Title: Terra Firma Chapter 5: Missing Time
Author: Tulipp. Email:
tulipp30@yahoo.comFeedback: Please. Distribution: Please let me know.
Spoilers: Everything.
Rating: PG in this part.
Pairing: W/T.
Summary: Tara arrives at the Magic Box.
Disclaimer: All characters and various plot events that set up this story belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. I am borrowing them and making no money.
Acknowledgments: So much credit goes to Ruby for this one. She asks the right questions about what motivates characters and what they would remember and think, and she understands which images work and which…don’t…and which would be better. So thank you, Ruby, for “Seeing Red.”
Previously: Set three months after “Grave.” Willow and Dawn have spent the summer at a coven in England, Willow trying to deal with her grief and Dawn suffering from strange headaches and visions of an unnamed “she” coming. Just returned to Sunnydale for the grand re-opening of the renovated Magic Box, they are unaware of Doc’s ritual to bring back Glory’s essence or of Tara, newly alive, thinking no time has passed, and on her way to the Magic Box to find the others.
Terra Firma
Chapter 5: Missing Time
I came to see the damage that was done
And the treasures that prevail.
--Adrienne Rich, “Diving Into the Wreck”
8:19 p.m.
Willow.
No one moved. No one spoke.
God, look at Tara.
Willow couldn’t breathe. She looked so beautiful. Tara stood just across the room, wearing her blue shirt, the one that didn’t quite tug down to her waistband. It was okay. “Clothes,” she murmured, the whisper of a smile touching her lips. Tara was right there. Relief flooded her eyes. “Clothes,” she said again.
Better not get used to ‘em. A phrase buzzed in her ears. Better not get used to ‘em. Blood rushed through her head. Blood. The words echoed. Willow blinked. No, it was okay. She had a white shirt on. She looked down. Her shirt was white. It was a white t-shirt. It was white. And Tara’s shirt was blue. It was okay.
She should go to her. Move her away from the window. Before something… happened. Willow pushed her chair back, put her hand on the table to push herself up. She looked at the table her hand rested on. The table. The research table. At…the Magic Box? And Tara was wearing her blue shirt at the Magic Box?
A gunshot thundered in Willow’s mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She stumbled and grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling. She was too late. Not again. No, please no, not again.
She felt her heart begin to speed up, her blood pound, her breath quicken to shallow gasps. Tara was going to fall, and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. She couldn’t watch it again. She couldn’t do it again. It was too much.
“Willow, what have you done,” Anya whispered to her, her voice tinged with horror. Willow heard the whisper as if from a great distance. She had done this. Her wrist buckled, and she slid to the floor. Her hip banged against the seat of the chair. Had she done this?
She was hallucinating. Okay, that was better. Or it was worse. Better or worse? Focus, she told herself. It wasn’t magick; she had done no spells. They wouldn’t work anyway. She’d been told that. She was hallucinating. She had done that.
She hadn’t meant to—but God, how she had wanted to. How she still wanted to. How she wanted nothing more than to close herself up in the private Tara-world of her mind, turn her face to the wall, and live there, together and alone, forever. But she had swallowed the bile of that wish down and pulled herself up. To live.
She had not swallowed hard enough, though, because here, standing across the room, and looking right at her, was the wish. It had come back, or she had returned to it.
Her skin itched, her flesh pulsed, her head swam. The familiar panic pressed at the back of her eyelids, and she knew how easy it would be to give into the hysteria, the way she gave into it at night, pressing her face into the pillow and screaming with emptiness until she exhausted herself into a few hours of half-sleep.
And so she covered her eyes with her hands and pressed back against the nightmare she craved so much. She reached into herself for that white-hot match of strength that the Guides had taught her to light, and she grabbed it. She pulled until it flamed, and then she smoothed her burning palms down over her face, feeling the heat spread through her cheeks, willing her breath to slow as she passed her hands over her lips, willing her heart to slow as she passed her hands over her chest.
She crossed her legs and rested her hands on her legs. Her knees burned. She blocked out the hallucination, blocked out everyone, and focused instead on the pale spine of a book on the shelf in front of her. Breathe, breathe, she repeated to herself. In, out. In, out.
