Night of Broken Glass

by Junecleavage

Copyright © 2007

junecleavage8@gmail.com

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m not doing this for money or intend in any way to infringe upon the rights of the Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy or any other rightful owners. I’m just a huge fan.
Distribution:  The Mystic Muse:  http://mysticmuse.net
Through the Looking Glass http://alia.customer.netspace.net.au/glass.htm
Feedback: Yes, please. This is my first published fanfic ever, so feel free to comment!
Spoilers: Everything.
Author's Notes: Inspired by the great biography of Aimee & Jaguar. In Nazi Germany, Willow Rosenberg pretends to be a non-Jew in order to survive (with the help of Xander and Buffy). She gets herself on the Gestapo’s hit list and meets and falls in love with Tara, a woman whose family are Nazi supporters. Lots of Buffyverse characters are here. I do not claim to be an expert on WWII, German military or Germany for that matter, but I did use Wikipedia a lot.
Special thanks goes to Chris Cook of Through the Looking Glass for the title graphic at the top of the page. Thanks, Chris!
Pairing: Willow/Tara

The bell jangled as the door swung wide, admitting a gust of cold wind that swept in what appeared to be a small girl wrapped in a dark coat and scarf. She scurried into the cafe spotting the booth right away and made a beeline to where a clean-cut, dark-haired young man sat nursing a hot cup of coffee between his cold hands. She unraveled her head, ran a hand hastily through red curls and dropped into the booth across from him, taking his hand in her own and giving him a big smile.

It was the same almost every evening and had been since last spring, the shop-keeper thought, watching the pair from across the room with the same detached interest he had about all of his regulars. These two would swing in first, followed by another pal, a blond girl about their same age. They'd all order coffees and maybe a slice of pie, maybe pore over some books together for a while and then slip back into the night. He assumed they were students at the university and kind of admired how they managed to keep a routine together when so much in Berlin these days was changing.

The boy ran his thumb along the girl's hand and her smile grew in intensity. They leaned in close across the table in animated chatter. Were they dating? Or was he dating the other one, the blond? The shopkeeper had given up long ago trying to guess.

The boy turned to the shopkeeper, happily chirping out, "Hey, Helmut, another cup of coffee over here and a slice of pie for the lady."

The shopkeeper nodded and brought the food around. The redhead smiled up at him with happily innocent eyes as he poured her cup of coffee. It seemed all too rare these days to see anyone looking so happy that the shopkeeper couldn't help but return the smile in spite of himself. He set the slice of pie on the table between the couple and rested two forks beside it.

"Your friend the blond coming in tonight?" Helmut asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

The boy spoke, "Buffy? Yeah, she should be along any minute."

Helmut nodded and set down a third fork before turning and heading back to the bar. He had more cups of coffee to pour for the rest of his regulars. He got back to work, a small ghost of the smile still at the corners of his mouth. Buffy – that was the blonde’s name.

"So, did you get it?" Willow asked breathlessly, leaning across the table and pulling Xander's hands away from the warmth of his coffee cup.

"Yeow, your hands are like death!" he protested, adding: "…If death were located somewhere near Iceland. And it was winter. Where the hell are your gloves?"

Willow knew the pair he was talking about. They had been his gift to her. Only now she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen them. She grinned and lied to him, "They're at home."

Xander tipped his head skeptically. "Ha, ha. Right. Considering you don't really have a home."

There was no malice in his comment. It was just a fact, and one she had long ago vowed not to let matter to her, so it didn't matter to Xander, either. She diverted the conversation back to its original course. "Come on. Tell me. Did you get the papers?"

Xander let his breath out in a big sigh, as Willow leaned in closer across the table, encircling his hands in her slim, icy grasp. The sigh was for being reminded of the trouble it had taken him to get something so small – and papery – but then his eyes brightened. "Yes," he said emphatically. His smile was playful and smug.

Willow just about burst at the news. She wiggled, grinning happily. "I knew it! I just had this feeling that today was going to be my lucky day. And don't I deserve a lucky day every here and there considering the odds of me having one are fairly stacked against me and that, well, in fact, I should have run for the hills a long time ago. Wow. What is today? The 26th? The 26th is now, officially, my lucky day."

Xander beamed affectionately. "As of today-the lucky 26th of January, 1943 – you're no longer Willow Rosenberg," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Willow considered this playfully, a sly blush creeping across her cheeks. "I wonder who I am?" It was as if suddenly all the world had opened up to her. Xander turned his head and called out to the shopkeeper for coffee and pie.

When they were delivered to the table, Willow couldn't help but beam happily up at the shopkeeper. She was feeling suddenly giddy and alive. She didn't feel compelled to keep her head down from fear the way she had for so long.

The door jangled again and a new gust of wind brought in Buffy. Her blond hair was blowing out of its hairpins, and she hugged a leather book bag to her chest. She strode quickly to the booth and slipped in beside Willow, letting her breath out in a gasp and yanking her gloves off. She glanced from Xander to Willow and back again. "What?" she asked. "Did you two just get engaged or something? What's with the hands?" Willow hadn't yet let go of Xander's.

"I – I think they're kind of frozen," Willow pondered, trying unsuccessfully to move them.

"Yeah, and it's no wonder. You lost the gloves I gave you!" Xander said in mock slight. "You know, I clocked a lot of hours for the Gestapo just to get those for you." He turned to Buffy, who was trying to tuck the stray strands of gold hair behind her ears. "And what about you?" he bleated at her. "Where's your hat?"

Buffy glanced around uncomfortably. "Uh. At school?"

Xander leaned back and surveyed the two women before him, shaking his head. "And to think that the future of civilization could rest on the shoulders of you two."

Buffy gave him a tepid smile.

"Oh, and speaking of futures, Will here now has one," Xander beamed broadly.

Buffy shot a glance at Willow and slapped the girl's shoulder. "Tell me you are not marrying Xander."

Willow rolled her eyes. "I am not marrying Xander."

"In fact, our little Willow is Willow no more," Xander grinned.

Buffy turned and scowled. "Then who are you?"

Willow scowled thoughtfully as well. "You know, I was just asking myself the exact same thing…"

Xander rifled inside his heavy overcoat for something, finally pulling out a slim passbook. He glanced inside. "She's now, uh, Wilma Hermann." He nodded, pleased with himself.

Willow took offense. "Wilma? You couldn't come up with a better name than that? Something more romantic or all movie starry. Like, like Marlene or Greta or, or…"

Buffy patted her friend's arm. "Down, girl. Wilma's fine. We can still call you Will. Ma. Wil-ma," she snorted while Willow looked unhappy.

"Sounds like I should be scrubbing floors. Or married to a caveman. Or both."

Xander took Willow's hand once more. His eyes were wide and sincere. "No, Will. It's perfect." The table and the pie and the three forks gazed back at him, surreally. He met Willow's gaze for emphasis. "We don't have to worry as much anymore." And within that simple statement, the three of them understood the depth of things it represented: They didn't need to fear that one day Willow just wouldn't show up because she'd been found out and arrested or shot or worse. Being a Jew in the hate – and fear-stained streets of 1943 Berlin was treacherous at best. And out of defiance, Willow had chosen not to be cowed by it. She was small. She had endured 22 years being an unremarkable wallflower – a girl other people just didn't notice. But as the numbers of Jews in Berlin dwindled, and the government's promotion of hatred and violence ever escalated, and a frustrated people needed a scapegoat, the three of them knew it was just a matter of time before someone asked to see Willow's papers. When that day came, she needed to have some. Xander had, indeed, at great risk to himself, just secured Willow a future.

Willow thought her heart would melt with gratitude. "I love you," she whispered, squeezing his hand. Her fingers were finally warm.

Xander was walking home along the darkened streets of Berlin when the Air Raid sirens sounded. They bayed a woeful and familiar song that filled his chest with dread. He glanced around in confusion, trying to decide where to go. His home was many blocks away, and already he could hear the rumble of planes overhead. Other people – some individuals, some couples – were dashing quickly, running up steps into unfamiliar buildings. "Basement" was the only word his brain could conjure right now. His legs only obeyed the command to run. As fast as his legs could carry him, he followed a middle- aged man and woman as their shoes clicked up stone steps into a large apartment building. He turned as the heavy double doors were closing to see a huge flash of red illuminate the night sky some distance away. The crimson clung there, a luminous red stain across the horizon that flickered but did not fade. His mind flashed to Buffy and Willow, wondering where they were and if they were safe – frightened at the realization that there had been and would be many more moments when the three of them would be separated by what seemed to be the brutish and careless clashing of titans.

At the whistle of an airborne missile from above, he dove inside, and the doors clacked shut with a firmness that somehow didn't seem anywhere near firm enough. He followed the sounds of footsteps on stairs in a darkened hallway and found himself in a herd of apartment occupants moving as civilly as possible, considering the circumstances, down to the basement. He slipped into their crush and let himself be carried along.

Buffy and Willow had a similar jolt as the sirens came up. They had parted company with Xander not long ago and were headed in the opposite direction toward the flat Buffy shared with her mother and younger sister. They had been walking arm in arm, sharing their warmth and excitement. Willow's mind was moving at light speed calculating all of the things she'd dreamed of doing. "I could enroll at university – nobody there knows me. I could get a job. Who knows. I could even start up a business!" Her excitement was infectious, but Buffy couldn't help noticing a shop front with windows hand-painted top to bottom with the curse, "JUDE," – the lame work of some average Joe proclaiming his hatred and superiority over his neighbors. It was a mark of menace and intimidation. Buffy could tell by the board over the door that that particularly homespun sentiment of boycott had been effective: the place was dead inside. Willow passed the window without a glance. She was deep in dreamland, her cheeks a bright pink and her eyes glittering. Buffy pulled the girl closer and held on tight.

That's when the siren went off, shocking them to a complete standstill. In between its wails, Buffy focused her listening. "Planes," she said simply, tugging at Willow's arm. "Come on, Wilma. Time to hit the dirt."

Willow calmly followed her friend down the street, floating thoughts out behind her like puffs of warm breath into the night air. "See, that's just so interesting. Where did that expression come from, anyway? I could see if we were dodging sniper fire, then being low to the ground-like completely horizontal – would be very useful. But I think if we took a moment and stretched out here we'd probably just create more surface area, you know, for catching falling bricks."

"I knew there was a reason I have you do my physics homework," Buffy said.

As if on cue, a light flashed in the sky, searing the surroundings with a thick clap that was followed by the crumble and tumble of stones from the building across the street as one shoulder of the gothic structure was torn to rubble. Over the din of the explosion and the Air Raid siren, the girls could hear more than one voice in pain and frightened weeping.

They coughed on the dust and then sprinted away, hacking grime from their lungs as they ran side-by-side toward the broad stone steps of the opera house. The lights there were just being turned down as they stumbled up the steps, gasping. An attendant was pushing the doors closed. "Please," Buffy cried. Only one thought was in her mind: staying alive for her mother and sister. Her outstretched hand caught the door mid- swing. The attendant eyed her expressionlessly and then allowed them in. As they negotiated a crowded and dark corridor down to the basement, Willow noted that she and Buffy were decidedly underdressed among the frightened opera-goers, who seemed to include a rather healthy contingent of SS men, attractive and well-heeled ladies decorating their arms like fine ornaments.

The basement was dark. Later, Willow and Buffy would not be able to remember a single physical detail of it, except they were crouched in what seemed like a long stone archway or tunnel, pressed in close with the opera-goers, every one of them just as scared as they were. Here, in this moment, class and ethnicity and politics didn't matter. They were all Germans under attack. The weight of the whole opera house sat above them, immovable and proud – just waiting to be toppled.

The sounds coming from the sky were terrifying. In the darkness, Xander felt a slim hand slip into his own, a woman's hand. As a bomb hit freakishly close by, he gave the hand a squeeze, and fought down his own trembling to look up into the face of a young woman, maybe a little older than he was. Long blond hair pulled back and haunted blue eyes, mouth slack and scared. She was the perfect picture of the government's Aryan ideal: blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered. The perfect vessel for the next generation of The Fuhrer's genetically purified master race. Which was another way of saying the girl was pretty. She merely blinked back at him, thankfully oblivious to his thoughts.

Another bomb hit closer this time, and Xander found himself clutching the girl to him – whether as comforter or comforted he did not know. Was that him shaking or her? Or both? Or was it maybe the ground? What a strange moment for multiple-choice reflections. They clutched each other in a manner that would have been impossible and unseemly were it not for the circumstances. Wartime makes for strange bedfellows, indeed. Of course, that was only an expression. He didn't mean that in a literal bed kind of way.

