Belly of Heat

Author: Chole Cartwright

Summary: A few years in the future, a bit different. Willow’s life, love, etc. (eventually Willow/Faith...)

Disclaimer: I own nothing except myself, so we’re obviously thanking Joss for these characters.

Author’s Notes: Ok, I’ve basically gone in and warped the Buffy-verse. They did bring her back, Willow did change Amy and get into some dark magic. But really, that’s it. I sort of sorted things about to my liking (missed most of this season, can you tell?) and then shoved everyone a few years into the future. Hurrah! Oh, looking’ for a beta-reader. If know any or are one and are interested, drop me a line!

Major, major, major thanks to all those who sent me feedback since the ending of my Worth series! You guys seriously can’t imagine what it’s like to get feedback, it just makes me get all happy and glowy and then I write a lot. : - ) Gracias, you guys! Hope to hear how you like this one....

Feedback: Let me know what you all think of this one, please!! Obviously, feedback is like the good version of heroin…. Ha ha. Pleeeeaaaassseeee!

Dedication: To my friend, Jazz, who thinks that I'm on crack for writing a Willow/Faith. Don't worry, J, I got a Willow/Spike on it's way....

----

There were three silver rings on the fingers of her right hand. A Celtic design on her index finger, a band formed of two simply twisted strands on her ring finger, and a plain claddagh ring on her pinkie. A worn silver strap of leather was fastened around her wrist, about the width of a cat collar, and three black shoe strings were braided and tied around her neck, knotted so that she could always wear them.

Dark blue jeans, slightly faded, with white-out and paint smeared on the thighs and the edges of the legs badly frayed, were hanging off of her hips. Black stretch fabric clung to her chest, baring only the tops of her breasts. Plain black socks, chunky heeled shoe-boots with Rainbow Bright laces, a single strand of red embroidery thread that served as an anklet. All of these things were what now passed as typical Willow wear.

She had loved the clothes, the shoes, and the jewelry. She’d purchased a hundred things that were nothing like what she’d worn in high school or college. None of it was trashy, none of it was revealing, but none of it was baggy. It was a perfect fit, just simple enough to make people guess about her body, but still know. She had felt beautiful.

Now they repulsed her. She looked down at the blade she held in her hand, the sleek way the metal folded over itself and formed what she jokingly called a ‘triangle of doom’. Running the edge over her arms, she grinned a little, then slipped it under the sleeve and pulled. The fabric gave without resistance and she grinned again as the shirt fell from her body to a ruined heap on the floor. Next, the jeans. Then she walked into the kitchen, got some blood from the refrigerator that was kept there in case Spike or Angel dropped by, and stopped to look in the mirror. Her lithe body was adorned with bruises and slender scars, including a chain of ivy that wrapped all the way around her slender waist. There was dried blood on the top of her denim blue bra, from where she’d nicked herself while cutting off the shirt. She laughed a little, suddenly realizing that she was still in her shoes and jewelry. She took off the shoes and tossed them over towards the doorway, where she usually left them, before going back to her room.

Not her room. Tara’s room. It would never be her room again, not that it had ever really been hers to begin with. The entire room oozed Essence de Tara, all flora and fauna. But now it would never have her in it.

She shook her head as she cut the underwear off of her body, before sliding into matching sheer black things, adding those to the pile of fabric. Then she liberally poured the blood around the clothes and splattered some of it around the room. There was about a half cup left once she was done, which she poured into a mug and set on a table near the door, careful not to spill a drop. She turned back to the mess she’d made on Tara’s creamy silvery carpet, holding her hands over it and chanting a little bit to take away the spell that had already been cast on the blood.

Her hands shook with anger as she cast half of a protection spell, stopping right before it would cause anything, and mentally felt for her signature. It was there, faintly, and a jagged smile appeared on her face. Her plan would work. She knew it. Tara would never figure it out, not until it was too late.

Tara. What a bitch.

Willow tried not to think about her lover as she sliced off the necklace and bracelet, dropping them in different places, purposely drawing a thin line of blood from her wrist. Rooting through the closet, she finally found the backpack that she’d hidden yesterday night. It was a red canvas bag and was tattered, a hole in the top and a broken zipper on the front pocket, which had lowered the price to only forty cents at the Salvation Army. It contained the clothes that she would wear out of this place. That was it.

She squirmed into the too-tight skirt and tank top, leaving everything else alone and tossing her knife and a pair of scissors into the bag. Then she smiled, feral and furious, because it was time for the fun part of the plan. She gathered all of her emotions into one ball of fire, then screamed with all her might. She forced the scream to be frightened and she kept screaming, letting hiccupped sobs interrupt the cries, as she smashed about the room. She knocked over the night table, swept the knick-knacks off of the dresser, and slammed the back of her hand into the mirror, cracking it, all the while screaming pleas for help. She stopped after trashing the room, mesmerized by the crimson fluid that oozed from her hand. It was smeared on the glass, making it look as though her attacker had slammed her against it while she tried to get free. Her ankle felt warm.

She looked down at it, surprised to see that she was bleeding. The anklet she wore was soaked with it, the red turning black, and she nodded to herself. Then she went over to the edge of a glass-and-wood desk. The left leg had always been broken, a jagged edge that had caught her more than once, and slammed her already injured ankle against it, dragging it until the thread broke off and hung there, limp and bloody.

She stood there, staring around the room, amazed by the fact that it was almost over. She’d cast all the necessary spells, finalized all of her plans, and now she just had to leave. She grabbed the backpack and crept down the stairs and towards the backdoor. She stopped before opening it, captured by the pictures that hung on the wall. Unlike the room they had shared, here was where Tara had allowed them to be a couple. Pictures of them were littered on the wall, with both of them laughing and kissing. Her favorite one was where Tara was wearing cut-off jean shorts and a red bandana top, her hair looked like a halo from the sun and she was feeding her a strawberry. Willow shut her eyes for a moment, awash in her emotions.

She had loved Tara so much. But loved was not love and now she had to leave.

She stepped outside quickly and focused on the presence she knew was around the corner, waiting for her. - I’m ready. Please hurry…-

She wiped her eyes and headed around the house, smiling a little when she saw the light from the cigarette waiting on the corner.

"Hey." She said quietly, as he took her by the elbow and propelled her down the street, towards his car. She smiled at him, but it was a little off-kilter. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, and smiled to herself at the familiar scent of cigarettes and leather.

"How are you holding up, Red?" Spike asked, opening the door to his car and helping her in. He eyed the bag she was shoving in the back seat, wondering what was in it. It didn’t look like there could be much. He slid into his seat, starting the engine and turning the radio down. He looked at her, studying the way she sat there, relieved and frightened at the same time. She turned to face him, touching his cheek briefly.

"I think I’m okay. I can’t believe I’m finally doing it. I’m free, Spike, I’m finally free." Her eyes swam with emotion and he wondered if she really thought that she was free. He studied her again, amazed at all the skin she was bearing. He understood that in order to get away from Tara, Willow would have to reinvent herself until she knew it was safe. It didn’t make it less amazing though.

"If she finds out that you tricked her, she’ll hunt you down. You know that."

"I know." Pause. "Thank you, Spike. You didn’t have to help me." They were pulling up to the bus station and he looked at her, then swore lightly. "I’ll be all right."

"Keep in touch with me, Red. I don’t want to loose you." He turned off the car, then turned to face her. She smiled at him, this time genuinely, because he truly cared about her. "I know I can reach you for emergencies, but you better talk to me anyway. Regular updates, love, regular updates." She laughed and leaned over, giving him a hug and light kiss on the cheek.

"I will." She gasped a little when he shrugged out of his duster and held it out to her. "Spike, I-"

He kissed her hard, then, shushing her protests. Pulling back, he grinned cheekily at her and she swatted his arm. "I want you safe, pet. That’s what this’ll do. It’ll make certain cretins don’t look at all your bits and pieces. There’s some cash in there too."

"Oh Goddess…thank you, so much, Spike." She kissed him then, very softly, and felt him smile against her lips. "Love you, Spike. Take care."

Then she was gone and he sighed, reaching into the backseat of his car and pulling out another duster that he owned. It was stiffer than the one he’d given her, because he had purchased it a week prior to this, just in case something happened to his favorite one. He had guessed how Willow was going to disguise herself and had wanted to be certain he could be of help. He had.

He drove away quickly, glad and sad all at once that her scent didn’t linger on him or in his car. She’d cast a spell to protect them, to help make certain Tara never found out. Tara. Bloody bitch had hurt Willow more than anyone else had, but the rest of the gang hadn’t noticed. He had, he always had, and she had come to him more than once with blood dripping down her stomach.

Now he had helped her, for more than a quick fix. He pulled into the driveway of their secluded house, walked into the house and stopped outside of the bedroom. Spike couldn’t smell the blood until he reached the bedroom and he swore, picking up the mug of blood from a table outside of the room. Taking a sip, he rapped on the door a few times and opened it, vamping out as the sight assailed his eyes. Red had done her job.

He grabbed the phone and punched in the number he knew that Tara would be at, it was her emergency number, waiting for the bitch to pick up. He grinned, taking another drink of the blood that he knew was Willow’s, only with a magical flavor to it so no vampire would ever recognize it as being hers. She’d really done it. They’d done it.

She was free.

----

She felt unsteady. Like a tightrope walker, except that there wasn’t a net to catch her, because the net was too busy crying. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself and peering out at him, wondering when he was going to be okay again.

It wasn’t real. She kept asking herself how it had happened, but she knew how. They all knew how. A man, though it could’ve been a woman, had broken into her house and brutally killed Willow. Her clothes had been sliced off of her body, her jewelry cut loose, and nobody knew if Willow had died in the room or elsewhere. By the amount of blood, it was a safe bet that she’d been in her room. She imagined that she had been somehow comforted, lying on her lovers floor, while the killer did whatever it had done to her.

She sniffed. It wasn’t fair. Anya knew that death wasn’t fair, she knew that it happened, and she even knew how to handle it. Except, now she didn’t. Nobody really did. Joyce had been sudden, unexpected, but they had all adjusted fairly quickly, all things considered. Buffy had been a shock that they had all expected and never seen coming at the same time. But Willow had brought her back.

Now it was Willow who was dead. She just didn’t understand.

Willow was a strong witch. She’d brought Buffy back from the dead, she’d restored Angel’s soul, and she’d done so many other things. She’d slipped up with her magic and she’d made bad choices, most of which occurred when she was hanging out with Rack and his friends, but she had always honestly been sorry. Anya believed that Willow had done everything out of the sense that it was right and just and true and now someone had killed her. She should’ve been able to protect herself.

Tara said that Willow had cast half of a protection spell, so she must’ve been horribly scared. Always before the witch had managed to complete things. But she hadn’t said anything to Tara who had mentioned to Giles that her girlfriend hadn’t been strong enough, in the end, to defeat the killer. The body was gone and nobody knew what had happened to it, but Buffy came back from patrol one night, weeping, holding Willow’s rings in her hand.

They decided the body must have been dumped off of the pier, because the rings had been found nearby. It had been weeks after the death that Buffy had found the rings, the body would’ve been completely gone, due the state it must’ve been in by the time it was dropped. Anya shuddered again, shoving the thought from her mind.

Xander was sobbing in his sleep, broken in a way that only Willow could fix, and Anya felt the tears slide down her own cheeks. She wasn’t exactly jealous, but she wished that she could offer something to her husband to make him see that everything would be okay. He and Willow had been the very best of friends, nothing had ever ruined that, and Anya knew that he’d always assumed that they would die together. All three of them. Not in the sexual way, she quickly amended to herself, but in the ‘peaceful and gentle’ way.

Anya didn’t imagine that Willow’s death had been peaceful or gentle.

They couldn’t bring her back. There wasn’t really a body to return her to, first of all, and even if there was…everyone had agreed. There would be no returning. They all knew that she wasn’t suffering in Hell, so they wouldn’t be messing with the laws of nature.

Anya could see the cuts on Willow’s arms again, the snake slipping out of her throat.

Thank god they weren’t doing the spell.

It seemed wrong that Willow would never get to cast another spell. She’d never get to laugh or cry or hug anybody ever again. She was dead and the last thing she saw was the face of someone who didn’t have anything better to do but kill her. The room had been destroyed, Tara had said, Willow had been fighting for her life.

Anya watched as her husband slipped back into a calm sleep and she wrapped her arms around him, making soothing sounds in her throat. She wished that anything else could’ve happened. That Willow hadn’t died. That Willow was a vampire and would come back and she could fasten a soul to it. Anything at all, just so long as Xander would be okay again. Anything, just as long as Willow would be back with them and they wouldn’t be sad. Anya tried to stop crying, burying her face into Xander’s shoulder, wishing desperately for it to be a month ago. When Willow was alive. When they were all happy and knew that everything was okay.

It was all so wrong, in so many ways. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

----

The apartment wasn’t the cheapest one that she had found, but it wasn’t too far from it. The window revealed another brick wall, it was tiny and smelled like a bingo hall, and the door was flimsy, but still locked. It was safe enough, barely cost anything, and had the laziest landlord she had ever seen.

It had been a perfect choice, really, once she’d taken all the facts into perspective. The facts being that she was hiding from anyone who knew her, often got into scuffles with demons, and was witch. Someone who wouldn’t give a damn about her was just what she needed…and had finally found. She had left California reluctantly, but hadn’t fled to the other side of the world. She’d wanted to, but she couldn’t do it.

If she needed help, she needed to be able to reach Spike quickly. When she’d stuck her hands into the pockets of his duster, she’d found much more money then she’d expected and a few short lists. One of the lists had been of towns that were neither small nor large, but would conceal her easily. She ended up moving to Lakeview, Arizona. The town was dusty and the people there were more or less apathetic about the general population of the world. Using her own money, she’d managed to rent a an incredibly tiny apartment. She would keep the money Spike gave her as emergency money.

Now she was sitting on the collapsing bed, legs tucked beneath her, as she surveyed her room. It fit her bed, a sliver of a full length mirror, and a small table, allowing for enough walking room to get to her shoebox closet, but that was about it. The living room/kitchenette wasn’t much better and she had a few folding chairs and a small table to serve as furniture, but she didn’t need much. She smiled a little. At least it was hers.

She wanted to write to Spike and tell him where she was, but she knew she couldn’t. She would be able to contact Spike, but never with her address enclosed, lest Tara find it. It was too dangerous to be discovered now and she didn’t know if she would ever see any of her friends again. She shook her head, dismissing the thoughts, and then sighed.

Work was in an hour and she still had to get dressed. Willow sighed and flopped out along the bed, letting her muscles completely relax, then stretched. Rolling off of the bed onto the narrow patch of floor, she stood up and shifted through the few items she had in the closet. In the end, she selected the most modest thing she had. Mid-thigh length black skirt that hugged her body like a second skin, a low cut, tight, crimson midriff-baring tank top, and a fairly tight black mesh shirt that had bell-sleeves. She grinned at herself in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair until it looked tousled enough for her liking. She slipped into her black heels and headed off to the library.

She hated her clothes. Everyone assumed she was a whore because they could look at her body and they knew exactly was she looked like. If it wasn’t for the sleaziness factor, Willow would’ve worn these clothes every day, but it was dirty and they would call too much attention to herself. She’d rather look like a clean whore than a cheap tramp.

She shook her head as she walked down the road, ignoring the long looks from different men, and mentally composed a letter that she would find a way to send to Spike.

----

"Who the hell is Willow?"

Julia’s murky brown eyes bored into her, demanding an answer. Faith arched one eyebrow at her cellmate and rolled onto her back, ignoring the question. Willow. She shut her eyes, trying to ignore Julia’s heaved sigh.

It had been three days since Cordelia had dropped by with the news of Willow’s death. She had been nervous during the first minutes of the meeting, fidgeting and mumbling about prison fashion, until Faith had pressed her for information. The short-haired woman had looked up at her and tried to smile, a nervous look in her eyes, and told Faith what had happened. Then Cordelia had left, not saying another word, and Faith had allowed the guard to propel her back to her cell.

She made a noise that dismissed her cellmate, but Julia had never been one of those girls who took dismissal well. The ex-drug dealer looked at her, narrowed her eyes, and sat down on the edge of the bed, touching her arm lightly.

"Faith, c’mon, it’s not like I’m asking you why you got locked up or anything." She cajoled, pinching Faith’s wrist as she spoke. Faith had always adamantly refused to talk about her past, copping out with the idea of ‘living in the present and ignoring the past’, and Julia had never bothered her for answers. It hadn’t been important enough to be worth all the trouble of harassing the other girl for. Now, however, Faith would stare into space more often than usual and when she slept at night, she would mutter ‘Willow’ and toss and turn. It was annoying as hell to listen to.

"I’m here for murder. And for beating the shit out of a hell of a lot of people."

Julia sighed and knit her fingers together. Murder wasn’t such a big deal, really, when one took it in context. Hell, she’d probably killed dozens of people with the bad drugs she had sold. She hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t a murderess, after all, just a dealer.

"Big whoop. Was this Willow-chick your victim?" Everyone used that word to describe everything. Victim. They were victims of society, whoever they had wronged were victims, their parents were victims. Everybody was a victim. It was a popular word.

"No. Drop it."

"She won’t visit you or something?"

"She’d dead, all right? Let’s leave it at that." Faith snapped, rolling onto her stomach and mentally counting her breaths. Giles had tried to teach her meditation once, like Wesley, but she’d pretended to ignore it. She’d done it a lot more, recently.

"Faith…" Julie groaned, going over to her own bed and flopping down. The brunette didn’t respond and she shrugged. "Fine, have it your way." There was a long pause where Julie listened to Faith’s controlled breathing, unconsciously setting her own breathing rate along to it.

Faith was entirely focused on her breathing, mentally picturing a calmness in her mind. She exhaled gently, wondering what it would like to never inhale again. Like Willow.

----

Sweat was dripping off of her body, making her skin shine in the fragile light from a cracked lamp. She was gasping for breath, her hands cradling her head, and she closed her eyes to cut out the light. She flicked her wrist and the lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness, and she exhaled in a shaky breath that bordered on a sob.

She was safe. She had to keep reminding herself of that fact. She was safe.

The room around her seemed smaller than usual and it took all of her willpower not to jump up and leave. But there was nowhere for her to go and she didn’t fancy the idea of leaving at three in the morning. Despite the fact that there had been practically no vampire activity in the area, it didn’t stop her from worrying. The one time that she did leave after dark, she would run into one, and that could only lead towards her getting caught. She knew it, but for now, she was safe.

She ran her fingers along the side of her face, reminding herself that nobody know who she was. Willow had these dreams every night. She would wake, terrified, and have to reassure herself that nobody could find her here. But she thought that the time to move was quickly approaching. She was certain that if she stayed there for too long, Tara or one of the others would find her. Only Spike knew she was alive and she couldn’t risk anyone else discovering that fact.

She’d written Spike a long letter, full of stories about nothing in particular, and reassurances that she was doing well. She hadn’t sent it yet and figured that the blonde vampire would be anxious to hear from her, though understanding when word didn’t come. Truthfully, Willow didn’t know when she would be able to send it. She hoped to someday send him a letter with her ever-growing powers, though they grew slower now that she’d placed a bind on her signature, muddling it with several other witches that she knew.

Willow was nothing if not cautious and knew that Spike would appreciate that. She smiled sadly to herself, wondering about her friend, and hoped that he was all right. She knew that he could take care of himself, but they’d been the closest in the Scooby Gang and she knew how lonely he must be. If he even felt half of what she did…

But she wouldn’t dwell on that. Later she could, but for right now she would have to be content in never knowing about what her friends were doing. Never knowing what Spike was doing. Never knowing if they missed her as much as she missed them or if they had simply moved on with their lives.

Willow blinked back her tears as she fell asleep again, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

---

There was more than a tablespoon of scotch in his tea.

He sipped his spiked beverage and flipped through the demonology book. There wasn’t any real threat at the moment, but Giles felt that he needed to brush up on his knowledge. It was a pitiful, though understandable and admirable, attempt to make up for Willow’s death. If he had enough knowledge than maybe the next one could be saved.

Giles had been taking a computer class with Xander, who claimed that it was Anya’s idea. She insisted that because Willow had been his best friend, her spirit would enhance his abilities. So far, she’d been right. Xander had quickly risen to be one of the smartest in the class, and had been learning the elementary hacking skills. There were spell books littered around his house, many of them on their way to Tara, and he was searching for a protection spell powerful enough to save all of them.

