Testing the Limits
By Ash (ash_j66@hotmail.com)


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Part Six

"Willow." Buffy's voice was sympathetic but firm. While every compassionate bone in her body was telling her to hug Willow's shaking body close and let her cry herself out, the Slayer part of her knew with grim certainty that minutes 'wasted' in comfort sometimes measured out their seconds in screams and blood. "I can't help if I don't know what's wrong. Who did you call?"

Willow raised her head, looking at a blurred version of Buffy's face through red-rimmed eyes. "The Bronze." Her words came haltingly, strangled by tears. "I called the Bronze." The repetition seemed to pull her mind partly out of its private guilt-ridden hell and she sat up straighter, eyes refocusing on the room.

"All right. What happened when you called?"

Enough of Willow's mind was functioning now for her to realize that she had to be very careful about what she said now. "Angelus. It was Angelus. He- he killed the person who answered the phone. For no reason! Just because I called..." Her voice trailed off as a hysterical edge crept back into her voice.

The pain that flashed over Buffy's face lasted for barely enough time to be sure that it had existed before it was covered with an expressionless veil. Her eyes narrowed, mouth settling into a grim line: the mask of the hunter cloaking desperate grief. "It wasn't your fault." She looked over her friend's head, tonelessly saying words for them both. "It wasn't your fault. What did he say?"

"He said..." Memories eclipsed by guilt came flooding back, and Willow jerked in Buffy's grip as if jolted by an electric current. "Buffy, he said that he was going after someone else there!" Her voice faltered. "At least, I think that's what he meant. He was pretty-"

"Cryptic." Buffy finished her sentence, a humorless smile twisting the corner of her mouth upwards. "He does that." Getting to her feet, Buffy reached down and hauled Willow up. "I better head down there and find out what he's up to. This whole thing has 'trap' written all over it. Will you be all right here?"

"I'll come!"

"No! You stay here. I don't want to have to worry about you." The deceptively petite blonde shook her head adamantly as she gathered up her clothes and various implements of death.

"But-" Willow's forehead crinkled as she tried to think of a way to explain that it was probably a trap for *her* without giving away any of the things that Buffy wasn't supposed to know. < Technically, she isn't supposed to know anything about this, so maybe it's already too late and I should just tell her...>

"No buts. Stay here!" Buffy's tone was firm. She gave the laces on her boots a final tug, moving with long strides to the door. The Slayer paused with one hand on the doorframe and looked back into the room. Her lips curved in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Will. I'll call when I can." With that, she disappeared in a blur of speed.

Willow heard her run down the stairs, feet probably hitting at most two steps out of the entire flight. The slam of the front door echoed through the empty house like the sound of a heavy wooden gong. Willow stood frozen for a moment. < She's the Slayer, she knows what she's doing... > The familiar rationalization was short-circuited by the unique circumstances. < She *usually* knows what she's doing. When she has all the information. When her best friend isn't playing weird and probably deadly games with her demon ex-boyfriend! > The possibly fatal consequences of sending Buffy up against Angelus without all the facts pushed Willow's grief over the death of the young man in the club to the back of her mind.

< I'm not going to let anyone else die. >

Willow's mind was focused on all the things Buffy didn't know as she hurriedly pulled on her orange sneakers and tied the laces in loose, floppy bows. By the time she made it onto the porch Buffy was nowhere to be seen, though the sign of her passing was clear in the cracks shining whitely against the painted wood of the doorframe. Willow pulled the door closed behind her and set off after her friend, red hair blown back from her tear-stained face by the chill wind that inevitably follows a thunderstorm.

The streets of Sunnydale were almost empty. The citizens of the town, proverbial for continuing their normal routine in the face of demons, vampires and ever-climbing mortality rates, had deserted the downtown area when the first dark clouds swept across the moon. Since being alone in Sunnydale is never a smart thing to do and quite often the *last* thing people ever do, Willow was very glad when the deliberately seedy exterior of the Bronze finally came into view.

She quickened her steps. < Got to get in there before Angelus kills Buffy, or Buffy kills Angelus. > Frowning, she tried to figure out what was wrong with that last thought. < No, wait. I *want* Angelus dead. More dead. Why did I think that? > Her eyes narrowed as she tried to pinpoint the source of the wayward thought.

"Going somewhere, doll?" The purring voice cut through her confused thoughts like an ice pick driven into the fear center of her brain.

Willow swallowed, her heart speeding up to a staccato rhythm. Almost against her will, she turned towards the sound of his voice.

Angelus leaned against the wall; dark clothing merging with the time-blackened bricks until only his face stood out, pale and perfect features set in an expression of infinite patience. He looked as if he'd been standing there for years and could remain there forever, watching with the perfect tranquility of the dead.

As always the sight of him was like a slap to the face, a painful reminder of the elegance etched into every line of his body. But even as Willow unwillingly acknowledged his pull, she could feel the menace that radiated from him brush against her senses like a silent scream of warning. The muscles in her legs bunched reflexively, her body instinctively preparing to run from whatever was sending her adrenaline levels through the roof. And if Angelus had moved, if he had taken one step towards her, if he had even spoken again, she might have tried to run, might have taken off down the street in a suicidal attempt at escape. But he didn't.

Instead, he held her eyes with his own and with infinite slowness held out his hand towards her, palm upwards in a courtly gesture from a time long past. It didn't reach her, didn't even brush the edge of her shirt. There was a good foot between them, but he might as well have grabbed her by the throat and pulled her to him. She could see the command in his eyes as they stared steadily into hers and sense the expectation of obedience in the smile that lurked at the corner of his mouth.

All of her options raced through Willow's mind in the frozen seconds that they stood in an arrested tableau of arrogant demand and frozen indecision. The choices were scarce, their numbers thinned by fear and confusion. She could run and pray that she made it to the Bronze and found Buffy before he caught up with her. < Not very likely. > She could stay absolutely still, neither accepting nor rejecting, and hope that he'd just go away. < Ha. Ha. Ha. >

Or...

Her hand was surprisingly steady as she let it rest lightly on the smooth plane of his palm. To her surprise his hand didn't immediately tighten around hers in a painfully tight grip. Instead, there was a moment of perfect stillness, as if he was offering her one last chance to pull away. When she didn't move, his fingers curled gently around hers. It felt like the rest of Willow's body had gone numb, leaving only the soft pressure of his hand and the dark gleam of his smile as anchors to reality. He pulled her towards him with agonizing slowness, Willow following the gentle urging of his hand without conscious thought. She moved towards him with hesitant steps until she was only inches away, looking up at him with eyes clouded by fear and fresh shock. He lifted her hand to his cool lips, the kiss tingling on the back of her hand before seeping into her skin, burning inside her like an icy flame.

Controlling people through terror is tricky. Remove the threat, and the fear is gone. Give the victim the chance of escape, and they'll run. So much better to put the fear in the bone, burn it in mile-high letters into the soul so that it no longer seems like an unnatural situation but like it belongs there. Give people the illusion of control, the feeling that it's their own choice, and they won't fight their masters, won't scream even after the knife cuts through skin and exposes bone.

By the time Buffy left the Bronze, the street was empty.


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