She focused on her breathing and on the pale book until the rest of the room receded and went white, and the searing heat turned to ice, and it numbed her to the pain, and she gave in to it.
8:19 p.m.
Dawn.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Omigod, it was Tara.
Dawn could not take her eyes off Tara. It was Tara, wasn’t it? Probably she was supposed to be suspicious and think about demons or vampires or something, but…but it was Tara. She looked absolutely real, and she stood in front of them, her brow furrowed, her eyes darting from one face to another. Dawn stared.
Seconds later—it seemed like longer—Dawn felt, at the base of her skull, a gentle hum, a massage with sound, and it rubbed upward through her mind, soft and soothing fingers kneading away the wrinkles of fear and disbelief and doubt. Her mind felt warm. Relaxed. Safe.
Dawn took a step forward, and then another, and the warm hug in her mind settled in. This was the right thing. This was the most perfectly right thing. As she passed the others, she saw Buffy’s eyes turn to her, saw her sister open her mouth and speak, but the words—whatever they were—did not reach her. She only saw Tara, and she yearned toward her as she might yearn toward her mother, if her mother were here.
She heard a noise behind her, a thud, and turned to see Willow stumble and fall to the floor. Xander sprang across the room and dropped on his knees next to her, but by that time, Willow had already folded into herself, shut out the rest of the room. Her lips moved, but she sat perfectly still. Xander leaned in.
“It’s okay,” Dawn said, her eyes drawn back to Tara. She had seen Willow go into meditation mode all summer. Willow was just calming herself down. That made sense. It was fine.
Dawn stared at Tara, at the familiar slight wrinkle between her eyes that appeared when she was concerned. Dawn had seen that wrinkle plenty of times. Like when she had stayed out too late with Janice last summer, and when Tara had tried to explain about leaving Willow. The warm hum in her mind told her that this was really Tara, but when she saw that little wrinkle, she knew it was true.
“Willow?” Tara said now, but Dawn laid a restraining hand on her arm, and she faltered. She looked from the arm to Willow.
“You’re back,” Dawn said.
“I,” Tara started to say, but then she looked at Dawn’s arm again. She pulled Dawn into a hug. “Dawnie,” she said instead. “I’m glad you’re okay, sweetie,” she said softly. Dawn leaned into her. The warm feeling in her head soothed her, assured her that this was right, that this was Tara, and she gave into it gladly and squeezed Tara tight.
Dawn heard Giles speaking to her and pulled out of Tara’s embrace reluctantly. But she stayed close, her arm touching Tara’s. “I don’t know,” she answered him. “I can’t explain it, but I can feel it in my head right now. She’s Tara. She’s not a demon, she’s not a ghost, she’s…Tara. The same Tara she was a few months ago. I can feel it.”
Tara stepped back, then, away from her.
Dawn didn’t know how it was possible, but she didn’t care. Tara was normal, and Tara was herself, and Tara was alive. She was the same Tara who had taken care of her after Buffy died. The Tara who picked her up when she called from a drunken party at the beach last summer and didn’t ask any questions, didn’t even tell Willow, just half-smiled and bought her a milkshake. She was the Tara of pancakes and candles.
And she was home.
8:19 p.m.
Buffy
No one moved. No one spoke.
Oh, God, it was Tara.
Familiarity clenched like a fist around Buffy’s throat, and her eyes instinctively dropped to Tara’s hands. Thank God. They were clean and dry, the fingernails intact. She closed her eyes with the relief of it, and when she opened them again—only a second later—she realized that Tara’s blue shirt was clean and dry, as well. There was no blood. There was no gunshot wound. Thank God.
She saw, in her peripheral vision, Dawn moving toward Tara, and she reached out to her sister. “Gently,” she said, with effort, but Dawn didn’t appear to hear her, or at least didn’t respond. Buffy opened her mouth again, but her voice wouldn’t work.
Willow. Where was Willow? She pulled her eyes away in time to see Willow stumble and fall to the floor. But before she could move, Xander was there, his hand on Willow’s back while Anya looked from Willow to Tara. Xander would take care of her.
