits?"

"Ok, I really don't understand. I told you what you wanted to know yesterday. We sat right here. You wanted to know where Wilma Hermann was and I told you. I cooperated."

"As a result of that your little Tara, who you wanted to teach a little lesson to, killed two people. SS men. Shot one. Caved in the head of the other with a tire iron. This is your sweet girl. The one you planned to marry. So you had a lovers' quarrel. Does that mean you send in the goons?"

Riley looked upset, but he held firm. "I did as I was asked. I provided information. I didn't force Tara to kill those men."

"Oh. You'd rather she was dead now. Because that was option number two. The only other option, I might add."

"Just where do you think you work, buddy? Do you see those ladies out there in the yard pulling weeds or counting rocks or whatever mindless torture you've got them doing? You wanted your girlfriend to come live here, so you could keep a closer eye on her?"

"I made a mistake," Riley said quietly. "I don't want her arrested. I didn't think they'd go after her. I thought you were after that Jew dyke. Wilma Hermann. Did you at least get her?"

Xander pulled his gun and trained it on Riley, too, growling, "Watch your mouth, asshole. I've been up all night covered in blood, and I'm itching for some payback."

Spike took a seat and placed his hands on the desk. "Now here's how it's going to go. You never met my partner and me. You never sent us to Tara's little farm. And we never had the conversation we're currently having. Got it? Simple as that. Wilma Hermann is a polite, earnest and enterprising reporter, and she interviewed you for a story. That's it."

Spike craned his head to look out the window behind Riley's head, raising his eyebrows. "You ever maybe let some of ‘em, you know, just die, or something?"

"I think Wilma Hermann's field notes would take some of those duties to task, don't you?"

"What if her notebooks were to, say, not make it back to the newsroom? But land somewhere else, perhaps?"

Riley glared. He let out a deep breath. "Fine. I never should have agreed to that interview, and I never should have sent the secret police to the farm. I was stupid. I have enough of my own trouble here. I'd like to forget all of it."

Xander shrugged. "Well, eight armed goons descended on her house in the dead of night and tried to kill her and her family. Drove them out of the house and chased them down like dogs. They'd be dead if it wasn't for Tara. She shot one of the SS men right in front of the kids." He couldn't even bring himself to say the part about Willow. His voice dropped to a pained whisper. "I don't know if Tara's all right. But I do know that you don't deserve the right to even walk in her shadow. Don't give me a reason to come find you again."

The Preacher was never here. He never put all the pieces together and figured out that fugitive Willow Rosenberg was Wilma Hermann of The People's Press. And he never figured out that Alexander Harris was a traitor to his country for knowingly trying to hide her. The Preacher never harassed Tara Maclay. That embarrassing morning at her apartment that revealed she was a sexual deviant harboring a fugitive never happened. With The Preacher gone, all of his tracks were erased. All of his hunches and conjecture went nowhere. They disappeared like his head. They disappeared like rest of him into the big black lake. Into a bottomless nothingness.

Wilma Hermann and her SS escort Alexander Harris were involved in a grave automobile accident on their way back to Berlin to file her story. She nearly died. She was in the hospital recovering, with Xander and her friend Tara and nephew Bert at her side. The newspaper would send her a nice bouquet of flowers and a card.

Beth and the boys spent another bucolic day out at the farm. There were so many lovely and average days like these that they all blurred together.

That left Spike. Buffy stood before him with a gun in her hand, shaking and upset.

"I can't. I hate these things. Giles and Jenny and Faith. And countless millions of other people will all be forgotten because someone had a gun and shot them." She looked up at the sky. "Did you know that Japan is the only culture that actually considered doing away with guns altogether? The westerners brought them, and the Japanese tried to reject the technology. They didn't want it. And, you know what? They managed to keep guns out for something like 200 years. Willow taught me that. She read it in one of the History textbooks I was supposed to be the one reading. Except I was too busy trying to save people-my friends, people I love, even complete strangers-from guns."

"You can and you have to. I'm the last loose end here. I'd rather it be you than some asshole from the SS."

They were standing in a field. Spike wore his shirt and tie, his hat and his trenchcoat, all freshly laundered. Buffy looked like a small and scared young boy. They were close to the border with Poland. Far away from Ravensbruck or the farm.

"Give it a good shot, but not too good," he instructed. "Maybe in the leg or something. Be sure to cut my forehead, too. Not too much blood."

"It'll be all right. And, besides, this way we'll still be friends. I can help you get papers for people. Stuff like that. I could even get us all out of here if we needed to. Someplace nice like England or even America. You'll always know how to find me."

"No, pet. I'd like very much to know how to find you. Harris can give you a heads-up when I get back to H.Q. Maybe we could go for coffee. I believe there's a diner you and your chums like to go to."

"Ok. I'm doing this for you. For us. For all of it," Buffy said. "But you're a bastard for making me." And then she took reluctant aim and fired.

Spike shouted out in pain as the bullet tore through his leg and dropped him to the ground. The wound seared, alternating hot and cold, and he watched the blood bubble forth from his own body distantly, as if it weren't his own. His brain was unwilling to accept his body's shock. So is this what it felt like for all of those others, the many who'd tasted lead from his gun?

