Rising from the Wreckage

Rating: NC-17

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.

Distribution: 

http://www.megawitches.net/Story/RoundRobin/mwrr.htm

http://mysticmuse.net

Feedback: Feedback welcome!

Grouping: Buffy/Willow/Tara

All in all, it was an interesting night at the Sunnydale Greyhound terminal. Three different women had lined up at the security desk to complain that they had been roughly goosed, and at least one out-of-town businessman blanched as his tie seemed to untie by itself and fly out from around his neck.

And that wasn't counting the number of upswept dresses, belts being unfastened and splashes of water that seemed to appear literally out of thin air.

And during each occurrence, witnesses could swear that they heard a woman's laughter.

For the first time in months, Buffy Summers smiled. Not that anyone could see her smile, considering that at the time she was invisible. She hadn't pieced together how it happened, but knew that it had to do with that geek Warren. One of his inventions malfunctioned, and Buffy got caught in the effect.

As a result of the malfunction, Buffy's body was now invisible. And she enjoyed the freedom that came with her new condition. As far as the world at large was concerned, Buffy Summers didn't exist. She was a phantom, a rumor, an unseen prankster who delighted in discomfiting others. No thoughts of losing custody of Dawn, or her increasingly distant friends, or her earlier tryst with Spike invaded her pleasure. At one point, she considered visiting Spike in his crypt, just to see if he enjoyed having someone else in control for a change. She decided against that plan, however, as the thought of allowing an undead hand to touch her body in any intimate fashion made her nauseous.

She stopped in her ruminations at the sight of a short figure in a tan deerskin jacket. The figure was sitting alone on one of the benches, waiting for a bus. Hmm, Buffy mused, there's your next target, Inviso-Slayer! She tiptoed gingerly toward her victim, leaned in behind her and tapped her left shoulder lightly.

The figure jerked her head over her shoulder, asking "Tara?"

Buffy jumped back in shock at the sight of the haggard face of someone whom she had once called her best friend. It had been just over a week since the last time Buffy saw Willow. One week since Willow slapped her in the face, accusing her of ignoring her friends since her return from the grave. One week since Willow had moved out of Buffy's house, and out of her life. Now, for the first time in a long time, Buffy took a good long look at her best friend.

She almost didn't recognize her at first; her face was gaunt, thin and paling, her red unkempt and matted, her eyes veined with thin red lines and framed in black rings. Willow looked around expectantly for a moment, but when she realized that her ex-girlfriend was nowhere to be seen, Willow turned her head back around and stared ahead, not seeing anything.

Buffy wondered if Willow had been hitting the magic since she had moved out last week. Xander had assured her two days ago that Willow had been clean, and had left her magic supplies with Tara for safekeeping. Obviously the withdrawal was proving to be difficult; Willow's shoulders sagged, and her eyelids drooped heavily. From her appearance, Buffy guessed that Willow hadn't had a good night's sleep since she moved out. Willow's head dropped forward toward her lap, and Buffy thought she could see the faint trace of a tear on Willow's cheek. A cursory check around the bench revealed two of Willow's old suitcases. Buffy gasped, blinking back her tears at the realization; Willow was leaving. Leaving Sunnydale. Leaving her.

This is my fault, Buffy thought as she looked at damaged girl before her. I didn't see what was going on, I was too wrapped up in my own self-pity party, my boink-fest with Spike, my quest to feel something, anything. And I missed what was happening to Willow. I think I just flunked the Best Friend Test.

A squeaking wheel caused Buffy to glance to her left, just enough warning to dodge a baggage cart that would have run her over otherwise. She was about to shout down the overweight cart handler, before she remembered that she was invisible. She found that she didn't enjoy being invisible anymore.

She glanced back at Willow, who was now curled up on the bench in a light sleep. Buffy slowly made her way around the bench, and leaned over Willow's head, her lips close to her ear. "Willow?" she whispered, "you okay?"

"Buffy," the redhead whispered, lost in a dream state, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry-you saved me so many times, I thought I was saving you." Each word stabbed at Buffy's heart like a sharpened icicle. She was why Willow was suffering. All she went through, all the magic, all the darkness, all for Buffy.

"No, Willow," Buffy whispered into her friend's ear. "I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't see what you were going through. Please, Willow, don't leave me. I need you."

"And I need you," the sleeping girl answered in her dream. "But I need some time away, too. Forgive me, Buffy." She curled tighter, drifting further into her dream-state.

"Greyhound Coach number 17 now boarding for Los Angeles," the voice from the public address system enunciated. Willow stirred from her restless sleep, shook her head slightly and looked around. She sighed heavily as she realized that Buffy wasn't there. "Just a dream," she muttered to herself.

Buffy wanted to shout at her, to stand in her way, to keep her from leaving her. But she hesitated. Willow had said in her dream that she needed to get away, and the more Buffy thought about it, the more she realized that Willow was right. As much as it pained her to realize the truth, Willow would probably be happier away from here. Away from the Hellmouth, the constant vampire threat, the magic and mojo that made up a typical day in Sunnydale.

"Second call for Coach number 17 to Los Angeles," the PA voice announced. Willow bent down to collect her bags, and headed for the bus terminal. Buffy watched in silence, unseen and unheard, as Willow boarded the L.A. bus.

As the bus finally pulled away, Buffy whispered, "Be well, Willow. And please come back to me soon."

As she turned around, she noticed a pay phone near the lobby entrance. She headed for the phone, fished some loose change from her pockets to pay for the call, picked up the handset and dialed.

Two rings, then, "Angel Investigations, we help the helpless."

"Angel?"

"Buffy," the familiar voice answered. "This is a surprise. How are you?"

"Average," Buffy answered, not willing to volunteer any more information. "Hey, I'm on a pay phone, so I'll make this quick. I gotta favor to ask you."

"Name it," Angel said.

"Willow just took a Greyhound to L.A. Could you do me a favor and look after her while she's in town?"

"You got it."

"Thanks, Angel."

A pause, then, "You need anything else, Buffy?"

Buffy sighed, the weight of the last few months crushing on the small of her back. "Nothing you can give me, Angel. What I need, I have to take care of myself."

"If anyone can," Angel assured his former love, "it's you. But if you need anything from me, you call. Okay?"

"Okay," Buffy answered. "G'Bye." Buffy hung up the phone, not noticing a small child who stared intently at the sight of a telephone handset seeming levitating in front of him. The child's mother dragged him away, leaving Buffy alone with her thoughts.

So, she thought, like we were all singing last month, Where Do We Go from Here?

She knew the first place she needed to go. She had to go visit Warren, and 'persuade' him to reverse the effects of the invisibility ray. Then-

She had no idea. But she knew that she had to change herself. For now, that was enough.

As she walked out of the bus depot, the first stirrings of a new resolve growing in her heart, she passed by a non-descript elderly gentleman, wearing a grey overcoat and a tweed hat and carrying a folded umbrella.

If she had examined the old man more closely, she would have noticed something in his eyes, shaded though they were under his hat. Something sharp and knowing, something hungry. Something bestial.

The old man glanced around, seeing the bus to L.A. driving off. He knew that the Slayer's friend was on that bus. He knew that the Slayer's support structure was collapsing from under her. And this pleased him. He walked out of the depot, noticed the dark clouds hanging on the horizon, and opened his umbrella before the first drops of rain could hit him. "Beastly weather tonight, wha?" he chuckled. And he was right.

There was a storm coming. And those who opposed it would be swept away.

Continued in Chapter 3...

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