A touch at her elbow startled her, and Buffy turned to see Giles. His head was turned toward her, but his eyes were on Tara. “Buffy,” he said quietly. “We must figure out what’s going on here.” But Buffy already knew. She knew it deep in her bones, Slayer-deep. Tara had come back.
It wasn’t crazy. After all, she had come back from the dead. And so had Angel. It happened. Things didn’t always make sense. Sometimes people died for no reason. And sometimes they came back, too. Because they still had work to do. Because their time was not over. Because they were needed.
Buffy realized that she wanted this to be Tara, she wanted it desperately. Not a vampire, not a demon. But she had to know. She faced that fact reluctantly. She had to know. Because if this weren’t Tara, then she would have to act. Before Willow got her hopes up.
She turned to Giles, but Anya was already answering him. “It’s obvious,” she said, but with no malice. “Willow brought her back. She went all dark magicky again and brought Tara back.”
“No,” Buffy shook her head. “I don’t believe that. She wouldn’t.”
Giles frowned, looked hard at Tara for a long moment. “I agree,” he said in a low voice. “No, Anya. I feel no dark magicks at work…at least not here…and Willow has done nothing. This must be something else. I’m just not sure what.”
“Well, it’s not a wish” Anya said firmly. “D’Hoffryn keeps me in the loop on these things, and I think I would know.”
“Then what?” Buffy asked. She looked helplessly at Giles. “We have to move fast on this, Giles. Look at Dawn. She’s already. . . .”
“Dawn,” Giles said suddenly. “Of course. The headaches. There must be a connection.” His eyes were still fixed on Tara. “Dawn,” he said. “Is this what you meant when you said she was coming? Did you mean Tara?”
Dawn’s words reassured them all. Buffy could see it when she glanced at the other faces. Something had happened, some force was at work, but whatever it was, this was still Tara. Who stepped back, holding a palm out against them. “What is going on here?” Her voice shook. “Why are you all staring at me? And why is Willow doing that? Talk to me, someone, please.”
Xander stood up, stepping protectively in front of Willow. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe we want some answers first,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Like, what did Willow wear to her eighth-grade graduation?”
Tara looked at him blankly.
“Xander,” Anya said sharply. “You’re being ridiculous. We’ve already decided that this is Tara.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Maybe Tara wouldn’t know that one. I know, how did we prove to your dad that you’re not a demon?” He raised his eyebrows at her and nodded smugly.
“Spike,” she started to say, automatically, but then she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, Buffy saw resolve. “No, wait, wait,” Tara said. “Someone tell me what’s going on. Right now.” Her voice resonated in the room.
Buffy realized with a start that Tara didn’t know she had been dead.
8:21 p.m.
Tara
No one spoke. No one moved.
Finally, Anya cleared her throat. “You died,” she said simply.
Tara heard the words through a fog. “What?” she asked. “What?”
Anya’s eyes softened. “Three months ago,” she said. “You were shot, and you died. But you’re back now,” she added encouragingly. “It’s so good to see you.”
Tara covered her ears with her hands. “No,” she said. “I don’t understand. No, that can’t be true. No.”
Dawn touched her arm. “Tara,” she said softly. “It’s true. I sat with your body all day. I saw you.”
“Mr. Giles?” she asked quietly.
He smiled sadly at her. “Tara, I’m sorry,” he said, confirming. “But you’re here now. And we’ll figure out the rest of it as soon as we can.”
Tara could not process what was happening, could not understand it.
But it made a kind of sense. As she tried to grasp what had happened, some calm part of her mind detached itself enough to go through the evidence again. The empty house. The photograph of herself on the wall. The calming drink. Willow. And was the Magic Box…a little different?
Her head felt muddy, dizzy. She turned her head—like trying to run in a pool of water—to look at Willow, who sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes open, lips moving silently. Tara allowed herself really to see Willow. Even from across the room, Tara could see that she was different. Thin. Pale. Her shirt was wrinkled.
This wasn’t the Willow who had sat in the bathroom and cried silently while she’d packed her things to move out. This wasn’t the Willow who’d looked at her with desperately sad eyes outside the Magic Box. Tara had seen Willow mournful, had seen her regretful and sorry and in pain and feeling alone. But this Willow was different. This was Willow grieving and empty. This was Willow without hope.
