SUBJECT: Fic. Flood Watch 1/?
AUTHOR: Ciderbreak (Lucy)
RATING: PG-13 as promised.
DISCLAIMER: Joss, not I. No infringement implied.
SUMMARY: In a sequel to Island, there is a reunion of sorts.
SPOILERS: Just beginning of Season One "Angel." From here on in we're in
LucyWorld. (a fun place to be)
DISTRIBUTION: Charity's Site, Fever of Fate, and this list's site.
NOTE FROM AUTHOR: "This is not a series," said the poster child for denial.
FEEDBACK: Because of your feedback, I've written this sequel. It has plot.
It has good writing. It has some really neat gadgets. And, of course, it
has Angel and Willow together, but not without some angst first....
Henceforth, your ideas and pleas and comments do help!



Los Angeles, 2005

"Oh, now isn't this interesting," Doyle said in a sing-song voice and shook
out the morning paper. His bags were packed and piled together by the door,
ready for his departure back to a place "where a pub is a pub." However, he
couldn't help stopping by Angel's office for one last good-natured ribbing.

Angel didn't even grunt or glance up from his cup of coffee but Doyle pressed
on. He knew his former boss was listening even if he didn't show any signs
of, well, you know…life.

"Real Estate. One palatial mansion formerly owned by Spike Lee sold for 3.2
million dollars to web goddess Willow Rosenberg."

"It actually says web goddess?" Angel asked cynically. Doyle's affection for
his long-time friend bordered on silliness sometimes. They acted like two
goofy siblings when Willow came to visit. Her last visit was over a year
ago, though; despite Doyle's attempts to get her to LA, Willow wanted to
grieve Buffy's death alone which infuriated everyone, especially Doyle, who
had a prescient feeling of doom about it. There were secrets Willow didn't
want anyone to know.

"Well, no, it says internet financier, but we know the truth, don't we?"

"Yeah." Flat, emotionless, cold.

"Brr! Bit chilly in here this morning, don't you think?"

"I don't mind."

Doyle sighed and looked around the office one last time. Five years in the
business brought a lot of changes to the once sparse office where rodents
sometimes came to visit. There was now a comfy waiting area with brown
leather couches, soft reading lamps and plenty of magazines, a new coffee
station with gourmet coffee, braided rugs covering the cold linoleum and a
few benign paintings. The office itself boasted two computers and matching
desks, similar rugs, mahogany bookcases and plants that did not require
direct sunlight. Willow and her incredible fortune paid for the subtle
changes and Cordelia was in charge of the decorating.

Everything had its purpose, too. The bookshelves hid a crawl space where
they could hide in case of dire emergency, the paintings in the waiting room
could be activated as teleconference portals to various "good guys" in the
underworld, the rugs were payment from a woman who had no other way to settle
her account, and the coffee was a result of the only time Angel had ever
asked Cordelia to forgive him.

Doyle smiled inwardly, remembering his wife's tears at how the black sludge
would turn away customers and how Angel was incredibly insensitive for not
taking care of a better hospitality service. It was an uncharacteristic
outburst from their usually controlled secretary, the last straw in a series
of office disasters including a broken ceiling and a water pipe explosion.
Doyle was beside himself and it was Angel who picked Cordelia up, wiped her
tears away, apologized, and immediately left to get some better coffee. He
also came back with a pregnancy test and tucked it secretly into her bag.
The result of that test, and Angel's insight, had been the birth of Doyle's
son Evan.

"Angel, man, come on. Willow's moved to LA. Doesn't that say something?
Maybe she wants to kiss and make up? Feelin' the love for her former vampire
consort? Someone to sit with on these sultry California nights?"

"Doyle…" Angel's voice had the warning bits in it but his friend continued
undaunted.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. She understands
you perfectly-it's like you don't even have to use words when you're
together, it's freakish. And I know you miss playing house even if you won't
admit it. And besides, Buffy has been gone for a year, and-"

Doyle suddenly found himself slammed up against the wall with a huge hand
squeezing his windpipe. Funny, because he hadn't even seen Angel move.

"You think I can just forget my first love?" he spat furiously. "Think that
now that Buffy's body is cold and rotting in the ground I should just pick up
and move on? Turn immediately to her best friend? One more word, Doyle, and
I'll kill you myself."

Doyle sucked in huge gasps of air when Angel released him. He slid to the
ground and watched in disbelief as Angel calmly returned to his chair and
sipped the hazelnut decaf from his blue pottery mug. Gift from Buffy, three
Christmases ago. There was a matching set somewhere that looked nice all
laid out for when clients came.

