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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.

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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.

 

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