Rating: NC-17, although not all parts are, but hey, this covers me for the naughty stuff.
Copyright Disclaimer: Bowing and scraping does nothing for the knees. Joss blah blah...Mutant Enemy...etc etc...sigh...
Feedback: Sure if you feel that way inclined... tommo27@hotmail.com
Archive: Until I get my ass in gear and sort out my own site, I don't care where this ends up. In fact, I'm pleased if someone wants it. Just ask first, ok? Bad manners are nobody's friend.
Summary: This takes place after a lot of crap has happened. Basically, if you're unspoiled you might want to give it a miss. It refers to Season 6 episodes and events. Not specifically though...so you know, read it anyway.
Author's Note: I'm not normally given to writing author's notes, because I always feel like it's self-indulgent and a bit pretentious. However, I realise that I'm often really misled by my own insanity and if people are nice enough to read my shit, then I should be nice enough to thank them. So thanks Julia, for reading and 'oohing' and 'aaahing' in all the right places. Thanks to Xita for being the whore she is. And thanks to anyone I've ever shagged, because you were crap in bed. Ahem. Before now...of course...heh.
PART 1
Wearily, Giles pulled on his raincoat and prepared to face the heavy mist that was prevalent above the hills surrounding his cottage. He had ventured out early this morning in order to fetch the daily paper, receiving a sodden pair of shoes and soaked hair for his trouble. This time, he told himself, he wasn’t about to risk his best brogues again. Besides, he’d already had a head cold this year, and wasn’t keen on developing another so soon. This was the problem with Britain, he grumbled inwardly; bloody weather was always so inclement. He’d not stopped sniffling for three weeks when he’d returned to Bath, even with the warmer temperatures in the south. And now he was here. Curling his fingers round the metal door handle, he watched as his knuckles whitened slightly with the tension that ran hard through his veins. It was impossibly damp in this excuse for a cottage. He pulled open the door with a little more force than was necessary. Yes, he nodded curtly. Impossibly damp.
Checking his watch for the third time in less than a minute, he let out a sigh and shook his head, feeling the first tendrils of cold mist caress his face as he stepped outside. Pulling the heavy wooden door shut firmly behind him, he heard a groan as the door moved uncooperatively into the doorframe. Another item to add to his list of growing complaints, he mentally noted. He’d been here less than two months and already he was finding the conditions literally unbearable. Of course, he’d made the usual telephone calls to Head Office, but it was unlikely they were actually going to do anything about his predicament. He supposed that part of his punishment was having to cope with the antiquated cottage and its primitive appliances.
Although, he smiled wryly to himself, not that Quentin Travers and his cronies on the Board of Directors had actually called it punishment. No, he thought, as he made his way down the rough crunching gravel driveway to where his car was parked, they hadn’t called it that at all. They had offered him the placement in Wales with their usual candor and blunt sentencing; the unspoken message was that he take the placement or leave the Council. Giles had weighed up his opportunities outside of the Council and had thought long and hard about what he would do if he ever ceased to work for them. The answer was clear. He’d only just settled back into his life in Bath; he even began to experience something approaching normality. Quentin Travers had smiled his considered smile of smug knowledge and shrugged slightly. Giles knew then that there wasn’t really any discussion to be had about this. And he’d taken the placement in Wales.
Not for the first time this morning, his memory flickered back to Sunnydale and the people he’d left behind there. He’d been gone for several long months now, and it was beginning to feel like years with every passing day. But, he sighed again and pulled the edges of his coat more firmly around his body, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop missing it. Or, more importantly, missing them.
When he’d walked out of Buffy’s life, it seemed that the group she gathered around her dissipated from his reality as well. Of course, Dawn had written him long and pointless missives detailing her daily life; and Tara had sent him a couple of short letters telling him about the happenings in Sunnydale. But apart from that…he pressed his lips together in a firm line that slashed his face in the graying light. He’d left them to grow up. And they’d imploded. Emotionally and, his mind wandered towards Willow, physically as well. The last letter he’d received from Tara was wrinkled and read many times; folded carefully in his trousers pocket. Her neat writing and no nonsense way of talking hadn’t detracted from the events she was describing. He’d been shocked, although not overly surprised at what had unfolded after his departure from The Hellmouth.