Later that day William Blood, Gestapo detective stationed out of Berlin, was found shot and bleeding by a roadside near the border with Poland. He and his partner had traveled there to follow up on a lead about a nest of university students talking shit about the Reich. They'd picked up a detail of six SS men to accompany them, but they never made it to their destination. Blood's partner and the other SS men all vanished, suspected victims of the Polish resistance. The injured detective remembered nothing. He spent a week interviewing the locals and came up with nothing but dead ends. The case is still open.

It took both Tara and Xander to help her up the steps and into the building. She leaned heavily upon them, careful of the wound in her side, and Tara and Xander handled her gingerly. The steps were hard and she tired so easily.

"Are you sure you're ok, sweetie?" Tara ad asked, apparently able to detect the fact Willow had broken into a cold sweat.

As her step faltered, Xander swept her off her feet and bodily carried her up the last steps. "Of course you can do it, Will. We just don't want to wait around all day while you try."

Then the doors to the office swung open, and Willow saw the looks of relief and happiness and heard the cry go out around the place that Wilma Hermann was finally back. Willow knew she was probably coming back too soon. But she was feeling better. And bored. For days her mind had been busy begging for math problems to do. Or reading. Or anything. She'd started driving Tara crazy. Not literally, of course. Tara was an extremely well-balanced and patient person.

But Willow had the energy. So she'd gone through her notebooks and composed her story about Ravensbruck longhand and was eager to type it up and deliver it to Gruber. He'd been waiting so long for it. And this was the day she was going to complete the assignment.

Tara and Xander each kissed the top of her head, and Tara promised to come back for Willow at the end of the day. Or sooner, if she felt tired. Gruber greeted Tara like he found her to be the most divine creature on the planet. So lovely, blond and blue-eyed. Nazis really seemed to be drawn to Willow's girl. She didn't mind. She knew where Tara's heart lay. And as a result of her own recent physical trauma, Willow also knew for certain where her own heart lay, both figuratively and literally. She'd recently done some reading about knife wounds and anatomy and field medicine.

Gruber invited Willow into his office. He helped her to the door and into the chair. He seemed genuinely happy to see her. She grinned back at him, glad to be here at all.

"I must say we've missed you. The newsroom was not the same without you. Can I offer you a drink, Miss Hermann?"

Willow chuckled. "Normally I'd accept, but I'm afraid I might not be quite watertight yet. The wound isn't completely healed."

He smiled at her joke, like an adoring father might. "Miss Hermann, do you mind if I…I mean I was wondering if I – if I could please take a look at your injury?"

Since she was fascinated by the thing, she wasn't bothered by the fact that Gruber might be, too. She delicately lifted the hem of her sweater so that he could see the angry red length of scar. He regarded it in silence for a few moments.

"Such a terrible wound. Much worse than I'd imagined from your fiancé's description on the phone. It's really a wonder you're still with us. Do you remember much?"

She shook her head. "I remember leaving Ravensbruck. And Xander and I packing the car to come back here. That's about it until I woke up in a hospital. Though I also have one strange recollection of nuns or angels or something. And of drifting toward the light."

"The light. Yes, I've heard similar stories recounted by men who've had near-death experiences," he nodded thoughtfully. Willow realized she'd just risen a notch or two in his mind for being tougher than he'd imagined. She proved tough enough to write the Ravensbruck story, and her will to survive was evident.

"It was a field doctor who saved me. Well, a doctor trained in field medicine. And my friends and a few strangers, even, who lent me their blood."

"It is truly amazing the kindness one can find among strangers, even in wartime. It's almost as if we instinctively want to connect and help each other."

There were certainly plenty of examples to the contrary, but she chose not to dwell on them just then. He wasn't wrong. There were many kind and decent people.

Proof in point, it was a kind and decent person who came to retrieve Willow at the end of the day. She gazed up from her desk into blue eyes and a smile that belonged to Willow only. Her heart beat a bit faster, like it did any time Tara was near. Mostly from infatuation. But sometimes from an irrational fear that Tara would slip away from her, that they'd be separated. In moments like this, Tara would pull her close and stroke her hair and tell her there was no way Willow was getting rid of her any time soon. Willow knew the fear was like a little echo from the night she couldn't remember. A body memory of her body nearly dying. Amazing that for all one's higher intellect, there are some things the body just knows.

And Willow knew only that she felt most calm and quiet when she lay in Tara's arms, the city light spilling in through the tall windows of Tara's room at the flat. When Willow had been hurt, Tara had moved back into the city with her. They'd taken up residence in the old apartment, spending long evenings lying quietly together in the dark, holding each other. At first, Tara would keep Willow's mind off the fear by telling stories from her childhood, reading books to her, singing songs, lavishing her with gentle touches and kisses. In time, as Willow grew stronger, it was she who became storyteller, describing life before the war, how she'd met Xander and then later Buffy, Buffy's family, Jenny and Giles and about the ragtag resistance movement they supported. She told Tara about the Night of Broken Glass, when everything had changed both for Germany and for her. She talked about her fear and grief over the disappearance and presumed death of her parents. About how weird it was that life even went on at all after that. About how neighbors turned against neighbors. And the things she had to do to hide and survive since then. Tara took everything in with only amazement and gratitude that the world hadn't ended, that it apparently saw fit to let her and Willow stay together.

