Xander’s head hurt. And his eyes. And his fingers. Okay, most of him hurt. He really didn’t feel that good about driving at the moment, but it was still better than being at home.
It didn’t really help with the nausea, though.
“Maybe we should have brought Buffy along,” Xander suggested to Willow as he drove the two of them over to Kennedy’s for Willow’s things. “That’s some high-powered box-carrying we’re missing out on.”
“She didn’t want to leave Spike,” said Willow absently, watching the neighborhood change from the upper-middle class environs in which Andrew had built their mini-mansion to the borderline-urban district where Willow and Kennedy had rented an apartment. It was a great location, Kennedy had told her, convenient to restaurants and a cineplex and a good gym, close to the university. As if those things were more important than the Scoobies.
Xander winced in acknowledgment. Yeah, Buffy was clucking over Spike like a hen with one bleached-blond chick, while Spike did his best brooding Angel impersonation. Xander didn’t hate missing that, actually. Almost enough to make a guy stay in his room to avoid it, if his room weren’t already inhabited by a dead fiancée.
Xander pulled into the complex’s parking lot and turned off the engine. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
Willow hesitated a moment. “It has to be done sometime,” she sighed. “It might as well be now. Get it over with, right?”
He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling behind his hangover shades. “Let’s go,” he said.
Before the door, Willow stared at the key in her hand. “I called,” she murmured—not trying to delay going in; not at all. “She isn’t home. It should be okay.”
“Will—”
“Let’s go,” she whispered, sliding in the key. Despite what she’d said about Kennedy not being home, she peered around the door as if expecting Kennedy to be standing there, ready to stare at her balefully the entire time Willow packed.
But she wasn’t. The apartment was quiet, bright with the late morning light. Xander silently followed Willow into the apartment and shut the door behind him. He put down the stack of boxes he was lugging and handed one to Willow. “Where do you want to start?”
“The bedroom,” she said, practical as ever. That was where her most important things were. If Kennedy came home while they were still packing, Willow knew there was no way she’d just keep going with Kennedy there looking at her, making her feel bad. They had to get the important stuff first. “Can you go through the spare room? There are some boxes of books in the closet I never unpacked—you can go ahead and take those down.”
He nodded, watching as she disappeared into the bedroom she’d shared with Kennedy. Not that he thought she’d run out all upset or anything, but … well, it was a possibility. There was nothing fun about breakups, even with nutty girls nobody but you liked. He could have written a book one that one.
He waited until he heard the opening of drawers and Willow mumbling to herself as she arranged things before heading into the spare room. It had never really been decorated—a couch along the wall, some workout equipment, and some boxes that they still hadn’t gotten around to unpacking—and that was pretty much it. It was the same as the day they moved in, right down to the—the—
It took Xander a minute to realize what he was seeing. It shouldn’t have—he’d seen similar things often enough. Then it sank in and he stood there for god knew how long before realizing Willow was talking to him from the next room. Then he heard her in the doorway, and snapped out of his daze.
“Do you have any—Kennedy?!” Willow gasped
“Don’t look, Will,” Xander said swiftly, pulling her out of the room. He reached behind him and fumbled until he pulled the door shut, then dragged Willow to the couch. She was shaking and gasping and beginning to cry, but she didn’t resist.
From across the living room Anya looked at him and shrugged carelessly. “What are you looking at me for? I didn’t have anything to do with it. You shouldn’t be surprised, though. Just another Scooby roadkill.”
~*~*~*~
“Let’s see,” said Dawn, nodding to Andrew. He was older, but she was kind of the boss, because … well, because he was Andrew. She didn’t think he minded—he liked having someone else make the decisions. Besides, if he was in charge probably the first thing he’d do was order dorky uniforms and create a Team Red Shirt secret handshake.
“Are you sure this will work?” Andrew asked a little nervously.
“It’s better than nothing,” she said. Actually she had no idea, but the stuff looked good to her. “You can do it, right?”
“Umm, well I was thinking about that, and I’m not sure it’s the way to go,” began Andrew. “How about if we tell Willow, or Mr. Giles?”
“Willow and Giles aren’t telling us everything,” Dawn pointed out.
“Mr. Giles didn’t know—”
“Okay, Giles didn’t know, and I don’t think he should know this either,” she cut off.
“Why not? He knows lots of things.”
“Because there’s no way he’d let us do this if he did know.”
“Well, that might not be a bad—”
“Andrew! Red shirts! Remember!”
Andrew sighed and hung his head. Of course he remembered. They were going to die and three episodes later no one would remember their names. “It’s just that I gave up magic when I embraced the side of good,” protested Andrew miserably. “If I give in to the dark forces again they could consume me.”
Dawn pressed her lips together and counted to ten. Andrew didn’t seem to get that they were in danger now, and they should start protecting themselves as soon as possible, otherwise they were dead ducks. And as for his magic powers, he was less Dark Willow and more Doug Henning.