It was the little things, he reminded himself, as he turned the page to read about Chaos demons. The little things that could save them all. If Willow had-

He stopped the line of thought as he stared at the page. There were little notes scribbled in the corners. A familiar handwriting that he’d seen before, but not recently. Willow’s handwriting, with notes that nobody else would’ve taken. Giles grinned to himself when he read one of them, shaking his head slightly and taking another drink from his cup. Drusilla had been with a Chaos demon then. Bloody hilarious; those demons were all slime and nastiness.

Giles shut the book and filled his half cup of scotch-and-tea with more scotch. The beverage tasted excellent, with or without the alcohol, and the added kick that the scotch gave it was welcome. Sometimes he got numb thinking about his children and their lives. Their deaths. The deaths that were to come and the ones that had struck already. Willow’s death.

He could still remember her sitting on the couch, a book in her lap, while she sagged against Spike in her sleep and he held his arm around her protectively. The vampire had always protected her. Giles paused, taking another sip from his tea. Whenever Tara wasn’t there, the pair had huddled together. When Tara was there, Willow never strayed from her girlfriend’s side, but Spike kept an eye on her. Giles took a gulp of the drink.

Surely their relationship had been fine. He mentally rooted through memories of Spike and Willow, coming up with image after image of the pair talking and holding onto each other as if for safety. It had all been since about a year and a half ago, when Tara had gotten the house. That’s when Willow’s occasionally nervous behavior had become permanent. He’d never thought to ask her what was wrong after the first time. She’d said she was fine, he’d believed her. Giles wondered if he should’ve asked again. Had she been seeing Spike behind Tara’s back?

Giles decided to forget about tea and just drink some whiskey. It burned a little going down, like it was supposed to, and he settled into a chair with the bottle and a glass. They wouldn’t be coming over tonight anyway, he justified, and if they did, Buffy or Xander would make certain that everything was under control. They had taken so much control over things since Willow had died. Anya said that Willow would’ve been immensely proud of her husband and Giles had agreed. She would’ve been proud of all of them.

But now he was wondering about Spike and Tara. How had they fit into Willow’s life before her murder? She had been getting more and more hesitant, barely speaking to anyone other than Spike, and was always jumpy when Tara was around. She had seemed less like herself and more like…Giles didn’t know who she was like. He wanted to pursue the line of thought, but it wouldn’t do any good. Asking what might’ve been about a dead girl was pointless.

Giles settled into the chair to drown his hectic thoughts with the very good whiskey that he’d purchased in the event that someday, he may need it. Now was as good a time as any. Giles nodded to himself as he poured a second cup of the liquid, needing to make certain his thoughts didn’t wonder too far again.

---

She had moved to another apartment in Lakeview. It was on the other end of her old one, where hookers and drug addicts made up the large portion of the tenants, but it was the cheapest place to live in the area. Willow had been running out of money and the apartment had been robbed one day when she was at the library where she’d been working. When she’d gotten back from her shift, the place had been trashed, her clothes were gone, and so was the money that they’d been able to find.

Most of it had been hidden in her backpack with a few magical supplies. She’d concealed the bag with a spell and had been thankful that she’d had enough foresight to do so. She’d left the next night, unable to pay the rent and for the repairs. She hadn’t filed a report with the police for fear of being caught. She’d found her new place the following week. It had been heaven compared to the streets she’d been skulking about in while waiting for a vacancy at the complex.

The landlord had informed her that all repairs were up to her and it would cost extra for heat. Willow hadn’t really had much of a choice by that point, so she accepted the rundown one room apartment. The bed that came with the apartment was an old cot, barely wide enough to fit her slight frame, and she leaned the broken piece of mirror from her old apartment up against the wall. There was a small cubby that served as a closet, which Willow tossed her bag into and sealed it magically. Nobody would be able to find what she hid unless they were a powerful witch. In this town, where she couldn’t even find an occult store, Willow doubted there would be other witches with enough power to find her belongings.

She worked at a bar four blocks away. It reminded her of Willy’s Bar, except that the patrons were human. She didn’t work at night and had blatantly refused to come in after dark. The three previous establishments that she’d applied to had rejected her terms quickly and Willow had known that there were very few options available for her. But the manager, Kyle, had seen things her way the moment she slipped out of her duster and revealed the shrunken white shirt that clung to her body. She’d felt filthy after his eyes had enjoyed every detail of the shirt and had wanted to scream when he complimented her black bra. But she’d gotten her way and only had to work during the day.

Willow laughed suddenly, lying on the cot and shaking with giggles. She, shy little Willow Rosenberg, had dressed like a slut to get her way. She’d never thought that she would ever do that, but she had. She laughed harder, tears slipping down her cheeks, and the laughter turned into silent sobs. She wanted to go home, to Sunnydale, to Xander and Buffy and Spike. It wasn’t fair. It was horribly, horribly wrong.

It was Tara’s fault, really, but some of the blame was hers. She hadn’t been good enough for her lover and rather than take Oz’s way out of the relationship, Tara had found a new way to show Willow her worth. Punishment. Willow shook her head, the tears wetting the pillow and the blanket, as she told herself that it wasn’t her fault.

She fell asleep with dried tear tracks on her face and the image of Tara’s angry eyes swooping down on her.

"She was an angel, now take her back! Please!!" Dawn wailed, holding out the squirming three year old towards Xander and Anya. The couple giggles as Anya hugged Jessica close to her, cooing into her daughters ear. "She’s so much cuter when she’s yours."

"Thanks, Dawnie, we really appreciate it. We needed this night alone, you know…" Xander’s voice trailed off and Dawn quickly nodded. Everyone had made plans for tonight, except for her, because she needed to watch Jessica. Anya and Xander had gone out for dinner, than watched over Willow’s grave for a little bit. Spike was drinking heavily and staying at some secret demon friend’s apartment for the night. Buffy and Giles were patrolling, then drinking lightly for a few hours at a bar, then heading over to Tara’s new house.

The blonde witch had moved the same month that Jessica was born, about a year after Willow’s death, and had extracted herself from the Scooby Gang shortly after. Once a year, on the anniversary of the hacker’s murder, Buffy would try to coax Tara into rejoining them. Giles had agreed to go this year, though Dawn thought it was more to control his inebriated Slayer than to try and get Tara back into the fold. The more involved Spike became with the group, the less involved Tara had wanted to be, and everyone except for Giles and Spike had tried to convince her to keep coming to meetings. Nobody understood why; even Spike admitted to being a little perplexed about the Watcher’s agreement.

The only reason that Giles had gone this time was that he was going to make certain that Buffy didn’t do anything that she would regret once she was sober, because the year before she had broken one of the front windows of Tara’s new house and the witch had zapped her into Giles’ apartment with a spell. Neither one cared for a repeat of that particular adventure. The combination of the alcohol and the effects of the spell had caused Buffy to go past being trashed and well into being smashed and plastered. Giles refused to say what had happened and Buffy said she didn’t have any recollection of even entering his apartment. Nobody except for Anya had even wanted to know.

Anya was carrying her daughter into the house, deciding out loud that it was her bedtime. Jessica whined a little, but not much more than was expected. As soon as the blonde had disappeared up the stairs with Jessica, Dawn turned to Xander with a serious smile on her face.

"How was it?" He exhaled heavily at her question, then turned to lock the door. Dawn was staying the night, which didn’t really surprise her. Her sister wasn’t exactly great when she was miserable and drunk.

"Hard." He said to the door, staring at the lock as though it were a foreign object. "Not that it was ever easy to begin with." Xander laughed a little and Dawn stared at him, idly wondering what life would’ve been like if Willow had lived. There was a moment of the most melancholy silence that Dawn ever remembered feeling, while Xander rested his forehead on the door and shut his eyes.

Dawn didn’t know what to say. She looked up the stairs, hoping desperately to see Anya’s shoes headed towards them, but she didn’t. She didn’t see anything and when she looked back at the door, Xander’s dark eyes were staring at her.

"I’m sorry…" She whispered, but Xander shook his head.

"Don’t be. You should go to bed, Dawn, everyone’s tired." Xander looked like the walking dead, she thought, and cringed and mentally admonished herself for even thinking of death and Xander in the same sentence. She hugged him quickly and walked towards the hall that led to the guest room, stopping at the corner and looking back at him.

He was sitting on the couch, staring at the picture frame that held the picture of he, Willow, and Jesse. Dawn had never gotten to meet Jesse, he’d died about the same time she’d moved there. From what she’d heard Willow and Buffy talking about one night in high school, during a sleep over, the three of them were the only family that she and Xander had ever really had. Neither he or Willow really had parents and neither had brothers or sisters. It had been the three of them, until the Jesse-Buffy replacement. And now he had lost one more family member.

Dawn turned quickly and practically ran to the guest room, unable to watch her surrogate brother torture himself any longer.

---
There were daisies on the ground, bound with a deep violet ribbon, resting beside a single yellow rose.

Time had done nothing to the devotion of her friends. Willow’s memory was, apparently, still alive and well. Shifting on her feet, Faith read the headstone carefully. It was a mystery as to how anyone could’ve described the hacker on a gently sloped block of pale gray marble. Most of the things she’d achieved weren’t exactly something that the Slayer imagined could be engraved permanently into stone. Faith hadn’t gotten to know Willow well, but she had known that she was a caring young woman who had been smart and blended into the background easily.

That is, at first.


When she’d first arrived in Sunnydale, Faith had immediately dismissed the mousy hacker as someone who was irrelevant to her life. Obviously, she’d been part of their little gang for a while, long enough to have bonded with them and become ingrained in their lives as someone who was willing to do anything for her friends. Honest and reliable, Willow hadn’t stood out in Faith’s mind at first. Buffy’s best friend wasn’t someone that the brunette Slayer had any interest in aside from antagonizing.

Except that Willow wasn’t that easy to get rid of. She’d attempted to talk to Faith, even though she was rejected. She’d kidnapped the girl, held a knife at her throat, but she hadn’t killed her. She wouldn’t have killed her. By that time, Faith had noticed the girl.

Vampires aren’t the only people who can stalk the living. And they can’t break into a house they’re not invited to, rummage through their victims drawers, and read their diaries.

Willow had much more to her tiny being than met the eye and Faith had begun to wonder why she was hiding so much. She’d loved Oz completely, even though she still entertained feelings for Xander. Sometimes, she was jealous of Buffy and of all the attention she got. She wished that she had parents or a family that wasn’t completely made up of friends who were likely to die young.

What had struck Faith most of all, however, was the fact that Willow had one very simple, primitive desire. To be missed.

She had written one night, shortly after Buffy had run away, that she hoped people missed her just as much as her best friend when she was gone. There had been no apology for the selfish thought, as she’d sometimes included, and no further explanation. It had been a want so deeply a part of her life that Willow had know, apparently, she would never need explanation if she read it later.

Dropping a rumpled flower beside the other presents at her grave, Faith hoped that Willow’s spirit was appeased at the way her friends remembered her. They had to miss her, it was the only solution. Bowing her head, Faith offered a silent apology for everything she’d done to hurt the hacker and then turned and walked swiftly away.

Heading towards the bus depot, where she was going to buy the first ticket out of Sunnydale, Faith cast a fervent hope to the hacker. A hope to be missed when she left the world behind her.

---

She couldn’t look away from the mirror, captivated by it’s image. She couldn’t believe she looked like this. Even though she’d done it to herself, it still amazed her, and Willow knew that was a bad thing.

She was pale, which was nothing new, but she had dyed her hair black and now she looked a corpse. Her cheekbones stuck out of her face slightly, which reminded her vaguely of Spike and his razorblade cheekbones, and her eyes were rimmed thickly in black eyeliner. With one shaky hand she touched the mirror and pulled it back. She didn’t imagine she could look more different if she tried.

She didn’t recognize herself. It wasn’t just the hair or the clothes, it was her entire life. Kyle had left the bar and there was a new manager who didn’t care what she wanted or what she wore. Unless she was putting out, she was working night as a bartender. But rather than listen to Thorne’s demands for sex, Willow had agreed to work nights. All night. It was exhausting and by three in the morning the patrons were horrible. But she did get better tips by that time because they didn’t even realize how much money they had or were getting back.

She cringed. Another change in the new Willow. She cheated drunken idiots out of their money if she thought she could get away with it. But rent was expensive, they usually tipped badly, and Thorne wasn’t exactly well known for paying decent wages. Refusing to be a whore was like refusing an entire avenue of making money, but she’d done it, and therefore had to find another way to make up for it. She tried to tell herself that it was the only way and that it wasn’t really her, it was Alex, the new persona that she’d crafted for her job at the bar. But it didn’t really make it any easier.

Time, however, did.

Short, tight, ripped clothes became as natural to her as the fluffy jumpers that she’d worn throughout high school. It became strange not wear her thick boots instead of tennis shoes or sandals. She took up smoking and went through about a pack a week, at the very least. The only thing the owned that covered up most of her was Spike’s duster, which she only ever got to wear on the way to or from places. Make-up, which had seemed incredibly difficult to her back in Sunnydale, now was as simple as a spell or as mixing a drink.

Five years. Four of which she’d spent working in a bar. It wasn’t exactly surprising that life would change her, she knew that, but she was certain that the only way anyone would recognize her, magical signature aside, would be if they recognized Spike’s duster. It was a comforting and disconcerting thought at the same time.

So much of her life was both comforting and frightening. Willow didn’t know what was what in her life anymore. The clothes that she hated made her feel like herself, except it was herself as Alex. Alex, the too-skinny raven-haired girl with green eyes and dressed like a whore, wore too much makeup, smoked enough cigarettes to pay for a small city’s electricity bill, and didn’t make friends because it wasn’t worth it. Alex, the tough girl who wore a leather duster and swore more often than she inhaled nicotine. Alex, who didn’t have a last name and didn’t have a history. She missed being Willow. She missed Xander and Spike.

