Fic: Chapter 8 of Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth (Rated PG-13)
For some reason, this chapter was really hard. I just wasn't feeling it. Sigh.
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Anya, Xander, Willow, and Tara.
This chapter's POV: Anya.
Features: Anya character study, Tara's surprise statement, Xander's body language, and what Willow has in common with vengeance seekers.
Notes: This takes place immediately following Willow's announcement in Chapter 7. This is the last chapter before the resurrection.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Rating: PG-13
( Previously...)
Chapter 8. Boldness Be My Friend
Boldness be my friend!
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!
-- William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, Act I. Scene VI.
Bad. Very bad. Very, very bad!
Anya mentally reprimanded the idea while glowering at Willow. That usually worked with misbehaving puppies.
Beside her, Xander had gone completely still, from what Anya hoped to be shock instead of enchantment.
“What?” Xander’s voice was barely a whisper.
Willow seemed to relish the reaction she’d engendered. She beamed like a student who’d been handed an exam she knew she could ace--in other words, like the same old gloating Willow. “Bring Buffy back,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “That’d get us out of the pickle we’re in!”
Anya couldn’t find her voice. The first law of magic was, “Thou shalt not kill,” because the original Coven had not anticipated a witch stupid enough to attempt a resurrection, which would’ve been the zeroth law. Long misunderstood by mortals, the first law was less concerned with right and wrong than with respecting the balance in Nature. Good and evil, yin and yang, life and death--the fate of the universe was precariously guarded, kept safe, by the pull of such opposite but equal forces. Not to mention that some things were final, and sacred, and best left the hell alone.
A thousand plus years as a vengeance demon and Anya knew this: the return policy on lives taken summed up to a complete and total nil. It had always been far easier to lose a life then to gain one. (Based on that alone, Anya knew that whoever thought that the Powers That Be were benevolent was naïve and due for a rude awakening.) People were born, people died, end of story. The circle of life, from the perspective of any one human, was strictly a one-way street. Resurrections were cosmic no-no’s.
Case in point: the last time a human resurrection took place, possibly while the Powers That Be took a catnap, it resulted in a whole new religion, forever altering the course of human history, triggering countless bloodbaths and unending turmoil in the guise of holy decrees. One man’s life, stolen from the Powers That Be during a time of tumult, had to be repaid in tens of thousands. The consequences of the resurrection of Buffy Summers, a mystically-empowered warrior, in a long line of such prophesied individuals whose activation depended on the death of the previous champion, would be too grave to consider.
Anya shuddered. “You can’t be serious!” she blurted out, voice cracking, “There are forces you simply don’t mess with!”
Willow visibly bristled at that, then seemed to have thought better of it, and settled on a too-saccharine smile. It was an odd thing to observe, like the evolution of changing weather patterns.
“I’m sorry you lost your powers, Anya,” chirped Willow, though she didn’t look the part, didn’t even bother to pretend. “But I know what I’m doing. I’m expert research girl--I always dot my i’s and cross my t’s.” She looked to Tara and Xander in turn, as if for corroboration.
Anya’s hand fidgeted up to her bare neck, where for over a millennium hung the Symbol of Anyanka, the pendant housing her demonic power. She prided herself on her successful assimilation to boring, fragile human life, but she was not going to pretend that she didn’t miss her powers, powers that ignorant children like Willow could never fathom, let alone possess.
“It’s not just the research. You’re dabbling in powers you don’t understand, with consequences you clearly haven’t considered.”
“Huh,” Willow nodded, seemingly receptive to the idea. Disaster averted? Anya’s hopes were dashed when Willow said, “I didn’t know you were a practiced witch. I’ve never seen you at the Wiccan meetings. Why don’t you contribute a useful idea instead of booing other people’s?”
How dare she! Biting sarcasm and bitter criticism was her forte! “Hey! That’s not fair!”
Xander was at least on her side. “Now, just a minute, Willow,” he began, demonstrating finally that his blind spot when it came to Willow was not unbounded.