They crouched in the basement like that, holding each other tight, for what must have been a solid hour, until at last the sounds of planes and explosions had died away and one-by-one the apartment-dwellers began to rouse themselves. Families began to stand and shake out their stiff limbs, letting out the breath they'd been holding. Xander continued to hold the girl close, looking around for her family, but it seemed she was alone. Finally, he rose to his feet, pulling her with him. They were still locked in embrace. Noticing it, Xander coughed uncomfortably and disengaged, patting her arm and doing his best to look like a man should, all chivalrous and such.

"I'm not very brave," he said with a small chuckle, mentally kicking himself that this stupid statement was the first thing he said to a very pretty girl. And she was pretty in a creamy and voluptuous way. He revised his earlier assessment. "Broad- shouldered" didn't cut it: She was womanly.

The trembling in his hands was back, and he willed himself to take a deep breath and start over. But if the girl caught his fright, she didn't seem to care. She turned to him with eyes that could melt butter. She quirked a half-smile. "Personally, I never want to come down here again, either," she said in a wavering voice. And then she looked up at the ceiling. "I wonder if my apartment's ok?" she mused aloud.

Xander gentlemanly touched her elbow. "If it would make you feel safer, I'd be happy to walk you up."

The girl looked him over and noticed the collar of his uniform under his heavy black overcoat. Xander realized yet again that while his desk job at SS headquarters scared the shit out of him, it was going to instill confidence in someone else. The girl obviously took him for a soldier-and official – and therefore, perhaps, a sworn protector. And, yes, therefore safe.

"Ok," she said softly, but not softly in a flirtatious way. Just "ok" in the kind-of- shell-shocked-and-not-entirely-sure-if-things-were-ok-kind-of-way.

"Xander Harris," he said, by way of simple introduction.

"Tara Maclay," the girl replied in kind.

Dr. Thomas Ehrlich had a prosperous medical practice in Berlin. He was well- respected, accepted in high circles and occasionally had the opportunity to advise the government on medical matters. Especially now that Eugenics was the scientific flavor of the moment. It pained him on some level to testify before the government that Jews and Gypsies were genetically inferior, though clearly there was benefit in dissuading people with certain disabilities from having children. He held firm the belief that a strong state needed a strong and hardy people. It was good for nationalism, and a strong nation was what Germany needed to be. Yet somewhere in his heart there was still a spot of warmth and affection for the way things used to be. And now as he gazed across the darkened basement of the opera-house, his occupation made it impossible for him not to scan the faces of the people hiding there. He saw the fear, the grimaces as each bomb found its mark somewhere across the city. A faint glow of red filtered in through the high windows.

He noticed an attractive woman across the chamber from him. She'd apparently lost her hat somewhere, so it was the glint of her blond hair that first drew his eye, that and her youth and beauty. He had a son about her age. The woman leaned to a girl beside her and spoke softly in her ear. Dr. Ehrlich's attention shifted slightly to the redhead. He pondered them a moment more, until another bomb fell – this one much closer than before and sent a collective groan through the opera-goers. He shut his eyes tight and thought about his son, until sometime later he realized it had grown dark outside and the world had quieted. It was the stirring of the two young women that pulled him out of his reverie. They were the first to climb to their feet, and he could hear their whispered voices. They were eager to leave.

He stood, brushed off his hat, and stepped toward them.

"Miss Rosenberg?" he greeted the redhead. The fear in her eyes told him he was right.

Xander stood nervously in the darkened parlor of Tara's apartment, regarding the architecture because it was uncustomary for a young man to escort a lady he'd only just met alone to her dark apartment in the middle of the night, in the dark. Yes, darkness. It was all around. The air raid sirens had stopped long ago, so the blackout was lifted, but the power must have gone out. He stood, mindlessly flipping the hall light switch on-off, on-off in darkness, waiting for the girl to reappear.

When she did, she brought light.

"I h-had a few candles in the kitchen," she said, cupping her hand around a flame. The fire glow illuminated the body of the white candle and sent shadows dancing around the room. It was large, high ceiling, broad, dark woodwork and a bank of tall casement windows.

"So, is everything ok?" Xander asked with a shrug. His hands were stuffed nervously in the deep pockets of his overcoat.

Tara nodded. "Oh, yes. Some dust in the kitchen." She glanced around the parlor. "And some things knocked off the walls…nothing major to worry about." She went to the wall, taking the candle with her and retrieved a broken picture frame from the floor. Xander followed the light, stooping to help retrieve another fallen frame close by. He held up a stiff photograph portrait of a family – all blue-eyed and blond. Tara and a man in uniform and three small blond children. A blush crept across his cheeks. Of course. Someone as lovely as Tara would be married.

"Where's your husband?" he asked in what he hoped was an offhanded conversational tone. Tara shot him a funny look. "I – I don't have a husband."

Oh, right. It was wartime. Everybody had lost somebody. "I'm sorry," Xander said sincerely, gazing softly upon the family tableau. Tara reached for it and pried the picture from his hands.

"That's my brother," she said. "He's on the eastern Front. The children are his. The photo was taken just before he left for Poland. He hasn't been back in a while."

Xander glanced around the place once more. Even by candlelight he knew the apartment was spacious. Tara's family must be moneyed. "You live here all by yourself?" he asked, a little slack-jawed. The blush that crept across Tara's cheeks told him he was getting a tad too personal, that perhaps she didn't believe he was there for chivalrous reasons, after all. She nodded, though. "Alone," she said simply and then turned toward the door. It was his cue to leave.

Damn, Xander cursed silently. He'd blown it. He followed the dancing candlelight toward the door.

Willow stood rooted to the ground as if she'd sprung there from seed. She found herself staring wide-eyed into a face that was familiar. And not in a good way. Buffy stepped up beside her as the bearded gentleman extended his hand to Willow.

"Miss Rosenberg?" he asked. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, a mirthless half-twitch. She fought the urge to deny it, and her legs simply would not go.

"Willow, isn't it?" He had her hand in his now. She was as good as captured. With a whistle, any of the uniformed officers here could be summoned. The pieces of paper in her pocket would do her no good after all. Not in the face of Dr. Ehrlich's word against hers. He knew her, and he knew what she was.

His eyes flicked to the breast of her overcoat. He was looking for the Star of David, which of course he wouldn't find there because she refused to wear that humiliating rag. His eyes were reproachful for a moment as he looked her head to toe. He seemed to be contemplating something. Willow could feel fear and anger radiating from Buffy beside her. Bless her heart. Buffy was always itching for a good fight.

Dr. Ehrlich's eyes finally met hers once more. "Your father was a good man." He turned to leave. "You be careful now," he said over his shoulder and then slipped into the column of opera-goers who had collected their things and were making their way back out into the night.

Willow was trembling. Buffy had to bodily shove her, hissing "Out. Now," into Willow's ear. Following a command was easy. Willow fell into step beside her friend and eventually found herself outdoors again. Blood was pounding in her ears.

"Oh, God, Buffy. Do you know who that was? How close that was?" she gasped, nearly doubling over.

Buffy was fairly sure all she really needed to know was written on her friend's face. She patted Willow's back, running soothing circles against the dark wool coat as Willow focused on more rudimentary things, like the sidewalk. And breathing. And not throwing up on Buffy's shoes.

Willow choked out more: "Tha-that was my father's business partner. They had the medical practice together. Until Crystal Nacht. I think he-he had something to do with my parents' disappearance. I don't know…"

Buffy continued rubbing Willow's back. "You can't know that for sure. And he didn't turn you in just now. Maybe he wasn't involved."

"Maybe he feels guilty," Willow heaved. "He got the business. And I got nothing, except orphaned."

"Bastards will get what they deserve in the end."

"Is your friend injured?" a young man's voice called out to them. Buffy looked up to see a soldier with a flashlight approaching. Buffy shook her head vigorously. "She's fine. Just a little shell-shocked is all."

The soldier nodded, then hesitated. "It's no hour for you girls to be out on the streets alone. You'd better get home."

Buffy detected the faint sound of Willow swearing under her breath. " I don't have a home" as if it were the punchline to an old joke.

Buffy grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright. "Come on, Wilma. You're coming with me."

Willow woke early. She lay flat on her back staring up at the ceiling deep in thought. Buffy was nestled asleep beside her, softly snoring. And on the other side of Buffy lay her younger sister Dawn. It wasn't a big bed, but it was soft and warm with a pretty crocheted coverlet of cream-colored lace. The Summers sisters' mom Joyce was in the kitchen making pancakes. She'd been a great housewife until her husband joined the military and then disappeared two years ago. Now she rose early every morning and made her daughters breakfast before heading off to work at a nearby woolen mill. None of the Summers women ever talked about Mr. Summers any more.

Joyce had met them at the door last night, as she and Buffy tumbled in out of the night. The look of relief she gave Buffy was all mama-bear. She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace, and the two of them stood like that for a long moment.

"I don't like you going out at night," Joyce reproached, clinging to her daughter like she'd never let her go. Her soft brown eyes swept up finally and rested on Willow with a mixture of relief and trepidation. Then Joyce opened her arms and admitted Willow into her embrace, too. Willow buried her face in Joyce's blond hair, breathing in the comforting scents of soap and cooking.

Willow now rose silently and slipped into her clothes from the night before, taking a moment to straighten her skirt and smooth her hair in the mirror. Then she headed for the kitchen.

She'd always liked Joyce and the sight of her in the sunny window made Willow smile. Willow noticed the street scene outside. Mounds of rubble covered the streets, like a snowfall of brick dust had blanketed the city overnight.

"Wow, would you look at that." Willow mused softly. The world kept seeming to end – and then not really – in so many ways. If fate kept up the barrage of near-apocalypses it would be kind of tough to know when the real one came, right? Or maybe the apocalypse isn't a single, discreet event. Maybe it's a whole tumbling series of things that culminate in a good snuffing. "I put my money on the whole tumbling-culminating-in-a- good-snuffing kind of apocalypse," she said, turning to Joyce. "Oh. I said that last part out loud, didn't I?"

Joyce chuckled good-naturedly. "They say the Eskimos have a hundred different words for snow," she said, offering her own non sequitur and pouring coffee for Willow. The cup was half-full. Rations were low and staples were becoming harder to come by. Willow was thankful for a shot of anything hot. She accepted the cup humbly and leaned up to give Joyce a peck on the cheek.

"Thanks for letting me stay," she said bashfully. "I didn't think I should try to get back to my flat last night." "Flat" was a really loose term for Willow's current housing accommodations. She'd found a room in an old building that would accept money from Jews. The money was paid under the table, and the rent was a bit steep, considering how many people she shared the one room with, but as winter approached her options had been few. A friend of Buffy's from the university had helped Willow find the place. Waking up in Buffy's house reminded Willow of the comforts of home from before the war.

Joyce sat at the small kitchen table across from Willow. "Buffy told me last night you might be able to find work?" Joyce had always thought it a tremendous shame Willow couldn't attend university. The girl had a sharp mind and a tenacious work ethic. Willow's look was guarded a moment, and then she softened. "Uh, yeah. I have a bit of a new lease on life, it would seem, anyway."

"What do you intend to do?"

Willow knew exactly what she intended to do. She'd had her mind made up even before she and Xander had discussed forging her papers. "I'm going down to the newspaper office today," she replied.

"To place an ad?" Joyce asked, assuming the girl meant to hire herself out as a domestic or something like that.

"Uh, no. I'm going to ask for a job working there."

Joyce was certain her face froze. Willow's ambition was to work for a Nazi newspaper?

"It's sort of a sheep in wolves' clothing kind of thing," Willow explained, a bit distressed at Joyce's reaction. It seemed so obvious to her what she needed to do: The only way to ensure nobody asked to see her papers was to never put herself in a position of being asked for them.

"Well, I suppose you and Xander can stop for cocktails at the Officers Club after hours, then," Joyce shook her head.

Willow smiled tentatively. "Well, yeah. If he earns some stripes."

Xander stared at a dossier on his desk, absently picking at the rubber band that held its contents together. There were a lot more like this one stacked up in the oak in-box on his desk. But for the past half hour it seemed all he could do was stare at this one. And swallow down a squishy stew of guilt and dread. It had seemed a simple enough thing yesterday, swiping the documents he needed for Willow and in a few minutes and with the aid of a typewriter concocting a new identity for her. At the time, he'd been sweating profusely, listening for any sound of voices or footsteps approaching. His hands had shaken at the typewriter, and he'd had to do it twice, but finally he'd gotten it right. He'd stuffed the documents deep into the inside pocket of his overcoat and then grabbed his hat to go.

