Rising from the Wreckage

Disclaimer: The characters and show all belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, et al. No copyright infringement was intended. The storyline, however, is the sole property of the author. This story cannot be sold or used for profit in any way. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices.

Author's note: I'm starting this chapter with a scene taken from the end of the Angel episode 'Birthday', but I'm rewriting it slightly to fit the story. Trust me, it works.

Summary: Things in Sunnydale seem to be on the smooth track as Buffy and gang go about their lives in the face of yet another apocalypse. However, in LA some baddies show up and Willow may be the only one who can help - but at what cost?

Willow sipped her coffee without tasting it, watching as Angel fretted over the unconscious body of Cordelia Chase. Wes, Gunn, Fred and Lorne stood around the bed in Angel's room, all desperate to help their friend, but helpless to do a thing for her. Willow especially felt a deep burning pain in the pit of her stomach, watching as her former nemesis, sometime friend and for a brief night lover, lay comatose, a victim of her increasingly dangerous visions.

A voice in the back of her head whispered to her, telling her to use her magic to save Cordy. She struggled to silence that voice, knowing it to be a lie. She had done enough harm with her magic; she didn't dare use her powers, especially with Cordy's life on the line. All she could do is offer a heartfelt prayer to the Goddess for Cordy's survival and well-being. After Cordy had been so supportive when she needed it, Willow couldn't bear the thought of seeing her die.

The birthday party was about to start when she began having her latest vision. Willow had been aware of how much more painful her visions had become, to the point where Cordy had become dependent on prescription pain pills. Cordy had sworn Willow to secrecy regarding the pills, and her fears that her visions would soon kill her. Now they all knew what price Cordy had been paying to aid Angel in his mission. They prayed that the price wouldn't end up being her life.

Suddenly Cordy arced back, howling in pain. Angel ran to her side, followed by the others. "What's happening to her?" Fred asked worriedly.

Cordy sat up on the bed, gasping, and opened her chocolate brown eyes. Angel overjoyed to see her well, caught her in a generous hug. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Angel." Cordy breathed. She suddenly pulled back, resting her hands on her head. "No horns," she commented. Feeling around to her lower back, she smiled in relief; "No tail. Whew! Just checking." Cordy jumped to her feet and stretched, while the others watched her. "It feels so good to be solid again."

While they were all glad to see Cordy alive and well, Wesley pondered the suddenness of her recovery, as well as the unanswered question of her latest vision. "Cordelia, what is the last thing you remember?"

Cordy glanced at the young Englishman, a quizzical look crossing her face. "When? I've been so... Oh. You mean the vision downstairs. No, I had a vision, but it's been taken care off. There was this actress, and an one-armed guy... It's a long story. But right now, we have to solve my vision."

"No," Cordy answered, pacing off her sudden burst of energy and purpose. "The one I'm having right now. There's this auditorium, it's on a college campus, I think UCLA, and there are five, no, six thin dudes, like cadavers in black suits...."

"Uh, Cordy?" Angel asked suddenly, as the others gazed at her, in unblinking shock.

"What?" Cordy asked, totally oblivious to the fact that she was hovering one foot above the floor.

"My name is John Wellington Wells,
I'm a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses
And ever-filled purses,
In prophecies, witches and knells.
If you want a proud foe to make tracks,
If you'd have a rich uncle in wax,
You need only look in
On the resident djinn
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!"

Rupert Giles puttered busily around the Magic Box, examining the ceremonial robes, dusting the shelves of scrying stones and resorting books by author and title. Gilbert and Sullivan drifted from a nearby stereo system, and Giles sang along quietly with the bright melody as he worked. Busy work, he admitted to himself; something to occupy his time while he fretted about the future of the world.

Even knowing that, as Jenny once said, the end was decidedly nigh, he felt more at ease since he first left for England two months ago. This was his home, he realized now, this was where he belonged; in Sunnydale, looking after Buffy Summers and her friends, his extended family. He once said to Buffy, "The Slayer is on the front lines of a very ugly war." Well, Sunnydale was certainly the front lines. And he was no armchair general, of that he was certain. Whatever hell Buffy was going to face, He would face it with her.

"We've a first-class assortment of magic;
And for raising a posthumous shade
With effects that are comic or tragic,
There's no cheaper house in the trade.
Love-philter, we've quantities of it;
And for knowledge if any one burns,
We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet
Who brings us unbounded returns!"