The dull grayness of his car only served to remind him of what he no longer had. The heavy, boxed edges of the vehicle accentuated the almost oppressive atmosphere in which it sat, waiting for his approach. Turning, Giles cast a baleful glance up at the hills that towered over his cottage. He let out a humph of mirthless laughter as he fumbled inside his raincoat pocket for his car keys. The locals called them hills, but to most other people they were mountains. Their summits were hidden by low banks of swirling gray clouds that curtained the slopes from view and cast shadows of uncertainty below. He hated days like this. They gave no excuse for the pervading feeling of hopelessness that had filled his mind recently.
Shoving the key roughly into the door of the car, he heard the electrical buzz as the lock sprung open. Reaching out his hand, he wrenched the door of the serviceable vehicle open, hearing the creak of the hinges grating against his nerves just like they had on the first day he’d got the car. Grimacing at its bulky appearance, he dropped into the driver’s seat and reached the key towards the ignition. The mist continued rolling down the sides of the mountains towards him as he cast an almost cursory look back at his hillside cottage. The rear of the building was almost lost in the smoky whiteness that engulfed the stone chimney and billowed around the rooftop. Usually Giles found the dimming light and thickened atmosphere comforting, like some kind of childhood blanket that still held a passing endearment for him.
But today, he frowned, revving the car into life as the damp engine resisted at first; today it felt different. The mist offered no placebo today. Looking towards the hills again, he flicked on the windscreen wipers, pushing a light screen of rain from the window of the car. No. Today the mist was pushing the unsatisfied confines of his mind, as though to remind him of something, or, he pursed his lips, to threaten.
As he reached for the steering wheel, he glanced at his watch again. Sniffing in distaste, he realized he was running late. And he needed to make it to Bangor by midday. He was expecting guests.
***
As the train doors banged shut down the length of the platform, the drizzle that had begun over the mountains settled into the hollow of the valley, spreading a rain haze over the town. The station gazed over the collection of municipal buildings and houses nestled quietly on the Welsh coast, set on a hill of unfortunate height. Below, Bangor prided itself on a university and a shopping precinct of magnitude for Wales. Never a town to brag, Bangor had long been the last stop before crossing the Menai Straits over to the island of Anglesey, where the last bastion of Celts had fallen before the Romans centuries before.
The Welsh clung onto their Celtic ancestry with a somewhat fierce pride. It seemed that for a country that thrived financially on tourism, the Welsh as a people didn’t much like visitors. Especially the English. However, every summer, thousands upon thousands of holidaymakers came to Wales, wandering through Bangor and filtering from there to the outer reaches of North Wales. They brought with them their unabated interest in the language, the history and the people, and of course, their tourist currency. And the Welsh could only watch in stoic suffering as their beaches were filled with foreigners from all over the world.
One of the final mainline stations before the railway branched off across to Anglesey; Bangor was perhaps the most important resting place for a lot of tourists. From there they could admire the scenic beauty of Snowdonia, encompassing Mount Snowdon itself and the allure it held for walkers and climbers alike. The rugged coastline offered pursuits of a more nautical nature, and sailing boats, jet skis or canoes could often be seen making their way up and down the stretch of water separating Anglesey from the mainland, or indeed, venturing further out into the open sea.
However, even with the blessing of the ancient Celts, the one thing the Welsh couldn’t control was the weather. The summit of Mount Snowdon was rarely seen, remaining a hidden gem under its shroud of rainy cloud on most days. And the British summertime, such as it was, hadn’t made much of an appearance so far.
This abject lack of anything approaching a warm and welcoming atmosphere didn’t much seem to bother the two figures standing on the platform at Bangor station. In fact, there was an odd sense of relief lingering around their stance, surrounded as they were by several pieces of heavy luggage. The blonde of the two stood erect, her pale face and luminous blue eyes taking in as much as she could in a sweeping glance. A faint smile played around the corners of her mouth, curved upwards in what appeared to be a satisfied and expectant expression. Her gaze passed over the exit doors, beyond which lay the steep hill down to the town below, complete with a rising spire of an ancient church peeking up from between a multi storey parking lot and an office block. She pulled her coat around her shoulders more assertively, finally letting her eyes drift onto the figure beside her.
Instinctively feeling the sensation of two blue eyes on her, the redhead lifted her own green gaze to meet that of her lover. She smiled feebly; just as she had been doing for some time now, although with each passing day the expression had filtered up to her eyes, giving the cold emerald some warmth of emotion.