Now, this morning, there was a small matter of this troubling file. It kept staring at him. It was a certain file marked Wilma Hermann. As in the real Wilma Hermann, the dead woman whose identity he had borrowed for his childhood chum. To finish the job, he needed to go in and change certain documents to match the characteristics of his very real and very alive Willow. And every keystroke he made at the typewriter, each document he shredded and replaced would implicate him further in this fraud. In the end he'd need to sign it himself and refile it. He'd intended to do the work tonight, just before leaving for his regular rendezvous with his friends at the diner. But then, when he'd arrived at work this morning, the file had been sitting right here in the middle of the desk. He was sure he'd filed it last night before he left. And now there it was sitting here. How could it be sitting there, with its rubbery rubber band and its bland manila face and the name of that dead woman typed neatly across the tab?

His eyes had shifted nervously to the other clerks and officers who strode through the office, expecting to catch the eye of the person who'd left this on his desk. Unless it was some gross and stupid oversight on his part, and of that he could not be certain, though it was likely. His paranoia told him someone was messing with him. It wasn't exactly unheard of for government employees to abuse their access to information on behalf of a friend or loved one. He shuddered at the thought of what they might do to him.

He was torn between the impulse to shove the whole file in his book bag…to shred the whole thing…or to just shove it back in the alphabetical hanging stacks. Someone was messing with him. Did he dare alter a word? And if he didn't and Will got caught, she'd be a dead woman. He dropped his head in his hands and tried to pull himself together.

It was a few moments before he noticed the shiny brown shoes just a few feet in front of his desk. He slowly lifted his gaze to find an older, distinguished looking man in gazing back at him, his expression half-amused.

"Not feeling well, comrade?" the man asked.

"It was a long night," Xander smiled back, rubbing his eyes.

"Ah, yes. The joys and hazards of romance," the man said, and they both chuckled at the absurdity of it, since every resident of the city had certainly spent most of the night a huddled mess in a basement somewhere.

"Believe me, I wish my skill with the ladies were enough to make a woman overlook the fact that the city was falling down, but, ah, I am not possessed of such skills. Or of such a lady." He shook his head at his own pathetic-ness. And then set his files aside so he could attend to the fine citizen here who was probably wanting to rat out his neighbors over something. Which was even more pathetic.

The newspaper office was not far from Willow's flat. She decided to take a short detour there on her way to get a fresh shirt. This part of town had sustained some heavy damage. City workers were helping clear away rubble to allow traffic through. She picked her way carefully along the sidewalk, her scarf tied tight against the wind. She was halfway down the block with the door to her building in sight when she stopped short. Something wasn't right. She spotted a cluster of police and a van at the corner. As she watched, an officer led one of her flat-mates forcibly by the arm down the front steps and into the back of the van. The man had no shoes or coat on. He looked bewildered and broken. Another soldier followed with the man's wife in tow. She was crying.

Willow stood still, scarcely breathing, as if she could will herself invisible. Her impulse told her to run, but that would be bad. They'd spot her and chase her down. So she stood rooted and watched people she'd become friends with out of a strange brand of happenstance disappear into a truck with no hope of saying good-bye, or see you again sometime, or be right back.

A hand gripped her shoulder. She spun around and into the face of a friend – a friend who looked scared and grim, but somehow reassuring nonetheless. "This way," the woman whispered pulling Willow into the slim alleyway between buildings, into the shadows.

"Jenny?" Willow said, clutching the woman's arms tightly, wanting to be sure she was real. "What's happening?"

"I was just coming home, too. They're cleaning the place out. We've got to find a new place to stay." The woman's dark eyes flashed anger and determination.

Willow felt tears well up and begin to fall. "No! Not Mr. and Mrs. Schneiderman. And, and George…and, and…"

"We can't help them," Jenny hissed, a bit more harshly than she intended, but her nerves were on end, too. "We have to get out of here."

"But what about our stuff?" Willow knew the words were stupid even as she spoke them, but considering most of her worldly possessions these days fit in a large suitcase she was loathe to be reduced to just the clothes on her back. She knew for Jenny it was the same. Everything Jenny had was in the flat, too, and Jenny didn't seem to think Willow was being shallow.

"I know. I hate this. We'll have to come back later tonight and see what's left," she hissed. "Fuck Hitler."

That earned Jenny a chuckle. Willow had always liked her. Her people were Romani – Gypsies – and therefore on the Nazi's shit-list just as much as the Jews. Jenny had been one of Willow's teachers years ago before the seeds of hatred had started spreading and neighbors turned against neighbors. Willow had been humiliated, withstanding taunts at school, which she'd put up with as long as she could bear because she loved learning. But Jenny had been dismissed five years ago after Crystal Nacht and then her family members started disappearing one by one. Now it was just Jenny living in a small apartment with a bunch of strangers.

Willow leaned in and gave her friend a reassuring hug. "You still have me."

Jenny squeezed her back. "How many lives does that make for you now?"

"I don't know," Willow pondered. "Maybe seven? I've got at least another two. I might even have more. What's so magic about the number nine, anyway?"

"Nine is the way it works for cats. Probably doesn't apply to people," Jenny surmised.

Willow held the embrace a moment longer. "How many for you, then?"

Jenny's voice was dark. "I'm pretty sure I'm on number nine."

Tara sat quietly waiting for her lunch companion to arrive. She took a long sip of water from the goblet at her place setting. Last night the bombs were raining down. Out in the streets there was a chaos of stone and brick and random bits of furniture, the myriad errata of people's everyday lives blown out of their homes and dispersed across the streets for all the world to see. It was a terrible enough sight made even more terrible by the fact that here she was in a fine restaurant, at a table decked in linen tablecloth, waiters moving briskly about the place as if nothing had happened. The war didn't reach inside fine restaurants, apparently.

Oh, wait. It did. Tara looked up to see her companion walking toward her. He was dashing in his officer's uniform. She stood as he approached and he gave her a warm hug before they both took their seats.

"I'm glad you're all right," Riley said, leaning across the table, obviously relieved. "You stayed in the basement?"

Tara nodded, thinking momentarily of the kindness of the stranger named Xander who'd made sure she made it back to her apartment ok.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said, and she almost wanted to laugh at the naked self-importance of his comment. As if he or the army or whatever powers that be had merely made a clerical error, as if that's what caused enemy planes to bomb the city. It also struck her as somehow an absurd understatement considering the destruction of people's lives visible for all to see. Tara had been lucky. She'd been inconvenienced and, at worst, scared. In Riley's world it was about looking beyond the details to focus on the big picture. Where Tara saw stones ad rubble, he saw nothing.

She decided to meet him conversationally on his level. "The allies think they've struck a blow, but they have no idea how adversity strengthens Germany's resolve," she said in her best "party line" voice, trying to hide an amused smile.

"Exactly!" Riley grinned, as if she were the first person who seemed to get it. As if she had just given him the perfect excuse not to feel guilty and heartbroken over not being able to better protect his countrymen. "We won't let them get away with it. Even now, we have machinery in motion. I can't tell you more, but you have to trust me: We're going to make very short work of those bastards – pardon my language. It's just that I feel very passionate about this, and I'm not the only one who does."

Tara took another sip of water and regarded him somewhat objectively. He was a good man, beautiful, honest and sincere. But it was interesting how often he expressed more passion for his work than for her. There was affection, certainly. And love, but in a blunted sort of way. The vulnerable parts of him secreted away in an emotional bomb shelter.

Maybe that was the way of many soldiers – or perhaps the officers anyway. In times like these everyone did what they could to get by. And if getting by meant that Tara spent a few lunchtimes or evenings being Riley's tether to normal life, so be it. There was so little in her life right now that she was eager to do almost anything to get outside of it. Funny how the domesticity that smothered her was exactly the kind of comfort Riley craved. In return, he gave her some financial support (though she didn't need much), and he gave her some sort of promise for the future. Though they didn't speak of it, there was a tacit understanding between them that when the war was over they'd marry.

"There's a gathering at the Officers Club this Friday evening," he was saying. "I'm wondering if you'd like to go with me?"

Tara smiled. "Anything I can do to help support the war effort and improve the morale of the brave men who are securing a safe and prosperous future for us I feel it is my duty – no, my honor, to do. I am at your complete disposal."

That almost got a giggle out of him.

"Am I lucky? What is luck, anyway? Is it fair to call it luck that I didn't get arrested but my friends did? And in the sense of this morning's raid, what exactly does 'arrested' mean? The Nazis have a sanitized term for everything. They euphemize everything – especially the Jews. My friends just got hauled away to be euphemized. You gotta give them credit for their love of language."

Willow sat quietly in a stiff wooden chair waiting for an opportunity to meet with Mr. Gruber, the editor of The People's Press, a euphemism if ever there was one.

Gruber's secretary had seemed a bit skeptical when she'd walked in without an appointment, but Willow had given her a resume and writing samples to pass along to him for perusal. She was hoping that once again her intelligence and attention to detail would make an impression. Now she'd been sitting for nearly an hour as patiently as if she had just sat down. She had nowhere else to be until she met with Xander and Buffy at the café for their daily "Hey-we're-all-still-here" pie and coffee check-in. She and Jenny had talked about going back to the flat to see what they could salvage of their things, but Willow was quickly giving up on that idea. If Jenny had already used up her nine lives there was no reason risking her last for a handful of things. Maybe if she asked, Buffy or Xander might be able to go by and look on behalf of the both of them. The neighbors and authorities would regard them as Good Germans merely redistributing wealth, whereas Willow and Jenny would be considered the vermin that pest control had missed.

The office door swung open and a tall, silver-haired man in a suit called out, "Miss Hermann?"

It took Willow a moment to realize she was being addressed. She put on her best Wilma face and stepped into his office.

Another lifetime ago Willow had been a terrible liar. There would have been no way she could have made a bald-faced lie to somebody without fidgeting or betraying her guilt in some way. As Wilma responded to Mr. Gruber's questions, Willow felt herself detach completely as if watching the proceedings from somewhere up above. Damn. Wilma was good.

"So why is it, Miss Hermann, that you list no address on your resume?" he was asking.

"I'm afraid my housing situation is at present a bit up in the air," Wilma replied. "In fact, it was pretty much blown up into the air last night."

"You have other prospects for lodging?" he asked. She nodded her head vigorously. "Oh, yes. I have friends in the area. I just need to make arrangements. It's all been a bit sudden is all."

"Why is it you wish to work here? The hours are long and sometimes a bit irregular. If a big story breaks, we don't leave until it's finished. Whatever it takes."

It was Willow – not Wilma – who looked him clearly in the eye and answered him. "Sir, I'm here because I want nothing more than for this war to end. I think I'm relatively safe in saying that after last night, most any German you talked to would say as much. There's too much suffering. We've all suffered. And the sooner we can be done with the suffering and moving on to the building and rebuilding the better. I guess you could say I'm a bit impatient. And that I'm an optimist. I can think of no better place I could apply myself than by working for this newspaper, sir. I need to do something."

"And the hours?"

"I'm not married, and I don't have children, so my time is my own."

"Your writing samples are very good. But I'm not sure you're the right man for the job," he said, a bit amused with his own humor.

"I'm an excellent writer," Willow said, letting his remark pass. "I'm also extremely resourceful."

"And loyal?"

This being a Nazi rag, she knew what he was driving at. But she answered in her own way: "I love all that is good and pure about my homeland. I would die to defend it." Interesting images flashed in her mind as she spoke the words.

Gruber let out a satisfied sigh. He was done grilling. He turned in his chair toward her and extended his hand in congratulations. "You'll be our new copy editor. You can start immediately."

The grin that spread across Willow's face could not be contained. She had a new name and now a new job that would provide income. Soon, she'd be in a position to actually support herself.

The dark hallway echoed with the sounds of footsteps in the stairwell far below. Xander was on the fifth floor, staring at the door before him. He collected his thoughts a moment, cleared his throat and then knocked.

The faint sound of footsteps reverberated through the door. A moment later, it swung open to reveal the lovely woman whose hand he'd held the other night. She looked surprised to see him.

"Xa-Xander?"

Already, he loved the adorableness of her nervous stutter. And it was kind of nice to know someone like Tara found him stutter-worthy.

He began to release the words he'd rehearsed on the bus all the way over here. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing. You know, getting over the big scare the other night. I wanted to be sure everything was all right."

Tara smiled and opened the door wider, inviting him in. "Tha-that's very kind of you. I-it w-was definitely hard to fall asleep. I k-kept dreaming of bombs and airplanes."

"I imagine Dr. Freud might have a thing or two to say about that. But not me. Sounds perfectly normal to me. I was never into his whole dream thing. Or that thing about cigars. Not that I've spent time reading his work, much." He felt his cheeks burning. Must get rid of these mind pictures of explosions and cigars, and Tara. But Tara just smiled pleasantly back at him as if waiting for a small child to complete his first sentence. Xander swallowed, hoping he was at the end of it.

Oddly, he was relieved to be saved by the sounds of a second person in her apartment. Tara turned and flashed a smile in the direction of the sounds. Xander took her momentary distraction as an opportunity to pinch himself. Hard.

