FIC: If That's Destiny... 2 --- Chap 1

By buffyangel68

buffyangel68@yahoo.com

BtVS/Angel

mild R for implied character death and the description of such.



If That's Destiny 2: Chap 1--Giles-A life half lived
by Buffyangel68


On first stepping through the portal, Giles had tightly shut his eyes, fearing what he would see. He clung stubbornly to the tiny remaining crumbs of his logic and common sense, both of which were telling him that none of what he was going through was even possible.

He clung to them right up until the moment when a powerful, icy wind struck him full in the chest, driving him back a step and prompting him to wrap his arms around himself for protection, suddenly wishing he'd worn all weather gear. He fought and denied the reality of his situation until the moment when the stench of rotting refuse stung his nose, mixed with the almost antiseptic aroma of line dried laundry and the individual, unmistakeable scent of London air- pollution.

The odd combination of odors was instantly recognizeable, sending his mind reeling back into the past, into his past. The moment after he finally did open his eyes, he instantly regretted having done so. If his sense of smell hadn't been enough confirmation as to precisely where and when he was, his vision, once it adjusted to the dimness, completed the picture.

The first thing his diminished sight picked out was the structure of the grimy, garbage littered alley that he stood shivering at the mouth of. The second was the bruised, terrified pre-teen huddled against a dustbin further in; not well hidden, and not really coherent enough to care. He knew each of the rapidly darkening abrasions and weeping slashes on the child's face and hands like familiar, oft-fingered notes on his guitar; notes in a sorrowful, sober, minor-key melody he'd prayed would never reach his ears again. Raising a trembling hand to his own cheek, he traced the path of those marks, tracks of violence that had long ago faded, now tangible only to his fingers.

"What is this, hmm? I've performed in "A Christmas Carol" on stage a hundred times. Even played Scrooge once or twice. I know how this goes. I'm here to learn something, obviously, but you chose the wrong moment and the wrong place. I know this scene too well.... there's nothing more to be gained by... I won't watch this happen again, you bastards. I won't..."

/// then do something about it....\\\ an errant breeze whispered in his ear, leaving him quite uncertain whether he'd just received a hint from the Powers, or whether his own conscience was prodding him. If he were in the same situation as Scrooge had been, nothing he could do would make any difference. He could go to the battered image of his younger self and try to talk him into moving on, avoiding the tragedy the older man knew was coming, but the boy would not hear him or even sense his presence, and nothing would change.

Abruptly, his mind, heart and soul all began to shout at him, assuring him that he wouldn't have received the message, whatever it's source, if he wasn't imbued with the power to follow through on its suggestion.

As he stepped forward to see if it was possible to reach the child, the dark, grating voice from the pit of his brain spoke up and drowned out all the others, despite the fact that it barely whispered.

^...and if you change what happened here all those years ago.... if you dare to alter what you endured on this night, will it change you? If you alter this will it alter all the moments that followed it? When you get back.... if you get back.... will you find the same world you left? ^

Suddenly angry, Giles tried to shut the voice off, to reject its poison as he had the day in his bedroom when it had teased him about Spike being the cure for his pain, instead of a salve for a raw, momentary need. When the thought swam into his consciousness that, at least that day, the baiting, blackly gleeful words had turned out to be true, he felt his confidence in what he was about to do, not to mention in his own sanity, slip just the barest amount before he regained control.

"Alright. That's enough." he whispered harshly, not wanting the boy to hear, if, indeed, he could. "You were right about William. I can't help but admit that, but here, and now.... you're bloody wrong. Even if you aren't.... it's a risk I have to take. I know what's going to happen in a few minutes... I know how little child is left in him... I won't allow the rest to be ripped away again." Giles stated with all the conviction he could muster, hearing it ring false in his ears, but forcing back the doubt before it could attack him again. Moving slowly forward, he moved to within a few feet of the child and stopped. Crouching down, he spoke softly, desparate not to heighten the child's fear any further.

"Hello. Are you alright, young man? From out there... it looked as if you've been hurt. The light isn't very good, so I just wanted to be sure."

A sharp cry of surprise leapt from the boy's throat and he scrabbled back away from the potential threat. It was followed by a muffled shriek of pain as his injured arm scraped against the dustbin then a defiant warning that contained all the energy he had left; evidenced by his slumping to the ground immediately upon its delivery.

"Go away! I don't need no help! Get out, you hear?!"

"I won't hurt you, child, but it's obvious someone has. What are you doing in a place like this, this late at night?"

"Look.... don't come no closer... I don't want no trouble... just... wanna be left alone."

"I can see that. There are people out here tonight who do want trouble, you know. As weak and injured as you are.... you'll never be able to fight them off. If I promise not to come too near, will you stand and come with me to somewhere safe? Can you stand?"

"I'm alright, I tell ya! Get outta here!"

"I can't do that. I could never leave a young one such as yourself out here on such a cold night without even a coat."

For the first time since their conversation had begun, the child looked at Giles with something other than fear and shock.

"You ain't got one neither."

"True. I was only walking down to Brownie's store for a litre of milk and some bread. Didn't think I needed it, really. Didn't watch the weather, tonight, so I didn't know it was so cold. I mean, it is September. I love warm weather. I suppose I was wishful thinking." he mused, praying he could draw the boy in with the mention of a local landmark and the casual, meaningless small talk. To his relief, his younger self moved back the distance he'd crab crawled away, but when he would come no further, Giles resumed the line of easy patter he'd initiated. "Been to Brownie's have you? Of course you must have done, if you live or go to school near here. All the lads crowd the place of an afternoon; take the chance to grab a forbidden sweet or two before they go home and have to eat the healthy stuff their mothers put in front of them."

"Yah. I know. Rather eat wet cement every night than the veg's she tries to force down my gullet."

"I tell you what. The store'll close fairly soon. I'll let you go in front of me, that way if you feel frightened you can get away. Will you come with me to Brownie's? I promise that I'll get my bread and milk and leave you there. Old Brownie can see you get home, right? He knows you?"

"He knows me face, calls me by name. He's a good bloke."

"So, will you? If you decide you're staying here, I'm staying as well."

"You're balmy! You'd freeze, mate!"

"Then we both will. I'd no more leave you alone here in the cold and dark, than I'd leave a wounded bird on the grass without seeing it got proper attention. Are we going to the store, or are we settling in for the night?"

For several more minutes, the boy simply stared at the grown version of himself as if one of them was, indeed, insane, and he was no longer sure which it was. His sense of impending danger pressing more insistently on him with each passing second, Giles struggled to control the fidgeting his body wanted to engage in, sure that any sign of nervousness would set off all kinds of alarms in the child's head.

"Ya know.... you look like me dad.... an awful lot."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad one?"

"Don't know. I can't think straight... "

"Your arm hurts terribly does it?"

"Yeah. Leg too. Not so sure I can stand...."

"It... it sounds like you may need some serious help. Please.... let me come closer. I swear, I don't want to hurt you anymore. I dare say you've been through enough tonight."

"You swear... you'll just drop me at Brownie's?"

"If that's what you want. If anything's broken.... you should go to hospital...."

"No! None a'that. I'll be alright, mate. Just get me to the store, yeah? You can.... come help me up.... I guess..... The first sign a'funny stuff, I'll tell Brownie an' everybody else what ya are, right?"

"No funny stuff, I promise." Giles told him sincerely, moving forward to help the boy stand on his uninjured leg. "Can you make it on your own steam, or...."

"I can put a bit a'weight on it. I'll limp an' hop..... whatever's needed. Let's go, mate."

"Yes. You first, just as I said."

As he and Giles the younger made their way out of the alley and turned toward the store, Giles the elder felt a dark pressure wave of considerable force push against his back. Turning to look over his shoulder, he felt his blood ice over, and every nerve in his body suddenly went berserk. Whipping his head back around, he sped up his steps away from the alley and the man who had tried to violate him that long ago night. The attempt had failed due to his youth and previous injuries, not due to lack of effort on the part of his attacker, and had left him with life long scars, in every sense of the word.

When they finally reached the store, and moved into its welcome warmth, light and safety, Giles released a deeply held breath he didn't realize he'd drawn as he handed the boy over to the care of the shopkeeper.

Abruptly, his surroundings vanished, and he found himself in darkness, a voice booming above and around him.

/// Lesson the first; successfully learned. Proceed. \\\

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When he was aware of actually being somewhere again, Giles slit his eyes open, and found himself in the private examination chamber of the London branch of the Watcher's council. Looking to his left, he saw his father sitting stiffly in a chair similar to the one his son occupied.

"I don't give a damn if you passed their tests or not. Do you understand that?" the older man hissed at his child out of the corner of his mouth. "I won't have you getting wrapped up in a .... a bloody cult! Your mother will be furious that you dared defy her to come here, and even more angry at me for coming in here to get you! The minute we have a chance to exit this hall without drawing attention, we are going to do it, is that crystal clear?"

Without the need for too deep an analysis, Rupert deduced where and when the Powers had dropped him this time. Gazing down at his left lapel, he fingered the small platinum medal the Council had presented him with when he'd been accepted into the Watcher training program at seventeen. Pride swelled his heart all over again, just as it had that night. Suddenly the room swayed slightly as the rush of what lay ahead of him hit his brain, making his head swim crazily just for a moment.

Hearing his name called, he abruptly crashed back to earth, his pleasure collapsing around him as he remembered who had administered his oath of fealty that evening; Quentin Travers. Fighting off the shakes that wracked his body, Rupert stood and moved forward with the other four candidates, despite knees that shook badly enough that they threatened to fail and dump him unceremoniously to the floor at any moment.

This night had been a good one for him, and, for the most part, he remembered it with joy. It had seen him take his first step out from under his father's autocratic, dictatorial rule and away from the emotional and physical flogging that had been the ritual of his days since he was small.

The joy he associated with the memory faded swiftly, however, when it reached the point he was about to face, and he began to wonder if this was what he was here to alter. Gazing up at the man whom he had spent his entire career as a Watcher cow-towing to, begging forgiveness from and bending over backwards to please, Rupert felt trembling flow through the younger form that had been wrapped around his forty-something year-old soul.

Quentin Travers had not only been the one to induct Rupert into the Watchers, he had been his first teacher as well. Being the opportunistic creature he was, Travers had immediately sniffed out the vulnerability Rupert's father had left him, and had sunk his figurative teeth into Giles' emotional weak spot with a malicious eagerness that would have made any vampire envious. Thereafter, whenever Travers was feeling less than his most powerful and needed an ego boost, he sought out his supposed protegé and deliberately tugged the scab away from Giles' psychological infirmity. The younger man's self esteem and self-confidence were thus maintained in a perpetual cycle of re-wounding and partial healing that, through the course of his training, left him at the utter mercy of his mentor.

This control had allowed Travers to turn an obviously abused, torn-down young man into his personal whipping post and, over many years, to create an unsure, faltering man who questioned his every decision and even deferred to the high schoolers he eventually ended up overseeing; so much so that they had often been the ones who did the planning, then executed the plans, without a great deal of effective leadership from him.

Raising his eyes to scan the stage above him, Rupert the elder found himself having to fight off a bout of the giggles as an image of Frankenstein's monster flitted through his head. The urge to laugh passed swiftly when he realized how much he had in common with Mary Shelley's creation; both brought to their makers formless, broken into pieces, both molded and shaped by reputed men of knowledge, who cared for nothing but their own desires and goals.

Abruptly, Rupert's eyes stopped moving restlessly, halting on his mentor and tormentor. Giles the elder remembered all too clearly how this moment had passed the first time. Travers had spoken his name and begun the Watcher's Oath of Fealty, and Giles the younger, thoughts consumed only with how to survive the verbal and physical assault that awaited him at home, had flinched away from the intense gaze of the veteran watcher, reciting the entirety of his oath with his eyes on the floor, setting up a pattern for all the years of association he would be forced to endure with the man.

Abruptly, Giles the elder understood that he was, indeed, here to change this moment, and, as before, perhaps alter every moment that followed. He was here to provide the courage to his young alter-ego that he had not possessed that night.

{Pull myself out of an alley so I don't get raped, give myself the strength to look into that sociopath's eyes so I don't end up wearing a dog collar and tag with his home address on it... same bloody thing, isn't it?}

Filled with the understanding that it was exactly the same thing, Rupert felt determination flood his body, warming and heartening the child within, and raised his eyes to meet those of his former teacher. He held Travers' gaze throughout the few minutes it took him to finish reciting his oath, utterly amazed to find that with every word, Quentin Travers seemed to be shrinking, becoming a much smaller, much less frightenting man than Rupert ever remembered him to be.

As the ceremony finished and people began to leave in large and small groups, Giles allowed his eyes to close and prepared to slip back into the darkness, but nothing happened. The sounds around him remained constant, and all too soon a powerful hand clamped painfully down onto his shoulder, shocking his eyes open again.

"Alright, you lying sack of.... Let's get home. Did you hear me?! I said move!"

Memories of the scene when he'd been dragged home from the hall that night were suddenly clear in Rupert's mind; his father striking out with a solid ash walking stick, landing blows in any spot he could reach, until his son could no longer defend himself and resorted to crawling upstairs like a whipped animal. A young man cradling his head and huddling in the loo 'till four in the morning, unable to stop retching, even when there was nothing left to lose. He knew full well that if he spoke the words that were ringing in his head, he would be leaving his mother as exposed to volatile and dangerous elements as his younger self had been in the alley, but again, a stray breeze murmured to him,

///.... make your choice, Rupert Giles...\\\

and he answered its teasing appeal.

"Father. Please take your hand off me."

"What did you say...."

"I'm not going with you. They have dormitories next door to this hall.... and upstairs as well. I know you'll never understand my reasons, but I was meant to do this... to be this. I feel it so strongly.... Please, just go home. I'll.... I'll send for my things tomorrow."

"You.... impudent, rebellious.... how dare you tell *me* you aren't going to do anything I damn well *tell* you to do?!"

When one of the women who had stood on stage stepped in front of Rupert, he felt the atmosphere change in an instant. Suddenly, the fury that had been suffocating him faltered and began to shred.

"I believe, sir, that the young man asked you to remove the talons you've sunk into his shoulder."

"Look you.... this is a family matter. You.... you just stay out of what doesn't concern you...."

Hearing his father stumble over his words in front of anyone, especially a woman, was a new experience for Giles the younger. The elder could sense a chuckle wanting to bubble up, and quickly quieted his late teenage alter-ego.

"He is a Watcher. As such, we are now his family. If he chooses to live in one of our dormitories instead of under your roof, it is his choice and you will abide by it. I will personally send a team to collect his belongings first thing tomorrow morning, and if anything, even the smallest piece of clothing or handkerchief has been damaged in any way.... I assure you, restitution will not be easily made. You will release our newest novitiate immediately, and you will leave this place even faster, if at all possible."

When he felt the vise grip of his father's hand fall away from his shoulder, and heard the older man storm toward the exit, Rupert finally laughed, deeply and intensely.

"Shall I take that to mean you aren't exactly displeased with his departure?

"Yes, Madam Watcher. You may take it precisely that way."

"Hmm. Good to know we're of the same mind. Have you been snapped up for your apprenticeship yet, young man?"

"No, Madam Watcher."

"Correction. I believe you just have. Your name?"

"Rupert Anthony Giles, Madam Watcher."

"I am Rouselle. Come with me, apprentice, and we'll get you settled in."

"As you wish.... Madame Rouselle."

As he strode off a pace or two behind the woman, Giles the elder felt the darkness descend again, and again the voice thundered its approval.

/// Lesson the second; successfully learned. Proceed. \\\

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Giles' third lesson began with unimaginable, almost unbearable physical pain. This depth of agony he'd only experienced once, and, occasionally, the memory still provided him vivid, bleak nightmares, from which he woke to find himself sobbing and burrowing into William's arms for protection and comfort.

This time, he wasn't allowed even a moment to think, truthfully, had no desire to for the first few minutes. This time he emerged from one darkness into another, one he thought he'd escaped long ago. Once again, he was tied to the wretched chair, in the wretched mansion, being tortured by Satan himself and his beautiful minion.

Somewhere inside the hell his flesh was being put through, the mind of Giles the elder, only by a few years this time, was finally turning over and beginning to function, though he knew he would have to make the necessary changes without input from the alter- ego's brain. The greater part of the mind possessed by Giles the bleeding and slowly dying had retreated to safe quarters long hours before, and would not return until the sudden, and blessed, appearance of Xander and Buffy.

When Drusilla knelt before him, Giles the sane and clear- headed panicked for several frantic seconds, unsure whether he could take control as he had done in the examination chamber when there wasn't enough consciousness present for him to take control of. Even if he could push his mind to the fore, enabling him to correct the devestating mistake he had made that night, it would mean his life.

Angelus would have no compunctions whatsoever about draining what little of Rupert's blood he hadn't already spilled. He might even end up deciding to turn the watcher, just to cause Buffy more misery. Abruptly, the pattern that had run through everything he'd done, and everywhere the Powers had placed him on this trip, fell into place.

{So that's the idea, is it? You want to see how much I'll give up to make things right. You must not have been watching this summer. I adore my life. I love William, and Alex, but if I'm not willing to let them go, to let everything fall away.... I never really had anything, did I? Is that what you've been trying to show me? You want to see genuine, selfless self-sacrifice, you manipulating, head-game playing blighters? Watch this...}

As Dru began the familiar easy, fluid movements and soft speech that had taken him in so easily before, Giles pushed his sharp, unbroken mind to the front and seized command of what had been left for him to work with, remembering to make it appear as if he were still the confused, critically injured man they expected to see. Knowing who it was he was supposed to be envisioning, he began to speak to Jenny as he'd wanted to in forever, as he'd never been able to bring himself to, despite knowing it would only anger Angelus further.

"Je... Jenny. I'm.... I'm so sorry. I should have stopped him.... I should have killed him for you... turned him into.... so much dust... and.... sucked him up.... with the vacuum... No.... I can't.... no....not even for you dear heart... Please... go away... don't want you.... to look at me.... I failed you then.... even for you.... I can't fail.... the world.... oh.... God..." Giles the elder wailed and allowed his head to drop to his chest, seemingly lost in a
bout of regret and sorrow.

"Well. That worked just terrifically, Dru. Why don't you go play with Ms. Edith? I'll finish up here...."

The instant the short sword pierced his back, Giles straightened out of his slump, smiling slightly in amamzement that there was no pain anymore, not from his injuries, not from the metal object slicing and twisting its way through his flesh and bone. He produced a final, burbling chuckle through the blood that had begun to fill his mouth, then dropped forward, unaware of Buffy's enraged entrance several minutes later, and unaware of Xander's reaction to his friend's lifeless body. Had he been able to see, Giles would have, perhaps, been surprised to watch the boy drop to his knees over the motionless form, and begin to weep.

/// Lesson the third; successfully learned. You are dismissed. \\\


Chap 2— Cordelia : Objects in the Rear View Mirror....


Cordelia's protective cloak of anger only lasted until she opened her eyes and realized where she was. When she saw the PTB's audience chamber, her fury gave way to total confusion, only to bubble back to the surface a few moments later.

"What?! Why am I here? What's going on? Somebody talk to me, or I'm going to get really, really upset!"

"Can't have that, can we princess? I've seen ya upset, an' it's nothin' these fellers should hafta experience. Let's spare 'em the gore an' the wrecked furniture, shall we? Not ta mention the slammin' doors. Damn near damaged me hearin', ya did."

For a long stretch of minutes, Cordy stood utterly still, unwilling to lend any credibility to what she had just heard. The familiar lilting brogue had seemed to come from everywhere, but the man who had once owned it was not in sight, and she refused to believe. She had heard the voice too many times in her dreams, and sometimes even in the early mornings when she was half awake, to take even one step toward acceptance of its reality.

When tears of rage finally spilled over and began to track down her cheeks, her paralysis broke, and she lifted a hand to angrily swipe them away.

"You sons of bitches.... how dare you? How dare you use his voice to make me do what you want?! Get me the hell out of here! I want out! Do you hear me?! I'm not playing!"

Fighting back his own tears, a frustrated, fuming, Irish half-demon turned to his overseers and repeated what he'd been trying to get through their heads for months, despite knowing it would be no more effective this time than it was on the previous one-hundred attempts.

"I tole ya. You've hurt her... shit, ya hurt the whole lot of 'em.... too often and too deep. She won't trust that it's me, not even if she sees. She'll still think it's some trick a'yours."

///The pain is not of our making. We are couriers of prophecy, only. This prophecy, this trial, are not for her alone. You will go to Cordelia Suzanne Chase. The two of you must make this journey together. So it is written, so shall it be. \\\

"I've been through my test! You said I passed it! I did what ya tole me to on that thrice damned ship, and I've had to watch her suffer an' almost die more than once because of it! No! No more!"

///Why do you rage against your pre-determined destiny, Allen Francis Doyle? We do not understand. \\\

"Yeah, well ya wouldn't would ya? I hurt her so much when I just left her like that.... I won't rip up her heart again."

///The choice is not yours. You will go to her. You will begin the journey at her side. This we have foreseen. Whether you complete the journey together, or she finishes it unaccompanied... this cannot be known. That, seer, is what will be in your hands. Go. \\\

"Ya can't make me do this..." he murmured, staring at his beloved Queen C, his final protest a quiet one, devoid of any hope that the Powers might learn compassion in the next few seconds.

///Have you forgotten so quickly, Allen Francis Doyle? You can be compelled. You are beyond harm here, but there are others, in the world outside this sacred space... who are not. You will go. \\\

"Yes, damn you to hell... I'll go. I'm so sorry, princess. They're not givin' me any options. Here I come...."

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Standing behind one of the pillars a few feet from Cordelia, Doyle debated one last time making an appearance. He knew full well how fiercely she shielded her heart these days, and seeing him would only infuriate her.

He also knew his jailers would not let him back out of this particular mission, so, fearful as he might be, he stepped out from his hiding place and tried to speak to her, but, as he'd predicted, she was having none of it.

"Hello, Princess. How ya been? I missed ya somethin' awful, ya know...."

Cordy spared her suddenly ressurected friend only the briefest of black glares, before turning her attention back to the upper galleries.

"I warned you. I said, don't try and use my memories of him to play me. That.... is it."

"I did tell ya." Doyle smirked up at the Powers as he backed away, out of Cordy's reach. "Now you're in fer a full on, blood on the apol'stry, good old-fashioned Queen C hissy fit. Better batten down all the hatches boys an' girls... an' I hope every last damn one of 'em leaks on yer empty heads."

From one moment to the next, the atmosphere in the lower chamber radically shifted; from claws out and out of control, to quiet wonder. Feeling the change, Doyle looked down again and sought out Cordy, surprised to find she was staring right at him.

"Who are you? What are you?"

"I know it might be a bit of a stretch fer ya, darlin'... but it is me. It's the same Allen Francis Doyle ya knew and barely tolerated."

In his love's dark eyes, and in her expression, he could see faint stirrings of hope, hope that desperately wanted a place for itself, a place from which it could grow and fill the dark hollows and painful holes he'd left her when he died. He also saw that she wouldn't allow that hope its place just yet. She kept it at the edges, unwilling to risk the disappointment, unwilling to risk her heart.

"What were the last words we said to each other?"

The memory of those last moments brought a tiny smile to Doyle's lips, but he pushed back the tears that followed right behind, not wanting to ruin the fragile peace they'd established. She had never known him to be weepy in the slightest, and he feared it might disturb her.

"Princess.... the only things I want to remember out of all the time I spent in that wretched world are you an' Angel. How could ya think I'd ferget... I knew what I had to do. I looked up... said the words, finally. Bloody stupid ta wait 'till the last, I know,
but...."

"What words?"

"From that movie you were always ravin' about. I said 'I love you'. Still do, by the way. Then you said 'I know', I kissed ya.... an' I let go. After that it's blank 'till I woke up here."

"What movie?"

Doyle searched his memory frantically, but couldn't come up with the right title. He snatched pieces of it, could even see every other word *except* the title scrolling neatly up the screen.

"You would ask that. Now it's gone straight outta me block head. Had somethin' to do with.... guys all over white.... er was it black..."

"You're stalling. Doyle would know."

"Jesus, Mary an' Joseph, girl! It's been almost three years! We don't have video stores here ya know! It was.... The Empire Strikes Out... nah... wait a minute.... Strike the Empire in the Backfield... cripes, that ain't right either..."

Gazing up from his struggles, Doyle saw Cordelia walking slowly toward him, the hope she'd held back so strongly now filling her eyes and shining out from her bright smile. He braced himself for a hug that would knock him on his backside, and was stunned when she merely grasped one of his hands tightly and reached out to touch his face with her other hand.

"You never could get that right. It always came out having something to do with sports. I can't.... you're real. I don't understand. Why?"

"You think they tell me anymore now than they used to? They said you an' me was supposed to do this... journey together. Said it's been written."

"That's their excuse for everything. The geeks! So? What do we do now?"

Doyle closed his eyes for a moment then turned toward the pillars behind them, never losing his grip on her hand.

"According t'them, we just walk between two of these, an' everythin' will start. You ready?"

"Me? I've already done this once. They can't scare me with it again. Let's go."

"That's my princess."

Hand in hand, Cordelia and Doyle strode forward into the dim space between two of the pillars and vanished from sight.

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"Ugh. I say, very loudly, ugh! A yellow brick road? Please! How low-brow and cliché can you get?"

"Not sure what ya mean, but it's what we've been given, girl. Let's get walkin'."

For a moment, Cordelia resisted, but eventually gave in.

"Fine, but if I see even one wasp or a single flying monkey, I am so out of here!"

Though her referrences left Doyle thoroughly confused, he went with the flow of the conversation.

"I'll be right behind ya, princess. I hate bugs with a passion, in case ya don't recall."

"That's right." Cordelia suddenly remembered, laughing behind her hand. "When I first brought all my stuff to the office, and you saw a roach in my suitcase.... you screeched like a girl."

"No more than you did." Doyle groused, the moment not having been one of his finest.

"I *am* a girl."

"No. Yer a woman. Full-grown an' built like a brick...."

"Doyle!"

"I was gonna say somethin' nice."

"Sure you were. Walk."

"I am! See the feet movin'?"

"I wonder who they'll pick for the Scarecrow? Let's see. No brain, right? Must be Xander."

"How about ninety-nine percent a'the guys you went with in high school?" he grumbled, his tone gaining a little more anger at her casual put-down of someone who, by her own admission, had saved her life many times over.

"Okay," she chuckled "so you've got me there. How could I ever have picked a dumb jock who treated me like his fourth favorite football trophy, over someone like Angel, or Wesley, or Gunn.... who know who I really am, and who treat me as if I matter."

"Yer wrong about the boy, ya know. You were always wrong about him, but ya never could spare a minute to stop and see it."

"Xander? What are you talking about?"

"I've been keepin' a watch on all of ya, the SunnyHell bunch included. Ya never looked twice at him back at the watcher's house. Same as always. Don't really matter, I s'ppose. He's nothin' you woulda recognized anyhow. An' his name is Alex."

"I remember Spike saying something about that... wait just a minute! We barely had five minutes to catch our breaths back there, before all this started, and of course I'd recognize him! I'd always know skinny, geeky Xander."

"Not if ya looked in his eyes. When.... if we get back from this, take him aside, an' really look in his eyes. Ya won't like it."

"What? What won't I like? If you know so much about "Alex", then tell me what I'll see."

"Ferget it, 'Delia. I'm sorry I got upset with ya, alright? Didn't know what I was sayin', shoulda kept me big mouth shut. Let's just get on with this. I think I see what we're lookin' for up ahead." he told her, walking away, his head down, never looking back to see if she was following.

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Doyle reached the spot several minutes before Cordy did, as she had stood for quite a while in the middle of the road, arms crossed over her chest, fury written clearly on her face as she indulged a sudden urge to be petulant.

When she finally aquiesced and decided to join him, he waved her away. The structure he was staring up at meant only one thing to him; death. Despite being half demon, he had had several years of Catholic teaching at his parents' insistence. The tall wooden pole sunk into the ground, with the heavy cross member secured a few inches below the top, had only one meaning, and he didn't want Cordy coming too close. She, as usual, had other ideas, and approached, he was surprised to see, without any fear.

" 'Delia! Get away, girl! This ain't somethin' you need to be lookin' at!"

"What is your problem? I've seen them a million times. I may live in California, but I have been to other states, you know. So where is it? Did somebody pull it down, or what?"

"Pull it.... How can ya be so calm talkin about this.... My God, girl have ya gone that far 'round the bend?!"

"Okay. We're not talking about the same thing are we?"

"We aren't?"

"This is a support for hanging a..."

"Stop, will ya please? I know what they hang off these.... evil things. Now you just.... ease on down the road. I'll be there in a minute."

"Doyle, will you stop and listen? This is for a scarecrow, you dumbell!"

"A what? I know a crucifix when I see one, 'Delia. Ain't you ever been to church?"

"No, and apparently, you've never seen *The Wizard of Oz.*" she groaned, turning her face back to the sky. "Let me guess; I explain the whole plot of the movie to Mister no-pop-culture or we spend the whole trip getting into these stupid arguments, right? Why do I volunteer for these damn quests and missions.... they always end up making me wish I'd never been... Ohhhh.... oh boy. That was a close one. Zip the lip Cordy, or you'll wind up on the bridge in the blizzard with Clarence the angel. There are worse movies they could have picked...." she mumbled under her breath.

Seriously concerned for her state of mental health, Doyle approached her slowly, as if afraid she might attack him suddenly.

"Cordy... Princess? Are you...."

"Playing with a full deck? Running on all four wheels? Yeah, unfortunately, I am. Come sit down, Doyle. I have a story to tell you...."

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"So... let's see if I have this straight, yeah? This lass's house gets picked up by a tornado, an' dropped into this weird country fulla little people, where it lands on a bad witch, killin' her. The girl then steals the shoes off a dead person, which a so-called "good witch" condones. This mightily pisses off the other bad witch, her sister, who torments the kid, chasin' her to hell an' back, prob'ly just tryin' to retrieve her poor sister's shoes so she can bury the old gal proper. Along the way the kid picks up a buncha whiny loser hitchikers, an' they all find this wizard fella... who ain't nothin' but a normal guy in a shower stall with an overhead projector an a bitchin' P.A. system. He tells her to commit a second murder, an' then he'll give her an' the others everything they want. The girl an' the whiners kill the *other* witch too, then steal *her* property as well to take back t'the Wizard as proof a'what good assassins and thieves they are. The not-a-wizard guy makes the whiners shut up by givin' 'em cheap imitations of what they really wanted, then takes off in a balloon before they find out what a con artist he really was. The good witch aids an' abets the kid in escapin' prosecution... an' we end up findin' out it was all a dream? What a rotten story! Worse than that episode a'Dallas years back! The kid shouldn't a'gotten to go home! They shoulda given her two consecutive life sentences! How can ya possibly think that's a classic movie?!"

"The way you tell it, it's an episode of "Oz's Most Wanted! Only you would see an archetypal children's story that way!"

"Arche... what? You got a word a day calendar you're workin' through or somethin'?"

Standing and brushing loose grass off her pants, Cordelia glared fiercely down at Doyle.

"Just get up and help me check this thing out, would you? There has to be something here.... a note, words carved into the post.... something that tells us what's going on."

"If ya mean the inscription, I thought it was probably the name and particulars of the guy they crucified up there. Didn't think I should pry." Doyle remarked as he got to his feet.

"Where?" Cordy asked, peering as closely at the wooden structure as she could with the fence in the way.

"Right there. See the words scratched in the wood just in the middle there?"

"Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not.... roasted? Don't tell Angel that. Buffy loved him so much, and boy did he roast! I mean he *was* in Hell, you know, so...."

Suddenly, Doyle spoke up from behind her and Cordy found herself turning to look at him, unsure it was truly his voice she was hearing.

"Love is patient; love is kind; it does not envy; it is not boastful, rude, or arrogant; it does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things; it rejoices not in evil, but rejoices in truth; love never fails."

"Wow."

"Yeah... well, see what actually *goin* to church'll do fer ya? That's my favorite passage outta the whole Bible, I think. First one I ever memorized. I've lost near everythin' else to the whiskey, the gamblin' or sheer stupidity.... but I never lost that. It stayed with me even here, I guess."

"So... do you believe it? I mean, do you really believe that love can be all those things; that it even should be?" Cordy asked him softly as she climbed carefully onto the lowest board of the fence, reaching up to the wooden post and tracing her fingers lightly over the incised letters and words.

The tone of her voice, so unlike the Cordy he remembered, prompted Doyle not to answer immediately. Instead, he studied her silently for several minutes, trying to figure out where the question had come from. Slowly, he began to realize that he'd made the same snap judgements and wrong assumptions about her that she'd made about Alex.

Since his death, his princess had clearly been going through a sea-change; a metamorphosis from the defensive, haughty, demanding Queen C he'd known, into a strong, wise, capable young woman, worthy of the title.

"Yeah, I do believe it. I want to, anyhow. I mean... think about it; no breakin' hearts over stupid material things an' petty jealousies, or with words you spoke without thinkin'. You support each other, you try to always be kind, both people listen, they have total faith in each other, an' it never hurts. Ain't that how love's supposed to work?"

"In a perfect world, maybe."

"True, it ain't perfect. Not even close, really, but the point of livin' in an imperfect world, with imperfect people.... is to try an' make it better every way ya can. The idea is to find someone who really cares for ya... create the strongest, truest, happiest love possible, and enjoy it."

Still perched on the fence, Cordy half-turned to look at Doyle, paused for a long moment, then hopped down and walked to him, taking his hands as she had back in the audience chamber and gazing deeply into his eyes.

It took almost no effort to find what she was searching for. In a moment of blinding clarity, she understood how deeply her off-hand, frequently capricious treatment of Doyle must have hurt him in the past, and she instantly regretted casually throwing away something so precious.

Suddenly, she comprehended the mental depth and emotional vulnerability Doyle had always contained, but had never found a way to reveal to her. Finally, she touched the radiantly beautiful soul that, had she ever bothered to look, she would have discovered long before she'd lost him to death.

"What? Oh, damn it t'hell, my demon ain't showin, is it?"

"No." she told him, smiling softly. "Nothing like that. C'mon. I think we're done here."

Still loosely gripping one of Doyle's hands, she turned and began to stroll down the garishly hued brick path again, tugging him along. "Let's go, buster! Hustle! We've got a Tin Man to find."

{Tin Man.... right. No heart. Wish I could claim that.... God above, I wish it every time I look at her...}

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"An oil can.... an' a rusty ax. Explain this t'me one more time, if ya don't mind awfully."

"Remember, I told you he'd been left out in the rain. Dorothy used the oil can to loosen up his arms and legs and all that so he could move again."

"He was the one missin' a heart?"

"Right. Well... kind of. He wouldn't step on little bugs in the road, he hated to see someone get hurt... all that stuff made him cry, and that rusted his jaw, and they had to drag out the oil again.... it was a whole big thing. I guess you could say he had a heart in the spiritual sense, just not in the physical one."

"Spiritual is what matters. Angel's heart don't beat, but he's grievin' fer Buffy as hard as any of ya. Harder."

"I know. I want to help him. I just don't know what more I can do. I've tried to talk to him about her.... but he just shuts me down and changes the subject."