Some time later, Tara explained about the night Willow couldn't remember, and it was Willow's turn to be amazed and thankful beyond words that the people she loved were all still standing.

But tonight their thoughts would be far from this. After catching up with Xander and Buffy, Tara would take Willow home and check her wound, making sure it was healing. Touching it reverently, almost. "Hey, you know what I look like inside," Willow had mused aloud on one such evening as Tara changed Willow's dressings. Tara's eyes had darkened, but Willow had enthused: "No, that's a good thing. Kind of a special thing. I mean, how many people can say they've actually seen inside another person? I mean literally."

"I saw inside you from the first moment we met," Tara had blushed. She preferred not to think of Dr. Gorman's pink fingers that turned blood red. "Everything I needed to know about you was all there from the start. I saw you and you were beautiful." She'd kissed Willow's forehead.

Tara would always be in Xander's debt. For holding her hand that night in the basement during the frightening air raid. For bringing Willow to come live with her. For delivering the suitcase and Tara's letter. For being Willow's lifeline when it seemed there was nothing that could be done to save her. She'd seen inside him the first time they'd met and found him beautiful, too.

She felt extremely lucky. She'd walked through hell and come out the other side. They all had. Bruised, battered, forever changed. But they'd made it. The war was still raging, but it felt like some distant abstraction, a low rumbling on some faraway horizon. Life happened much, much closer to home, now. Every day was precious. Willow told Tara that she probably had seven or eight lives left. In Willow-logic, apparently, that made sense.

Tonight Tara listened patiently as Willow chattered about her day while they rode the bus back to their part of town. She could listen to Willow talk her streams of consciousness forever. Tara loved the transparency of this girl who seemed not to live in a glass house, but to be a glass house. Bright, shiny and reflective. A vessel for knowledge and experience and love and light.

"Oh! Word from Anya came into the newsroom today," Willow gushed, excitedly. "Well, not from Anya herself. I mean, she didn't call or anything like that. We didn't talk. But a communiqué came into the newsroom that the Allies have photos from Ravensbruck and that stories are circulating. Yay, Anya!"

"Was Gruber mad at you? I mean, it's clear that the Allies got their hands on pictures you took."

"I was in a car accident. I almost died. Who could blame me for having some things go missing?"

"You know, you'd think he would regret it. I mean, he was certainly very disturbed that I got hurt. But I think he's kind of proud of me."

"Huh. And I've actually done something that may help stop this stupid war. I think there's something about genocide that just tends to rub people the wrong way. As they say, a picture paints a thousand words."

They got off the bus and slowly walked the block and a half to the diner. The bell jangled as they pushed their way through the swinging glass doors, out of the warm evening and into the comforting familiarity of their old home base. Xander had already gotten them a table. And ordered pie. Helmut was just delivering a slice and three forks to the table. He flashed a smile at Willow. "Been a while since we've seen you in here. Good to see you," Helmut said.

As Willow and Tara slipped into the booth, Xander raised his hand for Helmut and requested one more fork. Almost as soon as it arrived, the bell jangled again and in came Buffy, her short hair covered by a stylish hat. She had started experimenting with reclaiming her more feminine side. So far, nothing bad had befallen her. Apparently, the Gestapo were on to chasing someone other than leaflet-wielding university students. Buffy slipped into the booth beside Xander, giving him a warm hug. She animatedly told them all about having gone home today. She'd gotten to see her mom and sister for the first time in months. God, she'd missed them. Dawn must have grown about a foot, at least.

Spike smiled to himself at the thought. He sat at the bar, sipping a cup of hot coffee and smoking a cigarette. He glanced over his shoulder and managed to catch Buffy's eye. She smiled in surprise and then patted the seat beside her. He raised his eyebrows, wanting to be sure he'd understood correctly. Her smile turned indulgent, and she patted the seat beside her again. He stamped out his cigarette and swung off his barstool. Everybody scooted over a bit to accommodate one more person. Tara reached and affectionately squeezed his hand.

All eyes shot around the table in surprise. Then Xander spoke up: "Wills, this is Detective William Blood, the fellow Buffy knows who works in my department."

Willow extended her hand to him in greeting. "Right, right. So you're Spike. I've heard so much about you. At last we meet."

Spike smiled wryly, his gaze catching first Tara's and then Buffy's. Well, at least there was one among them who mercifully didn't have to live with the memories of all the evil and terrible and very bad things that happened that night. She got to keep another bit of innocence, her face untroubled, her heart open to life's possibilities. Then looking around the table here, from the perspective of being inside the circle rather than outside of it, he could see that it wasn't just her: that despite everything-or perhaps because of everything-they all had the flush of excitement for this moment, and the next, and the next.

Xander waved Helmut over again, and, for the first time he ordered a second piece of pie for the table.

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Night of Broken Glass

by Junecleavage

Copyright © 2007

junecleavage8@gmail.com