His immediate concern was for Willow, a concern he shared with Buffy and her friends. She was still in Los Angeles; he had contacted Angel who assured him that she was slowly recovering from whatever trauma she had suffered at the hands of this Rack person. Buffy and the others, especially Dawn and Tara, had sent e-mails and cards to Willow, wishing her well and asking her to come home. As much as it pained him to admit, the only thing that any of them could do is let Willow know that she still had a home in Sunnydale. If she were forced to return before she felt she was ready, she would be no good to anyone.

"For he can prophesy
With a wink of his eye,
Peep with security
Into futurity,
Sum up your history,
Clear up a mystery,
Humour proclivity
For a nativity, for a nativity-"

"Nice pipes, Giles," a mildly cheerful voice piped in from the front door. "Don't tell me someone summoned the musical demon again!"

Giles stopped singing and composed himself. "Oh, uh no, Buffy, nothing like that," he answered, valiantly attempting to hide his embarrassment. "I was just enjoying some light opera. 'The Sorcerer' by Gilbert and Sullivan, actually."

"Weird choice," Buffy admitted as she walked toward the front counter. "Appropriate, though."

"So, Buffy," Giles asked as he reshelved some spell books, "what brings you here this time of night?"

"I just thought I'd swing by before my patrol," Buffy answered, idly fingering the stake in her jacket pocket.

"I have tonight off, so I thought I'd swing by the cemeteries. But first I wanted to check with you. See if you found anything new about this 'Beast'."

Giles shook his head slowly. "I fear not. I've been in touch with the Council, they seem to believe that the threat of the Beast is as grave as any you've faced before and have devoted their resources to finding out what information they can. But so far, we haven't learned anything new. It feels like a chess game, Buffy. It's as though the Beast is setting up the pieces, planning his moves, trying to control the board." Giles exhaled audibly, venting his frustration. "But we will find out what the Beast is planning. You may be assured of that."

"Thanks, Giles," Buffy nodded. "I just hope we find something before the Beast makes his first move."

"Agreed," Giles answered. "Uh, Buffy, are you still working as a campus security guard?"

"Yeah," Buffy stood with her back to the counter, placed her hands on the wooden surface and lifted her body to a sitting position on the counter. "Even with that stipend the Council's sending me, it's good to have another paycheck. Besides, it's a perfect cover for my regular patrol, and having a regular job keeps Child Services off my back. The way it's set up, I can use the check from my security job for bills, groceries and the basics, while I sock my stipend into a 401K and some college funds for Dawn and me."

"She helped, yeah," Buffy admitted. "She's been good for Dawn and me, especially since..." She shook her head, not wanting to finish that sentence.

Giles placed the last book on the shelf and joined Buffy at the counter. "I understand, Buffy. Don't worry. Willow will return. She has to."

Buffy released a pent-up breath, her shoulders sagging as she exhaled. She shook her head heavily and bit back a growl of frustration. "That prophecy, right?" she commented darkly. "Have I told you lately how much I hate prophecies?"

"It had been brought to my attention," Giles answered dryly. "At least this one doesn't predict your imminent demise."

"No," Buffy answered, "but I'm still a little squicked by that whole 'three bound by love' thing. I don't want to screw up Willow and Tara. They had a good thing going, and hopefully they'll have it again. Besides, don't I have free will? Damn the prophecy, I won't come between them."

Giles examined Buffy's face, seeing her knitted brow and downcast eyes. After so many years of hiding behind masks of duty and sacrifice, Buffy's true emotions were finally starting to assert themselves. "Buffy," he spoke gently, not as a Watcher to his Slayer, but as a father to his daughter, "your own experience should remind you how mutable prophecies can be. If you, Willow and Tara are indeed bound by love, that bond does not necessitate a sexual relationship."

Buffy huffed cynically. "Anya seems to think so. Ever since you revealed that prophecy, she's been asking me if I've had sex with Tara yet."

Giles barked a sarcastic laugh. "Anya sees sexual subtext in Tom and Jerry cartoons. Buffy, sex and love are not synonymous. If I recall my Greek philosophy classes from university correctly, Socrates spoke of three levels of love, Eros, Philia and Agape."