"Who is that, sweetheart?" came a man's voice.

Sweetheart: a term of endearment usually reserved for two people who are close to signify a special bond between them. Xander heard Willow's voice in his head as he thought this. He looked at his shoes. One could call friends sweetheart. In fact, he and Willow and Buffy happened to use language like that a lot, and they were friends. Also, parents use that endearment when talking with their children. Or at least most parents do. The ones who love their children, as opposed to his own no-account boozer parents. But, no, the person who uttered the endearment didn't sound parental enough.

He looked up to see a tall, sturdy fellow in an officer's uniform standing beside Tara, laying a meaty hand upon her shoulder. He didn't look like the brother from the photograph he saw the other time he was here. He appeared to be an affable enough guy, handsome and smiling. Xander hated him instantly.

"This is Captain Riley Finn," Tara said by way of introduction. "Riley, this is Xander Harris, the fellow from the SS who stayed with m-me in the ba-basement d-during the air raid and made sure everything was safe upstairs here."

Handsome Captain Finn extended his meaty hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you. And thank you for helping keep Tara safe. I don't like her being here alone so much. I'm glad you were there."

Xander imagined that if Tara were his girlfriend she wouldn't "be here alone so much." He smiled cordially and shook the man's hand.

Tara invited him in for tea. He would have declined, but he'd just ridden across town on the bus, and as long as he was here he might as well at least warm himself before heading back out into the winter afternoon. Later, as he strolled along the street below, headed back to his own little world, he had a slip of paper in his pocket from Riley, inviting him to an Officers Club event on Friday. "Great," he thought. He had come here wanting to get to know a pretty girl and maybe ask her out. And instead the girl's boyfriend asked him out.

"So, professor, I have a question about the reading…"

Buffy had waited patiently until there were no students left to approach Giles. She knew that it was best if her classmates didn't see her receiving any special attention from the professor. You didn't have to be a member of the Hitler Youth to know that the Brit hadn't been run out of town yet because he kept his head down.

But this was a moment where she needed to check in with him – and quickly. She'd seen Willow's flat-mate Jenny stop by the door during class to tell Giles something – something that had clearly bothered him. She knew it had to be bad if Jenny had shown up at university. The only thing worse that being British (and therefore of questionable allegiances, given the Allies situation) was being a Gypsy. And worse than that, Jenny used to be a teacher here, too, and some of the students were sure to have recognized her.

Giles turned to her and let out an exasperated breath. "So stupid. She should know better than to waltz in here no matter how bad the news."

Buffy frowned. "So there's bad news? How bad's the bad news?"

"Well 'bad' is a rather relative term these days one might suppose."

"Ok, then, on a we-live-on-a-Hellmouth scale, how bad is bad?"

Giles laughed at that. "We live on a Hellmouth. That's good. I'll have to remember that one."

"I may have to hurt you if you don't tell me what's going on. Why was Jenny here?" As she said the last part she heard the fear in her own voice.

Giles sobered and looked out the classroom window. "It would appear that the police raided Jenny's apartment this morning and rounded up all of the occupants and took them God knows where."

"Willow?" Buffy's heart leapt.

"She and Jenny weren't home at the time. They arrived on the scene, as it were, and discovered the kidnappings in progress." They both knew the official version of the story – the government account would be that the people had been picked up for questioning. But then few if any ever returned from questioning.

"So will she stay with you? Jenny, I mean?"

"I live in a bachelor apartment. I'm a British citizen. And Jenny is a Gypsy. I can't really think of anything else that would draw negative attention to ourselves than if we took up cannibalism. Which during food rationing I suppose is not outside the realm of possibility."

"When you live on a Hellmouth."

"I can't tell you how frustrating this is. To be absolutely powerless to help her – or even myself for that matter."

Buffy hesitated, not sure if she should say the next. "I'm going to find a way to get you both out of Germany," she said with a determination that made Giles regard her warily.

"Buffy, I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I'm not sure there's anything you could do. And even if there were I wouldn't want you to endanger yourself on my behalf."

She cut him off. "I'm only going to say this once: This is what I do. I help people. I'm – I'm a helper. I help." There had to be a better word for it, but there was safety in obliqueness.

"So. You got a job today," Xander was repeating. "And you got, uh, evicted."

"Yep, in a nutshell. Although I prefer to think of myself as now 'thoroughly repurposed,'" Willow said. "It's better than 'thoroughly screwed.'"

"And you're working for The People's Megaphone?"

"More like The People's Mega-phoney, but, yes. I'm all with the keeping-the-enemies close. Keeping tabs on where the swastika's been. Being first in the know could be handy…you know?"

There was something pained in Xander's expression that she hadn't expected to see. "What is it? I thought you'd be happy, well, at least about the first part – the me- getting-a-job part."

"I think we're taking too many risks here. I'm worried is all."

"You think I'm taking too many risks. Is that it?"

"Not just you. Me. Buffy. Jenny. Professor Giles. It's turning into something different."

Buffy chimed in, releasing her death grip on the warm coffee mug. "Everything's changing because instead of getting papers for people we don't know, it's becoming personal."

Xander elaborated: "We're all on the line in a way we haven't been before. We're connected through a paper trail. If one of us falls, we all fall."

"Are you saying you regret it? That you regret helping me?"

"It has nothing to do with that. I love you. I'd do anything for you. But this is now like a chess game. Any move one of us makes – one little bit of carelessness – and it comes back around to all of us. If Jenny gets picked up it gets traced back to Buffy. You're staying with Buffy and you used to live with Jenny, so they blow your cover, too. Buffy's mom's in the clink and the guys at my office notice that a certain Alexander Harris signed the documents in the Wilma Hermann file."

"I didn't know you play chess. Had you pegged for a checkers kind of guy," Buffy quipped.

"I'm relationship guy. I see the relationships here," Xander said.

Buffy practically dismissed Xander's worry, slipping instead into fix-it mode: "We were all always on the line in exactly the same way we always were. Only now we have more power. Willow, you focus on being the best Nazi newspaper copy editor you can be. Xander, you're going to be the exemplary SS headquarters clerk – maybe even go for promotion. And I am going to continue to be a straight-A university student."

Willow arched an eyebrow skeptically at that last part.

Buffy: "Ok, That might draw a too much attention. I'll shoot for more middle-of-the- road university student."

That earned a smile.

Buffy clicked into high gear. "Look, there's a Big Bad out there and we can't even see it. It could be anyone. It could be everyone. We can't trust that anybody is what they seem. And we're going to fight it the only way we know how: By walking among them, in plain sight, and choosing to live and not hide. I think this thing smells fear. We need to step back and study it. Know its moves. And then if we're lucky we can stay safe and maybe do some real good in this fucked up place."

"So, we have to stick together," Xander said, as much confirmation that he understood Buffy as an affirmation of their bond.

Willow shook her head. "No. To blend in and walk among them, we may need to split up. I can't stay with Buffy and put Dawn and your mom in any kind of danger. I could never live with it if something happened."

Xander to Willow: "If you're going to do that we need to get you some more Nazi friends. We need to acclimate you more into the Nazi scene. Come to the Officers Club with me on Friday. I have some friends who're getting me a pass to get in."

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

Xander blushed. "Well, actually, there's a girl who's going to be there…"

"A Good Nazi?"

"Kind of a poster child. I think she'd make The Fuhrer proud."

Willow smacked him in the head, though not too hard. "Fine."

Part 2

The hotel was a grand place, with gilt and filigree and mirrored walls. It seemed large enough you could inflate a zeppelin in it, and the big band playing Cuban samba music at the far end of the hall seemed tiny. This was a showplace of opulence and engineering, and as the war wasn't going so well these days, the Germans needed things like this to remind them of what they were fighting for,…and of the reasons why the purity of their race was of the utmost urgency to civilization: Only the master race could be capable of great works like these. "Never mind that the pyramids were built by Africans," Willow was saying as she nervously deconstructed the whole charade while walking along on Xander's arm. Xander patted her hand sweetly. "Dear, please try not to bait the Nazis tonight, ok?"

"I can't help it. My mind has a low threshold for things that just don't make sense."

Xander stopped and turned to Willow, his eyes taking in the sight of her in her evening gown, which was black and came to black lace along the chest and neck and arms. Willow looked beautiful. "Will," he said. "I know it's tough for a brainiac like you, but tonight, just for once, please power down the synapses and focus on having a good time."

She smiled in that old way that had always made him adore her. She was appraising him in his uniform, and it was clear she liked what she saw. There. She was getting her priorities straight. She seemed proud and awed of him somehow and it made him feel ten feet tall. In a moment she had turned off nervous, over-analyzing Willow and became the girl he'd known since childhood.

"Some champagne would help," she wryly suggested, and he thought about the money in his wallet. He wasn't sure he could swing it. Wartime had made such luxuries nearly unaffordable. He grinned gallantly nonetheless. "But, of course." He scanned the crowd for anyone he knew who might be willing to go in with him on a bottle. His gaze landed on Tara, who looked resplendent – so much so he almost missed the fact that she was there with her boy-captain Riley.

"Oh. Friends!" he managed to blurt out, and practically dragged Willow across the room to meet them.

Riley spotted them first. Smiling and nodding Xander over. He said something to Tara who turned quickly in surprise. She seemed taken aback at the sight of Xander in his uniform, and then even more taken aback by the sight of the woman on his arm.

Xander grinned and made introductions. "Will, this is Captain Riley Finn and his girlfriend Tara….and Tara and Riley, this is Wil – uh – Wilma Hermann, my friend, and a copyeditor for The People's Press."

Riley was clearly impressed by the last part. He took her hand and kissed it, as was customary when formally being introduced to a lady in polite society. "The People's Press." he said. "The men on the front lines are ever indebted to the news organizations for keeping our loved ones informed of the our progress. It's a pleasure to meet someone so dedicated to the war effort."

Willow blushed bashfully and replied, "I'm just doing what I can to keep up morale these days." She said it more about herself, of course, than about the war effort, which she just hoped would go to hell. Where it belonged.

Tara couldn't help staring at Xander's date. She was beautiful and charming and wearing a really great dress. There was an air of confidence and sophistication about her. She even held an important and high-profile job. For a moment, Tara felt small and inconsequential, just another hausfrau – and not even a frau at that, definitely nothing special. But then, Willow's attention turned, her eyes kind and sparkling and genuinely interested in Tara. Willow took her hand almost in an echo of Riley's masculine politeness and held it in greeting. Her touch was light and her skin warm and soft. "It's really nice to meet you," Willow was saying, though Tara absorbed the words in a squishy and remote way as if her head were underwater. "Xander told me about the other night how he met you during the air raid." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Thanks for making sure no rocks fell on his head. His head's a little soft."

Xander rolled his eyes. "What about you? I heard you nearly threw up on Buffy's shoes that night."

Willow scowled in mock reproach. "I was scared. I have this whole list of things I want to do before I die, and it was a little unnerving thinking I might not have the chance to do them."

"And nearly throwing up on Buffy's shoes is one of the things on your list?" Xander quipped.

Willow looked confused. "Uh, no. That wasn't really on there. But I guess I can add it. And, heck, I can check it off, too."

Riley patted Xander's back in comradely fashion. "It's fair to say that these are hard times for just about everyone. Let's go get the ladies some champagne and forget our worries for a while." Xander grinned as if his evil plan to make Riley pay for the drinks had worked. Which it had. He followed the captain to the bar, venturing a quick look over his shoulder at the women.

"Don't mind us. We're fine," Willow waved. And then Willow and Tara were standing looking at each other.

"Why don't you j – join us o – over at our table?" Tara managed to get out, though with some obvious effort. Damn, she hated that nervous stutter. But Willow didn't seem to mind. She smiled a broad smile and took Tara's hand again with a simple, "Lead away."

"Can't we send you out into the countryside somewhere?" Giles was asking, though he knew it was a stupid idea. But he was feeling desperate and there weren't a lot of options. Jenny Calendar was pacing the floor of his small living room, her eyes trained on the carpet like they had been for the last half-hour. Her shoes made a soft squeak on the floorboards with each step.

"Enough," Buffy said, a tad more sharply than she'd intended.

"I can put a hex on them. That's what the Gypsies are supposed to do, right? That's what they think we're all about. Well, that, and tramping about," Jenny was saying. She was blathering in her anger. "Fuck this."

Buffy uncrossed her arms and climbed to her feet. "I have a plan," she said, waiting for the nervous commotion in the room to stop. It did. She had their attention. She drew a deep breath and continued.

"I know a guy who can get Jenny a visa. I can get her to England, And, Giles, I can get you there too. Pull a few strings. You know. But I can get it done."