It was the thought that counted, but as a modern woman, a business owner no less, Anya was no damsel in distress. She told Xander as much, “I could fight my own battles, Xander.”
Xander gestured that he was “hands off,” and she turned to Tara, who usually championed Willow’s causes. “You OK with this? Don’t you think it’s wrong? What about the Wiccan code?”
Tara seemed to shrink back from the implied accusations, as if stung. She drew a shaky breath, but when she spoke, her words were resolute and steady. “Everything about this is wrong. Interfering with the natural order of things is wrong. Using magic for personal reasons is wrong. Reversing a lifecycle is wrong.”
“Then why--?”
“Why would I go along with the plan?” she shifted uncomfortably, as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Because Buffy didn’t die a natural cause. Because evil winning over good is perverse. Because sometimes, a healthy respect for rules means breaking them, with purpose.”
That last one caught Anya by surprise. Tara--sweet, innocent Tara, whose aura probably approximated a double rainbow, perceived the world in gradations, replete with ambiguities? Then again, remembered Anya, Tara wasn’t all innocent, was she? She’d lived most of her life believing herself to be a demon outcast in a human world. That did things to a person’s psyche. Anya wasn’t sure she wanted to know how Tara came to live by that last rule. Willow, on the other hand, smiled appreciatively at her sweetie, as if Tara’s temporary disregard for the rules invalidated them wholesale.
“Okay, so you’re respectfully shouting ‘No!’ to the rules. How do you even know that Buffy’s in a hell dimension?”
Tara floundered, and Willow tamed an eyeroll-in-progress, which Anya caught anyway. How many catfights had she witnessed in her time? Willow was not nearly subtle enough with her contemptuous dismissal.
“She died diving into a portal into Glory’s home sweet home, or have you already forgotten?”
How could she? The head injury she’d sustained trying to shield Xander from harm had served as an instant recall for days, even with maximum-strength painkillers. Since then, with Buffy’s death plunging all of them into shellshock and mourning, there had been no real chance of escaping those dreadful memories. Plenty of denial across the board, sure, but forgetting? As Xander would say: no way, no how.
Anya’s face must have reflected some of the horror that crossed her mind, for Willow deflated in front of everyone, her tone softening as she said, seemingly with effort, “I just--I just want things to go back to the way they were before.”
“Oh, Willow.” Anya couldn’t help it. She tried to project a lofty judgemental tenacity, but felt herself unclench despite her resolve. How many times had she heard that very line?
All the time in her previous life, wronged women had eagerly poured out their shattered little hearts to her, about reneged engagements, sweet-talking blaggard suitors, lying, cheating, waste-of-space husbands, and child-support payment-skipping ex’s. Vengeance had been the ultimate equalizer, and those seeking payback had come to her from all walks of life, dressed to match: in lavish Medieval surcoats with overflowing Oriental silk, modest linen cloaks overlaid with simple, well-worn aprons, imported Italian pantsuits expertly starched and pressed, or skimpy party dresses reeking of cheap cologne. She recalled the lovely silk dresses fondly, though perhaps not the way they’d been stained by their owners’ tears and that distinct odor of bitter disillusionment.
The situation had never changed: the crime was sometimes trivial, sometimes atrocious, but the pain had always been genuine, the denial always the same. The truth invariably hurt, too, as Anya knew well, but it had been her job to give it to them straight. She’d done her best to put the poor dears at ease first, of course. She’d demanded from herself nothing short of perfect professionalism. They’d bond over homemade tea, boutique coffee, beer straight from the keg, and that one time, way too many Tequila shots from a well-tipped bartender (on which occasion joining her mark had turned out to be a personal mistake for Anya)...
She would offer a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a pat on the back, a drink for luck (though no more for Tequila Chick, bartender!), as the perfect combination of a good sister who watched out for their best interest, the kindred friend who offered unwavering support, and the Fairy Godmother of their dreams.
At the end of the day, however, she hadn’t been able to--even with her D'Hoffryn-sanctioned powers, even at the peak of her abilities--make things the way they used to be. She sold the alternative--a vengeance wish--and sold it well (oh, did she ever!), not that most of the women needed more than a slight nudge to take the plunge. But even then, she had known that it wasn’t what the women had wanted, deep down. What they’d wanted was impossible.
