Chapter Text
Either you bring the water to L.A., or you bring L.A. to the water.
- Chinatown
"Small mocachino, please. Uh...heavy mocha, less chino."
"No problem. Can I interest you in today's special flavor syrup?" The barista's bright eyes peer out from under shaggy bangs, likely a match to his bushy tail. Thankfully, metaphorically speaking.
"And that would be?"
"Non-alcoholic creme de menthe. Instant grasshopper, grasshopper."
"No bugs today, thanks."
"Comin' right up."
Willow makes her way upstairs, cradling drink in one hand, her trusty notebook in the other. The upper level of the East Street Coffee Joint is deserted at this hour, and she claims a seat in back overlooking the lobby. The machine springs out of hibernation as she cracks open the case, its screen still dark until her hands conjure forth the passphrase with the proper timing.
The cup beside her goes untouched, growing cold. Right now her stress level is high enough already, the sugary goodness a mere distraction. The clatter of dishes, the clamor of the morning crowd, all combine to form a disarming air of domesticity; teenagers and professionals alike, united in their all-consuming quest for caffeine and carbs. And she the sorceress supreme, too nervous to return the cute barista's smile even if he'd been a girl. As if the secret agent routine were necessary for any reason, anyone other than --
"You're certain of this?" Giles isn't too badly pixellated, but his face is consigned to a classic nineties postage stamp rather than her entire display. The fuzziness and general lack of resolution actually make him look younger, rather than as he appeared in yesterday's vision. "Things are volatile as it is."
"Let me worry about Faith." Willow doesn't belabor the point. Currently the Slayer is back at Lorne's, helping transform the decrepit duplex into something marginally less hovel-y.
"After our previous virtual communication, the irony of this clandestine foolishness is not lost upon me." The small chuckle is barely audible through her laptop's speaker. "I suppose I ought to be putting quill to paper."
"So what's it like over there?"
"Rank and file in an uproar, as expected. More or less equally divided." And the glasses come off. "One squad tried to abduct Dana. Though they described it as more akin to an act of liberation."
Willow blinks. "She didn't go with them?"
The dry chuckle is more sepulchral than usual, an artifact of her homebrew speech codec. "You sound surprised."
"A little. Not much," Willow amends. "What happened?"
"She broke two arms and an elbow before Dawn managed to convince her we were safe."
Willow expresses her sympathy with a wince. "She attacked her own rescuers?"
"She said, and I quote: 'I don't need rescuing.'"
Willow remains silent, lost in thought until Giles clears his throat.
"In any event," the Watcher continues, "her response would appear to have helped stabilize matters. At least for the time being."
Willow regards him with a flood of nostalgia. "It's good to know you haven't changed."
Giles manages a wry smile. "Like scotch, only for the better."
"Any idea who else might try reaching out to us? I mean, in the core group. The Sunnydale Scoobies."
"Buffy, I can't say." Giles hesitates, looking more haggard. "She truly is devastated."
Willow doesn't reply.
"Xander, perhaps. Most likely Dawn."
"You think? I know she wasn't real big on either of the big sister boyfriends."
"Be that as it may." Giles dons his glasses once more, stroking his chin. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Willow reaches out for her mochachino, then draws back once more, hands twisting aimlessly in her lap. "Road to hell, and all."
"I hope you can forgive me --"
"I don't need to." Willow's mind drifts back to Devon; cold rain and hot tea, swaddled in blankets in Giles' library chair between sessions with the coven, gazing out the windows. "I understand."
"If -- when Faith can hear it from you. Please tell her as well."
The lump in her throat needs swallowing. "I'll try."
"And if you are ever in need, I want you to contact me at any time, day or night. In an emergency, if there is truly no need for subtlety --"
"Giles." Willow cuts him off as gently as possible. "Do I really need to remind you what we both know?"
The older man heaves a sigh. "We're more likely to need you."
"If there's a real crisis, you know who to call. But -- and I hate to sound all Stepford-wifey on this --"
"You don't want to have to lie."
"If I'm going to be with Faith -- with anyone -- I can't be leading a double life. Going behind her back." Willow swallows again, reaching out until her fingers barely brush the screen.
"I understand perfectly." Giles nods. "It needs to be a clean break."
**
"Bones shattered, you hear me? We're talking ground to make my fricking Wonder bread. I'm talking medieval vengeance."
"You got it, boss."
"These clowns need to learn their little uniforms don't impress."
"Absolutely, boss."
"And stop calling me that if you want to keep your head."
"Got it."
"Sir neither. Don't call me sir, I work --"
"For a living. Absolutely." The vampire shifts nervously on his feet. "Can I go do that now?"
"Go."
Kazarkh watches his minion depart before rising from his seat with a growl, waddling over to the corner to fetch the broom. Stupid fledgling got fresh dirt all over his carpet. All part of the price of cheap labor; creating new soldiers to replace the old. Most of his trusted lieutenants had been dusted, decapitated or otherwise disposed of. Another downside to using vamps for the bulk of one's work force. Give him a Fyarl any day of the week. Wolfram and Hart may have been scattered to the winds, but the common demon crowd of the greater Los Angeles area were still wary of poking their heads out to see if spring had come.
All except those smart enough to know the uptown crowd isn't the only threat.
He picks up his phone, cursing its poorly designed speed dial as his claws fumble to press the buttons.
"Jerry, my man. How's it hanging?"
"I told you not to call me at work!"
"Careful, now. Don't want anyone to hear you."
"What do you want?"
"To give you some more dead presidents." Kazarkh chuckles as his forked tongue glides over his fangs, twice as long as any vamp's and ten times as attractive. At least in his opinion. "Unless you're not in the market."
"I can't talk now. Usual place, okay?"
"I'll have someone there. And Jerry? This is important."
"So's my freakin' job!" Fear and anger boil out of the receiver. "Which if I lose, you lose! Got it?"
"You might want to remember what happened to your buddy. Trevor, I think it was?"
"Have a nice day." The sarcasm ends with a click, and Kazarkh replaces the phone in its cradle with a sigh.
"Lushawn?"
The door to his office cracks open, a mop of purple hair poking inside. "Yeah?"
"Tell the boys not to take him out after he delivers the goods. We're keeping him around a bit longer."
"Done. You know, you don't need to explain yourself to me --"
"Yes, I do. Because you're one of the smart ones."
"I am?" Lushawn brightens, pink horn glowing beneath the waves of hair. "Oh right."
"Don't let it go to your head." He waves the other demon away. "Now go do some damage."
The drawer to his desk slides open, the door to his office swinging shut. Kazarkh snarls, claws snagging and skittering for the remote, jabbing its obstinate buttons until the monitor on the far wall springs to life; a grained-out image in binary black and white, mirroring the two young women in the sights of the camera eye.
"One Mississippi."
Kazarkh leans back in his chair, squinting as he draws a bead on them with one claw.
"Two Mississippi..."