"Did ya expect any less? Lookit what happened t'the watcher, fer Lord's sake. If that.... what's his name, Spike? If Spike hadn'a come along, your Giles might not still be around."

"What do you mean? What about Giles? Spike didn't say anything about..."

"He won't unless ya really press him. It wasn't Rupert Giles' proudest moment, to say the least. The two of 'em have put it in the past, so it ain't my place to go tellin' tales...."

"Doyle. Please...."

"All I can tell ya is that after the Slayer passed on.... Giles kinda slipped off the twelth step, I guess ya could say. He was drinkin' a great deal too much. Impressed even me, an' that's sayin' somethin'. "

"Are you.... you cannnot possibly be trying to tell me that Rupert Giles was once an alcoholic. No way in heaven or SunnyHell I will ever believe that."

"Ya haven't known him his whole life, now have ya? See, 'Delia, the thing about bein' so connected to the Powers, about bein' in this... in-between place, is it lets ya see things others can't. When I saw how easy he took to the liquor after the Slayer's death I didn't understand it either. It jus' didn't fit with everythin' you'd told me about the man. Then their highnesses lemme have a look at his past. Mosta his early years were a fun fair ride through hell on earth."

Suddenly, a vague memory of one of many, many nasty groups of days from high school surfaced for Cordy.

''Wait... I remember something. There was a demon that came after Giles and Ethan and some other Watchers... and then went into Miss Calendar. Buffy said it had something to do with a group Giles had been in during college. She wouldn't say much more about it, but I got the impression they weren't baking cookies and studying the Bible."

"That was just a hangover from his *real* slow-suicide period, but ya got the idea well enough."

"Then Willow had that great idea of getting Angel to help. He saved Jenny.... saved all of us."

"That's what Angel does." Doyle reminded her, gazing up at her for a moment from his crouched position then returning his gaze to the items in front of him. "So... how is he, anyhow? I mean.... he's okay, right?"

"I thought you'd been watching us."

"I have."

"But not him? Oh. I get it. You didn't want to watch him. To answer the question you didn't ask, yes he misses you, Doyle. He misses you more than I do sometimes... and that's a whole lot of missing, lemme tell you. Losing his best friend like that hurt him... but he got better. He went through a bad patch a while back. He fired all of us, pushed us away and tried to handle things on his own. Wesley and I had both ended up in the hospital at different times for different things.... like I said, Angel hates to see anybody get hurt, especially if he thinks it was because of him."

"I saw. I saw a little a'what went on when he was away from you lot. He's not as strong as he thinks he is. He thought he could carry his own oil can, but he finally figured out how much he needs his lass from Kansas. Took him long enough to get that through his ten-inch thick skull..." Doyle said, a small smile touching his lips.

Tears stinging, Cordy closed her lips tightly on what she wanted to say, feeling, somehow, that it wasn't the right time to put something before Doyle that he wasn't ready to hear. Instead she laid a hand on his shoulder to brace herself, and crouched down beside him, studying the can and the ax closely.

"So. Find any messages yet? More Bible verses maybe?"

"Nothin'." he admitted, picking up the oil can and brushing gently at the dirt encrusted on it. "Wait. There are words here... inscribed in the metal. They're so tiny.... hang on. Lemme get me glasses." he mumbled, digging in a pocket.

"Glasses?" Cordelia giggled. "You wear glasses? I never saw you wear them even once back when...."

"Just look at the ax, wouldja, an' stop guffawin' at me infirmities?"

"Fine, fine. It looks like there's only half a quote here. It must...."

".....start over here. So it does." he replied, slipping a small pair of wire-rimmed frames onto his nose. "Let's see.... " 'Tis loyal friends and true that bind the heart to the soul, and the soul to the body. They are rest for the weary champion, his home, his comfort and...." Hmmm. Stops there. Must be yer turn."

"..... his shelter from the darkness within. They are his comrades in the daily battle he wages for the world's salvation, and his salvation when the battle is o'er." Wow. I don't recognize the quote, but that's Angel alright."

"That's all of ya." he corrected, tugging his glasses off and sliding them back where they'd come from. "You were right, 'Delia. He does have a heart. Now the trick is to.... how did ya put it a minute ago? Oh, yeah. The trick is t' oil it fer him, loosen up his heart an' help him make use of it. There's so much he didn't say t'the Slayer that he wishes he had, so much he wanted to give her..... "

"We're all feeling that, Doyle. I never really knew Buffy. We could have been good friends..... I think. I was such a rich bitch that I couldn't see anything that wasn't directly under the nose I was looking down most of the time."

"Then you lost everythin'."

"Then I met Angel, and I found it again. He saved me.... before he ever really saved me, you know?"

"You saved him too, Princess. An', trust me.... the Slayer understands. Over this side.... all that stuff just goes away. The bad feelin's, the broken hearts, they're worth about as much as nothin'."

"Did you.... were you there when....."

"Nah. But since they knew I'd been involved with Angel, an' he was so connected t'her..... I asked to see her, just once before I got sent on this fool's errand. I wanted to be able to tell ya how she is."

"And?"

"She's warm, an' safe, an' happy. No fightin', no pain. She's at peace. Ya have to make himself believe that, 'Delia. She is at peace."

"It'll be the struggle of the century. You know he's only happy when he's wallowing in guilt and regret."

"I know. It used to be my job t'pull him out of it, remember? It's yours, now. You gotta be his balance pole."

"Balance pole? I don't understand."

"Ya know, the thing a circus performer carries t'help 'em keep steady when they walk across the tightrope? Angel's got some long, thin tightropes comin' up, girl. He's gonna need you to watch his steps, make sure he don't fall."

"I don't know if I can do that. What if I'm not there at the right second? What if I let him down? Will he have a safety net?"

Standing, Doyle began to stretch cramped leg and back muscles in preparation for moving on. Cordy followed suit a few seconds later.

"Yeah, but settin' it up ain't my job. I can't know if it'll be strong enough t'hold him. I can see the past sometimes, Princess, but the future.... it's outta my hands. He's a big boy, our Angel is, with a few tons a'weight on his shoulders t'boot. Whoever his net is.... they're gonna have to be made a'steel an' concrete. You ready t'push on?"

"Yeah. Let's go. The Cowardly Lion awaits, and I have a really strong hunch about who it is...."

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"Okay. Where is it? I don't see anything. No hint this time? What's up with that?"

" 'Delia! Over here. Come and see." Doyle called from the opposite side of the road, his voice clearly telegraphing his wonder and a touch of fear.

"What? What did you.... oh. Oh, my God! Wesley! Get him out of there!"

"I've tried, girl. I can't break it. Can ya go back an' get the ax fer me?"

Cordy nodded quickly, then took off in the direction from which they'd just come. Doyle leaned his hands on the glass partition separating him from Wesley and tried to calm the panicked man pounding on the other side of the barrier. Not knowing if the other could even hear him, Doyle began to speak, half to himself, half to the former watcher.

"Look.... take it easy.... Wesley, is it? Must be, ya idjit, that's what she called him! Wesley, calm down. Cordelia will be right back, alright? We'll get ya outta there, I promise. Just try to be cool.... Hurry up, Delia, wouldja?"


Chap 3a – Wesley: What if? -OR- Fear is a productive emotion....

(This one is maybe a mild R for a bad word or two, violence and such. Once again, implied main character death. All gratitude to E. A. Poe for his marvelous tales and poems. My individual sources of inspiration were "The Black Cat" for part A and "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Cask of Amontillado" for part B. I played fast and loose with the original stories and with Wesley's canon childhood as well, but it was necessary. BTW: the journeys are happening simultaneously. This part will explain how Wes ended up where he was when Cordy and Doyle found him. I wanted to do the chapters in the same order the characters entered the portals so it got a little confusing. Sorry...

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{Damn. My head hurts. My mouth tastes like I've been chewing my socks and chasing them with used motor oil. Good Lord. I'm hung over! The question is, what sort of place am I hung over *in*? Powers That Be, my ass! Powers that torture and abuse mortals for their own amusement is more like it...}

Struggling to sit up, Wesley blinked rapidly several times, trying to clear his vision. Even before the bleariness left his eyes, he realized he was outside, and it was most decidedly not summer. There was a tinge of warmth in the night air, but only that much.

As he gingerly found his way to his feet, Wes gazed at his surroundings anxiously, knowing that the sooner he deduced where he was, the sooner he could get inside and out of the damp, chilly evening. It took a few moments for him to realize he was in the middle of a park, and a few more before he noticed the structure in the distance and knew which park.

"That's the Griffith observatory. Therefore.... I am in Griffith Park." {Oh, brilliant Wesley. If one plus one logic is the best you can do, you'd better shelve any further thinking until you sober up completely. Griffith Park... long haul back to the Hyperion. Too long, in my state. I'll find a hotel for the night then head back tomorrow morning. Maybe my head will feel a bit less like a medicine ball by then.}

Stumbling only a little, Wesley slowly made his way toward the streetlights that he assumed marked a road. When he finally arrived, he was stunned to find Angel's car parked there, as if waiting for him to return. At that moment, it seemed a godsend, and his weary brain didn't allow him the luxury of wondering how it had gotten there. He would be able to save himself the trouble of finding a cab, and the expense of cab-fare he wasn't even sure he possessed.

This thought, vague as it was, led him to reach back and search for his wallet. He found it in his rear pocket, precisely where it should have been, still containing all the cash he remembered having as well as all his credit cards. The world being what it was, he knew he was either very lucky, or he hadn't been unconscious very long. Grateful that he would be able to pay for a place to sleep once he found one, Wesley slid into the drivers seat and began to search for the keys. Once again, he found them in his pocket, this time the left front and once again he lacked the vigor to question his amazing good fortune as he should have; as he automatically would have, had his head been even a small percentage clearer.

His luck continued unabated when he started the convertible and realized the car's fuel gauge read very close to the full mark. As he pulled away from the curb, he began to blink again as he
battled vainly to keep his mind at least somewhat alert.

Fatigue threatening to overwhelm him, he focused his mind only on driving and searching for a place to stop for the night. He found a small, pleasant looking hotel only ten minutes later.

Within an hour, he had bathed, dropped his clothes into the bag the hotel had provided for laundry service and fallen into bed already nearly asleep, there to remain blissfully unaware of the world or its myriad concerns until early the following morning, when a few of the world's more serious concerns became his own.

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"It may be blood and it may not. The lab will tell us that. Our only job is to find out what room this guy's in so he can tell us what the whole right side of his car is doin' covered with it... whatever it is. So?" the cop demanded, turning from his partner to confront the clerk behind the check-in counter.

"I can't. It would mean my job. If you had a warrant, that would be a different story...."

"Look. You called us. You're the one that freaked when you saw the car. If that.... substance is what all three of us suspect it is, you could be letting a psycho back on the street. You really wanna be responsible for that?"

"Great. Guilt. I'm no good at fighting guilt trips. He's in 208, around the back. Just leave my name out of it from here on in, okay?"

"Sure," the detective assured him as he and his partner walked away. "until we need you to testify."

The clerk scowled, shook his head, and returned to his work.

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Wesley woke reluctantly several minutes later, fumbled his way out from among tangled bed-sheets, and wrapped a towel around his waist before answering the insistent knocking and overly loud voices on the other side of the door.

"Yes? What can I do for you this.... painfully bright and garish morning?"

"First off, you can tell us your name."

"You tell me yours, I might tell you mine."

"He's Detective Marsh, I'm Detective Smalley. I'd suggest you change that 'might' to a 'Yes, officer. Of course, officer'."

"Oh. Quite right. Wesley Wyndham Pryce. What's the problem?"

"If you wouldn't mind getting dressed and following us, we'll show you."

"Well... I can't exactly.... all the clothes I have with me are more than ready for the laundry...."

The detectives shot each other a look that said that bit of weirdness was something they'd discuss with him later, in a small, quiet room, in the back of the station house.

"Put them on anyway. A pair of pants and your shoes will do."

"Yes. Will you come in? I'll only be a moment..." he assured them, grabbing the laundry bag and heading for the bathroom, leaving them on their own to examine the room, which they did immediately, though it was only a visual inspection, and disappointing, as the only thing in sight was his wallet on the night-stand.

When Wesley began to pull his clothes out of the bag and separate them out, all the seemingly innocent, fortuitous events of the night took on a much darker cast. Performing his own swift examination, he realized that every article of clothing smelled virulently of kerosene or gasoline, underscored with alcohol and something else he couldn't identify. There were dark smudges on the cuffs of the shirt and the pants, and scattered red-brown spots on his shoes and socks that he didn't want to think about.

Abandoning the socks, he furiously brushed the shoes and was relieved to see the spots flake off, proving, to his mind, that they must have been only mud. His only recourse with the other garments was to shake them vigorously and pray some of the odor would fade before slipping them on and emerging to face the officers. From the way they instantly wrinkled their noses, he knew it hadn't been enough.

"I beg your pardon. I spilled a good bit of petrol, apparently, when I was refueling the car last evening. It should be a bit easier to breathe outside. Shall we go?" he offered, disconcerted that the detectives seemed content to hold their ground for the moment.

"Any reason why you'd end up with that much gas all over you?"

"I believe... I was intoxicated. That was the indication my body gave when I woke up, at any rate."

"Is that so?"

"I don't know for certain, of course. I don't really recall.... Look. You did say there was something you wanted to show me?"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely." the taller of the two responded, chuckling under his breath as they led Wesley out to the parking lot to view Angel's convertible in the harsh light of day. To their chagrin, the sight of what was , most likely, blood covering most of the right front and rear seats of the vehicle didn't have half the impact on the former Watcher that they'd expected.

"Good Lord. What's gone on here, I wonder?" he responded, moving forward to smell the substance before being yanked back by one of the detectives.

"Evidence. Don't touch."

"You want us to believe you drove this car to the motel last night.... and never had a clue that any of this mess was here?"

"There isn't anything on the driver's side to have a clue about, and it was dark. Night often is, or so I'm told."

"Very funny, wise-guy..."

"This isn't even, technically, my vehicle. I usually ride a motorcycle, but there must have been some need for me to borrow the car from my employer last night... I can't seem to remember any reason... can't remember much of anything, actually...." he mumbled, more to himself than to the police.

"Okay. That's enough." the taller detective said, shoving Wesley in the direction on his partner. "Get him down to the station for questioning. I'll call for a tow on the car."

"Right. Let's go, pal."

"Wait just a minute! You have no cause to arrest me...."

"You aren't under arrest. Not yet anyway. We just need to know more about how the car got this way. Once we find that out.... maybe then you'll be under arrest."

Realizing he had no options open to him, Wesley meekly waited for the patrol car to arrive, then quietly slid into the rear seat when told to do so, praying for his memory to return, certain that beyond the residual alcohol haze and the pounding headache he was suffering lay the answers to everything.

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"I've already explained this to you ten times over. Now, I want my clothes back and I want to go back to my hotel."

"Not just yet. You've explained everything, but half of it doesn't make sense. So tell me again."

"No."

"No?"

"No. You've kept me here for a number of hours, how many I can't say because you took my watch, and you've refused me food, water or any other physical comfort. I won't be treated in such a shabby manner when I've done nothing wrong."

The second detective simply stared at Wesley for several seconds, trying to unnerve him, unaware that the man he was confronting had faced far more frightening creatures than a frustrated policeman. Realizing his ploy wasn't going to work, he retreated to the door where his partner was talking to another officer.

"He's not budging. Barely changes a word from one telling to the next."

"Yeah, well, these will shake him up. Guaranteed. L.A. just sent them down" the other smirked, fluttering the stack of pictures in his hands.

"What are.... Hail Mary full of grace..... you sayin' he.... did this?" he whispered, only able to stand looking at the first picture or two before his gag reflex forced him to cease.

"That what L.A. thinks, but before they could prove it, he vanished. Between his clothes and the car, I'd say we're about to make their case, wouldn't you?"

"Man, I hope so. Sick son of a...."

"Chill, Smalley. Go get a drink of water, take a walk outside and breathe the smog for a while. I'll handle the rest of this."

"Thanks, Marsh." the other acknowledged harshly, swiftly walking out of the room and putting distance between himself and the genuinely evil entity he now perceived Wesley to be.

His partner moved back to the table where Wesley sat waiting and began to spread the pictures out on the table, one beside the other, until the entire surface was covered. He left the worst, most graphic photos until last, so they would end up in the row directly in front of Wesley.

"Tell me your story again, Pryce. Tell me how you just... woke up hung over in Griffith park, with no memory of having torched your workplace.... your friends.... and your boss. Explain it to me... if you can."

For a long stretch of minutes, Wesley could not move, could not produce words equal to what was laid out before him, so he didn't try. When the memories began to crash into his mind, wave after unspeakable wave, he tried to remind himself they weren't real, that the thoughts were nothing but Oracle created illusions, but the ferocity of the visions crushed him.

Screaming, moaning and wailing incoherently, he tumbled from his seat, crawled into a corner and huddled there, face buried in his hands, until they realized he was not going to speak to them anymore and came to drag him into a holding cell.

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It took several hours for Wesley to return to his senses enough to respond to the people who periodically appeared at the door of his cell to try and draw him out. When he finally looked up again, the woman standing in front of him smiled gently, and passed a pen and paper through the bars.

"Just write it down. It won't be easy, we understand that, but you have to get this off your heart. Just write down everything that happened, exactly the way you remember it."

"I can't. You don't understand at all.... the memories.... they aren't mine. They aren't real...."

"It's okay. Write down what you recall anyway. We'll straighten everything else out later."

Slowly, Wesley stretched out a hand, took the items she offered, stumbled to the small bench in the rear of the room, and began to write. The female officer walked away.