Jenny stared at her. "What. You're going to have Xander forge more papers? His little trick for Willow may end up costing him dearly. These assholes play for keeps."

Giles interrupted, stepping forward softly. "Jenny's right. Xander needs to lay low. And Willow, too."

Buffy shook her head, her jaw set. "Right now they're at the Royal Hotel mixing it up with the high-steppers."

Jenny and Giles looked at her like she were mad…or Willow and Xander were mad. Or both. "They're at a Nazi soiree?" Giles hissed.

Jenny was agitated now. She pulled out a cigarette and lit up, muttering to herself. "Willow's getting in way over her head. I don't like it. She's got what? Maybe two lives left?"

Buffy shook off the cryptic remark. "Listen, this doesn't have to involve either of them. They're ok. Really. I have another source."

Giles gave her a fatherly glare. "All of this covert business is far too dangerous. Jenny and I will take a car out into the country."

Buffy shrugged in frustration. "Hello? The police have most certainly gone through all of Jenny's things back at her apartment. They know who she is, and they'll be looking for her. Taking a drive out of the city just isn't gonna cut it."

She turned to Jenny. "You've got to travel out of here. Get far away. Just until this stupid war is over. Put your life on hold. But at least you'll still have one."

Jenny seemed to mull this over. "Then Willow's coming, too. I won't leave her here."

Buffy let out a sigh. "Willow's going to do what she's going to do. I'll talk to her about it. But in the meantime tell me you want the visas because it's going to take some time to get them." They all knew what she really meant was that it was going to take some risk to get them.

Jenny's hands were shaking as she took another drag on her cigarette. She blew out smoke and finally said, "Ok."

Willow was extremely confused. The beautiful girl at the table with her had a boyfriend who was just about the biggest Nazi blowhard she had ever met, though of course her new occupation would likely bring her into circles with many, many more Nazi blowhards. And yet Tara seemed, well, genuinely nice. She came off as gentle and accepting, and truly interested in Willow.

Of course, dummy. She has no idea she's sitting here with an evil Jew. For a moment Willow feared what she might feel if Tara happened to spew some anti-Semitic statement, which Good Germans were so prone to doing these days. Somehow Willow had a sense that such a remark would really sting in a way that the countless other remarks she'd heard over the years hadn't come close to. She tried to ponder why that was. Maybe that now she was Wilma she expected to get the real scoop on what the gentiles thought about the Jews. Was that what bothered her? Or was it something more specific to Tara? A person who, under different circumstances, Willow might actually like as a friend.

And what was with all the touching? Willow had always been affectionate with Xander and Buffy, but Tara was a complete stranger and yet Willow realized she now knew the exact temperature and sensation of the skin of Tara's hand, the softness and texture of her fingers. Why the hell couldn't she just drop it and leave it alone? Maybe it was the champagne. The boys had toasted a glass with them and then disappeared, leaving the bottle between the women. She and Tara had downed their first glass and were now on glass number two.

Tara sensed Willow's nervousness and grasped for something to say to break the silence.

"W – what part of town do you live in?" she asked. Not exactly the most interesting or witty conversation-starter, but it would have to do.

Willow's eyes saddened. "Uh, my apartment kind of, well, it got blown up, so I'm a little in between places, you might say."

"I'm so sorry. I got off easy the other night, but I know so many other people didn't. I think I'd probably have thrown up on somebody's shoes, too, if I were in your place."

A wry smile crept across Willow's face and the effect was luminous. "Don't apologize for being in one piece. I'm glad you're ok."

Tara's eyes focused on the tablecloth, unnerved by the gentle kindness of Willow's gaze and by intimacy of what Tara was going to ask next: "So what exactly is on that list of things you want to do before you die?" Tara regretted she hadn't the ambition to even have thought of such a thing for herself. This beautiful red-headed girl before her had an intensity she wished she herself possessed. Tara was curious.

Willow lost herself in thought for a moment, wondering really what she could tell a Nazi, since so many of the things on her list included, well, screwing the Nazis. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "Well, I'd really like to work as a photo-journalist. I – I have this job at the newspaper, so I guess that's a step in the right direction. Uh, let's see…I'd like to go to university because I love learning – but, but I can't b – because I need to work, you know, to support myself, so my friend Buffy lets me borrow her books, and I, you know, do a lot of the reading for her and help her out because it's easy for me-just kinda how my brain works. So, huh, maybe it's like I am going to university, except without the degree." A pause, and then: "I'd like to someday live in a nice retirement home, since that means I'd probably have made it through this crazy war and lived to a ripe old age, and, um, that would be a really good thing…" She paused again, taking another deep breath. "And I'd kind of like to fall in love, you know, for real?" Her mouth was dry after this last part. She had no idea she was going to say it, but then she also had the sudden awareness that the words were absolutely true.

Tara frowned. She had a cute frown. "W-what about you and Xa – Xander?"

Willow looked over her shoulder to where Xander and Riley were engaging in some man talk and cigar smoking among a group of military types. Her gaze was affectionate. "I love him. We've been friends since we were, like, five. I can't imagine my life without him. But we're just friends." Xander seemed to understand this, too. He'd never shown more than familial affection for her. And that was ok. It was enough between them.

"I want something more," she found herself saying, as if her mouth would not shut up. "Every day I wake up wondering if it will be my last, and I just crave in the most visceral way to feel something messy and passionate and all-consuming…to have something that overrides absolutely everything else – that, that obliterates all of the pain and suffering and fucked-up-ness. I just want something that's, you know, mine."

Tara was surprised by her companion's fragile candor, but then everything about Willow's face was open and honest. Tara's heart beat a bit faster at the realization that some of the things Willow wanted were the same things she herself wanted but had assumed she would never have. Particularly that last one.

Willow's gaze was dangerously naked. Tara held it a moment, and then dared herself to hold it a moment more. Willow broke first, with a joke. "And also I'd like to visit the country and maybe get over my fear of horses."

Tara brightened at this. "Horses? Oh, I could help you with that one. I grew up on a farm outside the city. We still have family there. I could take you sometime." She was shocked again at her forwardness and thought perhaps she was making a new friend.

Willow grinned. "See, and then maybe I could check off another thing from my list."

The boys eventually gave up on the Nazi talk and cigars and returned to the table with another bottle of champagne. Xander was feeling smug at his good fortune that he'd found them companions with cash – and clout. Riley seemed to think nothing of it. It was almost as if he were relieved that Xander appeared to already have a girlfriend so he didn't have to worry about somebody making a move on Tara.

"How's my girl?" Riley asked Tara, leaning down and kissing the top of her head. Xander and Willow exchanged glances. Even buzzed on champagne they both knew that Riley's treatment of her more resembled the affection he might have for a pet cat than for someone perhaps destined to be his wife.

Willow didn't get it. Tara was lovely. The lights seemed to gleam off the blond hair she wore pulled back from her face. Her skin was luminous. Her eyes the color of the ocean. Her whole aspect sensual. Xander was drooling. And then she noticed that she, herself, was a little slack jawed. But Riley wasn't. He patted Tara's shoulder and swung into the chair beside her. Tara gave Riley a shy smile that could scarcely have hinted at its full carnal power. A power that somehow Willow knew was there. Didn't Riley see it?

Willow bolted down another swallow of champagne, wondering what the hell was wrong with these two. They were Hitler's perfect specimens, and, darn it to hell, they were certainly never going to mate. Take that, evil Eugenics! She shot another glance at Xander. The smirk on his face said it all. He knew it, too. Tara was Riley's chattel.

But instead of amusement, Willow felt anger rising up inside her. She slammed her glass on the table and commanded: "Let's dance."

Xander flinched and then nodded agreeably with the plan. He took Willow's hand and led her across the room to the dance floor. The Cuban band was playing a slinky, hip- swaying number.

Tara watched them go, her eyes never leaving Willow's back, following the play of black lace as it charmed its way through the crowd. It seemed as soon as Willow left the table she took all the warmth in the room with her. Until she and Xander started dancing, and then the heat was back, this time rising up in Tara's cheeks. There was nothing overtly sexual about the way the pair danced. In fact, they fell into a friendly intimacy that was borne of familiarity. So what was it that made Tara wish she were there with them?

Tara drained her third glass of champagne and grabbed Riley's hand. "You heard the lady," she said. "Let's dance."

"Oh my god, do you think those two could be any more wooden?" Xander was laughing as he swept Willow across the dance floor. Xander was not a bad dancer, Willow thought. Or maybe it was the champagne doing the thinking. Hey, in fact, she wasn't really thinking. Yay, brain! Xander was right: She really could turn it off and enjoy herself.

"Maybe it's one of those, you know, arranged marriage things," Willow replied archly.

"Yeah, I hear the government has one of those books where you can mix and match your mate based on certain characteristics."

"Like choosing color swatches," Willow nodded. "Except all the swatches are, you know, pale."

"Guess that means I'm not in the book," Xander smiled. "Being tall, dark and handsome and all."

"It's ok, honey. You'd get points for being tall. And handsome."

That pleased Xander, and he gave Willow a good swing that made her eyes go wide. Whoa…Hips in new places.

"Right back at you. I'd let you in my gene pool anytime."

"I bet you say that to all the ladies."

"Just the beautiful ones."

Willow blushed. Chuckling, Xander asked, "Which reminds me. Did she talk about me?"

That did it. With the flick of her wrist, Willow took the lead from him. Xander laughed and fell into step with her. Willow shot him a mischievously intoxicated look and said, "About you? Not so much. We talked about me."

Xander's eyebrows shot nearly up to his hairline. "Is that right? Wow. Who knew Wilma Hermann already had a back-story."

"Wilma's got a lot more than that, wouldn't you say?" With that she gave him a dramatic dip.

The night was cold, and Buffy really, really wished she hadn't left her hat – the one Xander gave her last Christmas – at Spike's. She took the trolly partway to his house, then got off and walked the last 10 blocks. A glance up to a lighted window high above told her he was still up. From the front steps, she rang the bell to his apartment. It was late, but he'd be expecting her.

His apartment was on the fourth floor, and the steps were a good workout. Buffy climbed them two at a time. When she hit the landing, Spike was standing in his doorway. He bowed and admitted her into his home.

"And what brings you here tonight, I wonder?" he asked, leaning against the door as he closed it behind her. The look on his face made it plain he was hoping she'd admit it was lust. He was infuriating, but useful. Putting up with his crap was just part of the price she paid for having him on her side.

Buffy scanned his apartment, idly wondering how he spent his time up here. There were newspapers scattered about and unwashed dishes in the sink. He was nowhere near as fussy and tidy as Giles. She sat on the arm of a chair, carefully avoiding newspapers and other errata. "I need some help," she said, her gaze unwavering, as if she were on a mission of greatest importance.

Spike held her gaze a moment, weighing its gravity, and then let out a deep chuckle. "Oh, right. This is about getting visas or something for one of your little friends. What's up? The Jew get kicked out of her apartment again? Or maybe her boy's been found out a sympathizer by the Gestapo?" Spike had never met Willow or Xander, or Buffy's family for that matter. She had scrupulously worked to keep him out of their affairs. He didn't even know their names, though she did talk about them from time to time. They were important to her.

In a way, Spike was grateful not to know them. In his line of work, hunting down Jews, traitors and degenerates, he really would rather walk into an arrest situation innocent of whether he was screwing up the lives of people Buffy loved. It somehow made things morally simpler for him. He could help them behind the scenes a bit – for a price, of course. And they were free to hide as best they could, but if he found them, then it became about his work. He couldn't help what he was.

That Buffy came to him for help was baffling in a way. He knew deep down she must love him, though she'd never admit it. That had to be the real reason she kept coming around, with these thin excuses. Getting visas was no problem. He had access to records because of his line of detective work. And he had friends in official organizations like the Red Cross, who cold be counted upon – again for a price – to supply him with papers. He really didn't mind working both sides. People were people. They had a right to do what they liked, to defend themselves or run or hide or whatever. But as the war wore on and the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals and other riffraff became fewer and fewer in Berlin, his job became simpler in some ways. He and his detective partner would be handed a dossier and they had more time to track down a good trail and a lead. That probably meant that at some point one of Buffy's friends would come into the cross-hairs of one of his investigations. He sorely hoped that if the day came he wouldn't be aware of who he was picking up, or interrogating or chasing down and shooting, or whatever. And he really hoped Buffy never visited his apartment with tears in her eyes because one of her friends was dead. It was just a matter of time and the law of averages. Fate was stacking against her. She was a university student. Surely she could understand the math.

