You know how whenever the Enterprise gets hit, one of the instrument panels always blows up in a shower of sparks? I'm reasonably certain that that just happened inside my head.

I need to think. I'm not good at thinking. I'm not a thinker. Willow does the thinking, and Willow isn't here.

Well, I suppose that, technically, she is, but she isn't helping.

“We could leave Sunnydale and travel across the US robbing banks, like Bonnie and Clyde,” she offers hopefully.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh. Um. Nothing, I guess. But doesn't it sound like fun?”

“Not Will, you need to focus,” I say, hoping some of the focus rubs off on me. I could definitely use some, because I currently know exactly how the Hubble Telescope feels. “Willow and Buffy are going to take that route to the cemetery. They could be in danger.”

A danger which could, of course, be avoided if I simply told them about it. But then I would have to tell them how I found out, and, however much I might talk about wanting to get rid of her, I'm worried they might actually do it. Buffy would probably be just as freaked as I am at the prospect of killing someone who looks exactly like our best friend, but, if this Willow is any indication, the other is not likely to be happy to find out that she has competition in the Greater Sunnydale Willowness Freestyle.

“It's all about her, isn't it,” says Not Willow, wrapping her arms about herself. “I can be Willow too, you know. I have lots of experience.”

“But she's-” I was about to say 'Not a soulless hellspawn whose tears are deadly and whose sustenance is the blood of the innocent,' but it seemed tactless. “My best friend,” I say instead.

“We could be friends,” she offers. “I'm friendly. I have friend credentials. This one time, Xander and I had sex with a blonde girl named Tara from UC Sunnydale, and we didn't kill her at all.”

“Not Will, I can't help feeling there's more to friendship than not killing people,” I point out. “And, much as I would love to be the boy whose childlike innocence ultimately leads the heartless killer to announce that she now understands why humans cry, right now we have more important things to - what was that about sex again?”

“Huh?” she says, trying to look innocent and succeeding only in looking like a puppy that doesn't want you to know that it made a mess.

“The sex thing,” I say. “Me and you. We did sex. We sexed. That's awes- I mean disturbing. Really, really disturbing, because we're practically relatives and stuff, plus the whole demonic killer thing, and right now we need to focus on keeping Willow not dead. No offense.”

And I keep reverting to the fact that telling her about the danger would be the best means of doing that. And really, even if she then wants to kill her double, isn't that more her choice than mine?

An annoyingly reasonable voice in my head, which sounds curiously like Giles, points out: It's not just the looks-like-your-best-friend thing. You want Not Willow alive because you want a version of Willow who doesn't have anything more important to do than talking to you.

Another voice in my head, which sounds curiously like Buffy, says: You're keeping a vampire alive just because she reminds you of a dead relationship. Who's endangering innocent bystanders by not doing their slayage properly NOW, huh? Nanny-nanny-boo-boo with no returns.

I decide that I need to say something in a hurry, before the voices in my head work their way around to my parents, because I so don't need that right now.

“We could warn them,” I offer, hoping that Not Willow can think of a way to do this without getting herself killed.

Instead, she looks panicked and says, “But why? Can't you just, you know, take care of the vampire gang yourself?”

She says this as if it's the most normal thing in the world to suggest that I, of all people, can clear out a nest of vampires by myself. I can't even hold down a job selling icecream.

Except that I did, once. Sean, Charlie - I wasn't their leader, exactly, but they looked up to me. I had experience in the field. I was a big, bad demon slayer to them, even if I spent most of the actual fight huddled in a corner praying that they wouldn't accidentally toast me with their flamethrowers.

And what am I waiting for, exactly?

Am I waiting for Buffy and Willow to drop out of college and decide they need me again?

I breathe in and out a couple of times, waiting for the various voices of reason to cut in again and point out that getting myself killed is not the best way to tell my friends that I'm lonely. They remain bewilderingly silent.

“We're going to need firepower,” I say, thinking back to the fight in Oxnard.

“We're going to need ... the Overcompensator 9000.”


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