"I know, speak English," Giles regarded Buffy with a half-smile as he removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a Kleenex; Buffy recognized this gesture as 'Giles Explains it All'. "According to Socrates, Eros is the lowest form of love. Eros, from which we get the word 'erotic', is romantic and sexual love, embodying desire and lust, as well as the need to create, either by propagating the species or by creating works of art. On a higher level is Philia, meaning friendship and familial love. Certainly something that you share with both Willow and Tara."

"Yes, very good," Giles agreed. "And finally, on the highest level, there is Agape. This is defined as a selfless love, sacrificing all for the greater good. And if anyone possesses the capability to love that strongly, Buffy, it's you. You have sacrificed so much for so long, for the sake of Dawn, Willow, all of us. So really, Buffy, the prophecy of the Three Who Are One hasn't said anything about you that we didn't already know."

Buffy sat silently, weighing Giles' words in her mind. It wasn't often when he let his guard down and spoke from the heart as he was now. His words made sense; she recognized their truth in her heart. She knew he was right, and that she had no reason to be ashamed of the love she felt for either Willow or Tara.

Even if that kiss Tara gave me earlier was hot enough to roast meat on. An almost evil leer curled her mouth at the thought, and a warm tingle of arousal traveled through her nervous system. Ooh, bad Buffy, down girl!

"So what you're saying," Buffy asked hopefully, "is that what I have with Willow and Tara isn't based on sex, or any kind of romantic connection?"

"To be honest, Buffy," Giles answered, "I have no idea what your relationship with the other two will entail. For all we know, Anya may be absolutely right. What I do know is that, no matter what happens between the three of you, you will always have my unconditional support."

For Buffy, hearing these words was like a warm blanket over tired shoulders. No matter how stoic and aloof she played it in front of the rest of the Scooby Gang, it was good to know that she had the love and support of Rupert Giles and the others. Even Xander, who became enraged over Buffy's unfortunate dalliance with Spike, had assured her that she could count on him in the clutch. Not for the first time since her resurrection, she found herself asking the same question; what did I do to merit their loyalty, after all the danger they've faced alongside me over the years?

She hopped off the counter and started to walk toward the door. Before she opened the door to leave, she turned back toward the quiet Englishman who had acted as her father for over five years. "Giles," Buffy looked away from her mentor for a moment, then faced him again, her eyes meeting his, "I'm sorry for giving you grief when you came back. I guess that when you told me about our new threat, I went into defensive mode."

"Was it, Giles?" Buffy shook her head bitterly. "I blamed you for bugging out on me, for turning your back on me, when I was the one who was turning my back on everyone else. And all this time, you were still looking out for me. I mean, that whole stipend thing, that was your doing, wasn't it?" Giles gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders, which didn't fool Buffy any. "Look, I guess I've been pushing all of you guys away from me, and I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And to say- thanks for-for being there, even if I didn't seem to want you there." Buffy instinctively tried to swallow the lump that began to form in her throat, and could feel the first tear sliding down her cheek.

Giles met her at the doorway, and offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted gladly, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the fabric. Once she dried her eyes, she leaned toward Giles, her arms finding their way around his upper body. She wasn't entirely sure why she initiated the embrace, as she wasn't usually the 'touchy-feelie' type. She just knew that she needed to do something, to express what she couldn't put into words. He returned the embrace gladly, communicating all that he couldn't say through the simple act of touch.

After a few moments, Buffy and Giles backed away, as Buffy turned toward the door. "Hey, I'm gonna head out on patrol now. I'll touch bases with you tomorrow."

"Uh, certainly," Giles stammered. "I'll continue to, uh, open books, look stuff up. If I find anything you'll be the first person I call."

"Thanks," Buffy nodded. "See ya tomorrow." She silently slipped out the front door, the jangle of windchimes over the door the only evidence of her departure.

Giles stood staring at the door for a full minute before fetching his overcoat. His work at the Magic Box was finished for this night. And he realized with an absolute finality that there was one more thing that he could to for Buffy tonight.

"Okay, guys," Cordy announced as Angel's car sped toward UCLA. "According to my vision, our baddies du jour are holing up in a large auditorium on campus. I saw them near a table, with some kind of box-thing, and some jars with human hearts. And speaking for all of us, eww!"

