Title: Lotus
Author: Zooeys_Bridge(Rachel)
Email: rsietz@gmail.com
Rating: PG(for now)
Disclaimer: Joss and ME own their characters. I’m just adding a little bit of spice. And not making a profit.
Spoilers: This is heavily steeped in canon, so be wary of all of it.
Feedback: Yes, please! This is my first story, so please feel free to scribble away with red pen. It’s highly encouraged.
ETA! ETA! Always to my F2 and a special thanks to the wonderbar masterjendu. Round of applause!
[center].::
Lotus ::.[/center]
"All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you"
:: Brandi Carlile,
The Story::
It was like finding a needle in a haystack.
Dawn surveyed the ocean of newspapers, magazines, and various ads that surrounded her. She watched Buffy snap the cap onto the now-empty red marker, which had died a noble death after hours making pretty red circles. Dawn sighed.
A huge freaking haystack.
Despite the many benefits and advantages of the fast-food market, making a profit proved impossible, prompting Buffy to quit the Doublemeat Palace. Dawn hadn’t minded, actually. They’d eaten so many Doublemeaty Doublechicken Buckets that she swore her hands permanently smelled like grease. Then again, it was probably only half as bad as Buffy felt. A few months earlier, Dawn had glimpsed a bank statement sticking out of an envelope on the desk and it shocked her. She had no idea it was that bad.
It was odd thinking that after all the world-saving work the Scoobies have done, trivial, bureaucratic things like bills would be the thing to cripple them. It was just so….
stupid.
At least last year they’d been somewhat sheltered when Willow, Tara, and Xander had quietly poured in a bit of each paycheck and profit, no matter how tiny, hoping to keep things afloat. Xander still tried sometimes, but Buffy would tuck the envelope back into his jacket pocket when he came over, telling him to put it towards ‘living bachelorly’. Whatever
that meant.
Dawn, whenever she could, would sneak the envelope back in after a Xanderdate. She knew how much he wanted to help. That’s what Xander did. He was a helper. Just like her.
“So. Prospects. What are they?” Dawn asked optimistically, clasping her hands together.
Buffy picked up the pad of paper with the collected list of options. She glanced down and reported, “Thirty-three jobs in twelve different fields, none of which I’m qualified for,” before slapping the pad back on the table. “Eight hours of job research, and Giles tells me I don’t apply myself.
So not fair.”
“Well, y’know, he’s British, so his ideas of ‘applying oneself’ include polishing new shoes and are therefore way messed up. I wouldn’t trust him.”
Buffy gave Dawn an appreciative smile before picking up the pad to stare at it properly.
“I just don’t get it, am I that un-hireable?” she muttered miserably. “I mean, sure I get covered in seven kinds of vampire dust each night, but I clean up real good. I even have,” she paused, counting fingers under her breath, “…three shirts without blood on them! Three! That’s two more than I had in college!”
“Which you kinda didn’t graduate from.” Seeing Buffy’s face crumble before her, Dawn quickly stammered on. “Not that you weren’t busy saving the world and stuff, and taking care of Mom and me, which is
way more important, but the real world is sorta finicky on the degree thing. Which you kinda don’t….have,” she finished meekly with a hopeful cringe.
Exhaling loudly, Buffy sighed, “You’re right. And I
know you’re right. It just sucks. Big-time. Big-time suckage of the Greek Tragedy variety.”
Dawn saw it: the instance right before it could all sink. The moment they could both fall into the rut of despondency and miserable silence, a dank, familiar ship that had been capsizing all summer now.
But even if she used all her fingers to plug holes in the hull to keep them from sinking, Dawn was resolute. It was enough, and if Buffy couldn’t do it herself, then Dawn would do it for her.
Determined to ride the tide, Dawn grabbed a fresh newspaper and peeled the sections apart, handing one to her sister “Yep. It sucks. But’cha know what else has great variety? All these jobs we haven’t looked at yet! There’ve got to be lots of vacancies on account of all the randomly deceased dying and stuff in Sunnydale, it just all a matter of timing. The more we put in, the luckier we’ll get. See? Glass half-full to death and destruction.”
With a curt nod, Buffy saluted, “You’re right. For the second time in two minutes, which has to be a new record. I think you might be taking vitamins. Well alrighty Cap’n, let’s get lucky!” She grabbed the paper and began searching anew.
Pleased with the turn of events, Dawn sat back in her seat and smiled.
Oh yeah, Baywatch Dawn. I should totally have my own action figure.
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Tara had been starting to resent the kitchen.