She inhaled deeply, studying herself in the mirror again, and finally dropped the cigarette into the sink and turned on the water so that it spiraled down the drain. Without a sigh, Willow turned and walked back into the bar, leaving behind the darkness and the thoughts that make her miss herself. She waved to Thorne and the replacement bartender, a hefty man who called himself Lucky. He wasn’t and they both knew it, which was why he would bring her packs of cigarettes when he had extra cash. She kept his secret, he offered to get her drugs that she never accepted.

Walking out the back door of the bar, she realized that she had never missed anyone so badly.

---

Thirty dollars.

She had sold herself to an aging man for three sweaty, crumpled twenties. Faked an orgasm and allowed him to manhandle her for the price of a motel room. She sighed and lay back on the bed in her apartment, furious with herself.

It wasn’t the whoring out that bothered her, it was the fact that all she’d made was thirty dollars.

It wasn’t as though Faith hadn’t done it before, that had been how she’d gotten out to Sunnydale the first time. She just hadn’t done it since then. It showed. Her years in jail showed as well. She noticed it and wondered if the man had too. Other girls that had been working, they had seen it in her, a taunt desperation that seemed to call the cheaper men to her. She would have to work on that.

Faith added it to the long list of other things to work on. Things like keeping up with her promises and patrolling again. Things like writing to Angel to let him know where she was.

Things like making a life for herself. Or at least an existence.

She didn’t know what she wanted to tell Angel. Faith disliked keeping secrets from the vampire, but she didn’t know how he would deal with how she’d been earning money. She was doubtful that it would be with a smile and a ‘well, whatever works for you’ type of attitude. It was easy to keep Angel in the dark about her activities, except for the guilt factor that she experienced for lying to the person that had helped save her.

Maybe that was something else to be working on. Maybe it should be the first thing.

She’d started to write to Angel several times, even wrote a postcard for Julia once, but she never got around to sending anything out. Now she was lying in a cheap apartment, with about forty dollars total in her possession, and she was unbelievably lonely. Faith had never been a person to want friends, but she’d never liked to go without a little interaction that didn’t require money and hiding from the police either.

Except if she did go out, she’d have to find a place to get another costumer because she was going to need more money quickly. After a brief inner battle, Faith rolled off of the bed and fished around in the pile of clothing on the floor for something to wear. A short spandex skirt that was black and had strips of red gauze sewn along the waist-band of it like a harem girl and tight black shirt that was flecked with glitter and barely covered her breasts ended up being the cleanest selection. Both were passable in public places, as long as she stayed on this side of town or worse.

Here, Faith was almost certain even the police would hire her.

Sliding into her normal shoes, black platforms that screamed ‘sex and violence’ at the world, she dabbed on lip gloss and tousled her hair as she walked out the door. This time, trying to project a less desperate sense of need that would collect the lowest of the low and cause the other hookers to smile at her sickly and nod knowingly as she passed.

She didn’t want their pity or their mockery and she’d be damned if she let them give it to her.

----

Five years.

"Excuse me, Ms. Summers?"

The Slayer is supposed to stand alone and without friends, but she’d never wanted to be the Slayer and had never followed anyone else’s rules. The closest she had ever come was Giles, who had become more of a father than a Watcher. The Council had discovered more than once that she wasn’t going to jump just because they’d asked her to. However unconventional her methods were, the truth was that she was the longest living Slayer in history.

But having those friends came with a price.

"I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we have some questions for you."

Ignoring her friends had done nothing except hurt them and even then, they stayed near her. No matter how many times they’d nearly died, they had remained true to her and her battle. Willow had explained that they would’ve died without her and after a pause, commented that she would’ve been a really freaky vampire without her. Xander had told her that neither he or Willow could ignore the darkness. But the risk wasn’t only to the Slayer’s friends.

It was to the Slayer herself.

Never before did a Slayer have to watch their friends suffer privately. Never before did they attend a funeral of a friend whose death could not have been prevented.

"Do you know a Willow Rosenberg? She had you listed as one of her emergency contacts."

If a Slayer was alone, she could only mourn for her Watcher. She couldn’t mourn for her mother. She couldn’t mourn for her best friend. She would never have to sit in a folding metal chair, eyes locked on the empty casket, mind still wrapping around the headstone and the cold facts that were engraved into it.

"Do you know of anyone who would have any reason to hurt her? Maybe someone she’d angered at work? An ex-boyfriend or girlfriend?"

A Slayer who only had her Watcher would never hold her other best friend while he cried. She’d never have to call someone’s parents and tell them that their daughter was murdered for no good reason. She would never cry over the death of a redheaded hacker who had been killed by a random person for a random reason.

"There was an intruder at Ms. Rosenberg’s house tonight, Ms. Summers. Nothing appears to have been stolen so we know this wasn’t a botched burglary. This is the part of the job that I hate…"

Buffy was not the average Slayer.

But she’d never wanted to be one so badly before that moment.

"The intruder injured Ms. Rosenberg and kidnapped her. I’m terribly sorry, but judging from the state of the room and from what we know about the case so far, it’s improbable that she survived. We’ll call you if we find anything further."

None of them had wanted to accept that it was a person who had done this. The fact that the murderer was never found only added to their pain. There was nobody to blame and nothing to kill.

For a while, no vampires went hunting in the city limits.

"We are gathered here to mourn for the passing of one of the purest spirits on this Earth. Willow Rosenberg."

It had seemed wrong that everyone was dressed in black, because Willow had been so overflowing with life. There were none of the yellows or pinks or greens that she had cherished. There was black, everywhere, and the only thing that was familiar was Spike’s duster. He refused to take it off and when Tara had begun to object, Xander had intervened and practically dared the witch to refuse Spike a comfort Willow would’ve allowed.

There was daisies everywhere and roses and lilies. But it didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

"I’ve been her best friend for forever. We were supposed to die together, living next door to each other in our walkers and cats. Well, not cats. We never wanted cats…"

Xander had lost the last member of his original family.

"I never married or became a father. But here, I found that I had two daughters and a son. And now I am left with one of each."

Giles had lost a daughter.

"She wasn’t perfect, but her mistakes were all done on accident."

Anya had lost something that nobody understood, except that there had been something between the two that bordered on cousinhood.

"She was the best friend I never thought I’d have. There for me and believing in me. She was like my second sister. And now she’s gone. And there’s nothing any of us can do to fix it or to get justice. But she loved life and we can love life too, like she did. And we can take her memory and we can make her proud because I know that she’s watching us from wherever she is. She’s just like that. And I’m going to miss her so much…"

And Buffy had lost her faith.
The sound of sobbing called out to her and led her away from the slow-moving corner. Creeping back through the darkened alleys, Faith allowed herself to be grateful that she didn’t have to stay in this part of town unless she was working. The area left a lot to be desired. Namely, zoning laws and security measures.