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WESLEY'S MEMORIES:
WYNDHAM-ANGEL INVESTIGATIONS
ONE WEEK EARLIER

/// I didn't hurt the most important people in my life. What the police are claiming just isn't true. Perhaps I simply don't want it to be. I don't want to believe I could have committed this... horrific act. I could never be capable of such violence. I know that as instinctively as I know these memories aren't real. I'm a gentle, quiet, intelligent man. I don't understand why every moment is so clear... if I didn't really hurt them, why is it all so clear? This makes no sense. I can remember conversations, fights. I remember Angel and Cordelia talking about my drinking and how depressed I'd been lately. I never drink more than a beer a week. Recently... something came over me. I can't explain it better than to say that a darkness descended on my spirit. I couldn't find joy in much of anything but a bottle, the contents of which gradually sapped my natural good humor and my self-control, leading me to lash out in response to the most innocent inquiries and statements, most especially those meant to help or cheer me.

I can remember being so under pressure to feel better, pressure to get back to my normal work, that I stopped speaking at all. Angel knew better than to smother me with good wishes. It was Cordy that wouldn't leave well enough alone. Most days, I love the woman, but sometimes she doesn't know when enough is too much. It came to a head three days ago.

Her concern and her love and even her mere presence became overwhelming. I finally struck her. I balled up my fist.... and I struck her in the face. I can see her lip bleeding.... the stupefied expression... then she ran from me, and I felt the darkness take complete hold. It seized me, urging me to do its will. I needed no urging, as I recall. I chased her outside, out to the car, but I have no earthly idea whether I had a weapon. I must have, as I remember striking her down, but not with bare hands. I have a memory of red everywhere. Red clouding my vision, red pools spreading to cover my feet... I hesitate to describe the emotion I connect with that image. I want very badly to say I was disgusted, or enraged.... but the opposite was true. The black scourge that clutched my soul was pleased, even excited. So, therefore, was I.

My feeling is that the burning was done not only to conceal my crime, but also to please the.... perverse spirit that had assumed my form. Are all of them gone? Angel, and Cordelia, and Gunn... Fred. Oh, dear God in heaven, not sweet, bright, lovely, delicate Fred. If I have done this, I ask no forgiveness of my friends or of the world. I'm not worthy of it... What am I saying? There is no if. I did do this. My life is over. They're going to execute me, and I wouldn't raise a hand to stop them, even if I ///

When he heard a shoe scrape the cement by his cell door, Wesley looked up, expecting to find that the woman who had given him the writing material had returned to retrieve it. What he found instead shocked him nearly beyond the capacity of his mind to register.

"Father?!"

"Come, Micheal. It's past time to go home. I can't lolly-gag around here all day. I have important work. Are you coming or aren't you? I can easily leave you behind."

At these last words, the cell door swung slowly open, and Wesley, still in shock, slowly stood and moved out to join his father, only to find, once he'd exited, that he was no longer in a prison. He was, indeed, no longer even indoors. He was standing at the end of the flagstone walk that led to his boyhood home, watching his father's thin, reedy form disappear into the house.

For a long time, Wesley simply stood before his old home, unable to make his feet move the rest of his body forward . He tried, but his shell-shocked brain would not function, would not
perform it's job when he asked.

All he could seem to focus on was that, only a few moments before, he had been locked in a prison cell in San Francisco, certain he was headed for execution. Now he was standing in front of his boyhood home, in a village a little over one-hundred miles outside London. Abruptly, his heart began to thunder in his chest, dizziness assaulted him and tension in his head made him feel as if it would explode off his shoulders. Even as he battled the all too familiar signs of emotional collapse, he also faced down the darkness and taint he could feel rushing out to greet its favorite victim and welcome him back to the wretched house of horrors he believed he'd escaped so long ago.

"Michael Evan Adams! You march your worthless little behind into this house right this minute! Do you hear me, boy?! Do as I say, and do it now!"

That was his mother; a glut of stridency and surface emotion, shielding a heart corrupted by want and frustration and envy, a heart that often surrendered to violence in its desperation to release volcanic pressures that had no other outlet. Unconsciously, he flinched from the malevolence behind the words, turning his head away, and immediately despised himself for doing so. He hated that, so many years removed from the reality of his struggle for survival, if not from the memories of it, he still reacted instinctively to his mother's harsh, jarring tone.

The brief burst of self-loathing finally broke his paralysis, returning his freedom of movement, but he was left with a decision he did not want to face; move into the house, or walk away. Away was clearly the choice his fear and anger were dictating, but it was equally as clear that the Powers That Be intended him to go inside, therefore making that the only option that offered a possible exit from the hellish morality play the Powers had dropped him into.

His decision made, Wesley squared his shoulders, gathered around him as a shield all the courage and raw fury he could muster, and strode up the walk toward the one place he could ever remember making a vow over, a vow that he had never broken.

{I swore if I got out with my body and my sanity intact I would never return here. I can't actually believe I'm doing this.... but it seems like the only way out.} "Alright, you.... you wankers. I'm going, but there better damn well be a purpose to this...."

At that moment, a breeze swept past his ear, creating itself out of utterly still air, and he thought he heard words on that breath of wind, but dismissed it a moment later as a product of his overstimulated mind.

>>

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"Michael."

Standing in the foyer just beyond the front door, Wesley fought off the nerve impulses surging through his body and did not flinch, nor turn away. Making his dry palate and tongue function was the work of a few more moments, however.

"Yes, father."

"Come in here."

After a breath to steady himself, Wes moved into the house proper a few feet, than turned left and stepped over the threshold into his father's study. To his surprise, he still felt as much in genuine fear of his life in that darkly paneled chamber as he ever had as a boy. His father stood bare inches back from the door, glowering and trying to relax tightly clenched fists as his son entered the room. "You will explain yourself."

Wes waited patiently, assuming the Powers would simply drop the answer into his brain as they had before, but to his consternation, the oracles were silent, unwilling to provide him the requisite memory that would allow him to make an appropriate response.

{This is just marvelous! You'll shove all that false blood and gore into my head on a moment's notice, but won't tell me which of my thousand and one failures he currently wants to hear about! Fat lot of help you are!}

"I.... I'm not sure precisely what you're asking me, father."

"You know better than to try and be humorous with me son, and you *surely* know better than to attempt to lie your way out of a punishment."

"Of course I do, father."

"I thought you would remember the last time you lied to me. I made it rather difficult to forget the lesson, as I recall."

"You did, father. I haven't forgotten."

"And still you stand there and insist you don't know what I'm talking about."

"I would not lie to you, father. I require more information. That's all."

"More information. Let's see what help I can give, hmm? Something to *jog* the memory, perhaps?" he growled, slapping Wesley viciously in the right ear. "Where were you supposed to meet your mother and I this afternoon? Where, exactly, did we wait for you for three hours?"

Without any help from the Powers, the memory suddenly burst on Wesley's conscious mind like a nuclear warhead, and he struggled to control the trembling it engendered.

The summer he'd turned twelve, his parents announced that, come the new school year, he would be entering the nation's top military academy, instead of returning to private school with his friends. The news brought out in him the first emotions anywhere close to rebellion he'd ever experienced, but he knew enough to keep his disagreement to himself. Holding in his resentment only caused it to fester and transmute into rage, which went from an internal flame to a very public bonfire the late August day that the academy held its annual gala luncheon for the parents and interviews for the new students. He had made a very deliberate effort to be elsewhere that afternoon, and had paid dearly when his father finally caught up with him.

Recalling that evening almost against his will, Wesley felt his heart sink into his bowels, and his hope for somehow getting out of the room unharmed diminished considerably. "You humiliated us in front of some of the most important people in this country! How dare you! Did you really think I would let you get away with such a blatant act of disrespect?! Did you think I would do nothing?!"

When his father came for him, fairly exploding with his anger, Wesley prepared to defend himself, but found, to his utter horror, that the Powers had reversed the illusion they had perpetrated in the prison. Instead of giving him memories that weren't his, they stole abilities that were. He suddenly could not remember any of the self-defense techniques or fighting styles that the Council had taught him. Movements that were once automatic were now unfamiliar and unknown, vanished along with a great deal of his physical strength. Faced with a man utterly out of control, Wesley was left with no protection, no way to stop what was happening.

It was nearly an hour before his father regained some semblance of lucidity. By this time, Wesley was on the floor, battered almost beyond the point of no return, without even enough breath to whimper or cry in expression of his agony.

When a trio of male servants was called in to remove him to his room, away from his father's presence, he was barely aware even of the movement. Once in his room, the three attempted to remove at least some of his clothing before helping him into bed, but his grimaces and silent tears of pain disabused them of the notion, so he was left on top of the comforter, blood-spattered clothing and all, to sleep, if indeed he could.

It was a shock to him when he woke several hours later and realized that, despite the bruises, scrapes and various injuries, he had fallen into a deep sleep. Vaguely, the thought worried him, but he put it aside in favor of overall assessment of his condition. Sitting up slowly, he grasped a corner of his shirt in tender, abraded fingers, and cleaned a few spots of his own dried blood off his glasses, allowing him to clearly see the extent of the damage. The inspection did absolutely nothing for his morale.

Eyes falling on the bedside table, he started in surprise. Laying there was the same type of writing pad that had been presented to him at the prison, and the same pen lay across it.

"Oh. So I'm expected to do some more writing, am I? And what should I write, exactly?"

The whisper in his ear was back, and this time he couldn't ignore it. This time he knew the oracles were communicating.

<<>>

"I don't hate him. He was a bastard that night, but it was the first time he'd ever laid a hand on me. Before that, it was always her. Her beatings I could handle. She was weak in more ways than one and she never did learn that using something other than her hands would have been far more effective..... and more deadly, now that I think of it.... damn. As Cordelia says, old boy; don't go there."

Staring at the pad and pen, Wesley sighed, lifted them carefully into his lap, settled the pen in the less damaged hand and began to write.

///The truth. That's what this is about, yes? The truth. Alright, so I hated him after that night, but I still loved him too. Couldn't help it. My twelve year old brain rationalized it away. I had sorely disappointed him after all, embarrassed him as well, and he simply lost his temper and his control... and his mind. Other than that, he'd never done anything to physically hurt me. I told myself he only wanted the best for me, wanted me to follow family tradition straight into the RAC, even though, or perhaps especially because, he didn't. It just wasn't what I wanted. I suppose even then I had an idea I was meant for something.... unusual. What a moderate word for the life I've come to know, fear and sometimes love! I'd have told him something, I suppose, but he never would have understood. I just know it wouldn't have registered. He was basically a good, hard-working family man. Strict, yes, but I///

"No. This is about the truth. Write the contents of my heart, they said. Alright."

Moving a line or two down the page, Wes began again.

///I'm not that boy. I don't have to rationalize his behavior anymore. His hands never touched me before that night. That is the truth, but he never missed an opportunity to put the fear of God in my heart, with himself in the role of God, of course. Verbally, mentally, emotionally he terrorized me most of my life until I moved to the Watcher's Council facilities at fifteen. Those last three years were pure hell. He tasted blood that night. My blood. After that he couldn't get enough, and I could never find a hiding spot he wasn't able to ferret out and drag me away from. I did hate him. I still hate him. I hate him with all the passion anyone ever possessed. I shouldn't. It's been almost twenty years since I even saw his face. He hasn't done me any wrong in all that time. He doesn't call or try to contact me, and I certainly haven't written or spoken to him. I should be light-years past being twelve years old.\\\

"So why am I not?" Wesley questioned himself quietly, the pen dropping from his black and blue fingers as he looked up from his writing. "Just because the oracles of idiocy threw me back into the lion's den and made me relive it? Just because I was as powerless this time as I was then? No. There can be no legitimate reason for what I'm thinking. I don't want to hurt him. This isn't real. It isn't real, and if I refuse to play their games long enough, they'll take their ball and go home.... and let me go home too."

Eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion and aching in more places than he knew had the capacity to ache, Wesley lifted the pen once more, wrote a few words, then dumped both items unceremoniously over the side of the bed, turned the light off and lay down to try and get a little more sleep.

///Even if I'm not beyond it, even if I haven't moved past it, I won't hurt him. I won't.\\\

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The next time his eyes flickered open, Wes automatically lifted a hand to shield them against the daylight he expected. It took a few extra seconds for his slowly engaging brain to comprehend that it was still pitch dark, and another moment or two for the 'drop it' message to run from brain to hand.

"Dark? That makes no sense. I feel I've been asleep at least ten or eleven hours all totaled. How can it be.... Oh. Right. The Trojan Horse gifts of the Powers. If they want it dark, it's dark." Wesley groused, swinging his legs out of bed and standing before his brain could remind him he should barely have been able to move. "And if they want me flexible and pain free.... I become so. That's one whim I won't reproach you for.... probably the last one, ever."

Eyes as yet unadjusted to his lightless surroundings, his first cautious step away from the bed proved mildly costly as the toes on his left foot made solid contact with something hard and unyielding, bringing forth a quiet stream of verbal inappropriateness from his lips as he fell back to sit on the bed again.

Once the sting and ache had subsided, and he had assured himself nothing was broken, he reached out to switch on the bedside lamp, berating himself for not doing it *before* he'd been foolish enough to temporarily hobble himself. Despite his best efforts, the light refused to work, frustrating him a little bit more. "Alright, damn it. What the hell do you want from me?" he forced through clenched teeth. "I am not a blasted mole! Turn the light on! I can't do anything in the bloody pitch blackness now can I?!"

The room remained as dark as it had been when he'd awakened earlier. Sighing heavily, Wesley reached out and felt near the floor until he encountered the object he'd struck his foot on. On the top of what ever it was he discovered a small box that rattled reassuringly, and he prayed it was matches. A few moments of experimentation answered his prayer in the affirmative.

The first match he extracted, amazingly, lit on his initial strike and showed him what had bruised his foot; an antique cage-type lantern. Like most he'd seen, it was squat, heavily built, and wide, but unlike some, the sides were solid iron, not wrought-work or filigree.

Before his first light abandoned him, he slid out another match, lit it from the dying remains of the first, and used the second to find the door of the lantern, which he opened, carefully pushing the wooden stick through the door and holding it there until the stub of a candle in the center took the flame.

With the return of light in at least some small respect, and in the absence of any other immediate crisis outside of his faintly throbbing toes, Wes found the intense animosity toward his father returning to fill the void. "No! I won't acknowledge that. I won't! Stop it.... please stop it...."

Grabbing up the lantern, Wes stood and moved toward the door to the hallway. "If I see him.... if I watch him sleep, I can't hurt him. Asleep he's no threat to me, and.... and this horrid.... obsession will break . It must. I won't surrender to this....."

As he turned away from the bed, the lamp's pale light splashed over the writing pad, still lying on the floor where he'd discarded it earlier. Annoyed, but unwilling to abandon his tidiness principles, he bent and retrieved it, but was trapped by his own, barely recalled, thoughts of just a few hours before, and, in the process of replacing the pad on the table, he froze.

*terrorized me...... three years.... hell...... I still hate him.... with all the passion anyone ever possessed...*

As if it had burned his fingertips, Wesley suddenly dropped the pad on the bed, turning and fleeing the room, running the reassurance over and over in his head that seeing his father, his tormentor, innocently sleeping would easily overcome the voice of rightful vengeance screaming ever-louder in his heart. Stepping into the hall, he paused, eyes half shut, waiting until his breathing and rapid heartbeat eased before moving on.

The dim night-lights in the passage, he was thrilled to discover, still worked, removing the threat of stumbling on something unseen and waking the entire household. "Alright, so I've one more bit of whimsy to be grateful for. Let's not make this a habit shall we? I'll end up owing you 'till my children's grandchildren go the way of all flesh.... oh, yes. Except for mine. That little stunt evens us eternally, and no hope of appeal on your part. Forget I said anything." he whispered harshly.

Once at his parent's door, however, his forced self-confidence utterly failed him, leaving him afraid to make the attempt. As was the pattern after he had survived a confrontation with his father, he knew, from the snoring and occasional garbled sleep-talk, that his mother slept in the guest bedroom far down the hall from where he stood. There existed no danger of him accidentally waking her, resulting in her waking his father. He could have his glance, the fearful thoughts would leave his mind and he could return to cajoling, petitioning and threatening the Powers to release him from their twisted chess game. All this he understood and desired fervently, but the courage to open the door came only slowly.

At last, long minutes after bolting from his room in order to no longer occupy the same space with written words he couldn't reconcile with his true heart, Wesley managed to push open his father's door and slip quietly inside, easing the gap closed again

Praying the door to the lantern had been oiled, Wesley tensely worked the small iron flap open only the tiniest crack, revealing only the thinnest beam of light. To his shock, though it had worked flawlessly and silently in his room, it now emitted a horrifying screech that Wes was sure had been heard by every member of the household, but only his father was alerted. Just as Wesley extinguished the meager light again, the older man shot upright, ears searching the room for the intruder, eyes active and fearful. His son held his breath for long periods, releasing and drawing air again only at a painfully slow speed, and he remained absolutely still, screaming at the other only in his head.

{Damn you, you paranoid bastard! Lay down! Go back to sleep! This isn't the way this was supposed to work! You have to go to sleep or I'll never get out of this nightmare..... Go to sleep!}

But his father would not relent, and in a flash, his panic and rage grown beyond his control, Wesley was at the bedside, the lantern forgotten on the floor, his mother's pillow in his hands. One knee on the bed, the other foot on the floor, he propelled the pillow into his father's face and held it there with arms that suddenly possessed all the strength they needed; strength born of years spent holding others up, pushing others into the spotlight, and battering himself senseless, as he had been to taught do by those who claimed to love him.