"Angel, you have moved on." Doyle's voice was serious now and held a little
pitch of wisdom that Angel couldn't deck him for. It was the same eerie tone
that slipped into the half-demon's voice when he was talking about a person
in need. "I've watched you grieve and you've come a long way from the fetal
position. And Willow isn't just Buffy's best friend, she's yours too. You
need her. You've always needed her. I know it makes you feel guilty because
of what you shared with Buffy, but Buffy was the slayer and not long for this
world. Willow, now… she-"

"Please," Angel said, keeping his voice low so Doyle wouldn't hear the
trembling. "Please, Doyle, not now."

Doyle heard the trembling anyway and was filled with compassion.

"Well, I guess I'll let you off the hook, m' boy, 'cause this scrappy,
handsome devil has a plane to catch. If I'm late to the airport I'll catch
it from Cordelia."

"There's a tragedy."

"Aye, I know. Virtuous, comely lass, always sweetly obedient…"

Doyle grinned widely when Angel laughed. There. His work was done. The two
men embraced and secretly slipped a parting gift into the other's pocket.
They stepped away, both feeling a little smug at their trickery.

"Safe journey," Angel blessed his friend. The longer blessing sprung to his
mind but he couldn't say it to Doyle or he might get a little teary and then
he'd never hear the end of it. Still, it whispered and echoed in his brain
<<…May the wind be always at your back…>>

"You too."



Doyle's parting gift to Angel was an emerald. No setting, no protective
black velvet bag, just a loose green gem the size of his thumbnail. Angel
stared skeptically at the jewel and wondered how stolen it was. He searched
around the desk to see if Doyle had left a note and sure enough, there was a
scribbled message on the back of a donut box.

"It's not stolen. It's real and it's been in the family for centuries. Sort
of a good luck charm. And I figured that since I have Cordelia and Evan, you
could use it more. Keep it at room temperature, though, okay? It might not
be entirely without magic."

"Great," Angel muttered. He shook his head and tucked the gem behind one of
the books on the shelves. Doyle had a strange sense of humor, a strange
sense of gift-giving, and a strange… damn. Angel missed him already.

And then there was the matter of Willow. Angel settled down in the desk
chair and looked at the article Doyle had been reading. He couldn't stop
staring at her name, two little words that meant so much to him at one time.
God, would he ever see her again? Ever hold her, ever hear her voice and
make her laugh? Then mercifully, the phone rang.

"Angel Investigations."

*************************
Willow Rosenberg curled up on the end of her new couch and listened to the
silence. It was not a quiet house. Different creaks in the walls, a new
pattern when the central air came on and off, more distant sirens, and less
wind. From her parent's house she could always hear the wind ruffling the
leaves in the oak tree outside her bedroom window and in this house all the
sounds were sterile. The alarm system was state-of-the art and enhanced by
magic to boot, designed by a master craftsman and installed before she moved
in. Safe, but sterile.

The room she was in now was the big living room that had an entire wall of
windows and an incredible view of the grounds, including and in-ground pool
and gardens. The couch was a soft butter color with blue throw pillows,
carefully chosen by her interior designer Kim. Willow liked to give people a
break, and this was Kim's first assignment. She'd done a good job,
especially with the custom-ordered curtains. Willow insisted on thick blinds
and heavy draperies in each room. Kim knew better than to ask why when she
saw her employer's face and Willow didn't offer an answer, just signed the
check. Windows covered, just in case…

"Pathetic," Willow scoffed at her reflection in the glass windows. Here she
was, 22 years old, rich and successful, curled up in a pair of blue overalls
she'd had since high school with her long hair in two braids.

Grabbing the cordless phone, Willow got off the couch and stretched. The
pool beckoned. It was only fourteen steps away, through the smudge-proof
glass doors and out to the veranda, then down two steps to the clear, heated
water. No need for a swimsuit in her strict privacy so she set the phone
down on the edge and stripped her clothing off. Sitting on the edge of the
pool, she examined her arms. The henna design on her arms covered two very
prominent scars she didn't want to show off, but chlorine shouldn't really
affect the artwork.

As soon as she jumped into the water, the phone rang. Willow laughed,
enjoying that little "of course" moment.

"Willow Rosenberg," she said, thinking it might be her assistant Rudy. No
one else had her home phone number except Giles and Xander, and they were in
England so Xander could attend Watcher's Council training. To think, her
childhood friend was going to become a Watcher. Willow didn't want to think.
Too many sleepless nights thinking about it.

"Willow? It's Angel. Giles gave me your number."