She turned a corner and stopped, eyes captivated by the scene that lay before her.

The concrete was wet looking, but it seemed to be from blood. There were two bodies lying on the ground and one standing up, staring at them as though it had gone terribly wrong. The person standing was tall and sent waves of bad vibes towards her. His hands were covered in blood and he held a glittering knife loosely. One of the bodies on the ground had obviously been introduced to the knife and Faith would’ve believed that the blood that covered everything was his. There was no rise or fall from his chest and Faith’s eyes flicked to the final body on the ground.

It was a woman and not only was she breathing, but her skin was glowing a faint silvery color. She was sobbing, one glowing hand pressed over her mouth to hold something back and her dark hair tangled up in itself.

"Alex, look what happened to poor Lucky….I told you to behave. Now look what you’ve done." The standing man said softly, nearly crooning the words, and the woman’s sobbing didn’t lessen. "You could’ve saved him."

"Bastard…" The woman managed to sob out, her voice furious and spitting despite the tears. "I swear to god that I’ll kill you if you-"

"Let you live? How quaint. Then I suppose I’ll have to kill you." There was no remorse in his voice and Faith readied herself for a fight that she didn’t want to get involved in. The world narrowed down until it was simply the alley. The entrance, the man, the body, the woman, the knife, the sounds from the surrounding area, and herself. Everything else fell away, melting until it no longer existed.

"Goddess…" The woman shut her eyes and began to mumble almost imperceptibly, the glowing growing slightly stronger as the man twisted his fingers, drawing her up slightly in the air. Her mouth was red like a gash and there was a long bloody trail across her collar bone. Faith shuddered slightly and crouched low, steadying herself. As soon as she had an opening, she would pounce.

The woman’s pain vanished in Faith’s mind, until she would have a chance to help it.

"Unless…" He grinned at her waif-like body, flipping the knife easily and wagging his finger so she scooted closer to him. Her bright lips were still forming words that Faith couldn’t make out. "I could be persuaded, Alex, to let you live."

The knife lowered slightly as Alex’s eyes opened half-way, reveling thick and hazy green orbs that looked glazed with either hatred or faintness. A shimmer of black passed through them and Faith used the man’s obvious surprise to spring her attack.

The alley seemed to implode all at once. The Alex’s mouth was opened as if to scream, but she was soundless, and the man was swearing profusely, waving a hand at her. Her body slammed forward, against a wall of sorts, and he dropped the knife, prepared to battle with magic as well. Faith felt her foot slam against his ribs, the soft squash of skin meeting bone and the faint crunchy give of his ribs under her strength.

The knife was hurled towards her by his magic, she assumed, because his hands were currently grabbing his side. It slipped easily over her arm, though lightly, and Faith ignored the pain with practiced ease. Dimly aware that Alex was started to scream, Faith wound up and sprung, tearing into the man as though he were every problem she’d ever had in her life.

Fist. Kick. Punch. Slam. Snap.

She stopped the moment he dropped to the ground, presumably unconscious, and stood above the body, chest heaving as she gasped for breath. She turned to the woman, the memory of pain beginning to filter through again.

"Oh god…" Faith wheezed, her own pain coming clear. It wasn’t bad, but as she saw the silvery body of the raven-haired woman, lying prone on the ground, she found her head spinning. "Hey…girl…Alex or whatever….you okay?"

She limped over to her, finding that whatever shield the woman had put in place was now gone, and sighed. No movement. She hefted her up, found that she weighed virtually nothing, and surveyed the alley. Two bodies. One dead, one alive. Then she shrugged to herself and turned, ignoring the pain again, as she ran away clutching the slender body of the Alex-chick to her. She needed to check on the woman in an safer place than this alley.

Unfortunately, the best place she had to offer was her apartment.

-------------------------

The woman’s slender body was actually a starving one. Her body had been clad in revealing clothes that Faith would’ve worn when working the streets, but they had been nearly destroyed from the fight and instead the Slayer had dressed her in a button-up shirt that had belonged Angel, except that Cordelia had nicked it out of the vampire’s closet for her. So that she could remember the dark-haired vampire and what he’d done for her. And so that she could ‘cover her skanky ass up’ as Cordelia had laughed at her, tossing the balled up black fabric at her.

Although Faith had never worn the shirt, she had been glad to have it. And now she was even more so.

The silvery glow from Alex’s skin had vanished within an hour and when Faith had bathed and changed her, bandaging her neck wound, she’d been horrified to discover the network of scars that crisscrossed her body. Long jagged ones along her thighs, short tic-tack-toe brackets on the soft underbelly of her arm, a chain on ivy that wrapped around her stomach and back, as well as a myriad of other cuts across her stomach.

Someone had hated this woman.

She’d only had a can of soup left, so she’d cooked it and eaten a little bit, hoping that when she awoke, she would eat the rest. Faith sat on the floor, watching the tiny body begin to writhe in the depths of a nightmare, and found herself reaching out slowly to comfort her. The body was clammy and Faith frowned, perching on the edge of the bed as Alex began to trash more.

"Hey…hey, wake up." Faith called, shaking her lightly. She was mildly annoyed and worried at the same time as Alex’s short nails raked down her arms, not drawing blood, but still hurting. "Hey!"

"Get off! Get off! Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it stop it!" The voice was shrill and fearful and Faith wondered what the poor woman was dreaming off. Her body squirmed away from the Slayer’s light grasp and fell onto the cold floor with a thud. Green eyes flicked open, but didn’t really see her for a second as she gasped out- "Please, Tara, please!" - in a fearful tone.

Immediately thereafter, the realization of what she’d said and who she was with flooded through her eyes. Faith’s eyes lit up slightly and she stared down upon Alex like a hawk looking at her prey.

"You-"

"I’m Alex." The raven-haired woman’s voice was pleading, desperate even, as her green eyes implored the Slayer to accept what now was fast becoming impossible to be true.

It was easy to find a witch, the only reason for why she’d been able to protect herself and glow silver that Faith could think of. Easy to find a green-eyed witch. It was slightly less easy to find a green-eyed witch who sounded like the same dead hacker and nearly impossible to find one who had also known a Tara…and recognize her…and plead to be known as Alex.

"Yeah, of course you are, Alex." Faith said, motioning towards the soup sitting nearby. The woman didn’t move and so Faith grinned at her. "And I’m the fucking head of the Watcher’s Council."

A choked, tearful sob was ripped out of her throat at Faith’s words. By the way her hands were shaking, the Slayer wondered if maybe she should’ve played along. Let Willow, because she was certain that this was Willow, keep her secrets. As the tormented witch looked up at her, eyes wild with desperation, Faith longed to take her words back.

"Watcher’s Council?" The knowledge was there, deep in the maelstrom of her eyes, but Willow forced it to sound confused. Faith could hear the forced innocence for what it was and decided swiftly to let her have it. Instantly, the brunette Slayer became the picture of confusion herself, blinking and staring at her with an intensity that terrified Willow and proved to Faith that she’d been correct in her assumption.

"Oh, God, you’re not her, are you?" Faith gasped out, trying to sound mildly embarrassed but not succeeding. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else…obviously…I’m Faith."

A long moment stretched between them.

"Alex."

"You hungry, Alex?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her apartment was even colder than she remembered it being.

Standing in the middle of the room, alone and barefoot, wearing a pair of Faith’s jeans and the shirt that the other woman had put her in, Willow realized how different she looked. The clothes didn’t fit her, she wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She looked closer to the old Willow than she ever had before since college and suddenly, she felt like she’d been drained of all her energy.

If it hadn’t been for that nightmare…

But she had dreamed of Tara like she always did, dreamed of the knife and dreamed of the words. She’d cried out in her sleep and woken up, mumbling the name of her past lover. Once she’d realized that the apartment she was in was belonged to Faith, she was certain that she was caught. While she didn’t know what Faith had been told in regard to her ‘death’ she did know that the other woman knew that Willow’s place was in Sunnydale, with Buffy and the others. Not here.

Never here.

But now she was caught and Faith had seemed to recognize her, except that while Willow was trying to play it off, the Slayer shifted gears so quickly that Willow wasn’t certain if she had been discovered or not. On one level, she was sure that Faith really had mistaken her for, well, herself. But the brunet was no fool and was more than capable of pretending something that wasn’t true. If she had been discovered, Faith would be able to pretend otherwise.

It was frightening, the sensation of being discovered after all these years.

Faith had fed her some soup, loaned her the jeans, and given her strict orders to return the following day. She’d escorted her back to her apartment building, insisting on it even though Willow kept trying to leave. But Faith hadn’t pressed her for any information other than what had happened that night behind the bar. Who the man was that had killed Lucky and very nearly killed her.

She hadn’t been able to answer many of Faith’s questions.

Thorne had invited one of his friends to the bar that night. Paul had seemed like a normal, threatening guy at first. Leering at her as she served him the drinks he demanded, scowling at her when she turned down his first few offers. Thorne had encouraged Paul’s behavior, egging him on as the night grew on and he drank more and more. Once Lucky had arrived to relieve her, Thorne was well past caring about anything that Paul did and had left the bar, saying that he trusted the bartenders to close up. Paul had killed Lucky, stating that if she’d agreed to sleep with him earlier that night, the other man might’ve lived.

But she had been inside when Paul started his game with Lucky, so Willow was willing to believe that it had simply been bad timing. The one thing that kept rolling around in her head was that her co-worker hadn’t been named very well considering everything that had happened.

Faith had laughed out loud at that comment.

They’d talked for about an hour about things that weren’t related to their respective lives. And now, here, alone…Willow felt even more alone than she had the day before. But Faith was someone who could have her killed, simply by contacting anyone else if she really had figured it out. Which she most likely had.

And Willow simply didn’t have the strength to die for the second time.

---------------------------------------

Cordelia had delivered the news of Willow’s death. She had never been such a good actress that she could’ve gotten away with lying so dramatically.

Faith had seen the headstone. Spoken to Angel about the loss of the hacker.

Willow was dead.

And Willow was living in the same town as Faith was, working at a bar, her anorexic-thin body covered in scars and wounds that had either been self-inflicted or inflicted by someone who had wanted her in more pain than Faith believed capable to wish upon someone.

But the dead don’t breathe.

And Willow had been out of breath after the nightmare that had revealed her as more than the beaten-down Alex.

Faith shut her eyes and tried to imagine what she’d stumbled upon.

------------------------------------------------------

"I’ll take a ska punk."

"How strong you want that?" Willow asked mindlessly, reached for the bottle of Southern Comfort and pressing the button on the Coke machine that would fill the glass. "And you want ice?" She was already pouring in the liquor, mixing it to a normal degree of mind-numbing mildness.

"Strong. No ice." Willow nodded and kept pouring, not bothering to even look towards the voice. It was a good drink choice, as far as she was concerned. A moment later, she had the glass sliding in it’s sweat across the bar surface as she looked up into the patrons face to demand payment.

"Faith." The word was dropped like a stone into a calm bucket of water. The ripple effect seemed to only touch her and her inner selves, as the dark Slayer merely smiled and took a large swallow of the beverage. Willow’s hands found themselves on the bottle of Southern Comfort and a shot glass, pouring herself a straight shot to take her mind off of the predicament she had to be in. It burned slightly on the way down, a delicious heat filling her mouth and body, making her warmer than she’d been in the past five years. No matter how many shots she had, she always loved the effect it had on her.

"You supposed to be drinking on the job, Alex?" Faith asked, her voice humorless. Willow shrugged, sliding the bottle back where it belonged, in between the whiskey and the vodka. She grabbed a rag and began to wipe down the bar, having nothing to do except wait for Faith’s next comment. The other woman was now sipping her drink, slight anger crackling in her eyes.

Willow didn’t respond and Faith leaned over the bar, fury slipping through her voice and burning the slender bartender with the barely controlled feeling.

"Or should I call Buffy to come stop you, Willow?"

"Listen, Faith-"

"No, you listen." Faith responded, her bare arms flat against the slightly damp surface of the bar, the stickiness of past drinks never quite gone even after repeated washings. "I don’t know why everyone thinks that you’re dead and I don’t know why you have a grave in Sunnydale, but I do know that you are certainly not dead. And that we need to talk. Now."

"I’m working." Willow hissed, grabbing another shot glass and the bottle of alcohol. Knocking it back quickly, she capped it and slid it back into the empty spot that waited for it.

"Then I’m going to go call Wesley and ask him what type of being can be alive after they’ve been dead for five years." Faith finished her drink and turned to go. Willow watched the Slayer reach the door and walk outside before she turned and ran to catch up with the dark haired Slayer.

She couldn’t risk Faith following through with her threat. She’d survived for too long to be caught now and if Tara found out that she was alive, she would surely be dead within hours. Spike had assured her of the fact when he said to be careful.

Spike had obviously not counted on Faith arriving and screwing everything up.

"Faith!" She screamed, trying to catch up to the Slayer. The brunet kept walking and Willow sighed, unleashing some of her magic from where she kept it bound within her, and Faith was suddenly standing in front of the very irate Willow.

"Nice." She said, about to breeze by, when one of Willow’s fragile looking hands grabbed onto her arm, gripping it tightly.

"You wanted to talk, so we’ll talk. But I won’t let you call Wesley or anyone else. I’m dead, Faith, and it’s going to stay that way."

Faith had always studied people when they spoke and right now, Willow’s desperation to remain dead was clear. She would do anything before allowing Faith to make that phone call. The threat that she posed was radiating off of her, but so was her reluctance to physically injure her.

But she would do it if she had to.

"Hey, no problem. Your place or mine?" Faith asked, raising her hands to show Willow that she meant no harm. The hacker stared at her for a moment and then turned, silent, and led the way towards her own apartment.

It felt like the end of everything was finally upon her.