Which still made him tougher than Dawn.
“Do you want to die?” she demanded.
“No! No, of course not, it’s just that I—I have reformed, and there are other ways to do things besides magic. Look at Willow!”
“Willow. Does. Magic,” gritted Dawn.
“Well yeah, but she doesn’t do it for any little thing.”
“Dying is not any little thing!”
“We don’t know that we’re even in danger!” said Andrew desperately.
“They wouldn’t have hidden Giles’s books if there was no danger,” scoffed Dawn.
Andrew looked at the floor. Dawn was great, but she didn’t know everything. She didn’t know what the rush of power was like, and how you could feel like you could do anything, that the world was your candy shop. But Andrew remembered how it felt with Warren and Jonathan, when they had just joined forces and the whole of Sunnydale was ripe for their plucking—before it started to go wrong. When he felt like he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, and that he would always win. And he’d never forget that girl—the girl Warren had brought them, the one who broke her neck on the stairs and looked up at him with horrible blank eyes. And he’d never forget how just a few words from Warren, his Gandalf, his Yoda, had made it seem like nothing more than a speed bump on the way to their inevitable global conquest. Because they were above it. They could do what they wanted.
It was strange how being around the Scoobies made think of those things. He’d forgotten about it for so long, and he liked not remembering. It was a lot easier to sleep when he didn’t remember it. With the Trio he was one of them, and with the Scoobies he was just on the sidelines. But being around them made him want to be better. He’d never be a Buffy, but maybe he could be a Xander. Even in high school, that would have been like a dream to him.
Beside him Dawn was rambling on, but he wasn’t really listening. He tuned her out occasionally—sometimes she wasn't very nice; she’d kicked Buffy out of her own house! And that made Spike leave, so it was twice as bad.
“I mean, are we just going to sit around and let—” Dawn continued.
“Xander and Willow are back,” Andrew interrupted in relief, glancing out the window and seeing the SUV pull into the driveway. “We’d better help with Willow’s stuff.” He was out the door before Dawn could stop him. She might be right, but he wasn’t ready yet.
Maybe he would be later, but not yet.
~*~*~*~
“Dead?”
Xander nodded tiredly in response to Buffy’s disbelieving question.
“Dead dead?” squeaked Andrew. He felt sick. God, Dawn was right! Kennedy had been on the sidelines just like them, and now she was gone, despite her Slayer strength. And despite being kind of mean. If it had killed her, it could kill any of them. It could kill him!
Xander winced, glancing over at Willow. Her face wasn’t enraged, wasn’t miserable, wasn’t even stunned. It was just … old. And now she had to go through it all again. “Yeah, Andrew. Dead dead.”
“How—how was … how?” asked Dawn hesitantly.
“Her neck was broken.”
“The demon,” whispered Buffy, wrapping her arms around herself. She’d known there would be trouble. There always was.
“Why would the demon attack Kennedy?” said Spike, making Buffy turn to him in surprise. He’d been quiet all day—the natural result of too much alcohol and an unexpected update on his mortality—but suddenly he felt completely sober. “What would killing her do?”
Willow flinched and shook her head “I—I don’t know. Maybe she caught it doing something. She hated to sit around and wait, she thought it was useless and … cowardly. She must have had a plan,” she speculated, her voice strained. A tremor ran through her, and she clenched her jaw. “I’m—I’m going upstairs,” she finished. Xander reached a hand out to her, and she stepped away, refusing his comfort. She didn’t want it. Not now.
The others watched her go in silence. Buffy thought, remotely, that this had happened so many times, in so many ways, that they’d be used to it, but it was always a kick in the gut. It never got easier.
“Kennedy was closing in on it and it killed her,” whispered Andrew, shaking his head.
“Oh for god’s sake,” snapped Giles. “That’s nonsense. We all know who killed Kennedy, and it wasn’t a demon.”
The others stared at him. “What are you saying?” Buffy asked in disbelief.
“I’m saying there’s only one person who stood to gain by Kennedy’s death, and that’s Spike.”
“Spike?” Dawn whispered, looking stricken.
“That’s ridiculous,” Buffy said sharply. “It wasn’t Spike, he wouldn’t do something like that.”
“He’s done it many times before—”
“He’s human now!”
“And must have been feeling particularly mortal and vulnerable at the time. And considering he believed that Kennedy and the demon were one, and planning his death, it’s not surprising he struck out at her.”
Finally Spike spoke, his voice chill. “That’s a load of shit, mate, and you know it. Exactly how am I supposed to break a Slayer’s neck? In case you’ve missed the Slayer saying it, I’m human.”
“Last night Kennedy couldn’t have saved herself—Willow made sure of that,” Giles said grimly.
“What are you talking about?” Buffy demanded.