"Ok, love," he purred. Give me the particulars. Gender. Age. Make up some occupation and come up with some amusing name, too. That stuff. And I'll see what I can do. I assume you have money,"

Buffy nodded, her coat pocket stuffed with all the cash Giles and Jenny could manage…and a few food stamps to boot in case it wasn't enough. She pulled it out and gave him all of it. He eyed the bills and chuckled at the stamps. These people obviously meant something to her. Could it be the girl she would only refer to as "Red" and the boy she called "X-Man"? Or maybe her mom and sis? Buffy didn't say. She grabbed a notepad from his kitchen table and started scribbling.

It was late, and Riley and Xander were off fetching the ladies' coats. That left Tara and Willow standing together in the lobby of the grand hotel. They faced each other, warmed by champagne and dancing. They smiled at each other in affable silence, comfortable in each other's company. Willow thought she could stand for a long time just watching how the lights played off Tara's skin, and how the blue of her eyes seemed to change colors depending upon how the light hit them.

Tara caught Willow staring, and her smile spread into a lopsided grin.

"It was nice meeting you, Wilma," Tara said a bit shyly.

Willow was taken aback by the use of her new name and was dragged back to the reality of the true distance between them, between herself and anyone, really, the things that would remain lies beneath the veneer of her new life. Xander was wrong. She'd developed no back-story for Wilma. Tonight had been pure Willow. Part of her wanted Tara to know that girl.

Tara picked up a bit of the sadness as Willow replied. "Yeah, it was really nice to meet you, too, Tara. I had a great time." She teetered a bit unsteadily on her feet. "Maybe too much of a good time, truth be told."

Tara steadied Willow's arm and found herself wondering where the pretty redhead who was not Xander's girlfriend was headed to now. "Do you have other family in the area you can stay with?"

It was as if a cloud momentarily passed across the sun. "No family," she said. "But I have friends I can stay with until I find a new place."

"You're lucky to have friends," Tara said, an ache in her heart at the realization she could really use some herself.

Willow's smile seemed to even surprise herself. "Yeah. I am kinda lucky."

Willow tossed a rock up to Buffy's bedroom window. It was her sister Dawn who drew open the sash. "Oh. Willow?" Dawn whispered.

"Yeah, um, mind if I come in?"

"Sure. Nice dress," Dawn replied. "Are you sure you want to climb up in that?"

Joyce slept in the front room, and Willow really didn't want to wake her.

"Yeah. I'll climb up. Just give me a moment." It was freezing cold, but Willow didn't want to risk tearing the only nice dress she had – one of the few nice things she'd bought with an advance from the newspaper office. Mr. Gruber had been kind and understanding, what with the fact that Willow's apartment had been destroyed by the evil Allies and all. It was cold out, but Willow peeled off her overcoat and tossed it up to Dawn, shivering. Then she slipped out of the dress, feeling a bit more than daring standing half-naked in the alleyway. She carefully tossed the dress next.

While Willow climbed, Dawn's fingers ran over the garment. "It looks so good on you. And I think it might fit me, too. Do you mind if I borrow it sometime?"

Willow wasn't really listening. "Sure." She was more focused on keeping her balance. At the windowsill, Dawn grasped her wrist and pulled her inside.

"Wow! It's freezing out there," Willow hissed against chattering teeth. And then next: "Where's Buffy?"

Dawn waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, she's out with one of her boyfriends. She should be climbing up the wall any time now. I thought you were her."

"Buffy has boyfriends?" Willow pondered aloud. Her friend had never mentioned it.

Dawn was sketchy. "I think she's dating some SS guy. Or maybe two. I don't know. She doesn't talk about it much. Maybe she thinks mom would disapprove."

Willow shook off her surprise, kicked off her shoes, quickly got ready for bed and then slipped in next to Dawn. She fell asleep thinking about dancing, the shape and temperature of Tara's hand and the list of things Willow wanted to do before she died.

Sometime near morning, Willow felt a cold body slip into the bed between Dawn and her. Buffy snuggled down and burrowed her face into Willow's hair, drawing herself up tight against Willow's warm back. "Geez, Will, when did you take up cigar smoking?" she chuckled against her friend's neck. It tickled. Willow smiled, replying, "All the Nazis are doing it."

"And if the Nazis all jumped off a cliff you'd jump right with them, eh?"

It was Willow's turn to chuckle. "Nah. That would be pretty neat, though."

Spike strolled into the SS office of the secret police a bit late the next morning, a corrugated box under his left arm. He stubbed out his cigarette in the lobby and headed for the stairs up to his office. On the landing he spotted the clerk at his desk. An affable enough guy. Just a regular Joe. Young and a little soft. Interchangeable with any of the rest.

"Morning, Harris," Spike said as he glided by in his long overcoat. Harris barely looked up. "A fine morning it is, Mr. Blood." Spike chuckled. The kid greeted him differently every day. Sometimes it was, "Morning, did you say?" or "Right back at you, Mr. B." Always something. Spike let the chipperness follow him into his office like a soothing breeze. He flipped on the electric light and tossed the carton on his desk and hung his hat and coat on the tree behind the door. The sun was shining a tad too brightly, so he pulled the blind down half-way. That was when he trained his attention to the box. Taking a seat at his desk he began pulling out items and inspecting each of them for clues. There were always clues. When his boys had cleaned out a nest of Jews a few days ago there were a couple of occupants unaccounted for. The other Jews wouldn't fess up, of course. They always ran thick as thieves and couldn't be trusted to give away their own kind. No, his men had questioned the neighbors instead, giving them polite but firm treatment, accusing them of knowingly harboring Jews. That sort of thing always made the Good Germans a bit nervous and was usually enough to get them to cave. From the report he knew he was looking for a couple of young women. Names of Willow and Jenny.

Now he picked through the small belongings of the former occupants of the squalid little apartment, bits of cheap jewelry, a hair brush, a lipstick, old letters and a myriad of strange little mementos that these folks so often latched onto when they left their former lives behind to live on the lamb. He shoved each one of these personal things impersonally aside. He was looking for something specific. Papers, passports or…ah, yes, here they are: snapshots. Sepia-toned and a little blurry. Nothing written on the back, which was a shame. That usually made things easier. But there were definitely photos of two women who were not among those folks picked up. They were pretty, one a bit younger than the other – obviously not related by blood. From their smiles it was clear the snaps were taken in happier times. As was always the case.

Spike stubbed out another cigarette in a crystal ashtray on his desk (a souvenir from just such another box a few months back) and sighed. He began the task of the real detective work: trying to piece together the stories of these two ladies. How well did they know each other? Were they friends from way back? Might they be on the lamb together still? The first order of business was figuring out which one was Willow and which was Jenny. He always felt a better hunter when he could put a name to a face.

He sauntered down the hall to the office of his partner – an evil fuck named Caleb. Spike never cared for him. He was about the most heartless bastard Spike had ever met, and Spike considered himself fairly heartless. Caleb was a real piece of work. Hurting girls made him happy. Spike hammered his fist on the closed door, setting the window glass shaking.

"Come on, partner. We have some people to go see," he said.

Caleb opened the door, his coat and hat in hand. He tossed them on quickly and then inspected his handgun before pocketing it. His eyes flicked briefly over the photos Spike showed him.

"Pretty ones," was all he said for a long moment. Then, as the two of them were ambling down the hall: "It's the pretty ones who always turn out to have the darkest souls."

Spike had long since chosen to ignore the former preacher's twisted good-and-evil mutterings. Today was a workday. He had work to do. They both had work to do. And so fuck the wacky bastard. They would just go do it.

Tara woke early. The apartment was cold and the sunlight bright. She rolled over to find Riley there beside her. She was in a small satin nightgown. He was fully clothed. Well, except his shoes were off. Socks. But no shoes. He was huddled up beside her, sleeping like a baby. In fact, his face seemed so serene and angelic, his breath tickling at the nape of her neck. She let out a sigh and leaned back into the pillows, staring up at the shapes in the tin ceiling above her. Why wouldn't he touch her? It wasn't like she hadn't been forward. Hell, she was half-naked. She'd practically thrown herself at him last night after he'd brought her home from the dance. No. Actually, she had thrown herself at him. He had seen her practically head-to-toe naked and still he fell asleep on her. Riley hadn't been her first boyfriend, and in the past she'd never encountered anything quite like this, so she was worried. What did this mean?

Had he been drunk? There had been a lot of champagne last night. Maybe he passed out. Or – or maybe there was something wrong with her? She wasn't pretty enough or strong enough, or something enough. Did she do it all wrong? Should she have let him take the lead? Was it the man's job to decide things like this? Should she get up now and put on some clothes and just pretend nothing had happened? Did she want to stay here until he awoke, to see if something might happen? What is it that she did want, really?

She frowned. For all of this she blamed in an odd sort of way one Wilma Hermann. She had seemed so certain and self-possessed. And it was certainly not lost on Tara how the girl had maneuvered Xander so that she was leading their dancing. A bold move that made Tara feel kind of funny inside, as she thought about it. She'd never danced with another girl that way, letting another girl lead, and so she thought about that, about how that might feel, if Wilma had been leading her. Or if she herself were the one doing the leading.

How interesting.

There were so many things a woman might do that Tara had never stepped outside her prescribed role to imagine. She could hold a job. Wilma did. She could have men as friends and keep it at that, the way Wilma seemed to with Xander. Would Riley be happy with Tara as a friend and companion without the complications or obligations of sex? She glanced at him again, his peaceful face and thought that, yes, perhaps all he really wanted was this simple, unnamed thing they shared. He called her whenever he was in town. They'd go do things. She'd go to events with him. He'd take her to dinners. He was handsome in his uniform, and she knew she was lovely on his arm. He liked talking with her. They spent long hours talking. Or listening to the radio. He'd sleep here sometimes, with her pulled tightly against him. In her presence he was absolutely as vulnerable as it was possible for him to be and she let him be vulnerable and did not judge him.

He'd done terrible things. In war, how could one not? Tara chose not to dwell upon it. Of course he'd killed people, and killing is an evil thing, right? No matter how just the battle. He'd spent time at the Front. He'd led men into combat who had never returned from it. That had to haunt him. Tara tried to imagine herself in his place and knew that killing was something far beyond her. In fact, she couldn't imagine it. Or wouldn't.

So if he lay here peacefully, and if she gave him some real comfort, made him feel whole, even, if that were possible…then that was worth something. He didn't ask much of her in return. He didn't pry into her life, or try to direct her. To a certain extent she was free.

She slipped quietly out of bed and drew on her robe and walked to the window, gazing out over the street far below. The city was waking and starting to stir. That meant that people would be going to work. That industry would rise in its natural rhythm and life would go on as usual, even despite the war and the rubble and ruin. And Riley would rise and ready himself to go back to the front today. He was leading men to the eastern front to engage the Russians, who were proving difficult to defeat given their great numbers and the difficulty of traversing the cruel winter terrain. She knew he must be frightened. She was frightened for him. And she would miss him. She would be alone.

She headed to the kitchen to make him breakfast. It was another measure of comfort she could give him and that he would accept. While she poured water from the tap into the teakettle another thought struck her. She set the kettle on the stove and fetched a pad of paper and a pen and began composing a letter. To Wilma.

Things were all abuzz at The People's Press office. Willow glided in quietly and found her desk. There was a stack of copy there for her to proofread, but she let it sit there a moment. She looked up to where Mr. Gruber was, in his office pacing back and forth, visible through the window. He was talking on the telephone. The men of the newsroom were busy at typewriters or on phones. Willow moved past them to the pressroom, just as she had every morning since coming to work here. The typesetters were a friendly lot. They liked having a pretty girl in the newsroom – especially one who seemed to take an interest in what they were doing. They teased her gently and she went about her business scanning the galleys for anything interesting. She knew she could always wait until the paper came out. But she was drawn to the information. She had a compulsion to know the latest news – any scrap that might give her encouragement or be useful in some way.

There was a lot of hateful bullshit to wade through. But whenever she felt her face redden, she'd remind herself again that she was someone new. Today much of the news was a recasting of the "progress" on the eastern Front. She knew the truth of the situation must be truly awful because it sounded bad enough even in its sanitized presentation here. She looked at the casualty counts and felt sickened. Was all of this so worth the cost, really? She glanced at the jovial men setting type. They joked and chuckled and went about their work as if the world hadn't come unglued. When many of their neighbors had disappeared, their businesses burned, their possessions stolen by the government, or even by their neighbors. When many of their brothers had marched off to fight and die. And when what it took for them to still feel good about themselves was to believe in the words that appeared on the sheets of newsprint issued from this office everyday – or the words on the radio. All that stood between them and self-loathing, shame and fear were words.

She gave a little wave to the boys and headed back to her desk. She turned her mind off as she went about her work proofing copy. She was good at grammar and could diagram any sentence, finding comfort in the almost-mathematical rules of language.

