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Part Ten“No.”
Well, Angel couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting to hear that. He just — wished it hadn’t come so quickly, so suddenly.
The darkness of the room seemed silly now. As Willow clarified, he turned on some lights and restored the room to a semblance of its former order.
“I understand the need,” Willow said, apologetically. “It’s — well, you fooled me for ten years. You were evil, pretending to be good. And you killed Oz! From all you’ve said — and all you’ve shown,” as she gestured to the cross Angel was still holding, “You’re telling the truth. But — but I trusted you last time, and look what happened!”
“We trusted you,” Emily amended. “We were betrayed. And for what it’s worth, I can’t forgive you either.” There was little rancor in her voice, just the admission of an unavoidable truth.
“I don’t think it’s your forgiveness I need,” Angel said wearily. “But thanks at least for being honest with me. I wish there was some way I could prove myself to you.”
“That you’re still holding that cross proves something,” Emily answered.
Then no one spoke for about ten seconds. Willow and Emily still weren’t running off, or even backing towards the door, which Angel supposed had to count for something. At the same time, he began, “Have I earned …” as Willow said, “Well …”
No one laughed, or even thought about it. Even Emily, whom Angel remembered as being chipper, seemed uncommonly serious. And who could blame her, really? He comes back to life like some comic book super-villain, pledging that he’d reformed, seen the light, as was now working on the side of the — Angels. Hell, Angel wouldn’t have believed it either.
Willow gestured that Angel should speak first. Carefully, he said, “Have I at least earned the right to come back with you? The prophecy — I will need to be there.”
“Unless you’ve been making up the whole thing since the beginning,” Willow said. “Think about it! You’re the one that sent me the data on the Prophecy of Dark Judgment!”
“And,” Emily commented, “the only proof we have that there’s even a parallel prophecy, or of the Unforgiven, also comes from you. For all we know, you sent Spike and Siobhan here in advance!”
Angel hadn’t expected to be greeted with open arms, but he hadn’t expected X-Files, the Next Generation, either. “Have you ever known me to work and play well with Spike, in either guise? Angelus was working on stealing Drusilla right out from under him when Buffy and Giles botched the ritual of soul restoration. He probably would have ended up killing him, otherwise.”
“No …” Willow conceded. “That’s a point …”
“Please, Willow — Emily — tell me you don’t believe that conspiracy theory you just came up with.”
“Right now,” Willow answered, “I don’t know what to believe. As Galen, you gave us so much information that was right. You killed demons and vampires — the Watchers’ Council checked. The artifacts you found have advanced our studies considerably. The books have contained spells and writings lost for generations. And you’re holding that cross in your hand, and it’s not burning you.” Willow shifted from foot to foot, and there was a look of intense concentration on her face. She squeezed the stake she was holding almost reflexively, as though it were a rubber ball.
“Could I have my cross back?” Emily asked quietly. “It’s one of my originals …”
Angel tossed the cross across the room — he’d begun to cross it to hand it to her, but decided not to press his luck. The ex-Slayer deftly caught it, and made as if it to put it away but decided not to.
“Even though you did all those things,” Willow said, “all that trust you built up as Galen Petrillo is cancelled out by one thing: You’re Angel.”
For a time, Angel didn’t answer. When he did, his voice was quiet, and anguished. “I’ve spent the last eighteen years not being Angel. I hoped — I prayed — that the Prophecy of Dark Judgment would never come to pass, that you and Regan would find a way around it. I dearly wish I could have let you continue your lives in peace. I could have gone on being the Unforgiven for the next hundred, five hundred, or a thousand years. But not if it would cost Buffy’s namesake her life. For … Buffy’s sake, I had to come back.”
Surprisingly, it was Emily who caught the slight hesitation, not Willow. “Which one?” she asked.
“Both,” was his reply.
“This is hard, Angel,” Willow said. Then, taking a deep breath, she added, “You’ve earned the right to come back with us.” That was one hurdle overcome, at least. “Do — do you have your own transportation?”
“Of course,” Angel answered. “I wouldn’t dream of making you take me back.” He gathered up some holy water, the crossbow, a few stakes and all of his notes on the Prophecy of Dark Judgment. Maybe he’d be able to discuss it reasonably with someone; Regan was likely his only bet.
“I’m ready when you are,” he said, and followed them slowly down to the parking lot.
* * *
And of course everyone tried to explain it at once.
Buffy Summers was not used to being a disembodied spirit.
She wasn’t actually even used to being, period.
Though, now that she had time to think about it, she felt she could remember bits and pieces — flashes of existence in a sea of nonexistence. Most clearly, she remembered reliving her old life, with no way to avoid what was going to happen.
And to learn that her act of assuring that Cordelia’s pregnancy would continue had somehow paved the way for her own soul to enter Cordelia’s daughter — well, the phrase ‘hard to believe’ took on a whole new meaning here.
But then, here she was, floating around a young woman who looked a lot like she had at seventeen, inside a magical shield, so whether or not she believed it was pretty much beside the point. And anyway, being the Slayer for a couple of years, and big bad vampire mama for ten more, had taught her that when it came to the supernatural, there was no such thing as ain’t no such animal.
So: It was 2025; Xander and Cordy’s daughter was named after her, and wasn’t that remarkably sweet? And kinda tragically ironic, too, because she was due to die at the hands of a vicious Irish vampire, nickname Siobhan the Red, and only if someone the ‘Prophecy of Dark Judgment’ Regan was talking about called variously the Unseen or the Unforgiven showed up.