When, finally, his father's struggles faded, then ceased, Wes released his grip, then slid from his position and collapsed into a trembling, shuddering heap on the carpet. He couldn't bear to raise his head again, wasn't even fully aware of what he'd just done. He was aware only of his own breathing. He felt that was enough to focus on for the moment. He was in no shape to feel, or act, or comprehend anything more. Reality could wait.

"Wesley. Wesley, stand up. I know there isn't much room in there, but try. Can't have the future archeologists find you on you knees, can we? You've lived that way. Die on your feet, as a man should."

The soft voice, hollow and somehow distant, yet vaguely familiar, echoed somewhere above Wesley's head. The realization he'd been transitioned again was followed swiftly by the meaning of the words that had been spoken.

Lifting his head slowly off his bent arms, he craned his neck upwards and saw a small area of bright light a few feet above him. Carefully uncurling his body in what he now realized was indeed quite a tight space, Wesley stood, and examined the area around him in what little light he had. He was standing in what appeared to be a small, shallow alcove, the entrance to which was a narrow, flat-bottom, oval archway, or had been before someone had decided to close that entrance up. Raising his eyes, Wes faced the gap the light emanated from and found a familiar face grinning back at him.

"Angel? What.... what is this? I don't understand...."

"This, Wesley, my boy," Angel informed him lightly, as he laid the final brick in the layer at the level of his friend's adam's apple, "is the end result of living a life that.... well, wasn't much worth living."

"What?! What are you saying?! Angel, stop this, please...."

"I can't, Wes. I mean, look at what you've wasted. With your soul, and a decent game plan, somebody else could have made something. Something great. You..... you had no game plan, no ideas, not even a plan to have an idea!" Angel laughed, pausing, trowel in mid-air, then continuing to lay the bricks. "You had to be pushed before you'd stand up for yourself, endlessly encouraged before you defended your thoughts, even the good ones. What would it have taken, the energy you need to open a can of soda? You couldn't even spare that, 'cause you were spending all your precious, non-renewable resources on self-pity, a self-examination trip that never stopped, and self-criticizing when noone else would do it for you.

I thought you could be something. I gave you a shot, but it's all too apparent that you are a waste of space, my time.... and air." he said, his voice growing serious, now, as he laid the next to last brick in place. "Therefore, it's time you stop taking up at least the last two. Oh, you'll be taking up less space, too, I suppose.... as the years go on. That was a good, one Angel. Rather sick, but still an honorable mention...." the vampire congratulated himself, humming as he mortared the final brick.

"Angel, please.... God, Angel, don't do this, I beg you...."

"No reprieves, no do-over's, Wes. You had a fantastic soul, and *way* more chances than most people get to make good. You blew it. Nite-nite."

As the last of his wan light vanished, Wesley went mad with fear, pounding and screaming, his mind refusing to accept that the Powers That Be would do this to him. When his throat became raw, and he began to taste blood, he merely pounded. When his fists were useless and bloodied, he succumbed, dropped into a crouch, allowed his head to fall forward, and wept.


Chap 4a – Alex - Through a Looking Glass Darkly

Inspired by Lewis Carroll. (BTW and FYI: the quote Alex's interrogator uses is from `Star Wars'. It's Yoda's response when Luke claims he isn't afraid to take on the Jedi training. Just in case anyone didn't recognize it.)

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"Where am I?"

/// At the beginning. This is the first point of choosing.\\\

"Choosing? Choosing what?"

///Your direction.\\\

"And if I choose to go back where I came from?"

///That is an option open to you, but know that your friend's lives hang in the balance. You are the keystone, Alexander Lavelle Harris. If you fail, the others will be lost.\\\

"If I succeed, how will I find my way home? Noone is anchoring me."

///This is as it was written. Your strength must be enough for you and those who trust in you. It must be enough to overcome the past, sustain you in the present, and fulfill your vision of the future. Choose your path, complete the task set before you. If you are equal to these, the way home will see to itself. Go, young warrior. Your journey awaits.\\\

{Breathe, Alex. Just.... breathe. You can't let Cordy and the rest go down in flames just because you're scared. C'mon, man. Move the feet....}

Alex closed his eyes briefly, centered himself again, made a quarter turn to his left then took a single step in that direction and was gone.

///The final quest has begun. May all the forces of good in the universe go with him.\\\

///Agreed. The path he has chosen is the most difficult offered. If he had been allowed to view....\\\

///You know the word. The choice he made was pure and without undue influence or interference, from us or from his own fear. He will win out, or he will not. We have done what we could. Now it is on his shoulders.\\\

///Strong shoulders they must be, to bear all he has endured. Fortune follow you Alexander Lavelle Harris. Much depends upon you.....\\\

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{What the.... okay. This is way off the charts. Why would they send me back to SunnyHell after they just took me *out*?} "Hey! Anybody have a program? A map? A vaguely worded note maybe? Where's the real Scooby Doo crew when you need them? Someone must have Nancy Drew's e-mail address. Wonder if Encyclopedia Brown is available... Okay... I'm back in Giles' apartment... by myself... C'mon Alex. Make the brain work. Figure out where to start here..."

Turning, he caught sight of the mirror in which he'd first gotten a glimpse of the potential Alex. Grinning slightly, he walked toward it, raised a hand to the smooth cool surface and touched his reflection. "Okay. So I'm not so alone. Good to see you again. Sorry I haven't been much on looking in mirrors lately. I'm still workin' on the self-esteem thing. Giles and Angel are a big help, thank God. They believe I can be better, and I guess, somehow, I'm startin' to believe it too. Not bad, huh?"

{It wouldn't be if you could stop talking to mirrors, you ultimate goofball.} Alex chastised himself gently, his smile still firmly in place. Eventually he turned away, intent on checking to be sure there were no surprises in the house before he went out into the rest of the town where surprises were practically guaranteed. Just as he completed the turn however, he caught a flash of movement and color just at the edge of his vision and whirled around, expecting to find he'd done a genuine classic Scooby Doo bonehead move; being frightened by your own reflection in a shiny surface. When he looked back at the mirror, however, his own eyes were no longer gazing back at him and fear gripped his heart.

"I say again; what the.... I asked for Nancy Drew, not Alice in Wonderland."

Cautiously, Alex stretched a hand out toward the mirror again, but stopped an inch or so short of touching it, afraid of what might happen. The surface before him had been divided into four sections, each a still image that rippled slightly with every exhalation the young man made. He recognized himself immediately as being a player in all four of the scenes. When his curiosity finally got the better of him, he touched the first image with just the tip of one finger but retreated instantly when he felt himself being pulled inside the picture.

"I don't understand this....".

/// Comprehension is irrelevant. This is the second point of choosing. Do so now and your trial will begin.\\\

"My trial.... I take it this choice is vaguely important then. Let's see....."

Alex carefully studied each square as closely as possible, but could detect nothing to make one stand out from the others, nothing that told him which one to pick.

///You will find no answers in that way, Alexander Lavelle Harris. The images will tell you nothing. Your choice must be pure. Shut your eyes. Hear your soul speak. Stretch out your hand and continue on the path.\\\

"My soul? I have enough trouble when I try to get my mouth to speak." Alex mumbled, finally beginning to understand Angel's attitude whenever the PTB's were mentioned in his presence.

Eventually, knowing the lives of the other three were his to save or lose, Alex allowed his eyes to close and centered himself with Giles' breathing technique. When his mind was clear and the rest of him as ready as it might ever get, Alex turned his left palm out and pushed it toward the mirror. In a flash he was overcome with the sensation that his entire body, every cell and atom, was being trash compacted. When the dizzy strangeness faded and he finally dared to open his eyes again, what he saw sent his mind back into a tail-spin.

When his head finally stopped whirling like a cyclone, Alex opened his eyes to find himself in a heap on the floor of a utterly black room. A moment later a voice resounded from somewhere in front of him, drawing his attention, but when he discovered who had spoken, his heart tried to freeze in his chest and threatened to spread the cold to the rest of him.

"Stand, Alexander Lavelle Harris."

{It can't be. Buffy blew him into kibbles and bits.... it
just can't be....}

"You were told to stand. If you wish to become the champion your people need, you will do as you are commanded."

Refocusing his mind on Rupert, Wesley and the rest who were depending on him, Alex forced his fear as far down inside as he could make it go, got his feet under him and rose to face the creature that had once been called the Judge.

"May I ask a question?"

"I am not who I seem. You are correct in believing that creature to be long destroyed. I have taken this form because it is familiar to you. It was thought that appearing in this guise would help assure that you took this process..... seriously."

"How else could I be expected to take it? Whether my friends live or die is up to me. So. Where do I go from here?"

"You go nowhere until I am convinced you are worthy. The choosing is finished and you have done admirably, but you have a great deal farther to walk, young warrior. In a sense I am a judge. Your judge. When we are finished here your path will either continue or it will end, along with the paths of those whose fates are entwined with yours."

"What do you want me to do? What can I show you? I've only been training a couple months, but I'm good. I can give you an example of any technique I've learned so far. I can learn any move you show me. Just give me a chance...."

"Stop, young one. It is not your physical development I have been sent to evaluate. My concern is the state of your mind and spirit. There is far more to becoming a warrior than the ability to defend yourself and those around you. The one who came before you was not aware of this until it was far too late. By the time her eyes were opened to the truth, there was only one path left open to her. It pained us greatly to see her die, but nothing could be done to change the outcome."

"You... you're talking about Buffy."

"Yes. The same mistake will not be made with you, young one. You will not be thrust into the role of the warrior blind and unprepared for the challenge. If I deem you worthy.... you are worthy. Only then will you go on. If I deem you not so....."

"I understand. Ask me whatever you want, test me however you have to. I'm not afraid."

"To quote a great spiritual master from one of your popular science-fiction films `Heh, you will be. You will be.' "

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"It is not that difficult a question. It requires only one word as a response."

"It may be that cut and dried for you. For me.... it's complicated. The answer I give you.... it has to be the absolute truth and there's still so much about that night that I don't quite understand."

"I said nothing about all your responses needing to be completely truthful."

"My rule. If I don't tell the total truth and you still let me go on, I'll always wonder. I don't need that on my conscience. My self-confidence is unreliable enough as it is."

"Commendable, but nothing changes. There is still a question before you."

"And it's still a lot harder than you seem to think. There's more to it than would I make love to William or Rupert again if they asked me. I was there for a reason that night. I needed help with a memory.... an incomplete memory. What I could remember of it was so sickening I refused to say or do anything about it for a long, long time."

"This is known."

"Then you understand that it was less making love and more of a psycho-therapy session. If the balance shifted and it was strictly about physical stuff, want and need instead of comfort..... I don't know what I'd say."

"As you promised, honest to a fault."

"Wait, please. There was pleasure, I admit that. Once I got past...."

The Judge held up a hand and Alex quieted.

"The question has been answered, Alexander. No further clarification is necessary. Prepare yourself to answer. In your perception, was Buffy Summers the ideal choice for a Slayer?"

This time, Alex's answer was immediate and decisive.

"No. No way."

"Explain."

"I shouldn't. It would dishonor her memory."

"Her memory is not what is at stake here, young warrior. Three people with much still to lose await your answer."

After a long moment of hesitation, Alex spoke up, but his tone was mildly colored by his distaste for speaking the words.

"Buffy was like... two people. Buffy Summers and the Slayer. The Slayer was all about who needs me, where do I go and who do I have to whale the tar out of. Totally into other people and doing whatever had to be done, even if it meant she lost her life. Buffy.... she could be way over-emotional and self-involved and totally oblivious to how her actions affected other people. Sometimes, I swear Buff's motto was `I hurt. I have to make myself feel better and to hell with everyone around me. I come first.' I mean, the over-the-top emotions must have helped once or twice, like when she was really tired and getting angry was the only way to force her body to keep going, but most of the time.... it just hurt her friends and pissed them off."

"So your ideal slayer would be an automaton with no human qualities and no ties to the world."

"No. Of course not. I understand that Buffy's anger and how much she cared for us gave her a reason to go out and fight. That reason was usually because one of us was in trouble, but that's beside the point. She let her heart overrule her head way too often. It led her to do stupid things. I think a Slayer has to play it like generals do on the battlefield; the idea of it being like a chess match, you know? Keep your head in the game, but balance the mental side with compassion and realize that sometimes sacrifice is necessary. You try to avoid it at all costs, but if it happens, it happens. Cry for a few minutes, wipe your eyes on your sleeve and move on with the fight."

"A rather cold way of viewing the subject."

"I don't think so. More like practical. Buffy was so distracted by wanting the life she couldn't have..... it made her weak. She was doing so much good for Sunnydale.... but she saw it as a chore, something she had to do that got in the way of her real life. I don't think she ever understood that from the moment she was called, being a Slayer was supposed to *be* her real life. I just don't think she ever really got the point."

"I see. If this is what you truly believe then why have you chosen to take her name as your own?"

"Because in spite of everything else Buffy Summers was one hell of a Slayer.... and she was my friend. She deserves to be remembered."

"Understood. So. In the warp and weft of your life's fabric, what part does your experience with Faith play?"

"None."

"It was your first time, was it not?"

"Look, what's with the interest in my sex life? It's a little disgusting."

"My interest or your sex life?"

"Very funny."

"If it is your intention to avoid my sense of humor then answer the question."

"I try not to think about that night. It wasn't memorable for any good reason. Faith used me, she threw me away and I ended up hurting Willow. Definitely not worth it."

"Then you moved on to Anyanka."

"I know where you're going with this."

"Do you?"

"It's not that hard to follow." Alex replied softly, his eyes on the floor, hands clenched at his sides. "I know she used me too. It was different.... but the result was the same. Pain. It shouldn't have taken me so long to end it. It was the idea of having someone say they loved me.... even if she had no idea what it meant. That illusion was hard to let go of."

"Oh, and we must not forget that before either of those women entered your life there was Cordelia Suzanne Chase."

Alex pulled his gaze away from the toes of his shoes at last, raising his eyes to stare down his tormentor. He could feel the heat in his flushed cheeks and wished he could damp the rising anger that was causing it, sure that any loss of self-control would condemn both him and his friends.

"Okay. Enough. I understand. I get the point."

"Do you?"

"I'm not that man anymore. Xander was so desperate for affection that he left himself open to anyone who even looked they *might* love him or treat him with kindness..... and he usually ended up hurt, disappointed, bleeding and scarred. I can't change what I was. All I can do is act on what I've learned from Rupert and William."

"What have you learned?"

"Everything."

"Explain."

"I learned what real love and commitment looks like. I learned who I'm supposed to be. I learned that I'm allowed to ask for support from someone else and that I can accept that support without feeling like a failure. I learned that there's no limit on what I can do unless I put the limits on myself. Noone will ever use me again and noone will ever leave me huddled in a ball on the floor, sobbing because they decided I wasn't worth loving. Knowing those things.... believing them is everything to me. I don't need anything else right now."

The Judge was silent for several minutes, staring at Alex with his head cocked slightly to the left. His impassive expression revealed nothing of what might be going through his mind. When he finally spoke his voice matched his visage; smooth and unemotional.

"Kneel, Alexander Lavelle Harris. I must have a few moments to contemplate all I have heard here today. I will return shortly."

His heart racing with fear, Alex began to do what he'd been told, but stopped himself in the middle of the process.

{This doesn't feel right, damn it. Not after what I just said. If I don't do what he says I could blow any good I've done straight to hell.... but I can't. I just can't.}

"I'd prefer to stand."

When the Judge turned back to face his subject, a smile creased his face; the first Alex had seen since he'd arrived.

{Man, I really hope that's a good sign....}

"Excellent. I am pleased."

"Thank you. What did I do?"

"Exactly what I hoped you would. You married your actions to your words, even at the risk of losing all you had gained, thus demonstrating that truth underlies the convictions you stated so eloquently. You have proven yourself worthy. I decree that you shall be allowed to go forward and face the final stage of your trial."

When Alex felt an amazed smile creep onto his face, he tried to suppress it but found he was unable to. "Be at ease, young warrior. You have earned the right to a moment or two of relief and excitement before you travel on, just as I am sure you will earn the name you have chosen. She was indeed a remarkable Slayer. Bring honor to her legacy, Alexander. Come. It is time for you to continue on the path."

The Judge gestured to his left and a doorway appeared. Alex bowed deeply at the waist, straightened and strode past his inquisitor and through the entryway he knew would lead him home if he could survive whatever came next.


Chapter 4b: Alex: The Winner Takes It All.....

Again, inspiration fell from heaven; the source is "The Picture of Dorian Gray" Oh, and a minor tribute to Quantum Leap. Try and spot the line Sam Beckett is so famous for.

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{So this is it. The final leg of the relay. I wasn't so sure I'd get this far. Guess I did it right though.... Okay. On to figuring out the wheres and whats. Heck if that guy on "Quantum Leap" could do it every week, I can give it a shot. First thing... why is it so dark?}

"Oh. Open your eyes, Alex. You might be able to see something. Cushy bed. Always nice. Man..... make that man-sion. Okay... this is way outta my price range."

When he heard the door on the far side of the room open, Alex shelved his confusion and sat up to greet the visitor.

{Butler.... man Friday, whatever. That fits. They go with mansions, right?}

"Good morning, Master Alex. I trust you slept well?"

"Yea.... yes. Very well, thank you. What time is it?"

"Nearly eight, sir. I must say, I was.... intrigued to find you awake. Quite a pleasant surprise."

Well versed in telling the truth without actually telling the truth, Alex recognized a fellow master of the art and flowed with the general tone of the conversation.

"Nice of you to say and a nice, polite way to put it. How does the weather look today?" he asked, untangling himself from the bed-sheets and quilts and moving to open the drapes that shielded the window.

"Quite pleasant, sir. It should be a fine day for your tennis match with Master William."

His back to the other man, Alex took a moment to hide his surprise at the mention of the name then turned slightly toward the butler.