Agonizing as it was to look at Willow from a distance and not go to her, Tara knew she had to concentrate. She focused on Willow, and a tremor of grief passed through her, and she felt, in a heartbeat, the abyss of three months of mourning. It seeped from Willow into the air around her. There was something else, too, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But it was mostly a profound and aching well of despair.
Tara felt in that moment that it was all true. It hit her like a gunshot. She had died, and Willow had been shattered. The knowledge—and she accepted it as knowledge—ripped through her skin and cells, a bullet of truth. She swayed.
Giles put a hand under her elbow. “Tara,” he said gently. “Come sit for a moment. You’ve been through…well…quite an ordeal.”
Tara shook her head again, slowly. “Willow needs to know I’m here,” she said. “I can’t let her suffer any more. She needs to know I’m back.” She looked at Giles, almost pleading, and he nodded.
“I can do it,” Dawn offered. “I’ve seen her do this lots of times. She usually comes out on her own, but I can help if you want.”
Tara smiled sadly at Dawn. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Thanks, sweetie,” she said, “but no. Let me.” Dawn nodded.
Tara walked to Willow and knelt on the ground in front of her. Willow didn’t seem to see her; she continued to stare at a point on the wall behind Tara. Occasionally, her lips moved. She was breathing deeply. Tara searched Willow’s face. Up close, she looked gray, gaunt. Her hair pulled back in a careless ponytail. Her lips chapped, cracked. And she wore no jewelry…no necklace, no bracelet, not even earrings. She was unadorned. Grief and loneliness waved over Tara.
She knew she needed to take this slowly. She didn’t touch Willow, not at first.
“Willow,” she said softly, her face inches from Willow’s. “Don’t be scared. It’s me, I’m back. I know you must think I’m a hallucination, but I’m not. I’m here, I’m… alive.” The word caught in her throat. Willow did not respond, but her breathing quickened for a moment, and then slowed again.
“Willow,” Tara said again with effort. “I’m here.”
She was holding her breath, Tara realized. She exhaled, calming herself. She lifted her hands and gently, gently rested them on Willow’s shoulders. At the touch, Willow blinked, and her eyes seemed to focus for a moment.
“Willow,” Tara said. She felt the tension in Willow’s shoulders, heard the sigh that started somewhere deep in Willow’s throat and emerged as a moan.
“Oh God,” Willow’s voice was small and strangled. “Oh God, I can’t take this….” Tara swallowed. She moved her hands to Willow’s face, laying them softly, so softly, on Willow’s cheeks. At the touch, Willow’s eyes closed, and she made that sound again. A quiet keening.
The sound tore at Tara. She tried again.
“Willow, baby,” she said. “Willow, I’m here. Look at me. I’m really here.”
Tara held her breath, and Willow inhaled. She covered Tara’s hands with her own. And she opened her eyes.
8:23 p.m.
Willow
From deep within the calm, Willow heard Tara’s voice. She felt Tara’s touch. It was real enough to undo her. The fingers on her cheeks. The warm breath in her face. The scent of freshly washed hair and oatmeal soap and something else….herself.
Was it real? It felt real. Hallucinations didn’t have form and breath and scent. They didn’t say her name. Only people did that. Only Tara did that. Hallucinations didn’t have familiar fingers that had touched Willow in her deepest places and now cupped her face so gently, so very gently.
It felt so real. And all she had to do was open her eyes and see.
Willow breathed in and out, in and out. She listened with her body for the warnings, for the itchy skin, the crawling flesh of magick. Or the racing pulse of panic. Or the great yawning black hole of sadness. Where had those familiar feelings gone? She felt calm. She was calm. She could open her eyes.
But first, she covered Tara’s hands with her own, feeling the knobs of the knuckles and the blunt, smooth nails and the cool planes of the fingers. She breathed in. These were fingers she knew. These were Tara’s fingers. She breathed out. And then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Tara.
“I’m really here,” Tara whispered to her. Willow caught her breath as she met Tara’s eyes, as their hands trembled together.
“You’re really here?” she echoed. “You’re really here.” And saying the words, she knew it was true.
It was real. It was Tara.
To be continued in Chapter 6, “Breathe.”