"I second that 'eww'," Fred quipped casually. She and Cordy shared the back seat, while Willow rode shotgun, opposite Angel. Willow smiled at the easy repartee between Angel and his crew. Just like Buffy and the gang, she thought privately, or how we used to be.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught Cordy's stare. She flashed back to a few nights ago, remembering the glow of desire in Cordy's eyes, the scent of her skin, the heat of her body. She knew that it was for only one night, but it was still special; for a night someone cared about her. Someone made her feel good, warm, loved. Ironically her fling with her high-school nemesis gave her hope that she might reconcile with Tara.

"Just a sec," Cordy pulled out her cell phone, and punched in some buttons. After a few seconds, she asked, "Yo, Gunn, where are you right now?"

"We're heading east on Wilshire Boulevard," Gunn answered in a clipped, strictly business voice, "approaching the Southwest quad. Wes is saying we should rendezvous at the corner of Wilshire and Westwood, and head-" Gunn's voice fell silent in mid-sentence.

"Okay, guys," Cordy nearly shouted. "Joke's over. Gunn? Wes?" Silence was Cordy's only answer.

"I know I recharged that unit," Angel observed. "Did Gunn forget to recharge his?"

"Maybe the demons at UCLA did something to cut off communications," Angel suggested. "Cordy, did you get an image of who or what we're up against?"

Cordy scowled as she tried to remember her vision. "Uh, yeah, kinda. They were tall guys. And thin. Bald, pale, black suits-Oh, and they moved like mimes."

"STOP THE CAR!" Willow screamed. Angel swerved to the curb, the brakes on his car shrieking to a stop. He turned toward the young hacker to find her jaw tightened, her breath coming in panting gasps. "Something the matter, Willow?"

Willow panted once again, reining in her breathing, before she tried to talk. "It's not the phone that went dead, it's Gunn's voice."

"They're called the Gentlemen," Willow answered, gulping slightly. "We ran into them in Sunnydale a couple of years ago. They're demonic organ-harvesters. First they steal the voices of everyone within a certain radius, then they start carving out people's hearts."

"Why steal everyone's voice?" Cordy asked, fighting off her revulsion at Willow's description of their current threat.

"Cutting off communication," Angel observed, "is a great way to sow fear and confusion, making their prey weaker."

"There's that," Willow nodded, "but also, only a woman's scream can destroy them. That's how we beat them last time. Buffy found the box where the Gentlemen kept the stolen voices and broke it. Once she got her voice back, she screamed and the Gentlemen blew up. I'm guessing that there are more of them out there, and they took over UCLA. And once anyone gets near the campus-"

"They'd lose their voices as well," Angel observed. The others simply nodded, pondering their options.

"But voices can come in," Willow thought aloud. "We got news broadcasts from outside Sunnydale when the Gentlemen first took our voices." Turning again to Cordy, she asked, "Hey, does that thing do text messaging?"

"Way ahead of you, Will," Cordy turned the cellular on again. "Hey, guys, if you're hearing me, send a text-message out. Willow says that the demons at UCLA have stolen your voices."

Five agonizing seconds later, the LCD screen on Cordy's cell displayed the words; "WE READ YOU C"

"Once we get near campus," Angel said, "we'll lose our voices as well. So we make our plan now. We have to know where the Gentlemen are holed up, and find the stolen voices. Cordy, you said they were in an auditorium?"

Angel pursed his lips in thought, asking, "UCLA has more than a few auditoriums, Cordy. Can we narrow it down?"

"Well," Cordy hummed, "it was a big one. Kinda old looking. And, oh, there was a pipe organ, a big antique pipe organ."

Fred looked up excitedly. "Royce Hall! I was there last month, attending a mathematics seminar!"

Cordy smirked at Fred, chuckling to herself at how her newfound friend could get so excited about mathematics. "Don't ever change, Winifred."

"Okay," Angel slipped easily into command mode. "Cordy, tell Wes and Gunn to meet us at-" He snapped his fingers at Willow, who handed him the UCLA map she was holding, and started to scan the paper. "Meet us at Charles E. Young Drive East and Dickson Plaza. We'll make it on foot from there, and storm Royce Hall." Cordy repeated the information in her cellular, and received a "WE'LL BE THERE" message in return.

Angel craned her neck toward the back seat. "Cordy, when we meet up with Gunn and Wes, you and Gunn are with me. We'll storm Royce Hall, and release the stolen voices."

"Blue murder," Angel answered. "Willow, Fred, I want you to stay with Wes, and patrol the residential area. Odds are that the Gentlemen will be hunting at the dorms."