Willow was crying already and had to dog paddle into the shallow end so she
could sit down on the steps. Hearing his voice was like lighting a candle in
the dark of her heart. Funny how with one word he could destroy the
carefully erected walls around her life and send them shattering into
oblivion. Being away from him was too hard. She didn't want to be strong
anymore.

"Willow, are you crying? Are you okay?"

Willow was sobbing now into the phone and wasn't sure if they were tears of
joy or sorrow.

"Shh, it's okay, sweetling." His old endearment just made her cry harder and
she laid her wet head down on the Italian marble and curled up on the top
step. Steam rose off her naked body in little billowing clouds that looked
like fog in the dim lighting. "Willow, God, please let me see you."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and clicked the phone off. It rang a
few seconds later and she just let the tinkling sound fill her ears until the
sound of her own crying drowned it out.




"Miss Rosenberg, you have a visitor."

Willow pressed one finger on the intercom button and simultaneously looked at
her day planner. It was 11:30 a.m. and she had exactly ten minutes free
before she had to leave for lunch with clients.

"Can they be quick?" she asked, not impatiently. Her secretary wouldn't have
bothered her if it wasn't urgent or easy to handle. It was probably just Joe
Tasda anyway, who said he'd stop by to have her sign another mountain of
papers.

"Yes, he says it won't take long."

"All right."

Willow folded her hands on the desk and tried to look mature. Brilliant and
net savvy was one thing. Making the working world accept her as an equal was
another. Even with the business suit and her long red hair piled on top of
her head in a hopefully attractive way, she still looked like a child playing
dress-up. Half of which was not technically her fault… but that was
something she couldn't focus on.

Her corner office revealed a stunning view of Los Angeles. Seemed to be a
theme with her new life-squeaky clean glass yielding beautiful vistas. She
felt weird being behind the glass looking out instead of being part of the
view, but such was the price of responsibility. And she did like her job
because she got to help people make the internet a safe and affordable place
to visit. Plus the little side benefit of getting a network of "good guy"
other-world folk linked up for resources the Watcher's Council was already
jealous of.

The office was not a typical CEO domain. Kim had decorated the place in hot
colors and light, natural wood. No dark, aged look or expensive chrome
finish and smooth lines. It was all sunny clutter and messy work space,
including a bulletin board where Willow pinned up every employee concern.
The center of the room was a little circle of squishy couches where more than
one corporate executive felt comfortable to share their lives with her and
the rug could be pulled back to perform spells on a bare floor if needed.
Soft classical music played on the Bose speakers in each corner of the room
to relax Willow as she worked and to drown out the perpetual humming of the
two hard drives on her desktops.

The wooden door opened without a creak, just the weather-stripping swooshing
the floor.

"Angel!" Willow stood up and whipped her head around to look out the window.
Yes, still sunny, 75 degrees, not a cloud in the sky. Her visitor closed
the door behind her and avoided direct sunlight. "How did you get in here?"

He looked right through her, knowing that wasn't the question she wanted to
ask. Willow straightened to her full height of 5 feet, four inches (six with
heels) and crossed her arms over her chest protectively. Angel's heart had
already broken several times since the phone call and it was breaking again
now looking at her. She hadn't changed one bit, except for the makeup and
the fancy clothing.

"Thought it might be easier on your turf. I'm sorry about the surprise.
Last night…"

"Last night was the surprise. I'm fine now. No more silly crying. So, what
brings you to the business sector?"

Angel couldn't cross the room without passing through a very sunny spot on
the hardwood floor, so remained helplessly alone near the doorway.

"Could you close the curtains?" he requested.

"No."

"Okay, you're just going to stand there and avoid me? You don't want to
talk?"

"Angel, I'm very busy today. My move to Los Angeles had everything to do
with this company and nothing to do with you. I'm sorry if you thought
otherwise. It's nice to see you, don't get me wrong, but the part of my life
that had you in it is over and done with and I've put it behind me."

"Like hell."

Willow almost lost it there and it was by sheer luck that she didn't swoon
from intimidation alone. He cut a handsome figure in all black with anger
coming from his eyes. Eyes that usually looked on her with such love and
affection. God, she was really getting to him. Good. Let him think the
worst of her. It would be easier.

"I'm sorry, you have to leave now."

"I'm not leaving until you come over here and look me in the eyes and tell me
you don't love me."

"Mmhmm, and this became a made for TV-movie when? Get out. You're not
wanted."

"Willow, what's wrong with you?" Angel nearly shouted. Then a look of pity
came into his eyes and he softened his voice. "Are you possessed? Is
someone blackmailing you? Are you under a spell?"

"No," she said, laughing bitterly. Far, far worse than that. "It's all
good."

"Then why are you hurting me?" he asked plaintively.