"Hmm. I'd forgotten all about it. Any other necessary jogs to my memory before I face the world?" Alex chuckled softly. "Wouldn't want to insult anyone important by forgetting to meet them for lunch.... or something."

"No. Of course.... Not that I recall, sir. Your painting arrived late last night. I expect you'll be anxious to see it."

"Yes. Yes, I expect I will. Is breakfast ready?"

"Whenever you are, Master Alex."

"Good. I'll be down in about an hour."

"Just so, sir. If I may say, Master Alex, it's good to see you in such high spirits this morning."

"Unlike every other morning?" Alex probed, digging for any information he could lay his hands on.

"I would never presume to speak on the subject, sir. Not my place, you know. One hour."

"One hour. Oh, and tell the cook just toast, coffee and a glass of fruit juice, if you would? As skillful as William is at tennis, I'd best not weigh myself down."

"Just so, sir. I shall relay the request. Will that be all, Master Alex?"

"Yes. Thank you...."

"Stickley, sir."

"Forgetting things already. Makes one wonder where the mind goes to play while one sleeps, doesn't it?"

"Indeed, sir. It might do just that." the other agreed uncertainly as he turned and left, closing the door gently behind him. The moment he was gone, Alex stumbled to the bed and collapsed, head cradled in his mildly trembling hands. "While *one* sleeps.... I'd best not.... Where the hell did that come from? I sound like a Sherlock Holmes movie.... or Giles. Oh, boy....."

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Eventually, Alex dressed and found his way to the table for breakfast, only to find he was not the first to arrive. When he drew close enough to recognize the other three people seated around the table, he found his self-control sorely tested. The names he wanted to speak, and the shocked, disbelieving tone he wanted to speak them in, had to be shoved back down his throat in favor of the polite, vague greetings he thought would be expected of him.

Slowly, he took the chair next to the striking, dark haired girl he had known as Faith, but whose name in this reality was, as yet, unknown, and cast surreptitious glances at the man and woman at opposite ends of the table. The male was not a great surprise to him, despite his uncanny resemblance to Rupert Giles. The female, however, shocked Alex severely. His heart insisted he was seeing Jenny Calendar, whole, healthy and alive, even though his mind knew better, knew it was nothing but an illusion.

He'd gone to the funeral, taken his turn at holding Willow as she poured out her grief and sat vigil with Giles in the silent, bleak library while the inconsolable watcher forced himself to move on, stoically refusing to acknowledge his tremendous loss. Yet the woman Alex had thought long dead was now sitting a few feet away from him, in clear defiance of his memories. Silently, he cursed the Powers That Be for their lack of understanding, compassion and tact then resumed unraveling the puzzle they had set before him.

"Is that all you're going to eat, Alexander? Two slices of toast won't see you through the next ten minutes, never mind sustain you until lunchtime." Jenny berated him, gazing critically at what little food was on his plate. The voice was the one he remembered so fondly, yet it wasn't quite right. He detected shades of stress and faint unhappiness in her tone that made his heart ache even more keenly.

"I'll be fine. I'm playing tennis with William this morning. Have to stay light on my feet if I'm going to keep up with him."

"Even so, you should have more than that if you're going to be exerting yourself. Have an omelet or some porridge at least."

"Really, I'm not hungry. The toast will be more than enough."

"Your aunt is right. It's no trouble at all to have the cook make you something heartier..."

"No, Rupert. If the boy doesn't want to eat, he shouldn't feel forced into it. Let him be."

"He's only doing it to be obstinate. If he hadn't been out until an absolutely disgraceful hour last night, doing heaven knows what, perhaps we'd have gotten some decent food into him and more than two civil words out of him."

"Alexander is a grown man and his activities are none of our concern."

"While he's in my home, they certainly *are* my concern..."

"Stop..." Alex interjected, turning a pleading look on one and then the other. "Please stop it, both of you. It wasn't my intention to start an argument." he told them, rising to his feet.

"Alex, it wasn't you. Truly, it wasn't." His aunt responded quickly in a vain attempt to reassure him.

"Of course it was. It always is lately."

"Alexander, sit back down and finish your meal." Giles commanded.

"No... thank you. The food and the coffee are cold and whatever appetite I had is gone. If neither of you mind, I'll excuse myself."

"Alex, don't just leave. Not like this..."

"It's alright, Aunt Jenny. Really. I'll be examining my painting in the library if anyone needs me for any reason."

Alex turned and walked out of the dining room, his shoulders and back aching with the effort to stand straight, instead of slumping and shuffling out, as seemed to feel right for this version of himself.

{I've barely started this thing and it's already too much.... I'm tired, I'm confused....} "Look, I can't do this. You said there might be stumbling blocks. Those I can get over. *That* was a freaking land mine!" Alex growled under his breath, hoping the PTB's heard him loud and clear. He received his answer a moment later as a breath of air next to his ear.

/// the fate of the others rests with you, young warrior.... with you.... \\\

"Alex?"

Surprised by the appearance of Faith at his side, Alex forced himself out of his melancholy musings and responded to her.

"I'm alright."

"That's a bald-faced lie, but I'll let it go for the moment." she joked, laying a hand on his arm. "You know Uncle only says things like that because he cares for you. When you stay out past midnight he worries about your safety."

"He worries about his reputation."

The genuine resentment and anger behind the statement caught Alex off- guard and caused him to mentally take a step back in surprise. When the memories attached to those emotions began to emerge from the fog it only confused him more. It took Faith's exclamation of reproach to
tune him back in to their discussion.

"Alex! Don't say such things. Uncle loves you."

"Well, his love can get a bit.... overwhelming. You should get back to the table before he starts *worrying* about you too."

"If you're upset, I'm upset. I couldn't swallow another bite if I wanted to, which I don't."

The change in Faith's speech affected him even more powerfully than recognizing the unconscious alteration of his own words. Despite this, he repressed his immediate reaction and, for the sake of his friends, resumed playing the PTB's parlor game.

"Come and see my painting, then?"

"What a wonderful idea."

Alex panicked momentarily when he remembered he had no idea where the library was or how to get there, but years of living on the Hell-mouth had keenly honed his improvisation skills and they kicked in just in time.

"Ladies first. You lead the way."

"Always the gentleman, Alex. How did you ever grow up with Uncle and not become a terrible boor?"

"To tell you the truth, I have no idea..."

When they finally reached the library and made their way inside, Alex was lost for a long moment, staring around in utter wonder at the ceiling high bookshelves.

"Alex? Are you alright? You act as if you've never seen the library before." Faith chuckled softly.

"Oh... it's not that. Of course I've seen it. It's just that I don't often come in here and it.... surprises me all over again when I haven't seen it for a while."

"Yes. I suppose it would. It is a bit imposing and impressive, but then I imagine that's what Uncle intended. Always one for the grand gesture, is Uncle Rupert. That must be your painting over by the divan."

Alex moved quickly to the spot she had indicated and began to carefully pull the heavy paper wrapping from his prize. When all the packaging material had been cleared away, both young people gasped at what was revealed.

"Alex.... it's marvelous. This artist is a master. He captured you perfectly, right down to that little touch of sadness that's always in your eyes of late. The curl just at the edge of your mouth.... he must have said something funny to you..."

"No. Not funny exactly. More.... intriguing." he replied quietly, lost in the portrait and drifting a bit further into the suddenly accessible, pre-formed memories of the illusionary Alex. After a moment, he stepped back a short distance to get a different perspective on the picture. "You're right. My eyes do seem sad. I don't remember feeling that way.... perhaps it's just a trick of the light.... the way it falls on the surface..."

Leaning in to drop a quick kiss on his cheek, Faith murmured gently into his ear then exited the room.

"Then the light falls on you the same way, wherever you go. Cousin.... sweet Alex. I know you aren't happy here any longer, if you ever truly were. I love you dearly.... and I'm sorry."

Alex stood and gazed intently at his image on the canvas for close to an hour, unable to focus on anything but the painting and Faith's words. Only the raucous, half-familiar sound of William's voice in the hall was able to drag Alex out of his reverie.

The sound so excited Alex that he found he had to restrain himself from running to find the other man and embracing him until he couldn't breathe.

{Oh! Oh, man! Does he breathe here? How do I find out if he's.... ah, hell. Forget it. It'll be so good just to see him! Remember, no kissing, no kissing, no kissing....}

With that thought firmly in his head, Alex stuck his head out the library door and called to his friend.

"Will! It arrived! Come and see!"

"What arrived? Oh, you mean that painting you've been going on and on about for months? Is it finally finished?" Will teased, strolling down the hall toward Alex, who was bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

"It's even better than I hoped. Get in here and see it. Hurry up, would you?"

"You know damn well I don't hurry for anyone or anything, and certainly not for an inanimate object that will still be there whether I rush or I don't... Hmmm. I see I should have made an exception." Will commented as he moved far enough into the room to see the portrait. "It's stunning, Alex. A wonderful likeness. Well worth the time and coin you invested. Pity you look so thoroughly joyful. Hard to look at that much contentment this early in the morning."

Mystified, Alex took another look at the painting and was shocked to find the sadness gone from the figure's expression.

"I don't understand. That's impossible...."

"Not quite, Alex old boy. It's quite possible.... as much as a painting can be, at any rate."

"What?" Alex asked, then chuckled. "Same old Will. Forever making comments noone else understands just to see if the rest of the world is actually paying attention."

"It's my favorite psychological game. Just because I'm the only one who knows the rules, that isn't going to stop me playing."

"Yes, well what do you say to playing tennis instead? That, at least, I can match you in."

"You can try." Will laughed as they headed back out of the library.

"Just let me go.... Oh, no."

"What is it?"

"I've been suffering from forgetfulness all morning. Now I can't remember where in the world I've put my racquet."

In response, William strode a few feet down the hall, opened a door to a shallow closet and pulled out the racquet, offering a suggestion as Alex, grinning sheepishly, came to retrieve the item.

"If this is how it's going to affect you, perhaps that should be the first and last portrait you ever sit for."

"You may be right, Will. You just may be right."

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"Incredible, Alex. You've never played like that before. I thought it was your usual baseless bravado when you talked about matching me, but you truly did. Your reflexes and your serve are one hundred percent improved. Excellent set of tennis, old boy. Been practicing when I wasn't looking, hmm?"

"As if I have the time for extra practice. I barely ate anything for breakfast. I never would have been able to keep up with you otherwise. Stay for lunch? I plan to eat good old Uncle Rupert out of house and home, which will make him furious and my aunt utterly ecstatic. Should be a good show."

"Wish I could, but mother's expecting me. I'll catch a matinee performance in a day or two, shall I?"

"You know you're always welcome."

"By you and by Lady Giles, perhaps. The lord of the manor? I'm a heretic among saints as far as his social circle is concerned. He'd burn me at the stake as soon as look at me. Well. Now that I have a worthy opponent on my hands, I suppose that's the end of you begging me for matches. I'll ring you tomorrow; see when you want to play tennis next. "

"Tomorrow, it is. Talk to you then, Will. Safe drive home.'

"Thanks." Will hugged Alex briefly, dropped a swift, discreet peck near his friend's ear, turned and strode down the long hallway and out the front door. Alex, after taking a few minutes to temper the grin Will's kiss had engendered, moved into the dining hall, seated himself in the same chair as he'd taken that morning and waited with the others for lunch to be served. Before Jenny could even open her mouth to inquire how his game had gone, Rupert tossed down the gauntlet and the tension began to mount.

"You see what I've been saying, Jenny dearest? I lecture, I teach and still he comes to luncheon in his filthy tennis attire. It isn't as though I haven't tried, Alexander. Six years under my tutelage is evidently not enough to overcome the obvious lack of breeding in your formative years. If only you had come to me earlier.... well, we do the best with the meager material we're given."

Amazed that steam wasn't pouring out of his nose and ears, Alex held his emotions in check, though not without considerable effort, and managed to force out a word or two.

"Excuse me?"

"Has your hearing now deserted you along with your manners? You will rise, you will go directly upstairs, you will wash and you will dress appropriately. You will not sit at my table again until you have."

"Rupert, stop it this minute! Because of your badgering the boy had nothing to eat this morning. Let him put something in his stomach, for heaven's sake...."

"If he wants to eat, he can conduct himself as a gentleman, as I do. Otherwise, he may starve. Or perhaps one of those cretins he's chosen to befriend will offer to feed him. Until he can show me the respect I deserve, he'll not receive any favor from me."

"Rupert Anthony Giles! I will not allow you to treat my dear brother's child this way! You are acting far less a gentleman than he is...."

Suddenly, words boiled up inside Alex, words he knew he never could have spoken before, in part because the real Rupert never would have treated him so harshly or so unkindly, and in part because of the love he had received from *his* Rupert. Xander, the insecure man- child, afraid to stand up and be heard, afraid to face the repercussions of his actions in defense of himself or others, was months dead to him. Alex was all that he was, all that he desired to be and Alex had decided it was time to give Xander a proper burial.

"No, no. It's alright, Aunt Jenny. Let him go on making a fool of himself. He's attacked my parents, my friends, my personality, my worth in general... there isn't much left of me to insult. I'd be interested to see what more he can find to condemn. Go ahead, uncle. Test my hold on my temper. My wager would be... say, five more minutes before I shatter your nose and spill your blood onto your precious Irish lace table cloth."

"Alex! Don't...."

"Quiet, Jennifer!" Rupert interrupted. "He's only showing his true colors; the colors of a vicious, self-important thug! All you have to do is look at that so-called "portrait" sitting in *my* library. The... superior attitude he flaunts is written all over that piece of trash! A portrait of garbage, that's what it is; garbage that thinks it can stand beside normal people and not be noticed for what it is...."

"Uncle Rupert... Alex.... please stop this... I hate it when you fight...." Faith pleaded tearfully.

Fuming, Alex forced his heartbeat to slow and his breathing to calm before he stood and faced his uncle.

"As much as I *want* to do you harm at this moment, and as much as I genuinely believe that you deserve to *be* harmed I'm going to listen to my better nature and walk away from the battle you instigated without surrendering to my baser instincts and beating you senseless. Be grateful, be silent... and let me go."

"Better nature?! When you arrived at my door you had nothing but a tattered bag and the clothes you wore! I opened my home, I did my best to make you a man. Anything you have, I gave you!"

Finding no more words available, Alex locked eyes with his uncle for a long moment then turned and left the room. Faith rose only moments later and followed him. Jenny took a little longer, but after overcoming her indecision and her fear of her husband's reprisal, she too pushed her chair back and stood up. "Jenny. Don't you dare."

"I'm sorry, Rupert. I won't put up with your tantrums any longer. I married a man, but ever since Alex came to us I've watched you slowly turn into a petulant little boy. Every time I give him even a small amount of my attention, you demand an equal measure for yourself and I'm weary of it. If this is the way you insist on acting, you will eat your meals alone from now on."

Rupert watched his wife slowly glide from the room, then turned his eyes down to where his hands lay beside each other on the table. When the food was delivered, he ignored it and the questions of the staff.

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As Alex first entered the library he avoided looking at the strange painting that had so far only confused him, but eventually, his curiosity won out and he moved to where it still leaned against the divan. He was shocked to find that he could now clearly see everything Giles had claimed was there. The smile had become haughty and just the tiniest bit cruel. The eyes were heavy lidded and radiated arrogance.

He was distracted for only a moment as Jenny moved into the room and he looked up to greet her and offer his apologies. When he returned his gaze to the portrait, he realized it had changed once again. Subtly, as it had every other time, but still, the image was different. The face seemed a bit fuller, the eyes a bit brighter and more open and innocent. The minute alterations transformed the face from a jaded adult's into that of a much younger man.

Just then, the Powers' intended revelation struck Alex so intensely he found it hard to remain on his feet. Fearing he would collapse, he lifted the framed picture and dropped to the divan, laying the piece across his lap so that Jenny could still see it.

"This.... this is how you see me, isn't it? Sweet, young.... untouched by pain or loss."

"Well... I suppose it is, in a way. This is how I wish you could have remained. I pray you won't judge your Uncle Rupert too harshly, Alex. He sees you and Faith pulling away, moving into lives of your own and he feels a little betrayed I think. I'm not saying it's a rational viewpoint by any means...."

"No. I understand. I really.... I understand what it's all about now. He sees me the way he sees me.... I can't change that. I... I have to see myself... see who I really am, not who anyone else thinks I am. I can cherish Giles' or Will's opinion.... but the last vote should always be mine. Did I get it?" Alex asked, gazing up to the ceiling. "I think I did. It feels so right...."

Gazing back down at the painting, Alex found the image had done one last magical shift. The Alex he found on the canvas was the Alex he had discovered in Giles' hallway mirror that first night, the night his life had changed forever.

A moment later, the pseudo-library began to dissolve around him in swirls of light and dark colors and the voice, the breath of wind in his ear, returned.

/// Well-reasoned, young warrior. The trials are completed. Return and face your final judgment....\\\



If That's Destiny 2-- Epilogue:

The songs near the end belong to Natalie Merchant and whoever now owns the genius of the Beatles.

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/// Answer our questions, Rupert Anthony Giles. Were the lessons absorbed successfully? \\\

{Wh... what happened to me? I... I died.... when you die in dreams, don't you die in reality?}

/// It was not a dream. It was a test. The answer to your question.... is often, but not always. Give a response. Were the lessons absorbed successfully? \\\

{Yes.}

/// What did you learn? \\\

{At certain, very low, points in my life I had the power to change the outcome, if I'd only believed in myself enough to try. My whole life could have been different.}

/// Knowing what you now know and taking into account the people, places and events to which your choices, good and bad both, have led you, would you choose to see any of your alterations implemented? \\\

{No. The decisions I made.... I made. I have a life I adore, now. Not knowing what a single shift in my then might destroy in my now.... I would choose to leave the past alone.}

/// Will what you have seen alter how you conduct your life from this point forward? \\\

{Oh, yes. I now understand the mistakes I made and they won't be repeated. I will never allow self-doubt to sabotage the love I've found or the training of my new student and I will never give up on Alex and William.... or on myself.}

/// We look into your soul and we see that you speak the truth. We return you through the portal at this time.... \\\

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/// Answer our questions, Cordelia Suzanne Chase. Were the lessons absorbed successfully? \\\

"What? How... where's Wesley? What did you do? You better send me back to him..."