"Okay, people," Angel announced as he started the engine, and pulled into the right lane. "Any famous last words, say them now."

The kitchen of the Summers house was filled with the aroma of basil, oregano and bay leaf mixed with fresh tomato and bell pepper. After finishing her laundry, Tara was busy preparing a spaghetti dinner for herself and Buffy when the Slayer was done with her patrol. She practically had to order Buffy to avoid her usual stop at the Burger King, but for once the Slayer was going to enjoy a decent home-cooked meal after her patrol. Besides, with Dawn sleeping over at Janine's, Tara looked forward for some company for dinner.

Tara stirred the spaghetti sauce and lifted the spoon to her lips to taste. "Hmm," she murmured, "a little more basil." She wanted tonight to be perfect; after all she went through on a typical patrol, Buffy deserved a good meal.

A strange giddy sensation flooded Tara's being; she hadn't been this anxious for a dinner date since last April, when she made spaghetti for Willow, to celebrate the anniversary of the first time they had made love. It had been a month since Joyce Summers had died and Tara desperately wanted to lift Willow's spirits with a romantic dinner, followed by dancing. Tara found herself grinning evilly when she recalled what followed the dancing.

And two weeks later, Glory ripped Tara's mind apart in her search for the Key... and things hadn't been right between her and Willow since then...

Tara shook her head violently, casting those unpleasant memories aside. She wasn't giving up on Willow. She may have abandoned her when she needed her, but never again. Willow would return when she was ready, and Tara would be waiting with open arms. Things would be right between her and Willow.

Tara filed that thought away, to be dealt with later. Tonight was about friendship and trust. Whatever happened later would happen later. She wasn't going to wait for it to happen, or want it to happen. She would simply let it happen the way it would mean to happen.

She had just pulled the romaine and Caesar dressing out of the refrigerator when she heard the front door shut. She poked her head out of the kitchen, and watched as Buffy dragged herself toward the sofa. "Buffy?" Tara asked worriedly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Tara," Buffy answered wearily. "Just a rougher night of slayage than usual, I guess. I ran up against-ungh!" she groaned in protest as she turned toward Tara. "I ran up against some vamp gang-bangers. Ugly bunch-ngh!"

The blond Wiccan rushed to the stove and turned off the burner under the spaghetti sauce, located the first-aid kit under the sink and ran to the Slayer. "Shh," Tara urged Buffy, "don't talk. Let me take a look." She started to reach for Buffy's midsection, but Buffy tried to shoo her hands away. "I only want to take a look at those ribs. From the sounds of things, they're badly bruised."

"Yeah," Buffy confirmed, her voice taut with pain. "Eighth and ninth lower rib, left side. That one vamp swiped me a good one with a nunchucku before I staked it."

"Take off your shirt, Buffy," Tara said clinically. Buffy's eyes widened at Tara's order, causing Tara to smirk slightly, holding up the tube of hydrocortisone cream. "I can't very well rub ointment onto your bruises through your shirt now, can I?"

Buffy snatched the tube from Tara's hand, growling, "I'll take care of this myself." She bolted from the sofa, and lurched toward the stairs. Before she could take three steps, legs weakened by strenuous kicking and running buckled, forcing Buffy to collapse to the floor. Tara gasped, and rushed to Buffy's side, lifting the injured Slayer's arm over her shoulder. "C'mon, Buffy, just relax," she urged soothingly. "I'll take you upstairs and get you fixed up."

"Under the circumstances," Buffy groaned, old pains compounded by her fresh bruises and cuts, "I won't argue with you." Buffy leaned against Tara, allowing the young witch to guide her up the stairs. At every other step, Buffy felt Tara's hair brush against her nose, and inhaled scents of jasmine and shampoo, combined with a sweet musky scent uniquely belonging to Tara. The scents worked to compound Buffy's arousal, already heightened by her rigorous battle with a cluster of newbie vampires.

She prayed that Tara would simply deposit her to her room and let her be. At the same time, she wanted Tara to remain with her, to rub her ointment into her bruises, to massage her aches, to run her hands over her body. And more, she wanted to return the favor, to feel Tara respond to her touches and pressures, to unleash her passion on the lovely blond witch for the remainder of the night. Even weakened from her fight, she still felt a building desire for Tara, and feared that she wouldn't be able to control her libido much longer.