Case in point: Buffy was dead. (She seemed to have taken a lot of happiness with her, thought Anya, even though it had already been in short supply in this world.) The universe had moved on. Buffy would never be again. Was it really that difficult a concept for humans to grasp? Were they really so insignificant that they couldn’t see beyond their own pain to the perspective of greater cosmic forces at play?
She broke it to Willow with the bluntness of a thousand years of vengence practice, trying to snap her out of this streak of melodramatic sentimentality. “You know I don’t sugarcoat, Willow. Things will never go back to the way they were before. Buffy is dead--a worthy, Slayer’s death, and we need to move on, and live, and honor her memory.”
But Willow wasn’t interested in perspective. She fought the harsh reality in front of her, willfully cocooning herself into an alternate world where the loss of Buffy could not be overcome, must not be withstood--even disregarding Tara’s hand on her arm that attempted to physically if not verbally hold her back.
“No, you listen, all of you! A couple of years ago, I would’ve agreed with you--resurrection spells would’ve been too complex, too tricky for timid, little Willow. I was uncertain, uncommitted, uninspired, and untested. But I’ve come a long way.
“I’ve been the Slayer’s right-hand witch, the group’s go-to spellmaster. I’ve single-handedly held off an entire army, and faced off with a hell god and lived to tell the tale. I can merge energies from multiple people without causing injury, and reverse an unknown curse to undo specific damage.” Here she looked in turn at Xander, Tara, and Anya, and pleaded, “I can do this: save Buffy. She was my best friend, and she didn’t deserve to die in a hell dimension.”
She looked away for a second, and when she spoke again, her voice was hard, and swelling with resolve. “I can save her--I know I can, but not by myself, not without your help. Will you help me? Will you help Buffy? Please?”
It was the final “please” that did it.
Anya felt cornered. If she had an Achilles’ heel, it was a desperate woman in need of assistance. Call it an occupational hazard, but after a few hundred years, it had became a full-blown, automatic--sometimes even preemptive--response. Within ten paces of a woman desperate for vengeance, her eyes would tear up, her hands would itch, her nose would tingle. After a thousand years, it had become a full-body experience; even her toes were twitchy with anticipation. Like seasonal allergies, except year-round.
Anya might be without her powers, but not without her heart, and whatever was left of her demonic sixth sense could feel the rage and pain that radiated from Willow. She was clearly hungry for Buffy’s revenge, which at least would be justified. Buffy had been Heaven’s Chosen One, whose life and death had been shrouded in mysticism to begin with. Could she be an exception to the rule of magic?
Sweet Tara, who had probably never hurt a fly and had been predisposed to follow Willow to Magicland’s equivalent of the end of the world, before the latter even opened her eloquent mouth to drum up support, was the first to pledge her allegiance. No surprises there. With a coy tug on their linked hands, she said to Willow, “You gave me back my mind and my life, after Glory tried to destroy me. I’ve seen how you use magic to heal, to restore. I’ll help you save Buffy.”
Willow smiled, with a lover’s intensity, but a mourner’s kindness. As if someone had just offered her condolences at a funeral. Anya wondered if she hadn’t been a bit too harsh on Willow. Maybe it would all work out. Judging by how big a group of misfits they were, Heaven knows they couldn’t possibly have survived Sunnydale thanks to their own competency in fighting demons. Maybe the Powers That Be really did favor the Slayer and those in her circle?
“Xander?” Willow prompted, switching off her sweetheart smile to one full of expectancy. It was clearly roll call time.
“Well, you know.” Xander waved with perfect ambiguity, a floppy upward motion that could’ve just as easily been a dismissal as a surrender. He looked to Willow, then to Anya, as if caught between a rock and a hard place. “It’s magic, and, you know.” This time he threw up both arms, looking unwilling to elaborate, to commit, as if it were an obvious trick question.
Anya took pity on him. “Xander, it’s okay,” she said gently. “I get it.”
That opened the floodgate. All of a sudden words were spilling out of him. “I can’t not help, Anya. It’s the Buffster. I don’t understand magic--it’s all stinky herbs, abracadabra, poof, voila! But if there’s the slightest chance of saving her from a fate worse than death, of bringing her back from some God-forsaken hell dimension of torture, I can’t be Switzerland. I’d already chosen, back in high school. I can’t desert her now. I’m all in.”
What do you say to that? Except to kiss him silly? So she did. “This is why I love you, Xander Harris,” she said with a trembling lower lip, getting emotional. “You can be real dumb sometimes, but you’re a loyal friend and a steadfast fighter. And you rock my world, you silly human. If you’re in, I’m in.”
She leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, “I love you. I don’t want irreconcilable differences between us. Did you know? The great state of California consider those as legal grounds for divorce.”
Xander flashed her an awkward smile, then stole glances at Willow and Tara, who were busy pretending not to be watching, all three of them red in the face. Which was both stupid and inconvenient. Humans got flustered by the smallest gestures of PDA, and they thought demons were the ones who couldn’t love.
“Wait.” Xander’s brow creased. “Did you say ‘real dumb’?”
“I said ‘I love you!’” answered Anya sweetly.
“I love you, too!” came Xander’s automatic response, without a second’s hesitation. Good boy.
Anya forced herself to relax. The rest of the group had moved onto idle chatter, and Xander was doing another round of going through the empty takeover containers. Oh, pleasantly-shaped Xander, who as a rule left no Chinese food behind. It was as if he had a bottomless stomach, and she’d wished that particular condition on one of her victims before to know how unpleasant that was.
Speaking of unpleasant, Anya considered the current state of mess. They were to have a resurrection on their hands. If she had a tail, it’d be twitching now. On the other hand, this was Sunnydale, surely it was no stranger than some of the freak incidents that routinely plagued their lives. There was no way such rousing speech-making and almost-crying and uncomfortable displays of friendship and support and love could lead to the worst mistake of their generation.
Right?
~ To Be Continued... Next chapter: the resurrection! ~
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Anya, Xander, Willow, and Tara.
This chapter's POV: Anya.
Features: Anya character study, Tara's surprise statement, Xander's body language, and what Willow has in common with vengeance seekers.
Notes: This takes place immediately following Willow's announcement in Chapter 7. This is the last chapter before the resurrection.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Rating: PG-13
( Previously...)
Chapter 8. Boldness Be My Friend
Boldness be my friend!
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!
-- William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, Act I. Scene VI.
Bad. Very bad. Very, very bad!
Anya mentally reprimanded the idea while glowering at Willow. That usually worked with misbehaving puppies.
Beside her, Xander had gone completely still, from what Anya hoped to be shock instead of enchantment.
“What?” Xander’s voice was barely a whisper.
Willow seemed to relish the reaction she’d engendered. She beamed like a student who’d been handed an exam she knew she could ace--in other words, like the same old gloating Willow. “Bring Buffy back,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “That’d get us out of the pickle we’re in!”
Anya couldn’t find her voice. The first law of magic was, “Thou shalt not kill,” because the original Coven had not anticipated a witch stupid enough to attempt a resurrection, which would’ve been the zeroth law. Long misunderstood by mortals, the first law was less concerned with right and wrong than with respecting the balance in Nature. Good and evil, yin and yang, life and death--the fate of the universe was precariously guarded, kept safe, by the pull of such opposite but equal forces. Not to mention that some things were final, and sacred, and best left the hell alone.
A thousand plus years as a vengeance demon and Anya knew this: the return policy on lives taken summed up to a complete and total nil. It had always been far easier to lose a life then to gain one. (Based on that alone, Anya knew that whoever thought that the Powers That Be were benevolent was naïve and due for a rude awakening.) People were born, people died, end of story. The circle of life, from the perspective of any one human, was strictly a one-way street. Resurrections were cosmic no-no’s.
Case in point: the last time a human resurrection took place, possibly while the Powers That Be took a catnap, it resulted in a whole new religion, forever altering the course of human history, triggering countless bloodbaths and unending turmoil in the guise of holy decrees. One man’s life, stolen from the Powers That Be during a time of tumult, had to be repaid in tens of thousands. The consequences of the resurrection of Buffy Summers, a mystically-empowered warrior, in a long line of such prophesied individuals whose activation depended on the death of the previous champion, would be too grave to consider.
Anya shuddered. “You can’t be serious!” she blurted out, voice cracking, “There are forces you simply don’t mess with!”
Willow visibly bristled at that, then seemed to have thought better of it, and settled on a too-saccharine smile. It was an odd thing to observe, like the evolution of changing weather patterns.
“I’m sorry you lost your powers, Anya,” chirped Willow, though she didn’t look the part, didn’t even bother to pretend. “But I know what I’m doing. I’m expert research girl--I always dot my i’s and cross my t’s.” She looked to Tara and Xander in turn, as if for corroboration.
Anya’s hand fidgeted up to her bare neck, where for over a millennium hung the Symbol of Anyanka, the pendant housing her demonic power. She prided herself on her successful assimilation to boring, fragile human life, but she was not going to pretend that she didn’t miss her powers, powers that ignorant children like Willow could never fathom, let alone possess.
“It’s not just the research. You’re dabbling in powers you don’t understand, with consequences you clearly haven’t considered.”
“Huh,” Willow nodded, seemingly receptive to the idea. Disaster averted? Anya’s hopes were dashed when Willow said, “I didn’t know you were a practiced witch. I’ve never seen you at the Wiccan meetings. Why don’t you contribute a useful idea instead of booing other people’s?”
How dare she! Biting sarcasm and bitter criticism was her forte! “Hey! That’s not fair!”
Xander was at least on her side. “Now, just a minute, Willow,” he began, demonstrating finally that his blind spot when it came to Willow was not unbounded.
It was the thought that counted, but as a modern woman, a business owner no less, Anya was no damsel in distress. She told Xander as much, “I could fight my own battles, Xander.”
Xander gestured that he was “hands off,” and she turned to Tara, who usually championed Willow’s causes. “You OK with this? Don’t you think it’s wrong? What about the Wiccan code?”
Tara seemed to shrink back from the implied accusations, as if stung. She drew a shaky breath, but when she spoke, her words were resolute and steady. “Everything about this is wrong. Interfering with the natural order of things is wrong. Using magic for personal reasons is wrong. Reversing a lifecycle is wrong.”
“Then why--?”
“Why would I go along with the plan?” she shifted uncomfortably, as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Because Buffy didn’t die a natural cause. Because evil winning over good is perverse. Because sometimes, a healthy respect for rules means breaking them, with purpose.”
That last one caught Anya by surprise. Tara--sweet, innocent Tara, whose aura probably approximated a double rainbow, perceived the world in gradations, replete with ambiguities? Then again, remembered Anya, Tara wasn’t all innocent, was she? She’d lived most of her life believing herself to be a demon outcast in a human world. That did things to a person’s psyche. Anya wasn’t sure she wanted to know how Tara came to live by that last rule. Willow, on the other hand, smiled appreciatively at her sweetie, as if Tara’s temporary disregard for the rules invalidated them wholesale.
“Okay, so you’re respectfully shouting ‘No!’ to the rules. How do you even know that Buffy’s in a hell dimension?”
Tara floundered, and Willow tamed an eyeroll-in-progress, which Anya caught anyway. How many catfights had she witnessed in her time? Willow was not nearly subtle enough with her contemptuous dismissal.
“She died diving into a portal into Glory’s home sweet home, or have you already forgotten?”
How could she? The head injury she’d sustained trying to shield Xander from harm had served as an instant recall for days, even with maximum-strength painkillers. Since then, with Buffy’s death plunging all of them into shellshock and mourning, there had been no real chance of escaping those dreadful memories. Plenty of denial across the board, sure, but forgetting? As Xander would say: no way, no how.