All she had to do was make one little cutting comment and his machismo would
slither out the door with him trying to catch up. One snide remark, a
sarcastic witticism, even a bad pun. Anything to further un-man him. Slide
the sword right through the dragon's belly and into his heart.

But the pain in his eyes was mixed in with a kind of love Buffy would call
"unconditional"; Angel's own brand of commitment, which was incredibly
disarming.

Hard to resist a man who you knew would die for you.

"Come to me tomorrow night, at my house," she relented in a low voice. "I
cannot talk to you today." Willow hoped she stressed the word "today"
enough. It certainly wasn't cheating on her vow and Angel would hopefully be
smart enough to not ask questions.

"Sunset," he assured her, and turned his back on her. She could sense him
feeling wounded and confused like a child berated for no reason but she was
so thankful he left without a fight. Time enough for explanation later.

Willow watched him leave with a scream in her heart that wanted to be let
out. She wanted desperately to call him back to her, to feel his strong arms
around her for hours and hours like he loved to do when she was upset. She
wanted him to wipe away her tears and make love to her, take her out to
dinner with Doyle, stay up late snuggling in bed with mochas and a few
demonology texts. She missed seeing the unshed tears in his eyes when she
hopped on the bus back to Sunnydale, missed finding the little notes he'd
tuck into her bag, the book suggestions, the poetry quotes and the sketches.
All in the name of friendship.

Her heart ached at not being able to tell him the truth and knowing that this
time, she could not be his solace. The pain ran too deep for comfort.



The front door to Willow's house opened before Angel could knock. He
suddenly found his arms full of a woman dressed in a silk sheath and babbling
a mile a minute. Somewhere in her words she must have invited him in because
he tripped into the foyer and heard her laugh and then tighten her arms
around him.

"Don't let go," she repeated over and over. Angel complied, stunned. Was
this the same woman who had just completely rejected him in her office the
day before? He crushed her to him and breathed in the scent of her shampoo
and the light herbal body lotion she still used. Her skin felt so warm to
him that he wondered if she was maybe running a fever, so he surreptitiously
drew his hand across her brow. Dry and hot.

Pulling back, Angel looked into Willow's fevered eyes and became afraid.
Some evil lurked in the green depths there that she was fighting valiantly.
Angel didn't know what it was, but he knew he had to help.

"Are you sick?" he guessed. If it wasn't demon possession, or a spell, what
was Willow fighting off? And was it making her physically ill? "Willow,
answer me, please."

"Don't let go of me," she repeated again, this time with fear in her voice.
"Please, do not let go."

"Okay, I won't," he promised, and picked her up into his arms in one
practiced move. Carrying her into the living room opposite the foyer, Angel
noticed one other strange thing about his friend. She hadn't appeared to age
at all. She was young, early twenties, but physically she hadn't gained an
ounce or developed a wrinkle since the last time he'd seen her over a year
ago. That was uncanny since he knew she was still human, and, he thought,
mortal. But maybe not. He sat down in a leather chair facing the picture
windows and tried to think if he knew of any demons that could imbue their
victims with immortality.

"Talk to me," he begged as she curled up against him as close as she could.
Her fever radiated off her like a bad sunburn.

"You're gonna hate me more than you do already," she said, making him wince
at the fear in her voice. Since when was Willow afraid of him? God, what
had he done?

"Willow, I love you. Nothing you could ever say or do would make me hate
you."

True words, but their meaning fell on dear ears. Willow was breathing
erratically, her glassy eyes fixed on nothing.

"Traded with a witch. Couldn't tell you."

Angel waited for her to continue and nearly felt her internal struggle.
Something inside her did not want to let the words out, or couldn't. Angel
rubbed her lower back in small circles to comfort her like he did when she
was sick with a monthly thing. He'd never seen her sick otherwise.

"Buffy should have died earlier and I saved her. Traded for another year of
life so you two could be together. I didn't know it would have side affects."

"What did you trade, Willow. Your soul?"

"My fertility for a guaranteed extra year of life for my best friend. Just
wanted you to be happy. Seemed like a good trade. But I stopped aging. She
didn't tell me I'd stop aging. Everything works inside but I'm locked at 20
years old."

"What else? Come on, Will, it's almost out. Let it out, you're safe with
me." Angel was relieved she hadn't sold her soul, but messing with Life
Demons was no laughing matter. The ritual to trade one type of life for
another involved excruciating pain for the one giving up the life; in this
case, the essence of Willow's fertility had probably been wrenched from her
body like aborting a child.