Wesley stood in the center of De Neve Drive, in front of the Saxon residential suites, with Willow at his left and Fred at his right. They stalked the streets quietly, staying alert for anything out of the ordinary. As if being unable to speak was normal, Willow thought darkly. The unending quiet that blanketed the residential area of UCLA was more frightening than Willow had expected. Even with her previous experience with the Gentlemen, she didn't expect the silence to be so all-consuming.

She counted her blessings that at least there wasn't any rioting as a result of the presence of the Gentlemen. She remembered how people in Sunnydale had reacted when the Gentlemen attacked two years ago; the rage, the despair, the large numbers of people gathered in prayer meetings, desperate to understand what was happening. She remembered her own fear, even when she was with Buffy; although being near the Slayer had quelled her despair to some degree, she still felt a deep dread. She knew that her tendency to babble was her defense mechanism, her way of coping. With her voice gone, she didn't have that defense.

Thank the Goddess I found Tara then, Willow acknowledged. If we hadn't met, I wouldn't have survived that one...

She shook her head, finishing her walk down memory lane. Neither Buffy nor Tara was with her now, no matter how she might want them near her. And she and the others had a job to do now.

An abrupt rustle of paper shocked her out of her remorse, sending her spinning on her heel. She sighed with relief; a sudden breeze had lifted the corner of a nearby paper banner that hung from Rieber Hall. Willow smirked slightly as she read the banner; "HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM THE FACULTY OF UCLA" She had spent Christmas with Cordy and Angel and the others two days ago, and reflected that in a few days, this terrible year would be over...

A sudden leap of intuitive logic seized her brain, and with it came panic. She grabbed Wes by the shoulder, urgently trying to get his attention. Wes and Fred gawked at Willow worriedly. Willow kept tugging at Wesley's sleeve, frantically pulling him toward the banner. Wesley finally took a look at the banner, while Willow pointed at the words 'HAPPY HOLIDAYS".

After a few seconds, Wes and Fred both came to the same conclusion that Willow had; there was a reason that the UCLA campus seemed deserted. It was deserted. Most of the students had left for winter break. But why would the Gentlemen seek out a deserted hunting ground? Wesley couldn't understand their reasoning, unless...

He faced Willow and Fred, seeing their eyes widening in fear and the blood draining from their faces. He mouthed a single word, unspoken but still understood by the other; "Trap!"

No sooner had the word been communicated then the bushes around them started to shake violently. The three turned back to back, grabbing the weapons they had the prescience to carry with them, as six thin figures sprang from the bushes, and onto the street in front of them. The Gentlemen stood, floating above the sidewalk, their arms moving fluidly but mechanically, like theme park animatronics. Their faces were putty-colored, the skin stretched like tarp over their bald heads. Their lips were pulled back into carnivorous smiles, revealing gleaming teeth. The lead Gentleman brandished a scalpel that glowed dimly in the light of a streetlamp, and eyed Willow like a crow staking its claim on a roadkill.

Wes and Fred stood in front of Willow, shielding her from the advancing demons. Wes nocked his crossbow and fired a bolt directly into the leader's heart. The Gentleman stopped and examined the bolt chest before yanking it out. He then lifted his arm, striking Wesley's head hard with the back of his hand, knocking him over and sending him sprawling against the concrete.

Fred pulled a handgun out of her purse, and fired a clean shot into the lead Gentleman's chest. She smiled with satisfaction as the shot knocked her target back, thinking that having Gunn take her to the firing range to learn how to handle a firearm hadn't gone to waste, and also that her clip contained specially designed hollow-tipped bullets full of holy-water. Fred's confidence faltered when the Gentleman stood straight, not even acknowledging his bullet wound. With a fist to her face, he knocked Fred back, tumbling along the sidewalk.

The Gentlemen then turned their attention toward Willow, who gasped soundlessly as the fiends advanced. She staggered backward away from the Gentlemen, but tripped on a stray stone and fell to the ground, desperately scooting away from her monsters. The lead Gentleman bent down and waved his scalpel in front of Willow's eyes, before lowering it toward her breast.

Willow instinctively crossed her wrists, as two words formed in her mind with the force of a thunderbolt; "Repello monstrum!" A shockwave spread from her crossed wrists and out toward the Gentlemen, mowing them down like dry wheat. The monsters struggled to regain their footing, but Willow's unspoken spell kept them away from her.