Here she was, again.
Like all other days Since, Tara kept herself busy, but this time it wasn’t to trick herself into being calm. Now, she cooked for pleasure, so her hands would have something to do.
This time she let her brain think, because she could afford to.
She knew herself well. She
could idly sit and think, but that would soon give way to panic, which would serve her no good. No, Tara needed to keep herself together; not for herself anymore, but for him. Never in her life did she expect a ‘Him’ to sweep her off her feet, yet here he was, turning Tara’s world topsy-turvy with something as seemingly insignificant as morning pancakes.
It was pleasant, baking for someone other than herself. Normally, she’d pack up a plate of scones, cookies, muffins, or pies and, like a good neighbor, wrap it in a basket and deposit it on the kitchen tables of other disturbingly empty homes on the street- unholy carcasses of love and family.
At least then the treats weren’t sitting on
her table, quietly mocking
her with their uneaten chocolates and jams.
Before, she was politely throwing her food away in other people’s empty houses. Now, she baked for a purpose.
Purpose.
Spike had mumbled something about purpose last night before going to bed, but she had been too tired to think about it at the time. It was only when she’d turned off the lights and was in bed staring at the ceiling that she realized her body was humming. Despite the aching yawn of her bones and the weary strain of her muscles, Tara found she could not fall asleep. Her brain was far too busy.
Purpose. What was hers?
That was simple. To love Willow. It had always been so simple.
But never easy.
Not that Tara didn’t feel love for Willow – she felt that with all of her being. But to give that love? To send it? To show it? To
live it? There was always something standing in the way.
The demon. Her family. The Scoobies, at first. Glory. Death. Magick…Death.
Closing yet another book that yielded nothing, Tara slumped in her chair and rubbed her face. They’d been researching for weeks, but hadn’t been able to find anything - no hidden loophole, no secret prophecy - that would bring Buffy back again.
Evenings at the Magic Box had been a given, Dawn even had her own homework niche permanently stationed on the corner table. This particular night she was home having a movie night with Spike. The two of them seemed to cling to each other more often now. A proper pair of bandits equally lost in a den of despondency.
And so there they were, two witches, an ex-demon, and a carpenter prowling Giles’ library at midnight. Willow hadn’t touched her in days.
Tara glanced over at the cloth bandage that covered raw wires sticking out of the Buffybot’s neck and sighed. She swallowed, faintly tasting bile in the back of her throat.
The nausea in her mouth propelled Tara to rest her head on Willow’s shoulder. She could feel tense muscles underneath the thin t-shirt. “Willow, baby?” she whispered, reaching for her lovers arm. Tara took the teal pen Willow held, laid it flat on the table, and placed her own hand atop Willow’s.
She raised her head and looked at Willow, who stared heavily at the expanse of tomes in front of her. “Sweetie?” Tara frowned. Ever so slowly, the hand beneath her own, one that Tara knew dearly- had lovingly traced and kissed hundreds of times in privacy and shadow- shrank away, leaving the cool wood of the table to kiss her palm.
Willow swallowed. Her lips were taut and her brow was furrowed in resolve, but her eyes betrayed the slew of emotions within. “Not now, Tara. I’ve got-“ she stopped, picked up her pen and sighed. “I’m sorry. Just…Not now.”
Tara’s heartbeat faltered and everything slid away until only the sleek table, which grew warmer from the heat of her fingers, existed and grounded her to the earth. That moment was the slow beginning of the end. When danger, magick, and duty came first.
There was always an obstacle preventing Tara from doing her purpose. Why did something that came so easy and natural have to be so difficult?
Instead of being puposeless, Tara had lain in bed with one hand flat against the wall, reveling in the knowledge that some other being was on the other side. He may not have been what she was expecting, but the fact that he
was, exceeded any of her expectations.
His presence proved there was meaning to her existence, that she wasn’t some cosmic joke or mistake. She’d forgotten, in routine, pattern, and recipe, how to live. It hurt too much even thinking of a life without Willow- one where her smile didn’t grace the heavens, where her heart didn’t get to beat with the earth. But if he existed, that meant she did too. And if there’s anything Tara believed, it was that no one is without purpose. Despite obstruction or vicissitude, whether it be death or a soul, there was meaning. No force on earth is strong enough to deter her from this truth. And Tara would not let her get that lost again.
So here she was. Again, baking. For a purpose.
And though it was nearing early afternoon, said Purpose was still upstairs asleep.
But
by God, Tara was tired of waiting.
And this time, because she could, Tara would do something about it.