It was so horrific that Angel looked up, expecting to see a manifestation of
the angry demon, or at the least, some howling wind. But the room was
silent. Except for Willow's unnatural fever they could have been any other
couple at home on a Friday night relaxing in the living room, but the
apparent normalcy made the situation more frightening than if their had been
choruses of banshees or flying objects.

"Seren said I couldn't tell anyone until a year after Buffy died or she'd
kill everyone I loved. Today was the end of the promise. I agreed, I did,
it didn't seem hard until Buffy broke up with you for good and I wanted to
tell you then 'cause it was too heavy to bear alone but I knew Seren wasn't
kidding when we swore in blood. So that's why I stayed away from you. Too
tempting to pour out my heart like water and she lied to me, she lied, she
didn't keep her promise because Buffy didn't make it the entire year but I
still had to keep silent. And so I cursed Seren and justice was mine but now
I've got my fertility back tenfold and I'm forever immortal."

Willow finished her monologue by leaning forward and puking a long stream of
green slime onto the carpet. Angel held her hair back as she retched.
Supernatural secrets sometimes built up physical bile but he hadn't seen that
in a century. At least her eyes were free and clear of that harried evil
he'd seen before and her trembling and crying now was from relief instead of
fear.

Her confession explained a lot.

The fever hadn't abated after Willow finished her story and Angel made her go
upstairs and take a cool bath while he tackled the unpopular task of cleaning
the carpet. Somehow he knew that baking soda wasn't going to do the trick
and absently wondered if Willow had a website that told people how to get
various alien substances out of oriental rugs.

Angel felt drained as he walked upstairs and followed the sound of the Celtic
violin and drum music. It did not escape his notice that the bed Willow lay
in was a replica of his own four-poster bed back at the apartment. She
looked exhausted, blue-ish circles under her eyes and a pallid complexion
that made her hair look even redder. Angel sat down beside her and rested
his hand on her forehead. Still hot. He pulled the comforter off her and
tugged only the sheet up despite her whimpering about how cold she was.

"I'm sick," she told him bluntly.

"Yeah," Angel agreed. Tylenol was in order, also some liquids. Water?
Gatoraide? What did Cordelia ply on Evan when he got the flu? "I'll be
right back, sweetling."

"'Kay."

Angel found Tylenol and Gatoraide and also a thermometer, which he put on a
tray with a bowl of ice water and a washcloth. The little sponge bath was
next to useless but he knew it would calm her down, maybe help break the
fever if he was lucky. He hated seeing her in pain and couldn't imagine the
emotional pain she'd been in from her self-inflicted exile. And now that the
dam had broken, she was forthcoming with all sorts of interesting information
she'd been holding in for over a year. She also seemed delirious at this
point, which was a little disquieting, though it might have just been her
brain not filtering everything. The thermometer read 103.6, which Angel knew
was pretty bad for a human adult. He had no idea the significance for an
immortal since he never got sick.

"I could probably even have your child, that's how fertile I am," she
informed him as he helped her swallow the Tylenol. "Get in heat like a cat
now. Can't get anywhere near a demon that time of the month or I'd be
putting out tons of little half-demon brats. Seren would probably just come
and kill them all anyway. Not done fighting her yet."

"Vampires can't have children, Willow," Angel smiled, and pressed the cold
washcloth against the side of her face.

"Oh, yes, they can. Seren told me all about the demons I can copulate with
now. Chaos demons, Beggins, franteratops, every kind of demon involving
slime, Vampires, werewolves, uh, those crazy blue-eyed flying things that
look like jellyfish…"

"Trenterra?"

"Yes! Yep, I can be the mommy of a trenterra. So look out, because they all
come knocking on the door and it's freaky. Hence the security system. I
think there's some power to be had in this kind of childbearing power or else
Seren wouldn't want it so badly. Can you make me red jello? I like it and
it reminds me of Xander. I miss him. He's gonna be a Watcher. Do you think
this was part of a prophecy? Do you think they let me curse Seren because
they knew this would happen and they want to use me for some X-Files plot?"

"Maybe they just wanted you to be happy."

"Oh. Can't be though."

"Why not?"

"Don't have you," she explained impatiently.

Angel's heart broke again as he remembered Doyle's parting words in the
office. Something about them needing each other…? Maybe Willow was right
about this archnemesis of hers. Wouldn't do to let her fight the witch
alone, now would it? They certainly had a lot of catching up to do, some
forgiveness and healing, perhaps even a fight or two before things were back
to the mundane. Then again, when was life with Willow ever mundane? Their
friendship began on a deserted island, for pete's sake.

"You always have me," he soothed her. She smiled quirkily and took a deep
breath. Angel had to strain to hear her words as she fell asleep and they
only left him with more questions.

"That's not what I meant, lover."