Fred watched Willow taking on the Gentlemen, but was interrupted by the chirp of her cel-phone. Flipping her phone open, she heard a welcome voice; "Fred, Angel here! We freed the stolen voices. You can talk now. We gotta find the Gentlemen and take them down!"

"Way ahead of you," Fred shouted. She then turned toward the Gentlemen, inhaled deeply and let loose with a keening wail. As she screamed, the Gentlemen convulsed, before their bodies exploded into a gelatinous substance. Within seconds, the threat had been destroyed.

Wesley and Fred both lifted themselves off of the sidewalk, and Wes offered a hand to Willow. She took it numbly, not daring to face either of them. Wesley regarded the shuddering, scared form before him, her arms crossed over her shoulders, her breathing coming in short gasps. "Willow," he ventured, "are you okay?"

"N-no, I'm n-not," she stammered, slowly turning away from Wesley. "I wasn't g-going to-to-" She fell into Wesley's waiting arms and began to sob against his shoulder. Wesley simply held the young woman, offering whatever cold comfort he could, while Fred watched over them both. "Angel," she spoke quietly into her cel-phone, "we're ready to go home."

Damian Bester was infinitely patient. Who he was and what he was made him patient by definition.

And for the second time in as many weeks, his minions had failed him. As he sat in his corner office at the Wolfram and Hart building, he ruminated on his recent failures.

He thought he had recognized his quarry. From what he had learned about Willow Leanne Rosenberg, her past failed relationship with the werewolf Oz indicated that she would be susceptible to a lupine attack. And he also knew of her past experience with a group of Gentlemen. The psychological aspect of these attacks should have destroyed her spirit, before the physical attacks destroyed her body.

But twice her magic had saved her. Odd, he pondered, considering that her earlier encounter with his minion Rack had supposedly eliminated her desire to use magic. Odd indeed.

His window of opportunity with Willow had disappeared. He had lost his best chance of either swaying or destroying her. No matter, he thought, she was simply a pawn. He had many other pieces in play, and would still have plenty of opportunities to destroy the Three Who Are One before they could fully come into their destiny.

"Miss Morgan," he barked into his office speaker-phone, "what's the status of Mr. Spike's-" he paused, thinking of the most apt word, "-indoctrination?"

"He's coming along swimmingly, Mr. Bester," Lilah Morgan answered. "Warren has informed me that Spike's chip should be realigned and reinstalled within the next forty-eight hours."

"Good," Bester purred. "We need to step up the timetable with him. As soon as he is brought into our inner circle, we need him field-ready. He's going back to Sunnydale before the week is out."

On the return trip to the Hyperion Arms, Willow sat in back with Cordy, while Fred rode up front with Angel. Willow stared intently at her hands as they rested in her lap, not daring to face the others. Cordy regarded her friend with sad eyes; with the demonic aspects she had just acquired to strengthen her, she finally regained her own life. She didn't want to see Willow falling to despair so soon.

They pulled up to the curb, and slowly filed out of Angel's car. Once they were inside the lobby, Willow suddenly turned to Cordy and asked, "What do my eyes look like?"

Cordy blinked for a second, and looked at Willow's face. "Uh, I like them. You could use a little eye-liner, though, just enough to accent them, y'know?"

Willow released a breath she wasn't aware that she held. "They should be black," she answered. "That's what magic does to me, makes my eyes black. Makes my soul black."

Angel leaned in toward Willow and examined her eyes closely. "They look fine to me, Willow. No dark magic here."

"Don't tease me, Angel," Willow growled testily. "I weakened. I used magic, even after all that had happened! After my magic hurt Buffy, nearly killed Dawn, I promised myself I wouldn't use it again! And I failed!"

"No, Willow," a familiar voice emerged from a nearby chair, "you didn't fail." For the first time since their return, Angel and the others looked around the lobby, and noticed the familiar tweed-clad form of Rupert Giles sitting in a wing-back chair, a cup of tea resting on the end table next to him.

Lorne appeared quickly from a nearby hallway, smiling nervously at Angel. "Uh, the Brit arrived shortly after you guys left for UCLA. He says you know him."

"It's okay, Lorne," Angel assured the demonic lounge owner. He turned to the Watcher and extended a hand. "Hello, Giles. It's been awhile."