“Willow performed a spell to prevent Kennedy from doing violence.”
“To protect Spike?” asked Andrew.
“To protect Buffy,” corrected Giles. “And Kennedy. The spell was for both of them. In case their confrontation got out of hand.”
“Jesus,” muttered Xander, sinking into an armchair as Buffy swore under her breath.
“So Kennedy’s dead because Willow did a spell and took her power?” asked Dawn.
“That’s not why she’s dead,” he denied flatly, his gaze resting on Spike.
Buffy pushed aside her anger at Will’s interference. That could come later. That definitely would come later. “He was here last night,” said Buffy, steel entering her voice.
“Not all night,” Giles pointed out evenly. “He left only a few minutes after you did. Plenty of time to kill Kennedy after you left her. And no alibi.”
Xander spoke up. “Actually, he has one,” he corrected. “He was with me.”
~*~*~*~
Buffy leaned close to the door, hoping that she didn’t hear Willow casting a spell inside. And hating that she had to worry about that.
There was nothing to hear. No chanting, no crying, no nothing.
“Will?” Buffy asked softly, opening the door. Willow looked up from where she sat at the end of her bed. Her cheeks were a little damp, her eyes tired and hopeless. “God, Will, I’m just—sorry,” said Buffy, bending to hug Willow tightly.
At first Willow was stiff in her arms, but she slowly awakened to the comfort of her friend’s embrace. For a moment she rested her head against Buffy’s slim shoulder, and was surprised to find that it made her feel less alone. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
“How are you doing?” Buffy asked carefully, pulling back a little to look in Willow’s face. Her eyes looked old, but not … black.
Buffy was pitifully relieved.
Willow drew a shuddery breath. “It’s my fault she’s dead,” Willow whispered.
Buffy tensed. She’d planned to wait on it a little while—but if Willow was going to bring it up.…“I—”
“I should have been there,” Willow continued dully, as if Buffy hadn’t spoken. “She was feeling reckless and taking stupid risks. If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have felt so—desperate. But I couldn’t stay with her. I just couldn’t do it. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
“Will—”
“Even now—you know I could have brought her back.”
Buffy froze. “You’re not going to—”
“I didn’t even think of it,” said Willow softly, her voice full of self-loathing. “I walked into the room and there she was, and her head was at a weird angle and her eyes were open, and I didn’t think about it. I watched them as they took her body out. I went to the police station with Xander, and answered questions, and heard them say ‘the victim’ over and over again, and I knew they meant her, and I still never thought about resurrecting her. How’s that?” she finished, her voice wobbly.
Buffy touched her shoulder. “That’s great, Will.”
“No, it’s not. I didn’t not think about it because it was wrong. I didn’t think of it because I didn’t love her enough. It was horrible to see her there, but my world didn’t end. It didn’t make me think I wouldn’t be able to live without her. I just didn’t love her enough. She deserved better than that,” she concluded.
Buffy was tempted not to say anything; she didn’t want Willow to feel any worse than she already did. But she had to know—she had to find out—“The spell you did on Kennedy and me—the one that made us lose our strength….”
“Spell?” Willow looked at her blankly for a moment before comprehension cleared her expression. “No, I dissolved that a few minutes after I cast it. I was worried, and not really thinking too well, but I decided Giles was right about it being dangerous, so I broke it. Kennedy had all her strength last night … she just didn’t have me.”
~*~*~*~
Spike heard Dawn before he saw her. Her silly little shoes—mules, she called them—made clomping sounds, like a clumsy horse as she stepped onto the porch into the growing twilight.
“I didn’t think it was you,” Dawn said.
Spike smiled faintly. “Sure you did, Platelet.”
“I didn’t want to think it,” she amended softly. “I’m glad you and Xander had each other to drink with.”
“More drinking near each other,” Spike muttered with a grimace. “There wasn’t a lot of talking going on.” Him moaning about his encroaching death and Xander whinging about his old girlfriends about summed it up. That and Bartender? Another round.
“I’m glad anyway.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t want you to die.”
“Niblet—”
“But I’m not Niblet anymore,” she said, suddenly fierce. “Or Platelet, or Little Bit, or any of those things. That’s—over. Too much stuff happened for that to be okay any more.”
Spike stared at his feet, feeling his cigarette burning perilously close to his fingers. “Sure,” he said, forcing himself not to attach an endearment to it. It wasn’t easy.
Nothing seemed to be these days.
~*~*~*~
He remained out on the porch long after Dawn had gone in, and his cigarettes had lost their tang. He was human now, and easily tired. He wasn’t at his most alert; if he were, he would have heard the faint creak of the porch, or sensed someone’s presence behind him. He would have noticed in time, and not when the arm was wrapped around his throat
“Look what I’ve got here,” whispered Wood against Spike’s ear. “I guess all things really do come to those who wait.”
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