Tara shrugged and held out her hands as though to encompass the whole town of Bangor in her grasp.
“Here we are then,” she ventured.
Her voice sounded odd, even to her own ears. Conversation between them had faltered somewhat since leaving Sunnydale almost two days ago. Attempts at small talk had never been Tara’s strong point, and with Willow there had never been the need for it. Until now. The blonde pursed her lips together thoughtfully for a moment, inching closer to the redhead beside her. She felt the need to be as close as possible to Willow now; and if that meant making stupid meaningless small talk, then small talk it was.
Of course, she sighed inwardly, not being able to discuss subjects of a more occult nature had put an unnatural strain on their communication. But, Tara reminded herself, they were away from the worst now. In fact, she allowed herself one tiny piece of satisfaction, this felt safe. Being with Willow felt safe. For a long time, it hadn’t. The fact that it did now indicated the changes happening for them both, and for their relationship. She could only hope that it would strengthen the unmistakable bond between them, as it had taken quite a battering in recent months. The fact that it was still there at all had been the one thing to guide her down this path of action.
Tentatively she reached out and took the other girl’s hand, eliciting a glance of surprise, not without a little pleasure. She squeezed Willow’s fingers gently; the other girl responded in kind, rubbing her thumb down the length of Tara’s hand.
“You know,” Willow said slowly, looking down to where their hands were joined between them, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had this obsession with touring the British Isles. I mean, first England, then Ireland, and now Wales.” Watching as the blonde’s expression clouded with the color of the gray skies above them, she hurriedly shook her head to dispel the tone of disparagement that her words had indicated. “Not that, you know, there’s anything wrong with that. I like traveling. With you. And there’s always the added attraction of people who talk fast in accents I don’t understand,” she said as a laugh trickled out of her mouth, echoed in the awkward smile Tara gave in response.
“Well, much as I’d like to analyze my love of all things British,” Tara said wryly, giving a sideways glance towards the redhead, “we’re kind of here because we have to be, remember?”
Willow nodded shortly and felt Tara squeeze her hand reassuringly again. They had already talked this over, several times, in many different ways. And it always came back to the same thing. The one person whom they felt could help was thousands of miles away, and had said he wouldn’t return to Sunnydale. The obvious answer then; go and see him instead. As Willow had said in her offbeat manner, if the Watcher wouldn’t come to the witches, then the witches had to go to the Watcher.
“You did tell Giles what time we were arriving, right?” the redhead’s brow furrowed in enquiry.
“I did,” Tara answered firmly, her gaze drifting towards the exit doors again. She had spoken with Giles only twice on the telephone; the first time to seek out his location, and the second to confirm their visit and arrival times. She’d had a hell of a time finding him; quite literally, it appeared, when she finally got to speak to him. He had been more than forthcoming about the relative bottom of the hierarchy when it came to Council placements. And Wales, he explained, was about as low as it got. Couple that with being situated in the middle of god knows where, and Tara had found herself chatting with one severely pissed off ex-Watcher. He had welcomed their impending visit with enthusiasm. As Tara had put it, Giles probably would have welcomed a visit from an M’Fashnik demon right now.
And here they were. Only, Tara’s face screwed itself up into a frown, Giles wasn’t. She looked down at her watch and shook her head slightly, feeling a couple of wet strands of hair tickle the back of her neck. Reaching up behind her head, she squeezed the hastily pulled ponytail and pulled a face of distaste. Not only was their ride not here, but they were getting wet in the process of waiting for it.
“Rain,” Willow nodded dismally, watching Tara wipe her fingers on her coat, already dusted with a light sheen of raindrops. “That happens a lot here,” she added.
Tara couldn’t suppress the grin that came to her features at the seriousness of the redhead’s voice. Squeezing Willow’s hand again, she watched the other girl shrug shyly and look down at her feet. Willow had been doing a lot of that lately, she remembered. That false confidence that her magick brought her had disappeared along with the incantations and spells. Now it was Tara who led the way. And that was fine. Well, the blonde thought, her eyes filling with love and concern for the woman standing beside her; for a while, anyway.