It was almost noon before Gruber came out of his office and greeted her. The expression on his face made her think that perhaps she wasn't the only one saddened by the drubbing the Germans were taking at the hands of the Russians. "These are trying times, indeed," was all he would say, though, running a hand through his silver hair. He was a consummate wordsmith, of course, but his eyes were at odds with his understatements. She nodded gravely in return. He smiled in fatherly fashion at her. "Ah, yes, you know what I mean," he said. "You always do."

With that he handed her an envelope. "I wonder if this might be from an admirer?" he asked casually, perhaps trying to lighten the mood a bit. Willow was confused. Was it something from Xander or Buffy – or Jenny? And if so, it couldn't be good news, because why, if it were good news, would they try to so desperately reach her, right?

Gruber saw her trepidation as she took the letter from him. He chuckled. "Come on, it can't be so bad as that, Miss Hermann. After all, the letter is perfumed."

Willow was startled and confused, not only at the fact of a perfumed letter addressed to Wilma Hermann, but also at the knowledge that Mr. Gruber was not above sniffing the morning mail.

It took another 15 minutes to get Gruber to go back to his office and stay there so that Willow had some privacy with which to open the envelope in peace. He'd already popped out twice with silly grammar questions for her to answer, as if she were the newspaper's schoolmarm. She was fairly certain he was toying with her. She guessed that was good. Meant he liked her enough, anyway, that she didn't have to worry about keeping her job. She patiently shooed him away one last time with the flick of her wrist, and she could see a crease of smile on his face. She hated that he was making a big production out of something that, well, might just be worthy of a big production.

Finally, with shaking hands she opened the envelope and slipped out a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

It took a moment to register, and then she realized the letter was from Joyce, Buffy's mom. She scanned it quickly, heat rising up in her cheeks as she did so. She wasn't expecting this. Well, maybe she was, but not the news coming to her in this way.

"Dear Willow,

"I sincerely hope things are going well for you with your new job. I'm glad to know it has so much promise for someone as bright and talented as you. I'm sure you'll do very well there, as you seem to do well in everything you put your mind to. I hope the job affords you a bit of independence, perhaps even the ability to rent an apartment. I think that's why you'll understand the request I'm going to make of you. And I surely hope you will understand that this has nothing to do with how dear you are to me, or to my daughters. It's just that I feel as a mother that I need to look out for their well- being first and foremost, and so it would be best if you found some other place to stay. I hope you will be happy, and I'll be eager to hear news from Buffy about how you're faring. Joyce."

Willow craned to see around her desk. She noticed that the letter had come with a suitcase.

Spike lit a cigarette and stretched his legs. From this comfy spot he was merely a watcher as Caleb did all the talking. In fact, Caleb could do the whole thing. The whole good cop-bad cop routine. Spike was really superfluous to this task. Caleb liked "interviewing" neighbors. The detectives were enjoying the afternoon sunlight in Mrs. Eberhardt's parlor as Caleb presented first the one snapshot and then the other for the old lady's inspection. She had politely told them that there were so many people coming and going from that rented room that she never had learned everybody's names.

"This is very serious business, Mrs. Eberhardt. They have committed grave sins against the state. We're asking good citizens to step forward and aid us in their quick apprehension," Caleb said with such solemnity that you'd have thought the girls in question were murderers.

"Goodness, what have those people done?" Mrs. E asked, her mouth slightly agape.

Caleb chuckled softly. It was a perfunctory and mirthless sound as if he were reciting from a worn out playbook. "I really can't tell you. That's state business. But suffice to say you're considerably safer with that bad element gone from your building. I can only hope that these two women do not try to come back here. It would be dangerous for you if they did. These women are dangerous."

That last bit was a damn lie, of course. If those two girls in the photos were capable of violence he would be shocked. He'd never met a woman yet who had resisted arrest. A few ran. They were easily dispatched with a handgun. But there was never fisticuffs. The ladies never wore weapons, though you'd think these days it might not be such a bad idea.

Caleb looked Mrs. Eberhardt hard in the eyes. He held up one photo. "Willow?" and then the other: "Jenny?"

Mrs. E pursed her lips and practically trembled. That meant she definitely knew these girls. Liked them, even. Caleb just about had her. He reversed the order of the photos. "Jenny? Willow? If you know, Mrs. Eberhardt you have to tell me. Failure to cooperate is a crime against the government during wartime. And I assure you these two fugitives are not worth getting yourself arrested."

Spike could see the self-loathing as the old woman caved in. With a slight head nod to the left she said, "That one's Willow, the redhead."

Here a few hours later it was after quitting time and Spike sat in the tightly-packed trolly as it made its way across town. He'd picked up the evening paper, The People's Press, and was trying to read despite the poor light and the jostling. A heavy-set woman knocked into him at one stop and interrupted his reading. In frustration he folded the newspaper under his arm to read later. Instead he scanned the heads of the folks ahead of him. That's when he noticed a girl with red hair sitting a few rows up and to the right.

Of course, now that he knew one of his fugitives was a redhead he'd suddenly start spotting a million of them everywhere, probably. This girl was a tantalizing specimen because he couldn't see her face. From behind she seemed small and slim. He could just catch the slightest curve of pale cheek. Certainly not enough to compare to the snapshot he carried in his pocket. Besides, he was off-duty, right?

Still, what the woman had said had stuck with him. This Willow was a redhead. Made chances of finding her a lot easier. But there was a twinge of trepidation as well. Could he be on the tail of Buffy's friend "Red"? He sure as hell hoped not. And yet he was curious to know things about Buffy's life – to know who she was close to, what she liked to do, where she liked to hang out – even what she was studying at university. He found himself wanting to know her friends, to see the people who'd won the heart and loyalty of Buffy, when clearly he himself hadn't. Maybe he'd find he wasn't so unlike them, after all.

He couldn't say exactly why, but when "Red's" turn to get off the trolly came, Spike purposely ignored his professional impulse to follow. No. Not this time. The red-headed thing: That was an advantage to him. He knew he would find his frauline Willow in time. But if she truly were Buffy's friend, then he owed her a break. Just one. He wasn't completely evil. As the car started again, he watched the red-headed girl walk away from him, a suitcase in hand, looking like she didn't have a friend in all the world.

Willow kept her head down, walking quickly and hating the awkward weight of the suitcase. It would have been better if she'd had two. Then she could have balanced one in each hand. She could have gotten a better and more efficient rhythm going in her step. But it seemed over time she traveled lighter and lighter. It had been a long time since she had enough possessions to require two suitcases. So, yes, she was down to the one. And stuck walking like a peg-leg.

Down the street a bit she passed an open-air market. This was not her neighborhood. She wasn't very familiar with this part of town, but she slowed down. And then Xander was magically there beside her, matching her stride.

"Hey there, beautiful," he smiled. His very presence made her finally want to let her guard down and cry. He took the suitcase from her hand, and at last she could walk straight. He took her hand in his and squeezed reassuringly.

"If it's any consolation to you, and it's probably not, Buffy feels really bad about this," Xander said. "Joyce didn't even tell her about it. I did. After you called me."

Willow let the words wash over her. She didn't care. She had more pragmatic issues on her mind. "I should find Jenny. Maybe she's found another place to stay."

Xander shook his head emphatically. "Buffy says no way. It's not safe. Jenny's staying with Giles, and she's scared of the heat. Buffy's trying to get them visas to England." He paused. "She can get one for you, too."

Willow stopped and looked up at him warily. "Is that what you want? You want me to just pick up and go to England?"

Xander let out an exasperated sigh. "Willow, what is there here for you? Why stay?"

Now the tears threatened to come again. How could she explain to him that this was her home, the place where she'd grown up. The place where her parents died five years ago during what the Nazis called Crystal Nacht, but was basically Aryans rioting in the streets, destroying Jewish businesses and killing their neighbors. She thought again of that spooky Dr. Ehrhart she'd run into at the Opera house the night of the air raid. He'd been her father's business partner, and she suspected to this day he was the reason her father was dead. Jackals and opportunists and cowards. She wanted revenge. She wanted to spite them. For the past five years her complete identity had built around disobedience. She'd transformed into someone entirely different from the girl who hid under the dining room table as neighbors bashed in the windows of her house and dragged her parents away.

Fear was no longer enough pull to get her to go. She wanted to beat these bastards. She wanted to win. She did not want to give up everything. Xander and Buffy were all the family she really had. And she believed too much in her own skills at hacking the Nazi system to really believe the Big Bad would get her. She'd evaded it so long now, it was just part of her life, nothing extraordinary.

Xander saw he was making no headway. "I love you, Willow. I want to know you'll be okay. That's more important than anything else."

She knew he meant it, and he was being sweet. "I know. I'm just not ready to go is all, you know?"

With that, they fell into step again, side by side. "I knew you'd say that," he smiled. "That's why I've already been working on Plan B."

Willow wondered what the hell they were doing in such a nice building, climbing floor after floor of a grand circular staircase up and up. She was glad he was the one carrying the suitcase. At last they hit the fifth floor landing, and Xander led her down the hall to a dark and heavy wooden door. He knocked. They stood staring at each other, trying to catch their breath and straining to hear whether anyone was home.

"Where are we?" Willow whispered. Until now she'd let Xander lead her. Now they were both waiting awkwardly in a strange hallway. They could half make out voices through the door – a man and a woman, And they were clearly arguing about something.

"We should go," Willow said, hurriedly.

Xander looked uncomfortable and nodded. "Maybe this wasn't such as good idea."

But then the door swung open suddenly, stopping them both like deer in headlights. A young disheveled woman clutching the throat of her bathrobe was at the door. "Yes?" she impatiently asked. It took Willow a moment to realize this was Tara.

"Who's there?" came the man's voice. That would be Riley. The same nice, dull Riley from last night? Willow had never pegged them for the Bickersons.

"Xa – Xander?" Tara asked, and Willow almost rolled her eyes. Great. The boy had gotten himself wrapped up in a Nazi love triangle. "Why are you here?" Tara asked, impatience winning out over politeness. They were clearly interrupting something.

Willow tugged at Xander's sleeve. "We should go," she implored. But Xander wouldn't budge.

Tara finally saw Willow there. Her face registered surprise. "W – Wilma?" She glanced from one to the other. "What are you doing here? Please, come in."

Xander nudged Willow. "See? I knew I should bring you along."

Inside the door, all three of them were bathed in light from the overhead lamp in the apartment's entryway. Willow could see that Tara had been – what? Crying, maybe? She looked flustered. Tara could see that Xander was carrying a suitcase. The fluster became confusion.

Then Riley was there, hastily buckling the belt of his uniform and tucking in his shirt. He looked red-cheeked as well.

"My, my. Company." He commented dryly. There was none of the boyish civility of the night before.

"We should go," Willow said for what felt like the tenth time.

Tara and Xander both grabbed for her arms. "No," they said in unison.

"Where's Willow?" Buffy swung into the booth across the table from Xander. Her concern was plain. She pulled off her gloves and scarf and ran a hand through her blond hair, which hung loose to her shoulders. Xander had prepared a little thing to say.

"She's safe."

Buffy nodded. "That's good. Safe is definitely good." She paused as if waiting for him to say more. When he didn't her eyebrows shot up. "What? Nothing else?"

Xander nodded. "She's in a safe place, Buffy. She's getting – settled."

"God, I feel so rotten. I can't believe my mom would do something like that without even talking to me first." The house wouldn't seem the same when she went home tonight. "I mean it's Willow. Not some stranger. She's – she's family. I'd do anything for her."

"She's Wilma," Xander said. "And, you know she'd do anything for you, too. It has nothing to do with how any of us feel about each other. There's Dawn. And your mom to think about."

Buffy waved Helmut for a cup of coffee. "What, You think I don't know that?"

"Of course you do. But this is about us. We got into this. Not them."

Helmut was there with a white cup, pouring the black gold for Buffy, who shook her head deep in thought. "But this is also about Willow. Why isn't she here? She must think she's been totally dumped."

Helmut walked back to the bar contemplating the complexities of young love. It was clear the redhead had lost out this time. He smiled. Willow was a pretty name.

Giles turned the key, and the door to his apartment opened to darkness. His heightened senses could detect nothing. He looked down the hall. No one else was about. He shifted the weight of the grocery sack in his arms and ducked inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

With a click, a floor lamp switched on, illuminating Jenny under a cone of soft amber light. She retracted her hand from the switch and remained motionless on the couch, seated upright, like a still-life. It was a little unnerving. Giles realized she must have sat that way in the dark for hours now, since it would have been dusk at about 4 p.m.

"I've brought us a few things. The kitchen was a little lacking," he apologized softly.

Jenny stretched. "It's okay Rupert. Quiet place you have here. The sort of thing you don't notice. Until you have hours of silence to think about it." To Jenny, it had actually felt claustrophobic, coffinlike, completely absent of any outside stimulus. She would have welcomed Allied bombing, Anything but the darkness. It felt as if she were waiting for death.