A bit much to absorb, all at once, but Buffy’d caught the gist, although repeating it coherently was still a bit of a problem.
“So,” Regan said curtly, “you get what’s going on?”
“Pretty much,” Buffy answered. “So what do we do now?”
“Send you off to the afterlife?” Cordelia said. “I mean, no offense — really, no offense — but we’d kind of like our daughter’s life to be hers, not yours.”
“None taken,” Buffy replied wryly. Twenty-eight years, but Cordy was still Cordy on so many levels.
“Bad idea,” Regan said. “This is all part of the prophecy. Buffy Harris is the double Slayer, and the double Slayer has a part to play in the Prophecy of Dark Judgment.”
“Yeah,” Xander said soberly, “dying.” Then he had a thought. “Here’s an idea — maybe Cordy’s right — maybe if the two Buffys are split, we can do an end-run? If there’s no double Slayer around … maybe our daughter’s life can be saved, and the world, too?” His voice was hopeful, but his face, and Cordelia’s, already showed they knew what the answer would be.
“It’s a good thought,” Regan answered. “But I think that would make it more likely that Spike and Siobhan would win.”
Cordelia said, a bit shrilly, “Isn’t it at least worth a try?” as Xander walked over to stare out the window.
“There’s a hole in front of you. You can’t see the bottom. Would you care to jump in to see how deep it is? Or would you prefer to go down the clearly marked path already in front of you?” Regan stood there, one hand on a book, one hand on her right hip.
“The clearly marked path in front of me says ‘This way to the untimely death of your daughter’,” Cordelia said. “I’m taking the hole.” She stood up and paced the room, a difficult task given how cramped it was.
“First,” Buffy responded, “I’m not exactly primed for a return to nonexistence. Second, I think it would be a really bad idea to get rid of me right now, self-preservation aside. I did not deliberately put my soul into your daughter, guys; that I’m still around, well, it has to mean something.”
Voice anguished, Xander said as he tuned away from the window, “I can’t believe you want us to watch our own daughter die.”
“Yeah, this is pretty selfish of you, Buffy.”
“You know better,” Buffy snapped. “Both of you. I put my own life on the line way too often to have you guys think that it’s primarily my own ass I’m worried about here.”
“End of conversation,” Regan said, slamming the book shut for emphasis. “Or at least this part of it. Buffy Summers stays.” Then she looked at Buffy Harris, still seated in the lotus position, breathing shallowly, in the center of the pattern. “Buffy, answer me,” She said. “Are you all right in there?”
An almost invisible nod, a nearly inaudible grunt. “Ms. Summers,” Regan said, “Could you check her heart-rate?” Buffy floated closer and listened to her namesake’s chest. How she could hear, talk, or see in the state she was in — well, some questions were better left to the scholars. She wondered what had happened to Giles after the explosion. The pulse seemed rapid, and somewhat faint. She told Regan as much, and the Watcher nodded her head as though that’s what she’d been expecting. “She’s not in any danger,” Regan said, “but the longer she stays in, the harder it’ll be to pull her out.”
“What does this mean for me?” Buffy asked.
“You’re going to have to go back, of course,” Regan said as though the question surprised her. “After this is all over, we can worry about what to do with you.” And from that Buffy knew that Regan didn’t intend her namesake to die, either, although she doubted Cordy or Xander had caught it, or if they had, that they believed it.
Buffy could be a bit more objective.
Regan began to cast the spell to return her to Buffy Harris’ body, and thus to her quasi-limited existence. The lights went out …
Hey, wait a second! She was still conscious!
And she heard Regan’s voice telling Buffy Harris to come out of her trance …
Light overwhelmed her. She was sitting in a lotus position —
And looking out through Buffy Harris’ eyes. She fought back a terrible fear — no, Buffy Harris was still in here somewhere. Just asleep. She fought the urge to sigh in relief, knowing how odd it would sound.
Not exactly nonexistence, now, was it?
“Buffy,” Regan said, “Can you hear me?” Slowly, Buffy stood up — stretched her muscles, God! That felt good — and looked around. Xander was back standing by the window, looking extremely depressed. That look of determination that had carried him through so often before was missing.
Of course, that was twenty-seven years ago, and he’d been through a lot since then.
He’d grown up, for one.
Cordelia looked more hysterical than resigned — no, that was unfair. She looked upset, not panicky.
“Buffy?” Regan’s voice came, more loudly.
“Right name … wrong individual.”
“Buffy … Summers?” Regan asked incredulously.
“That’s me. And no, I don’t know how it happened. But Xander, Cordy, don’t worry — your daughter’s okay. I think this is why I’m still here.”
“Why?” Cordy said.
“I think I’m the Slayer that’s supposed to die.” It all made perfect sense to her now.
While they were all digesting this, Xander said, “Regan? How fireproof is this building?”
“Why do you ask?” Regan said.
“Come take a look out the window. You’ll see.”
By the glare of the floodlight they could see why: Spike, Siobhan, and at least a dozen vampires were gathered outside, with a whole shitload of firestarting equipment.
“They can’t kill Buffy!” Cordelia said. “They need her for their ritual!”
Glaring at Cordelia, Regan said, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘smoked out’?”