******************* Title: Mirrored Author: Kate Elizabeth (moonwhip@yahoo.com) http://www.geocities.com/moonwhip/fiction.html Spoilers: Buffy Season 5 finale (The Gift) and Angel Season 2 finale (No Place Like Plrtz Grb). Summary: Willow got to LA, somehow. Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and WB. No copyright infringement is intended. ******************* No time to curl her hair. Tara ran fingers through it, snagging a nail on a coarse tangle and apologizing breathlessly as they kissed. "Sorry, my love," the other girl murmured. And of course the words meant something more, because everything means something more, now. Tara is healed, Buffy is dead. Gold for gold and love for love. Is there a spell that begins with those words? If there is, will she want to remember it? She doesn't remember what she's wearing, doesn't want to look away from the road to check. Probably something green. It's her color, she's been told. It makes her eyes jump. Tara chose it, and pulled the shirt down over her head as she stood stiffly by the bed in her underwear. Kissed an eyebrow, smoothed white fingers over the spot. Willow let herself be led to the mirror, let Tara brush shadow on her eyelids to cover their bruised shine. Giles came to pick her up at the dorm. Brought her back and handed her directions, a crossbow, a bottle of holy water. When he gave her the keys, she almost dropped them. Her hands seemed to have forgotten how to close around things; how to hold them to her and keep them safe. But his hand clamped tight around hers, as if squeezing the air out of her fist. He looked at her. Watery-eyed, mouth firmly closed. She had to flex her fingers in his grip before he let her go. Dawn rose from Spike's side as she was leaving, and walked out to the car with her. The grass-covered soil was lumpy and their shoulders grazed repeatedly as they crossed it. Willow unlocked the car and swung herself clumsily into the driver's seat. Dawn wrapped her fingers around the mirror, the edge of the door. "What are you going to tell him?" she asked. Willow looked up into the reddened face, pretended not to notice that the girl was swaying slightly. "I don't know, Dawnie," she said. "Whatever I can force myself to say, I guess." Dawn leaned in a little, bent drunkenly to kiss her cheek. "Goodbye," she whispered, and narrowly avoided hitting her head as she straightened up. "I'm going inside now. Time for clean bandages." She made herself smile. Only the smallest twitch of muscles, but it squinted her eyes and tensed her jaw. "I'll be back soon." On the highway for a few hours now. She knows the exit she needs -- drove here to go shopping once with Buffy -- and she's at least fifteen minutes from it. She can't see the road clearly, since she spent most of the night crying herself protractedly to sleep on Tara's stomach. The world seems a sharply drawn blur. Side-mirrors throw dizzying reflections into her eyes. From passing cars, she hears snatches of song. Love don't cost a thing... Gold for gold, she thinks. She keeps driving. Cars pack all around her, herding her into the city, and her right thigh begins to cramp from holding constant pressure on the gas pedal. She ignores the ache, checks her mirrors, changes lanes. The fading sun glances warmly off her turned face: cheekbone, chin, forehead. The exit rears up before she expects it, the green and silver sign flashing above her as she brakes. She cuts through two lanes to reach it. Sets up a trail of flaring tail-lights. Doesn't care; feels maybe even a little happy for leaking a bit of chaos to the rest of the world. Going from the exit to the hotel takes only ten minutes of careless turns on gridded streets. She parks in front of the large building, rolls up the window. Makes sure to check the locks carefully. She gets out and doesn't look for cars or even look both ways before striding across the road. The lobby's dark, so she presses her nose the glass panes of the door and peers in. Their doors have bad locks. She fits her palm over the doorknob, murmurs gently, and pushes. The hinge isn't oiled, either. "Cordelia?" she calls, as the creaking subsides, and steps in a little further. The large room is dark, spare, but not frightening; not now. "Angel?" It's quiet. Out of habit, she turns to close the door and meets, in the glass, herself. Wearing green, with straight mussed hair and chewed lips. Sort of beautiful, in that pale carven way she gets during an apocalypse. "Buffy's dead," she says to the sheet-white face. Practicing. She turns away after a moment, and doesn't lock the door. Turning on the lights, she finds a couch to sit on. Feet on the floor, hands braced on the cushions, she waits. When the door finally opens, he leads them in. He's dressed in black -- his color. And he's oddly joyous, halting in the middle of some triumphant proclamation when he sees her. There is a long, breathing pause. On his blank face, realization grows, slow and horrible. The salt in Giles' eyes, teeth-marks in Spike's lower lip. The way Dawn trembles and her own legs shake. He knows. And Willow stands, silent and anguished as a mirror, just reflecting his knowledge right back. ******************* *******************