Giles came and sat beside her on the couch and she reached out a hand, touching his knee reassuringly. He was there and warm and real. He drew her into an embrace that told her she was loved. She allowed herself to sink into it and felt tears melt their way up to the surface. He ran fingers through her hair, feeling that if only he could hold her tight enough it would be all right, that nothing bad could happen to them if only he could squeeze her tight enough. She clung back as if for the last time. It wasn't lost on her that any time could be the last time. She was old enough to not allow herself the luxury of naïveté: the kind of blind optimism Willow seemed to have in bucketloads, and Xander and Buffy, too. Giles worshipped them like they were his children. And he was their helpless father who could do nothing for them but pray they had the smarts and luck to stay safe.

No, Jenny didn't have that optimism. All she had was love for this frumpy, fatherly professor who could have returned to England years ago except he loved her more than his own well-being. She worried that had been an incredible mistake. Of course, back then nobody knew how bad this Big Bad would become. Things like this are always clearer in hindsight.

Spike sat alone in his apartment, a single light bulb illuminating his armchair. He'd finished the evening paper, cheered to hear that the government thought the war on the Russian Front would be over soon. More reinforcements were on their way at this very moment. More young men to feed the appetite of pure evil. He took a drag on his cigarette and pulled out the two photos he'd been carrying all day in his pocket. He gazed at them for what must have been the hundredth time. The dark one, Jenny, was a lovely woman. Hard to think of her as a criminal or degenerate. There was a bit of a hard edge to her, a knowing. He liked that in his women. They didn't have to be pure as driven snow, though snow wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He gazed at the photo of Willow. That one had a doe-eyed innocence that a Jew girl didn't deserve to have, not this many years into a wholesale ethnic cleansing campaign. She even had a bit of a sense of humor to her smile. A real sweetie, he bet. She'd cry like a schoolgirl when he caught her. He wondered what her most desperate cries might sound like. It gave him warm tinglies.

From the way the snapshots fit together, he figured they were taken the same afternoon, somewhere near a lake, maybe. There was tall grass in the background. Part of being a detective was being able to piece together people's stories. Spike prided himself on taking the time to appreciate the subtleties of human motivation and behavior. He found people inherently interesting. It was his line of work. He was the outsider, an observer, a watcher.

That's where he and Caleb clashed. Their styles couldn't be more different. For example, while Spike was here in his cozy apartment thinking about the hearts of pretty ladies, Caleb was most certainly still out on the street, stalking in his own cruel way. He had that righteous intimidation that all zealots think is their birthright.

The door to the apartment had closed behind Xander, and the silence hit them as Tara and Willow turned to face each other. They could barely meet each other's eyes. But then Willow didn't want to seem to be staring at Tara's bathrobe either. It was a nice robe, soft and of light material, like it was made to go over some lovely nightgown. It had been a long time since Willow had seen such a thing. Her mother had had some nice pajamas. Willow herself had only the slip she wore under her dress.

"Uh, Xander was a little out of line. You don't really have to take me in. I have my own income and I'm sure I could find a perfectly nice place to stay. I just haven't had a chance yet. I only just today learned that I wouldn't be able to stay with our friend Buffy's family while I took time to look for a new place. That hit me as a bit of a surprise, I have to say, or, more exactly, like a kick to the gut, but I'm really not looking for a hand-out. I don't want to bother you. You-you have your own place. Your own routine, and I bet if you wanted someone staying with you, you already would have had a roommate. So I understand. Really I do." Willow looked around helplessly. "But maybe I could stay here, um, tonight? I mean it's pretty late, and I'm really sorry to inconvenience you. Xander didn't tell me what he was up – or where he was taking me. I – I think I'm as surprised and confused as you are. Uh, and it's late and all. I mean if it's an inconvenience, I could probably find a place to sleep at the newspaper office. I think there's even a shower there. And they keep coffee there. And I think Gruber also has some scotch, which I've got to say sounds pretty darn good right now. Al-Although I don't want you thinking I'm a total lush, what with the champagne and now the bit about the scotch. Of course it's not like anybody could really blame a person these days for wanting to blot out reality. Though I'm not a blotter…or blotto. No, definitely not blotto. Except the other night and that's because I'm a lightweight. And, speaking of the other night, I, uh, didn't do or say anything inappropriate, did I?"

Why did Tara keep looking at her that way? Why didn't she say something to stop her? To stop this stream of words that kept tumbling out in a nervous cascade. This was all too unnerving. To break the tension, Willow turned and strode over to the couch to fetch her suitcase. "I'd better go." She grabbed her overcoat and scarf.

Tara finally spoke. "My brother's room is right down the hall. You could stay there," she said.

"For tonight," Willow said, nodding. "I'll clear out in the morning. You'll hardly know I'm here."

Tara sighed. "You can stay," she said, simply. It had been a hard day and she just wasn't capable of much more energy, but it was true: She wanted Willow to stay, and not just for one night. "I've been lo – lonely. It would be nice to have someone to – to talk to."

Tara felt herself warm as the nervousness left Willow's face, replaced by about the most beautiful and open smile she believed humanly possible. The relief was palpably rolling off Willow in waves. And in its emotional deluge there was also some excitement. Tara let it swirl around her in eddies and felt herself buoyed.

"And I h – have scotch, too," Tara said shyly. "So you don't need to go all the way back to the newspaper office to have some." She paused. "Unless you want to."

She took Willow's coat and hat. "Sounds like we've both had a hard day. Let me get you a glass."

Willow wordlessly followed Tara down the hall. They passed the first bedroom with its rumpled bedclothes thrown wide and pillows strewn on the floor as if Riley and Tara had had a real tussle in there. The sight gave Willow a weird thought that maybe the impassioned yelling hadn't so much been yelling at all as something, well, more passionate. It gave Willow a strange blow low in her belly to think of it. She averted her gaze to Tara's back and followed her down to the next room. This one was a bit larger. The bed was neatly made with a dark red coverlet taut across it. The bureau was tall and held simple man-things: a shaving kit, a small beveled mirror in an adjustable frame, a family photo of a much younger Tara and a boy she presumed was the brother laughing and holding a golden retriever. God, even the dog looked Aryan. Tara opened the top two drawers and pulled out her brother's things, making room for Willow's.

"You – you don't think he'll mind, you know, some stranger staying here?" she asked in a voice that sounded small and uncertain even to her own ears.

Tara gave her an impassive look and then softened. "He's been out on the Front a long time. Got a letter from him last week. I don't think he'll be back any time soon. She pulled back the covers from the bed and fluffed up the pillows. "Besides, it would probably give him a charge to think that a pretty girl was sleeping in his bed while he's gone."

"You know, if it makes him happier with the arrangement, I can sleep naked," Willow said and then mentally kicked herself.

Tara giggled and grabbed Willow's hand, leading her back to the parlor and seating her on the couch. "Just a minute," she said, making it clear Willow was to go nowhere. So she stayed put. Tara returned shortly with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. She set them down on a small table, poured them both a generous drink. Willow really wanted that drink.

Their fingers brushed as Tara handed her the glass, and Willow's heart jolted just like it had the night before when in the space of a few casual touches, she somehow had managed to memorize the entirety of Tara's hand. She looked up to find Tara gazing back at her funny. Had she felt that, too? The other woman smiled and tipped back her head, blond hair falling down her back as she swallowed the liquor. She set the empty glass on the table. Her eyes encouraged Willow to follow.

Willow held her glass a moment longer, letting the scotch swirl around, coating the sides a bit. She was afraid to meet Tara's gaze. With a breath, she put the glass to her lips, tilted back and let the scotch slide down, hot, warming Willow's body from chest to extremities in the fraction of a second it took the aftertaste of the liquor to reach her tongue. She felt a sensual wave engulf her as she steadied the glass on the tabletop. Tara was watching her, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and Willow realized she knew exactly what Tara's mouth would taste like. And wanted to know what that mouth would feel like against her liquor-fired tongue.

Wow. Usually when Willow drank, she found herself loose-lipped, but not like this, as in literally wanting to loosen her lips. Her mouth slackened. Tara said nothing, just smiled and lifted an eyebrow in a silent invitation for another shot. Willow felt herself nodding, wanting nothing more than to sink further into this warm oblivion where the only sound was the ticking grandfather clock and Willow's own breathing and the pounding of blood in her ears. She leaned back into the pillows of the couch and watched Tara pour. Her gaze flicked over the crescent of pale skin visible at the throat of Tara's robe, which had fallen open slightly since she'd stopped clutching it closed. That same otherworldly smoothness of her skin caught the light and shimmered like it had last night. And suddenly Tara was every bit the goddess Willow had seen at their first meeting.

The second shot of scotch went straight to Willow's thighs, which felt rubbery and tingly. She wasn't sure she could walk. She was sure she didn't want to. Those deep- ocean eyes regarded her, half-lidded, from where Tara was curled on the opposite couch. The physical distance felt like nothing, like a sigh. Willow was sure her mouth was unable to form words, which is really saying something.

At last Tara stood and extended her hand to Willow, who rested a moment longer before gently taking it in hers, testing the warmth and fit of it. She rose wordlessly to her feet and followed Tara down the hallway, past the first bedroom. Again, the strewn sheets and pillows, again the flutter low in Willow's belly, this time accompanied by a mental image of Tara semi-naked lying there, and Willow was standing in Riley's place. Or was it Willow who was naked and Tara gazing down at her? The flutter was followed by a kick. Wow. Down girl. She tore her gaze away from the dirty linens and found Tara looking back at her. Willow didn't know Tara enough to read her expression, but one might have described it as curious. At the second doorway, Tara stopped. The lights were off.

"Uh, guess this is where I get off," Willow joked, and then realized she was only half-joking and cleared her throat. Her entire body was tingling. She'd never exactly felt this way before – at least not from wanting another woman. Or anyone else, truth be told. She wanted to pull Tara into an embrace, to learn her scent, to chart not only the shape of her hand but also the rest of her, to physically join. But they were strangers. Strangers throwing some sparks, But strangers, still.

Even in the darkness, Willow could see the pink flush across Tara's cheeks. They stood close, connected by hand. As if she only just noticed that fact, Tara let go, and Willow felt something she hadn't noticed earlier as her hand slipped down Tara's fingertips.

"A ring?" Willow heard herself say. Tara hadn't been wearing one when they'd met.

Tara's expression changed, as if she'd only just remembered it herself. "Oh," she said. "We got engaged last night."

"Oh," Willow replied, trying to keep the strangeness out of her voice. "Congratulations." It was what you say to little announcements like that. Even confusing announcements like that one. Willow turned to her new room. "A big day," she said, nodding. "And more tomorrow."

It was a weird good-night, but it was the best she could manage. Her feelings clashed with all the messiness and jumble of the eastern Front.

"Wilma, good night."

Another jolt, and not in a good way. Willow turned and slipped through the doorway. And as she slipped out of her clothes and in between cold sheets that smelled like Tara's brother, Willow realized that this, too, was a place that could never be home to her. She rolled onto her side, missing Buffy and Dawn's warmth – and the warmth of Jenny from before that. Tonight, she lay in the cold bed of a stranger, in a room with unfamiliar shadows and unfamiliar things, nursing an unfamiliar arousal for a woman she'd only just met and who didn't even know Willow's name. And then there was a little surprise of jealousy she knew she had no right to feel. As always, she was a day late, a dollar short and a pound too Jewish. The warmth of the liquor was long gone.

Tara retreated to her room, leaving the lights off. She picked up the pillows and threw them on the bed, dropped the robe from her shoulders and climbed in naked, dragging the covers up over her. Her body was on fire. All she'd wanted all day today was sex. She ached for want of passionate consummation. But Riley had resisted. She couldn't understand why, after he'd given her his ring. Was he that much of a prude? She'd neglected to get dressed all day. She'd let the fabric of her robe fall open for him, but he wouldn't move. So driven by the fuel of all the frustration that had built up inside her so long made her bold. She took his hand and brought it to the warmth of her breast. He'd moaned, his eyes registering want and pain. He even kneaded the tender flesh there, and then he withdrew with a simple, "Tara, I can't right now. The time isn't right. I've got to go. I love you, but I can't do this right now."

Was it that he believed in waiting until marriage? If so, he'd never mentioned that before. Was it was the war? Was he scared and sad and needed to steel himself for unspeakable horrors to come and against unspeakable horrors past? A long scar across his forehead and cheek only barely hinted at the things young Riley Finn had endured in his five years of military service. Or was it weirdness from his childhood before that? There were so many experiences that shaped a person. But what kind of thing had he been shaped into?

Tara wanted to be his anchor, b