"I'm glad to catch you up late," Giles answered, accepting Angel's handshake. "But then again, when else would you be up?" He rose from his seat and strode toward the miserable young witch. "Hello, Willow. It is good to see you again."

Willow looked away from Giles, shame and grief fighting for dominance within her. "Have you come to take me back to Sunnydale, Giles?"

"Only if you are ready to return," Giles answered plainly. He stood beside her, wanting to comfort her, but knowing that the situation had to be handled delicately; as important as Willow was to fulfill the prophecy of the Three Who Are One, she wouldn't be any good to anyone if she broke now.

Willow slowly turned a tear-stained face to the older Englishman and said, "I let you down, didn't I, Giles?"

Damn delicacy, he cursed mentally as he scooped Willow up into his arms and allowed her to cry over his shoulder. "No, my child, never," he insisted. "You never let any of us down, Willow. Never let yourself think that, not for an instant!"

Willow lifted her head to look into Giles' gray eyes. "But what about my magic? I misused it too much to ever be trusted with it."

"Willow," Giles spoke in the gentlest tones he possessed, "power such as yours is bound to be used wrongly. Mistakes are made, unknown factors come into play. It's part of being human. The only way that you could truly misuse your gift is if you fail to learn from your past mistakes." He swallowed briefly, and added, "If anything, I let you down. I tried to dissuade you from your studies of magic, belittling your successes, berating your powers. I allowed my own experiences, my 'Ripper' years, to color my perceptions when you turned to magic. I let my fears guide me, when instead I should have been more supportive. And for that, Willow, I apologize."

Willow had managed to rein in her tears, although Giles could still see tear-tracks running down Willow's face. "As for you magic, from what Buffy and Tara had told me, it was the dark magic you had been delving into, especially what Rack turned you onto, that caused the trouble."

"But the temptation's still there, Giles," Willow admitted, shame causing her cheeks to redden to where they matched her hair. "What if I'm not strong enough to beat it again?"

Giles lifted her chin with his knuckle, bringing her eyes to meet his. "Willow, I've gotten to know you very well over the last five years. If anyone is strong enough to withstand the temptation of darker magic, you would be it."

"And if that's not enough," Cordy volunteered gently, "Buffy sure as hell is. She's your best friend, girl; take advantage of that. She's got strength to spare, I'm sure she'd be glad to give you some."

Giles regarded Cordy with alarm flashing in his eyes. "I find myself in the strange position," he admitted, "of admitting that Cordelia Chase is absolutely right. Willow, I don't know how much the others have written in their e-mails to you, or told you in their telephone conversations, but we need you. Something large is about to happen in Sunnydale, and only together will we have a chance to weather this threat. But I won't pressure you into returning if you don't feel that you're ready. But consider this; you are not evil, and neither is your magic. But you are so much more than just your magic. I can help you control your powers, and stave off the temptations of dark magic, if you'd let me. And no matter what may have happened in the past, Buffy, Tara, Xander, Dawn, even Anya, we all want you back. We're better with you than we would ever be without you."

Willow sought the depths of Giles' eyes, and saw in them no artifice. He spoke from his heart to her, and she recognized his words as truth. She allowed his arms to hold her again, and for the first time since that terrible night one month and a lifetime ago, when she crashed the car and Dawn slapped her face, she felt a healing taking place within her. And she also knew that only among her friends, her family-Tara, Dawn, Xander, Buffy-could she complete healing.

She released the embrace, and asked Cordy, "Hey, you sure you're gonna be all right? No more headaches from your visions?"

"Not unless they involve Adam Sandler," Cordy answered cheerfully. "That guy always gives me a headache. I swear, if I hear that damn Chanukah Song once more!"

"You're preaching to the choir there, Cordy," Willow laughed out loud, a good healing laugh. Turning back to Giles, she said solemnly, "Take me home."

On the day I went away...
Goodbye...
Was all I had to say...
Now I...
I want to come again and stay...
Oh my my...
Smile, and that will mean that I may

Cause I've seen blue skies,
Through the tears in my eyes
And I realize..
I'm going home.

Main What's New Fiction by Author Fiction by Pairing eBooks

Subject Index Submissions Gallery Forums Links Awards Contact Us

If you find problems on these pages please email your host.

Rising from the Wreckage

Chapter 15

By Kirayoshi

JDmeans@aol.com