fic: "Secret Messages" (Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 8; rated PG)
Willow was distracted… she had a lot of things to do, not much time to do them in, no certainty that she could do them, and big bad consequences if she didn’t.
But she still had enough inner calm to pull this little item from her mental Rolodex:
When Buffy tags along after you and talks a mile a minute, she needs reassurance.
“We’ll be okay, Buffy. Just like when we had no hope of stopping the First Evil, and the time we had no hope of stopping Glory, and the time we had no hope of stopping me.”
“I know, Will. I know. It’s just that…”
Willow paused in her tracks and gave Buffy what she hoped looked like a smile. “It’s just that you think everyone hates you for getting them to give up their powers, and we’re all gonna get killed because of it, and you’ll be to blame. Right?”
Buffy opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“We tried the not-trusting-Buffy thing before, remember?” Willow said. “It was stupid then, and it would be stupid now.”
Buffy sighed. “That’s a good thing, then. We sure can’t afford for you guys to be stupid, too.”
“Buffy…”
“Our first order of business is to get Bay and the baby out of here, to somewhere safe, before Twilight’s goons start blowing things up. Do you think we can do it?”
“I think so. I kinda sucked at the meditating the magic away thing. Still got some mojo left.”
“Good. We need to try and convince Oz to go with them. Think he’ll be willing?”
“Dunno,” shrugged Willow. “If he doesn’t put his loyalty to his wife and son ahead of his loyalty to us, he needs a good smack. Not sure I’m gonna give him a choice. I don’t wanna have to smack him. Not anymore, at least.”
They arrived at the door to Willow and Kennedy’s bedroom, and entered to find that things had become a lot… greener and slimier and more ribbitty than they had been any time in recent memory.
There were frogs in the bed. There were frogs in Willow’s slippers. Her duffel bag was moving thanks to its burgeoning frog population. There were frogs everywhere, and the place sounded like a swamp at dusk.
Willow and Buffy took in the sight in silence, for a while.
“Okay,” said Buffy at last. “Observing. Processing. Wondering…”
“It’s Amy,” Willow said flatly. “When she was prowling around here as a cat, she probably made herself familiar enough with this place to pinpoint any spot she likes with her spells. This must be her Willow’s Frog Fear special.”
“Not… seeing the point.”
Willow gave Buffy a wan smile. “You know I was afraid of frogs as a kid. And, um, a teenager. And a young adult. All amphibians, really. I couldn’t watch Sesame Street because I thought Kermit was sizing me up and waiting for his chance to come through the TV screen at me like an evil green felt ninja. Amy used to tease me about it. But one time when he were eight or nine, we were camping out in my backyard. A big old frog got into the tent with us… I mean, I think that thing had fangs. Well, it was Sunnydale, so maybe it did. Anyway, Amy picked it up and carried it outside and threw it over the fence into the Blanchards’ swimming pool. I thought it was the bravest thing I ever saw. Then she came back and moved her sleeping bag closer to mine so she could hold my hand all night.”
Will sighed. “I guess she doesn’t want to hold hands anymore.”
She walked into the room, pushing frogs out of the way with her feet. She seemed to be looking for something hanging in midair.
“A wormhole portal,” she said after a moment. “Still fresh. I can use it to send something back to Amy along the same path. I don’t even need to cast my own translocation spell. Which is good, because I’m not sure I can.”
“We have some grenades you could send,” Buffy said helpfully. “Mines. Plastic explosives…”
“She’ll have defenses up against anything dangerous coming through,” Willow said. She looked at Buffy sadly. “Just leave it to me. Go do the stuff you have to do. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
Buffy nodded. Willow is good. Trust the Willow. With those thoughts, she hurried off to find Oz and Bay and the baby.
* * * * *
“So what you’re telling me,” Warren said gleefully, “is that Willow Rosenberg, destroyer of worlds, mistress of magicks… is afraid of frogs.”
“Probably not anymore,” Amy said. “But she was. She’ll get the message. The insult.”
“You know, Ame,” he said, “I know we fight a lot. To be fair, I may be a bit thin-skinned…”
Amy looked at her skinless boyfriend and snorted. “You’ve been waiting a long time to use that one, haven’t you?”
“Ages. But even though we don’t always see eye-to-eye, I have to admit, you can show some style when you want to. Psychological warfare. Make Rosenberg feel like a scared, pre-pubescent nerd all over again.”
“Glad you approve,” Amy muttered. They’d almost reached her bedroom… she was going to need some specialized equipment for the upcoming unpleasantness.
She sniffed the air in the corridor curiously. “What smells good?”
“Victory in the morning,” Warren said. “I dunno. Got no nose. Sinuses don’t work too well anymore.”
Amy gingerly opened the door to her room, and flicked on the light. She was immediately overwhelmed by the sight and sound of…
“Brownies? A roomful of brownies? Did the witch bitch send these?”
Amy nodded.
“Uh… are they poison brownies?”
“Why don’t you try one and find out?”
“Sweetie,” Warren pouted. “You know chocolate is bad for my complexion. Now… why the hell would Willow send you a bakery full of this crap?”
Twelve years old. Lying on Amy’s bed with History of Western Civilization textbooks open. A half-eaten plate of brownies between them. Giggling. Stopped giggling as Amy’s mother stalked by in the hallway, glaring at them. Giggling resumed. Happy. Friends.
Amy stared at the brownies, all of which came complete with crumbled nuts on the top. It wasn’t really a brownie without the crumbled nuts, she’d once told Willow. It was just stupid cake or something.
She looked at the battered cheerleading trophy rising up from between the stacked desserts on her nightstand. The cheap little statue she’d risked her life and sanity to rescue from the ruins of the Sunnydale Crater.
Amy’s eyes stung. She felt the need to sit down right there on the floor, not caring about Warren’s bewilderment.
“Damn it, Willow,” she said softly. “Just… damn it.”
But it was too late. Far too late.