Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: A fill for classics_lover's prompt at comment-fic: Author's choice, author's choice, "I pity the undead. Surely they do not wish to remain bound to this world."
"Only you could pity the draugr/zombies."
"I just feel so bad for them, though," Willow sighs as she gathers the supplies for her counter spell; bundles of herbs and packets of fine powder and little bottles of liquids in colours that liquids probably shouldn't come in. Anya diligently marks every item the witch takes, having abandoned her crossbow and position at the lookout as the possible loss of revenue took precedent.
"Aw, honey," Tara sympathises, her hand rubbing her girlfriend's back in support.
"I mean," Willow tears a strip of bark from a little cut of cedar and tosses it into her mixing bowl, "they're just trying to be dead and not bother anyone, and then some evil magic guy comes along and goes 'Oh, hey, you'd make good zombies' and now they can't even rest or think for themselves or anything and they're totally stuck here, when they shouldn't be. They've got to be super miserable, or, you know, would be if they could feel things."
Spike eyes her from where he paces in front of the Magic Box's large display window. Even covered, none of them trust the entrance unattended and the sounds of the riot and the heavy shadows cast by shambling shapes moving before the flickering orange flames outside slip through the slats in the metal grating. "Only you, pet," he tells her, though there's a decent bit of amusement to his voice as he says it.
High up in the loft, rifle pointed out the window and down at the alleyway below, Xander chuckles. "Yeah," he agrees, smiling. "That's our Will."
Willow sighs. "Poor zombies."