/// This is not an acceptable answer. Were the lessons absorbed successfully? \\\

"Look you... you...."

/// Answer the questions or face the consequences of your deliberate inaction. \\\

"Which means?"

/// You will never leave this place again. \\\

"Yes! The answer is yes."

/// What did you learn? \\\

Cordelia thought for a long time before responding.

"Love is always possible. I don't know the people I call friends half as well as I should. I take the people in my life for granted until I lose them forever..." she admitted, pausing to glance meaningfully at Doyle "and then my tears don't do either of us any good."

/// Has this knowledge altered your heart in these matters? \\\

"Yes. Absolutely and without question."

/// We look into your soul and we see that you speak the truth. You may both return through the portal at this time. \\\

"Both? We can both go home?"

/// Allen Francis Doyle has completed the service we asked of him. If it is his wish, he may live once again as he did before. The gift of the visions will remain with you, Cordelia Suzanne Chase, but we will remove the pain they have caused you in recognition of your service and of how well you absorbed the lessons we sought to teach you this day. \\\

Doyle stared at his shoes and examined the patterns in the stone floor for a long time before he could manage to meet Cordy's eyes. Even then he found it too difficult to speak right away. "It's up to you, Doyle. I'm sure there's someplace beautiful waiting for you. You have a right to rest.... just like Buffy."

"Ha! The only place waitin' fer me is a warm seat by a big fire. A *real* warm seat."

/// Incorrect. Cordelia Suzanne Chase speaks the truth once again. Should you choose not to return to earthly life, Allen Francis Doyle, paradise awaits you, but you must decide quickly. She cannot remain here much longer without risk. \\\

"Will it be the same as it was, princess.... with you an' me I mean?"

"I can't answer that. You have to come back for yourself, not for me, not for Angel.... You have to decide if it's what you want."

This time, Doyle chose to study Cordy's eyes. What he found there prompted him to produce the smile she remembered so well, the one that still made her heart stutter, and to hold his hand out to her.

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/// Answer our questions Stephan Mikhail Roskov, also Micheal Evan Adams, also Wesley Wyndham Pryce. Were the lessons absorbed successfully? \\\

{Hello? I don't understand.... I haven't died after all....}

/// That remains to be seen. Give a response. Were the lessons absorbed successfully? \\\

{Yes.}

/// What did you learn? \\\

{I am not as immune to the effects of rage, jealousy and disappointment as I believed myself to be. Left uncorrected, my lack of ability to be my own strongest advocate will either lead to a life spent alone, or filled with people who care for nothing except what they can coerce me into surrendering. Possibly, it may lead to my death. My past is just that; past. It can't be destroyed, but I can avoid its repeating itself. I am not the arrogant bully my father was. I am not the weak, embittered person my mother was.}

/// Has this knowledge altered your heart in these matters? \\\

{Profoundly.}

/// We look into your soul and we see that you speak the truth. We return you through the portal at this time. \\\

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/// You have come far, Alexander Summers. You have shown strength, fortitude and courage. No more will we ask of you today, except that you do these things; continue to believe in yourself, hold fast to the support of your friends and to the love of the new family which has found you and keep to your path. We are well pleased and we will be watching you carefully. We sense you want to speak. \\\

"Yes. I'm incredibly grateful for what I've been shown and for the insight into my character. Thank you for this chance.... I won't let you down."

/// The choices were yours, as were the qualities that saw you through the trials. You have earned the name you have you chosen.... as well as the reward you will soon receive. \\\

"What? Sir... madam... can I ask for a clarification...."

/// Return through the portal at this time, young warrior. The trials are ended. \\\

"I understand. Again... thank you."

/// You are most welcome, Slayer. \\\

The Powers' farewell was muffled as Alex stepped through the portal, leading him to brush aside what he thought he'd heard, believing that was the last thing they, or anyone else, would ever call him.

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WEDNESDAY EVENING: TWENTY-TWO HOURS AFTER
THE PORTALS APPEARED


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Curled into himself, Spike sat before the silent, inactive portal and rocked slightly backward and forward, tears streaming down his cheeks. Angel had fallen asleep several hours before, but his childe would not allow himself to rest until the watcher was returned to him safely. Without his soulmate's presence to comfort him, Spike felt desolate, empty and utterly alone.

Out of places to run and hide, the vampire once feared by populations the world over raised his eyes to the ceiling and did something that never would have even crossed his mind before the love of Rupert Giles swept into his life, upending all his preconceptions, restoring a soul Spike had long ago given up as beyond hope and a heart he had once believed was unworthy of redemption. The former watcher had transformed him, turning bitterness to joy, slowly rooting out his blackest corners and flooding them with light and even if it meant attempting something he hadn't the slightest idea how to approach, even if it meant begging, he would not surrender his salvation.

"Hello? Anybody... any *thing* there? Sod it, I don't know how ta do this! I wasn't a kneelin' man before Dru turned me. I was Scratch's content little puppy dog in the days with Angelus... Look. I need Rupert... too much sometimes, I know that. I've never had nothin' like this... like him. I'm workin' on it, but it's gonna take more time to really believe that he ain't goin' away.... like everything an' everyone else in my life's up an' done. I will learn ta stand on my own.... I swear I will.... just don't take him from me. Please, God or whoever... whatever ya are.... don't take him away... not when I finally trust somebody.... he's the sun fer me.... I can't live in the dark no more... I won't. Please, please don't make me be alone again... I'll die without him.... don't put me back in the dark ta die...."

Abruptly, Spike was drawn out of his pain-filled pleading by the sound of the portal irising open in front of him. The sound awoke Angel just in time to watch an utterly exhausted and emotionally battered Giles stumble out of the swirling light and fall to his knees in front of Sire and Childe. The watcher was immediately pulled into William's tender embrace. "Rupert! Gods, Rupert... thought I'd maybe lost you forever.... are ya alright? Tell me you're alright...."

"I.... I will be.... someday... Thank God for you. I just kept thinking of you.... waiting here for me.... and I was able to..."

"What?"

"No. Not now. Just hold me a little tighter... and keep talking to me.... make me know you're real.... and that it's over...."

"I'm here, luv. I'm real. You're safe an' I won't ever let ya go.... bad, scary dreams are done with, baby... you're safe now...."

"I wish I could believe it was a dream...."

"Shhh. Relax an' try an' forget it.... let it go... you made it home, luv. That's all that counts. You wanna hear a funny, hmm? I tried to pray. Imagine that. Me prayin' ? When nothin' happened right off I figured I did it wrong; said the wrong words or said somethin' stupid an' awful an' they wouldn't hear me.... but yer here. Swear to me you won't ever do somethin' so idiotic an' dangerous again. Never, ever, ever...."

"My vow, love. My vow. Now it's a waiting game to see if the others have made it as well."

To Rupert's joy, the wait was quite short. For the Angel Investigations crew, the emotions were a great deal more complicated and varied.

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"Ozborne. Hey, Ozborne! Wake up. Somethin's happenin'!"

"I'm awake. What is it?"

"This... thing's goin funky again...."

"They must be coming back. That's good."

"Boy, get a little more excited, you might crack a smile."

"For me this is ecstatic. It's all on the inside. It's a zen
thing."

"Hmmph. That's cool. Whatever trims your banzai, man."

A few seconds later, Cordelia strode through the portal, one hand hanging in the air behind her. Oz and Gunn rose to their feet to welcome back their friend and the smaller man who trailed her reluctantly into the room. Unaware of his significance to anyone else in the group, they were moving forward to greet him and shake his hand when they heard Angel gasp in stunned surprise behind them and shout out a name.

"Doyle!"

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The joyful noises from the other pairs gradually roused Tara and Willow from sleep as well. Rubbing their eyes, they straightened out of the safe harbor they'd found in each other's arms over the course of the night and prepared to greet Wesley, but his return journey through the portal brought no happiness. Instead of walking through under his own power, he fell through and the women were forced to catch his limp body, lower him to the ground and drag him forward into the room.

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know...." Willow responded distractedly, leaning one ear close to his chest. "He isn't breathing.... and his heart's barely beating! Somebody help!"

"It's okay, Willow. I know CPR. Move over a little.... Put your hand on his neck... right there. Keep a check on his pulse. If it weakens or stops tell me right away." Tara replied, shifting into position and beginning rescue breathing on Wesley.

While Oz ran to call 911, the others gathered around in support of Tara, waiting anxiously for Wesley to show any sign of reviving. Just as a siren outside the apartment announced the arrival of the ambulance, his eyes finally flickered open and he began to breathe on his own. Eyes filled with confusion and pain, he gazed around him and tried to speak, but Tara put a gentle finger on his lips.

"No. Don't talk. You stopped breathing for a while, but you're alright, now. You made it home. Just relax. The paramedics are gonna check you out and take you to the hospital for a few hours, but you'll be fine, I promise. Take it easy."

Willow startled when Alex walked up behind her and dropped a hand on her shoulder.

"The portals are gone. I think it's really over."

"Until the next time The Powers decide to interfere and make a complete wreck of our lives."

"Yeah." Alex chuckled. "Until the next time."

The group stepped back as the EMT's entered and began to examine Wesley. He protested when they concurred with Tara about going to the emergency room, but he eventually gave in and they lifted him onto the gurney, tucked a blanket around him and wheeled him out.

"Somebody should..."

"I'll go with him." Oz finished for Willow. "You feel like coming along?" he asked Gunn. "Everybody else seems to be occupied."

"Like you could stop me."

"Wouldn't try." Oz assured him and the two strolled out the door.

The moment he knew Wesley would be alright, Angel grabbed Cordelia's left arm and Doyle's right and dragged them into the kitchen. Tara and Willow took one end of the couch, Giles and William claimed the other and Alex dropped to the floor close to his house-mates.

Eventually, Cordy and Doyle moved up the stairs to get some badly needed sleep and Angel strode out to his car and went for a drive.

After another hour or so, Tara and Willow rose and left for home.

Throughout all the shifts and activity around them, the other three never moved from their places on the couch. Rupert had laid down and curled up on his side, head in William's lap, and fallen deeply asleep. Alex, leaning against the base of the sofa, had one hand on Will's ankle and the other hand laid lightly along Rupert's arm and was also beginning to nod off. In the middle of the two, Will was the only one truly awake and he intended to remain that way for a while longer. They had all walked through hell the past twenty-four hours, but he had his family back together and if it meant staying awake and keeping vigil over them for eternity he would make sure noone and nothing ever stole them away again.


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THE HOSPITAL: LATER THAT NIGHT

"I'm much better, Gunn, truly. All I want is to go home."

"I know, Wes. It ain't the Ritz an' hospitals ain't never been your best friends, but I think the docs are right. We don't know how long you were out. Could be problems that won't show up for a while. Plus you're still coughin' an' soundin' all wheezy an' stuff. Give it the night. I promise me an' Angel an' Cordy'll be back to rescue you in the mornin', okay?"

"No! I mean.... just you and Cordelia. Please?"

"What? Since when do you have a problem with Angel?"

"I don't. It isn't.... I can't explain. Please, just do as I ask, but don't tell him. Make up some excuse or story so as not to hurt his feelings...."

"This about what you saw on that little trip you took?"

"Partially. I'm not ready to discuss it yet..." Wesley murmured, turning his head away to hide the tears that had begun to streak down his face.

"Yeah. Yeah, I see that. Okay. Whatever you want. No Angel. You try an' get some sleep. Cordy an' me... we'll see you tomorrow."

"Early?" Wesley asked hopefully.

"Visiting hours don't start `till nine, Wes. I can't spring you before then. Sorry."

"Yes. So am I." The other replied, his voice heavy with disappointment. Gunn chuckled.

"Hang in there, man. Feel better."

Wesley grunted and turned onto his side facing the wall.

When he slid into the passenger's seat of the car, Gunn's expression was troubled. This was such a rare condition for him that Cordelia was immediately prompted to ask what was wrong.

"Wes. He practically begged me to find some reason to keep Angel away when we pick him up tomorrow. Said it had somethin' to do with what happened in that portal thing.... but he wouldn't give with any specifics. He was actually cryin', Cordy. What in hell could make him so scared of Angel that the thought of bein' in the same room would set him off like that?"

"The PTB's only know, Gunn, and they're the world champs at keeping secrets. Let's go collect Angel. Oz reserved a place for the three of us at his hotel."

"Sounds good. I could use a few hours of down-time. Feels like I haven't slept in years."

"You? Excuse me! You weren't stuck in `The Wizard of Oz' meets a Hallmark commercial!"

"No, I was just stuck tryin' to sleep on the living room floor with a former werewolf whose snores sound like a missile attack in a World War II movie...."

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A/N: The Natalie Merchant song ' The Letter' is supposed to be one of those "music fading in and out over a scene" kind of things. If you can visualize it, the scene will work better for you, I think


LATER IN THE WEEK

Alex stood in the doorway to Giles' small apartment, savoring the cool, relatively soothing evening air. Except for Doyle, who had returned to L.A. saying he wanted to get settled in somewhere and check out the Hyperion, Angel and his group were still around at various times, in singles or in twos and threes but, in spite of the extra bodies, the house was now relatively quiet and Alex was reveling in it for the brief moment he feared it was going to last.

Since the four travelers had returned from their separate ordeals at the hands of the Powers That Be, they had all begun to settle back into normal routine; all except Giles. In his presence, which he graced the others with only rarely, the atmosphere of any room became thick with pent up emotion until those who required air began to feel they couldn't find a sufficient supply and left, swiftly followed by those who didn't require it.

Alex, growing increasingly concerned, had let Rupert stew for as long as he dared and had now decided it was time to take a wrecking ball to the barrier his trainer and friend was slowly building around himself.

Re-entering the house, he moved cautiously toward the chair where the watcher sat slumped, staring at a book Alex knew he wasn't actually reading.

"Giles?"

"Please, go away, Alex. I've told you a hundred or more times that I'm alright."

"Right. That's why noone can stand to be in a room with you for more than five minutes. You're not alright. Doing this almost killed you before. You told me yourself if it hadn't been for Will...."

"Alex. Stop. I'm not drinking and I'm not going to do anything foolish. I'm simply not very good company at the moment. Please leave it alone, as I've asked."

"I can't. C'mon, Giles. We've been back three days, and you've spent almost every minute in solitary confinement. What is it? What happened to you in there?"

"I.... I can't talk about most of it. It's too much right now.... too much, too close.... and too soon."

"Then let go of what you *can* talk about. Please. I'm getting really worried. You aren't eating, Will says you don't sleep...."

"Alex, please! Cease and desist!" Giles roared, leaping from his chair and slamming his book on the table. "I don't want to discuss it! I'll be fine. I don't need any.... anything."

"Yeah, you do, sen-sei. I just figured you didn't know how to ask. When you do... come find me."

"Alex... I'm sorry I snapped... you can't know...."

"That's right. I can't." Alex agreed, leaving the rest unspoken {unless you tell me....} "I won't push anymore, I promise. Just know I'm here, okay?"

His heart breaking for the man who had influenced and inspired so many of the positive changes in his life, Alex watched Rupert turning in half circles, his movements almost frantic as he paced a foot or two in one direction, then spun and paced back the same distance. Alex's stomach twisted, suddenly feeling as if he were watching the inception of a nervous breakdown. Part of him wanted to surrender to the extreme discomfort and walk away, leaving the watcher to find his own way over, under, around or through his pain, but his compassion and love for the man rooted Alex's feet to the floor, willing him to stay in case he was genuinely needed.

For a long time, Rupert struggled and fought with himself, finally tuning in to his own heart, which was telling him he wasn't ready to let this secret go, even to Alex, who, of all people in his life, would understand. Turning to the wall directly behind him, he punched it savagely, just once, leaving a visible dent in the plaster.

"Upstairs. This is for you and I... not the rest."

Wordlessly, Alex trailed his mentor up the stairs, followed him into the bedroom and sat a foot or so away from him on the bed, sensing that space, and not hugging and hand-holding, was what his friend needed just then. Abruptly, Giles changed his mind and moved to sit on the floor by the bedroom window. Again, Alex let him take the lead and joined him there, still keeping his distance.

"I'll not tell you most of what I endured over those few.... hellish hours. It's quite likely I'll never tell anyone. I'm only... You're hearing this only because you have a right to the history behind.... some things that transpired between you and I. My father was a terribly... strict man, who saw nothing wrong in doling out corporal punishment to his children.... mostly to his oldest, of whom much more was expected. One particular night, he'd been repairing a.... a child's table for one of my younger sisters.... I never knew what I did.... or said, but suddenly he was enraged...."

"You didn't have to *do* anything. You know that as well as I do."

"Yes. Perhaps... At any rate, he picked up the oak table leg that was lying by his hand.... it still had a... a nail... sticking out of one end.... I eventually made it out of the house. I ended up in some narrow, dirty alley, hiding and licking my wounds. I was so weak and injured from the beating that when... when I was approached.... then attacked.... I had... no way of fighting him off..."

"Giles.... Rupert, you don't have to...."