“Maybe I should call him,” Tara said, pressing her lips together in thought. Willow merely glanced up at her and shrugged. She’d let Tara make so many decisions lately that it was becoming second nature for her to defer to the blonde. Her fears at letting her girlfriend see the girl she had once been were allayed somewhat by Tara’s patience and eventual capitulation to her recovery. Buffy and Dawn had planned most of their reunion out between them, but the real acceptance had been all Willow and Tara. And, Willow reminded herself, it was going okay. It was good. It was healthy. True, it was different than it had been before, but, as Tara had explained, that was the corner their relationship had turned. And Willow, pathetically grateful that Tara wanted her back at all, had agreed without really considering that difference.
It was only now, in retrospect, that the redhead truly understood what Tara meant. Things were different between them. Tentative at first, then growing in understanding, the two young women had clung to the mutual bond that united them. Their love for one another never abating, they had both learned more about the other in the past few months than in the two years they had been a couple. Willow had sworn off magick use and had learned to accept her new role in the Scooby Gang. And Tara? Tara had become an essential part of the Scoobies’ magickal arsenal when it came to battling on the Hellmouth. In a way, watching her girlfriend at work had increased Willow’s love and admiration for the controlled and thoughtful manner in which Tara operated. If anything, it had made her fall in love with the blonde all over again. And that hadn’t done either of them any harm.
“Should I call him?” Tara asked, the sound of her voice bringing Willow out of her reverie.
“He might be in traffic,” Willow suggested, bringing her gaze up to meet the questioning blue eyes alighting on her face.
Tara grinned, remembering Giles’ wild bout of swearing about the local and their ‘bloody tractors’. “He lives in the middle of nowhere Will,” she let go of the redhead’s hand and began to rummage in her shoulder bag for change, “I’m pretty sure they don’t have traffic where Giles is.” She pushed through the items in her bag, wondering not for the first time that day why she bothered bringing so many inconsequential possessions abroad with her. “I’m sure I had some British money in here…” she murmured, almost to herself. “I can call his cellphone and see if he’s – “
“He’s here.”
Tara’s head shot up at the curt sound of Willow’s voice. Her eyes rested on the tall familiar figure of the man she hadn’t seen for so long. Gratefully and with some emotion, she and Giles exchanged greetings as brown eyes met blue.
“Tara,” Giles said, his voice soft and welcoming. He held out his hand to her, and she walked into his embrace, hugging him briefly, but tightly. The oiled surface of his raincoat pressed coldly against her cheek as she pushed herself against him, her hands sliding thankfully around his waist. Standing back, she saw genuine pleasure plastered across his face from ear to ear, despite the inclement conditions under which they had met.
The ex-Watcher turned to look at Willow, his eyes softening as he struggled to hold back the emotion. It had been too long, he told himself, taking in the somewhat gaunt figure of the young woman he knew so well. She looked different. The mischievous sparkle in her eyes had been replaced with an apologetic seriousness that reminded him of his days back at Sunnydale High. Her wide-eyed appraisal of him stiffened her figure and held her at some distance from his casually dressed appearance.
She’s lost weight, he thought. She looks ill. Tiny details of what had happened flashed into his head, all carefully and painfully, he suspected, described to him by Tara. He hadn’t thought it would get so bad. The arrogance of youth, he sighed, his memory painting pictures of his own misadventures. Naturally, he had spent long hours researching and reading about similar cases to his own and Willow’s, using the extensive Council library at Head Office before he was transferred here. But they were easy to learn of; he thought now, his paternal affection for the redhead resurging in a rush of emotion that caught in his throat. It was always easy to learn about the ones you didn’t care for.
Stepping forward, alarm flushed his body as Willow recoiled from his advance, her eyes widened by apprehension and, he suspected, shame. A frown inched its way onto his brow, flickering for a moment into his eyes before he moved forward again. Some things Tara had been detailed about; others she had only heard second hand from Buffy and the others. But seeing Willow as she was now, skittish and nervous, he realized that her experience carried greater magnitude than he could have ever imagined. He took another, more decisive step towards her and enfolded her in his arms, pulling her close against his body. Leaning his head down to her ear, he closed his eyes as her arms crept around him in response.
“Willow,” he whispered, “it’s so good to see you again.”
End of Part 1
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"Bitter, party of one. Bitter, party of one." she muttered... ~ Four Months After by Capt. Murdock