Anya’s face must have reflected some of the horror that crossed her mind, for Willow deflated in front of everyone, her tone softening as she said, seemingly with effort, “I just--I just want things to go back to the way they were before.”
“Oh, Willow.” Anya couldn’t help it. She tried to project a lofty judgemental tenacity, but felt herself unclench despite her resolve. How many times had she heard that very line?
All the time in her previous life, wronged women had eagerly poured out their shattered little hearts to her, about reneged engagements, sweet-talking blaggard suitors, lying, cheating, waste-of-space husbands, and child-support payment-skipping ex’s. Vengeance had been the ultimate equalizer, and those seeking payback had come to her from all walks of life, dressed to match: in lavish Medieval surcoats with overflowing Oriental silk, modest linen cloaks overlaid with simple, well-worn aprons, imported Italian pantsuits expertly starched and pressed, or skimpy party dresses reeking of cheap cologne. She recalled the lovely silk dresses fondly, though perhaps not the way they’d been stained by their owners’ tears and that distinct odor of bitter disillusionment.
The situation had never changed: the crime was sometimes trivial, sometimes atrocious, but the pain had always been genuine, the denial always the same. The truth invariably hurt, too, as Anya knew well, but it had been her job to give it to them straight. She’d done her best to put the poor dears at ease first, of course. She’d demanded from herself nothing short of perfect professionalism. They’d bond over homemade tea, boutique coffee, beer straight from the keg, and that one time, way too many Tequila shots from a well-tipped bartender (on which occasion joining her mark had turned out to be a personal mistake for Anya)...
She would offer a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a pat on the back, a drink for luck (though no more for Tequila Chick, bartender!), as the perfect combination of a good sister who watched out for their best interest, the kindred friend who offered unwavering support, and the Fairy Godmother of their dreams.
At the end of the day, however, she hadn’t been able to--even with her D'Hoffryn-sanctioned powers, even at the peak of her abilities--make things the way they used to be. She sold the alternative--a vengeance wish--and sold it well (oh, did she ever!), not that most of the women needed more than a slight nudge to take the plunge. But even then, she had known that it wasn’t what the women had wanted, deep down. What they’d wanted was impossible.
Case in point: Buffy was dead. (She seemed to have taken a lot of happiness with her, thought Anya, even though it had already been in short supply in this world.) The universe had moved on. Buffy would never be again. Was it really that difficult a concept for humans to grasp? Were they really so insignificant that they couldn’t see beyond their own pain to the perspective of greater cosmic forces at play?
She broke it to Willow with the bluntness of a thousand years of vengence practice, trying to snap her out of this streak of melodramatic sentimentality. “You know I don’t sugarcoat, Willow. Things will never go back to the way they were before. Buffy is dead--a worthy, Slayer’s death, and we need to move on, and live, and honor her memory.”
But Willow wasn’t interested in perspective. She fought the harsh reality in front of her, willfully cocooning herself into an alternate world where the loss of Buffy could not be overcome, must not be withstood--even disregarding Tara’s hand on her arm that attempted to physically if not verbally hold her back.
“No, you listen, all of you! A couple of years ago, I would’ve agreed with you--resurrection spells would’ve been too complex, too tricky for timid, little Willow. I was uncertain, uncommitted, uninspired, and untested. But I’ve come a long way.
“I’ve been the Slayer’s right-hand witch, the group’s go-to spellmaster. I’ve single-handedly held off an entire army, and faced off with a hell god and lived to tell the tale. I can merge energies from multiple people without causing injury, and reverse an unknown curse to undo specific damage.” Here she looked in turn at Xander, Tara, and Anya, and pleaded, “I can do this: save Buffy. She was my best friend, and she didn’t deserve to die in a hell dimension.”
She looked away for a second, and when she spoke again, her voice was hard, and swelling with resolve. “I can save her--I know I can, but not by myself, not without your help. Will you help me? Will you help Buffy? Please?”
It was the final “please” that did it.