"I do. Let me finish.... please. He.... he didn't succeed.... but he did try... very, very hard. I was so young, only 11... and every time my fractured arm or leg shifted.... I screamed.... so he gave up. Obviously, I survived... but only by the greatest good fortune. Many years later, I realized that every potential relationship I tried for was dying because.... I couldn't be intimate. I couldn't bear it. I was even beginning to shy away from my friends' hugs and handshakes... By that point I had forgotten the incident... more truthfully, I blocked it out, refused to see it as the root cause of my problem. I put myself into intensive therapy for the three years before I was assigned to Sunnydale. Thirty-six months of brutal, mind and heart twisting work just to get me somewhere close to being stable and level..."

"Rupert... love, why tell me this? I mean, I know part of the reason, I think.... you knew I'd understand.... but...."

"You have to know this. You have the right... The last period of my treatment regimen involved.... sexual surrogate therapy. It took four months for me to move from accepting simple, non-sexual contact, to the intimate end of things.... but when it was finished.... I felt human again. It was the most amazing, liberating feeling I'd ever known. That's why.... I should say that's how I...."

Giles allowed his sentence to trail off into silence, unable to complete the statement.

He stared at his hands and the carpet, not daring to look into Alex's eyes, terrified of the betrayal and anger he was certain his revelation would cause. When he did force himself to look up, however, all he saw was confusion.

"That's how you knew what to do to help me?"

"Yes. I recognize my mistake now, I truly do. I should have told you then, but... You must understand that I..."

"Rupert, Rupert. Hold up. I don't see the problem. Somebody helped you heal your wounds, you took the knowledge they gave you and you used it to heal a battle scar I'd been carrying for a long, long time. Who the hell cares where the knowledge came from?"

"You can't seriously mean that..."

"Of course I do. God, sen-sei... I respect you, I admire you, and I love you. You know I'll never come between you and Will... but I love you all the same. How could you think anything in your past would ever change that? Giles.... you know how close I was to going down for the third time. I was about to marry someone I didn't love, that memory was coming back almost every night... I was miserable. I would never have taken even the first step into the life I'm supposed to be living if you hadn't rescued me. Get that? You rescued me."

A smile barely tugging at the corners of his mouth, Giles gazed wonderingly at Alex then held out his right hand. When the younger man placed his right hand on top of his mentor's, Rupert pulled it toward his face, pressing his student's fingers to his cheek.

"Tell me what you feel." he asked Alex, tension thrumming in his voice as he waited for the answer, desperately trying to repress what he was hearing from the dark, venomous serpent coiled at the bottom of his mind.

^ you poor wretched man.... you stupid fool... you tell him everything, then sit there actually thinking he *won't* notice you're damaged goods.... he knows what you're expecting to hear, and that's exactly what he'll say... then he'll leave. when will you learn that broken toys end up in the dump... ^

"Let's see.... a five o'clock shadow. You need a shave, there bud. A cheekbone that's been broken more than once... a heart that's been broken too often. I feel the face I adore.... soft, sensitive skin that always tastes a little salty, like tears.... now I guess I understand why..."

Breathing somewhat erratically as he tried to laugh and cry at the same time, Giles stretched out his other hand and pulled Alex to him, wrapping the younger man in an intense, powerful embrace. They remained huddled together, silent except for the occasional sobs from both men, until they heard Oz return and call for them, at which point they slowly, reluctantly moved apart.

"Guess it's time for this... whatever it is Oz has planned, huh?"

"Yes. It would appear so. Alex. What do you say when thank you isn't enough?"

"Friends do for each other. No big. Just passing back the second chance someone gave me." Alex chuckled, rising to his feet and helping Rupert stand.

"Yes, well at this rate that second chance may never see the problems of anyone outside of this house."

"Yeah it will. We still have a lot of work to do for ourselves, that's all. It's gonna take time before we're ready to help other people. "

"For the moment.... I think I can live with that."

"Yeah. Me too. Look..... Can I ask a question? You don't have to answer."

"Go ahead."

"Ripper. Did he come out of that night.... in the alley?"

"Hmm. I suppose he did have his genesis there, at that. It was shortly after I'd finally healed up that I began spending more time on the streets, less time at home. From age twelve to age sixteen.... I went utterly insane. Four years of total chaos and rabid self-destruction. I made it my life's goal to go out in a hundred-foot high ball of pure fire and light. Then I met Ethan. He'd already been in training with the council for six months or so, by that point. He said if I came with him to one meeting, he'd provide at least a months worth of drugs, alcohol and whatever else I required to keep me happy. I went, he delivered. Within a week and a half, I'd devoured everything he supplied me. I came very close to that ball of fire. I got a good close look. When I knew it for what it really was, I shrieked in terror, leapt into a Watcher rehabilitation program and never looked back."

Finally finished, Giles waited for some reaction from Alex. The disapproval and reprimands he expected never came. All he received from the younger man was a light smile and compassion.

"When Buffy died, you leaned on the bottle again. So? All that says is you don't handle loss real well. We can work on that. C'mon. Oz and the others are waiting."

Talking quietly, the two men strolled downstairs to join the group and learn what Oz had in store for all of them.

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"What's up, Oz?" Alex asked once he and Giles had settled into seats in the living room with everyone else. "What are the pieces of paper for?"

"When I first started training with my new master, he told me he couldn't teach me the control I wanted to achieve until I cleansed myself. He said I was holding on to people and things in my past that I needed to let go of. This ceremony is the way he helped me do that."

"And you think we need to cleanse." Angel uttered darkly. Oz ignored the mildly threatening tone of the statement and answered truthfully.

"Yeah, I do. None of us ever said everything we wanted to, or everything we should have, to Buffy. We took her being here for granted.... until she wasn't. This ceremony is a chance to make that right."

Struggling to keep her emotions under control, Willow gazed at Oz for a moment, then refocused on the small square of paper in her hands.

"So.... what do we do?"

"You write her a message, Will. It has to contain one sentence that starts 'I want you to know.' That's where you write down the one really important thing you regret not saying while she was alive. Other than that, it can be as long as you want, and it can say anything you're feeling. Then we put them in this bowl and burn them."

"Burn them?"

"Right. It symbolizes.... mailing the words and emotions to the other side.... sort of."

"And afterwards?" Giles questioned.

"I'll show you that when we get to it. Well? What does everybody think?"

One by one, each member of the group nodded their approval. All except for Angel, who stood and threw the paper and pencil away from him.

"Angel. Think about this, man...."

"I don't need to think! Buffy and I said everything there was to say...... then I said my good-byes. I have nothing to cleanse."

"I'll bet you anything you own that there's one thing neither of you ever said. It's the one gift left you can give her, Angel, and she deserves it. You both do."

"I'll take that bet. Go ahead. Tell me this magic word."

"It's two words, actually. I'm sorry."

Angel turned slowly back to face Oz, his expression utterly shocked. Just as slowly, he returned to the couch where Cordy and Gunn still sat, accepted the paper the young woman handed him and dropped to the cushion again. "Okay. Now that we're all agreed, you can start writing. You don't have to show and tell unless you want to. When you're finished, fold your papers, and drop them in the bowl."

Leaving the others to their thoughts, Oz collected his paper and jogged upstairs to the study to write his in private.

*If I ever write this letter,
the pages I could write.
But I don't know where to send it.
You have vanished,
Heaven knows where you live,
heaven only knows.....*

Buffy,
Are you happy? I dearly hope so. I still miss you every day, but I would never wish you here, instead of whatever realm of heaven I'm sure you now inhabit. Paradise is less than you deserve for all you gave to this world and the people who shared it with you. I want you to know that you were always my daughter in my heart, and you always will be. Peace be eternally yours, my beautiful child



Buffy,
I keep wondering when you're going to call me up and invite me out for coffee, or over to your place for movie-pig-out night with you and your mom. I know you're together now. The three of us will have a big ole' party when I get there. I want you to know I was always jealous of you. Every minute. It wasn't what you had, it was how much of it you willingly gave back and gave up to do what had to be done. Blessed be, sweetie. When I see you next, the mochachinos are on me.

*If I ever write this letter....*


Buffster,
I'm not you, damn it. I'm trying really hard. I hope you can see, and I hope you're proud. I'll be better, I promise. I realize I've got legendary shoes to fill. I want you to know that what you didn't do for me kept me going through some very dark times. You didn't exclude me, you didn't make me feel stupid, and you didn't make me feel like dirt, even when I acted like it. You always treated me like I already was the man I've become. Thanks. Love you.

Buffy,
We were never really friends, I guess. You tolerated my snottiness. I condescended and played Queen of All I Survey, so you wouldn't know how much I desperately wanted to be friends. I thought I had everything I could ever possibly need. Then you came along and showed me how wrong one person could be. You were all I couldn't be. You had the things my credit cards couldn't get me. I hated that, not you.

I have to believe you know what's happened with Spike and all. He called me his hero. I want you to know that I always knew who the real hero was. The way I acted was just because I wished it could be me. I wasn't brave enough or willing enough. I'm stronger now. Thanks for the great role model, and thanks for Angel. He kicks asses, and he saves them. What a guy. Your war's over, girlfriend. I'll watch over Wes and Angel, you go find a sunny beach and relax for a while.


*the truth it would reveal....*

Buffy,
Not much I can say. Words for us were always loving, or bitter and painful. Nothing in-between. No middle ground for star- crossed lovers, is there? Romeo and Juliet. That was us, alright. Fated to love, fated to lose. I keep wishing I could play out my role in the ending of our story, but I was never as strong as you were, and I don't think you'd want me to. I want you to know I acknowledge now that the way I left after graduation was utterly selfish, and not the selfless act I've tried to convince myself it was. I wanted to make it easier on me, not on you. I'm sorry. Know, too, that Wes and Cordy will always be under my protection. I'll never fail them. Sleep sweet, my beloved; flesh cloaked in darkest night, soul bathed in
Heaven's purest light.


Slayer,
God knows I could hate you so easy. I could scream that I only want you back so I can tell you to your face that your watcher's mine now; that Alex is mine, and that Dawn turns to me for comfort when her tears need drying. It would be a lie. I just want you back. Period. I want you to know that you starting to trust me, just at the end there, that meant everything. I couldn't show it or tell you. The ego thing, you know. I'll try to make it to where you are when I finally go to dust. Look for me.

*knowing you brought me pleasure,*

Buffy,
I realize there wasn't much happiness or camaraderie between us while I was in Sunnydale. God, how I regret that, now. I simply couldn't conceive of anyone accepting the man I saw in the mirror, the one I so despised, so I played the part of the untouchable stuffed shirt and kept the world at a distance. It was only after I reached a dead end, and came to work for Angel, that I understood how much I could have shared with you and the others had I opened up and allowed you in.

I want you to know that, in your death, you've taught me how to live. I will never willingly surrender another potential moment of joy, no matter if my immortality ends tomorrow, or I live to the end of creation. I will never let my insecurities push Angel, Cordy or Gunn away. Never. I promise you to always treasure them and protect them. I came to you as a teacher, but you taught me more than I'll ever be able to tell. Thank you, dear girl.



Buffy,
Thank you for Willow, the light of my life and the best person I've ever known. I want you to know I love her and I will take care of her. Wherever you are now, I know it's full of sunshine and flowers and everything you need. You did what you had to do. We understand that. It's up to us now. We won't let you down.


Miss Summers,
Never got to know you well. Wish I had. I'm glad I wasn't there for most of you and Angel, though. The way he and Cordy both describe it, it was "Twister" meets "Interview With a Vampire" crossed with "Shakespeare in Love". I want you to know the trouble trio is fine. I'm looking after Angel, Cordy and Wes for you. You just find a quiet spot and kick back. I got it covered.

*how I'll often treasure,
moments that we knew;
the precious, the few.*


Buff,
Never be enough time or paper to say it. When the time comes, and the beast inside wears me out, I'll find you. Till then.

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

By the time Oz returned to where the group waited, all had duly folded and placed their missives in the large copper bowl he'd provided. Lighting a candle, he sat facing his friends and the one or two he really didn't know, but hoped to in the future. For a long while he intently studied their faces. Finally he lifted the taper, held it over the bowl, closed his eyes, and said a nearly silent prayer over the papers within before touching the flame to the messages. He studied the group again as each watched their love, hopes, regrets and wishes for Buffy Summers curl, blacken, and reduce to ash.

Though he understood it would probably be misinterpreted, Oz couldn't keep a small smile from his lips as he looked from one person to the next, finding a strange fascination in the broad variety of expressions he found there. Willow seemed to be fighting back tears, but she, too, was smiling gently as she clung to Tara's arm. Angel's face was set in a blank mask, his 'my heart is dead' facade firmly in place. Cordelia and Alex both appeared mildly repulsed and confused at the same time, unable to decide which was proper to express outwardly.

Once the fire had died and the bowl had cooled completely, Oz covered it, held it out before him, spoke another quiet prayer, then stood with the container in his hands.

"Spike. You said you'd be willing to show me where Buffy is now?"

"A'course. That where were all goin' next?"

"Yeah. Grab your coats everybody. It's damp tonight." Oz advised, handing the bowl to Giles as he drew near and disappearing deeper into the apartment. When the smaller man returned with Giles acoustic guitar in its case, the watcher questioned him.

"I don't understand. What does my guitar have to do with any of this?"

"Don't know. I probably will when we get to the cemetery. Got the bowl?"

"Yes."

"Good. We should go. The others are waiting. You feel like coming with me?"

"Perhaps. It depends what you're driving, I suppose."

"Relax. I got rid of the van a long time ago. Picked up an Indian down in San Fran that I really like."

"An Indian? You don't mean an Indian motorcycle." the older man asked, excitement rising in his voice.

"I do. If you wanna drive, I'm willing to sing backup." Oz offered, dangling the keys. After a long moment of indecision, Giles traded the bowl for the clinking bundle of metal and followed Oz outside, pointedly ignoring the stares of the others as he climbed on the machine, donned a helmet and started the bike up like an expert. Oz gave the guitar to Willow and Alex to transport, settled himself behind Giles, and the group took off.

Once at the cemetery, Oz and Giles waited for the group to assemble from their different vehicles, then Spike led the way to the spot where they'd buried Buffy all those months ago. For a few moments, everyone stood around looking and feeling awkward as Oz arranged things to his satisfaction, grateful when he finally addressed them. "Second part of the ritual, guys. One by one, each of you dips a finger into the ashes, then you touch the headstone. We'll pretty much be done then, but...... you might wanna stick around for a few minutes."

"I know that look, Oz. You have something planned." Willow teased him gently.

"Really don't. Just.... a feeling. You wanna go first, Wills?"

"No. No, it's okay. You go, Cordy."

Obligingly, Cordelia stepped up to Oz, touched the ash with her index finger then stroked that digit lightly over the cold marble, a tiny smile on her face. Giles followed her, and, except for Willow and Gunn, the others lined up behind him and took their turn.

"Wills. C'mon. You're up."

Reluctantly, the redhead approached her former lover, but would not dip into the soft dark material in the bowl.

"But....it's supposed to rain tomorrow, Oz. It'll just be gone... like we were never here....."

"Not how it works, Willow. If we do it right, there'll always be someone left behind to tell the world we existed."

"I can't. What's the point of this, of leaving our marks here, if they're just going to wash away?"

"That *is* the point. This is about letting go, moving on. Do it."

Her expression a mixture of anger and deep sorrow, Willow finally made her mark on the icy stone, and walked to stand with the others. Oz now turned his attention to Gunn.

"Last one, man."

Gunn merely shook his head. "Hey. Part of Angel's life, part of hers."

After a swift glance to gauge Angel's reaction, he received approval. Striding slowly forward, he completed the ceremony.

Setting the bowl down behind him, Oz turned to the long, black case that had been laid in the grass. Crouching in front of it, he flipped up the simple catches, opened it and extracted the instrument. Rising again, he closed the space between himself and Giles and held the guitar out to the watcher.

"What do you expect, Oz? I don't understand...."

"Play. Whatever comes, comes."

Confused, Giles accepted the instrument halfheartedly, shocked to find he was suddenly shy about performing in front of the group. There were one or two people in front of him who, he was sure, weren't even aware he could play, never mind sing. After several seconds spent staring blankly at the guitar, he slipped the strap around his shoulders, took a minute to be certain the instrument was in tune, then closed his eyes and began to play softly, not trying for any melody in particular, but simply letting the music flow through him, as he often did when he composed his own songs.

It was a minute or two before he realized exactly what he was playing, but when he finally did, tears sprang unbidden to his eyes and he stopped abruptly. Most of the group, familiar with the song, found themselves on the verge of breaking down as well.

"It's the way it's supposed to be Rupert. Go ahead."

"No. Not that song.... not ever. I'd never get through it....."

"It's a perfect goodbye for Buffy. Sing, Rupert. Sing it for her. She can hear you." Oz encouraged.

For a long time, Giles was stiff and frozen, unable even to speak, until he felt the group shifting position, closing ranks around him in a tight horseshoe, the nearest ones laying their hands on his shoulders and upper back. A moment later he was startled to feel Buffy's presence near him as well. Gazing down at the ground in front of him, he believed he could actually see her sitting there cross-legged, beaming a smile of patient expectancy up at him, and suddenly he was able to move, to play, to give her a last gift.

"Golden slumbers fill your eyes.
Peace awaits you when you rise.
Sleep pretty darlin', do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby..."

To his surprise his voice remained steady, his fingers stayed strong and nimble up to the last note, the final word. That was when he felt a hand brush his cheek that he knew belonged to none of the flesh and blood people surrounding him. That was when he shattered, tearing the guitar off, shoving it into Oz's hands and turning into the supporting, succoring arms of his friends.

From the bowl that Oz had set aside, a thin wisp of smoke rose, unnoticed by any of those assembled. It swirled around the entire group just once, not quite touching them, but seeming to embrace them all the same, then drifted upwards, scattered by the breeze until no trace of it was left.



END


NEXT: Sharp Curves and Dangerous Intersections