Anya felt cornered. If she had an Achilles’ heel, it was a desperate woman in need of assistance. Call it an occupational hazard, but after a few hundred years, it had became a full-blown, automatic--sometimes even preemptive--response. Within ten paces of a woman desperate for vengeance, her eyes would tear up, her hands would itch, her nose would tingle. After a thousand years, it had become a full-body experience; even her toes were twitchy with anticipation. Like seasonal allergies, except year-round.
Anya might be without her powers, but not without her heart, and whatever was left of her demonic sixth sense could feel the rage and pain that radiated from Willow. She was clearly hungry for Buffy’s revenge, which at least would be justified. Buffy had been Heaven’s Chosen One, whose life and death had been shrouded in mysticism to begin with. Could she be an exception to the rule of magic?
Sweet Tara, who had probably never hurt a fly and had been predisposed to follow Willow to Magicland’s equivalent of the end of the world, before the latter even opened her eloquent mouth to drum up support, was the first to pledge her allegiance. No surprises there. With a coy tug on their linked hands, she said to Willow, “You gave me back my mind and my life, after Glory tried to destroy me. I’ve seen how you use magic to heal, to restore. I’ll help you save Buffy.”
Willow smiled, with a lover’s intensity, but a mourner’s kindness. As if someone had just offered her condolences at a funeral. Anya wondered if she hadn’t been a bit too harsh on Willow. Maybe it would all work out. Judging by how big a group of misfits they were, Heaven knows they couldn’t possibly have survived Sunnydale thanks to their own competency in fighting demons. Maybe the Powers That Be really did favor the Slayer and those in her circle?
“Xander?” Willow prompted, switching off her sweetheart smile to one full of expectancy. It was clearly roll call time.
“Well, you know.” Xander waved with perfect ambiguity, a floppy upward motion that could’ve just as easily been a dismissal as a surrender. He looked to Willow, then to Anya, as if caught between a rock and a hard place. “It’s magic, and, you know.” This time he threw up both arms, looking unwilling to elaborate, to commit, as if it were an obvious trick question.
Anya took pity on him. “Xander, it’s okay,” she said gently. “I get it.”
That opened the floodgate. All of a sudden words were spilling out of him. “I can’t not help, Anya. It’s the Buffster. I don’t understand magic--it’s all stinky herbs, abracadabra, poof, voila! But if there’s the slightest chance of saving her from a fate worse than death, of bringing her back from some God-forsaken hell dimension of torture, I can’t be Switzerland. I’d already chosen, back in high school. I can’t desert her now. I’m all in.”
What do you say to that? Except to kiss him silly? So she did. “This is why I love you, Xander Harris,” she said with a trembling lower lip, getting emotional. “You can be real dumb sometimes, but you’re a loyal friend and a steadfast fighter. And you rock my world, you silly human. If you’re in, I’m in.”
She leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, “I love you. I don’t want irreconcilable differences between us. Did you know? The great state of California consider those as legal grounds for divorce.”
Xander flashed her an awkward smile, then stole glances at Willow and Tara, who were busy pretending not to be watching, all three of them red in the face. Which was both stupid and inconvenient. Humans got flustered by the smallest gestures of PDA, and they thought demons were the ones who couldn’t love.
“Wait.” Xander’s brow creased. “Did you say ‘real dumb’?”
“I said ‘I love you!’” answered Anya sweetly.
“I love you, too!” came Xander’s automatic response, without a second’s hesitation. Good boy.
Anya forced herself to relax. The rest of the group had moved onto idle chatter, and Xander was doing another round of going through the empty takeover containers. Oh, pleasantly-shaped Xander, who as a rule left no Chinese food behind. It was as if he had a bottomless stomach, and she’d wished that particular condition on one of her victims before to know how unpleasant that was.
Speaking of unpleasant, Anya considered the current state of mess. They were to have a resurrection on their hands. If she had a tail, it’d be twitching now. On the other hand, this was Sunnydale, surely it was no stranger than some of the freak incidents that routinely plagued their lives. There was no way such rousing speech-making and almost-crying and uncomfortable displays of friendship and support and love could lead to the worst mistake of their generation.
Right?
~ To Be Continued... Next chapter: the resurrection! ~