@Will’s redemption:
Glad your tear ducts had a bit of a break this time

Reading a plot synopsis is certainly good enough - definitely, if you’ve made it this far without needing it. Hopefully you’ve been able to get the gist enough ok.
No need to keep mum about nothing that isn’t a secret - no, I’m not planning on doing ‘Him’. Thought about it, (and we can talk about those ideas later for fun) but went in a different direction. The time period in the show, however, will still progress along the weekly schedule, but yeah I totally skipped it.
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She's almost here, guys. Thank you for your patience
This chapter takes place in Selfless, Episode 5 of Season 7. They're sort of like scenes in-between what we, the viewers, saw. Think about them logistically and place them chronologically. Any questions, please feel free to ask!All in all, the boys took the situation pretty well. After they’d woken up from the not-slaughter and seen their frat house streaked with blood and trashed, all Buffy had to do was explain it as a rival frat prank for the guys to turn their confusion into competition. Ah, predictable college boys.
She continued to patrol campus to make sure there were no signs of the spider demon. Or any other demons, for that matter. It was a relatively quiet night with only one vampire and a nest full of raccoons, which Buffy backed away from carefully because she
so wasn’t dealing with that. She took her time going home and it was nearing one in the morning by the time she rounded the backyard.
“Hey.”
Buffy looked up startled. Willow was sitting on the back kitchen steps wrapped in a robe, cradling a mug. “Hey,” Buffy greeted back, “What are you doing up?”
Willow blew out a breath. “Oh, y’know . . . Can’t sleep.”
Buffy nodded in understanding. She knew that one.“Y’ok?” Willow asked as Buffy plopped down next to her.
“Yeah,” Buffy lied, before thinking better of it. “No,” she said, still unsure. “I don’t know.” She ran her hand through her hair, sighing. “Some days I just really hate being the Slayer.”
Days when I have to kill the people I love.“We don’t make that easy for you, do we?” Willow said almost casually. Almost. Buffy looked over at her, puzzled. “We put you in that position all the time, Buffy. And I’m starting to realize it might not be fair.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were right, earlier today. I just
sat there.”
The words flew out of her mouth without thought, “Willow, I underst—”
“No, Buffy,” Willow interrupted, looking miserable. “You don’t get it. I did it to you, again.”
“Did what, Will? You didn’t do anything.”
“I know!” burst out Willow. “That’s exactly it. I didn’t do anything. But I . . .
We expected you to.”
Buffy watched Willow play with the mug, rotating and gripping it, as she gathered herself.
“I wanted you kill me, Buffy,” Willow finally admitted. “After she died, I just—” She stopped, thinking of a different way to verbalize her thoughts. “I told you guys I wasn’t coming back, and I meant it. I mean sure, I was a little stuck on the whole ‘revenge’ thing, but. . . I made it so you had no choice but to stop me. So the
Slayer had no choice.”
Buffy’s stomach clenched painfully.
“You’re the Slayer, so we expect you to make the tough decisions. And then we get upset with you for making them.”
Buffy still had no words, so Willow continued. “You were right, earlier today. About being the Law. We act like we should have as much a say as you, but then we force
you to make the tough calls. We make you the Law and then get upset with you when you use the responsibility we leave you. It can’t work like this anymore.”
That, finally, was something Buffy understood. “No, it can’t.” Her voice was thick, with years of unresolved, unrealized bitterness caught in her throat.
Willow turned the mug around in her hands. “But Xander was right, too. Sometimes there’s another way. We all need t—”
She stopped, correcting herself, “Xander and Giles and I, we need to start accepting responsibility. Same as you.”
The weight that Buffy had been carrying for seven years suddenly felt a little lighter. Buffy didn’t realize how deeply she had pushed her resentment down. Because it had felt selfish, almost. To have the gift of these people in her life, sharing the burden of fighting the forces of darkness, giving up everything -
everything, she thought, looking over at Willow- to stand by her side. How could she be angry with them after all that? But over time, Buffy learned, sharing a burden and sharing responsibility were two very different things. Over time, the two had drifted further apart until it seemed as if Buffy stood on an island alone, again, apart from Willow and Xander, looking at them from the distant shore, wondering how and why it was that they had left her there all alone.
The same as me. Buffy repeated Willow’s words. What could that kind of shared burden even look like? How would it even work. Half a dozen problems with the idea sprang to mind immediately and the lightness she felt just a moment ago quickly faded. “Will,” she sighed in a voice not unlike a parent breaking bad news to their child, “It won’t always be so easy.”
“I know,” Willow acknowledged quickly. “I know, but...I think all of us have kind of outgrown ‘easy’ at this point, don’t’cha think?”
Buffy pursed her lips, weighing the offer. “Has Xander...” the question trailed off, wondering if he’d already agreed to this.
“Not yet, but it’s something we probably should have done a long time ago. I’m sure he’ll be on board.” Willow’s expression darkened for a moment. “Besides,
Xander and I need to have a little chat, apparently, over a certain big fat juicy lie he’s been keeping from both of us for five years.”
Willow turned to her, “I
never told him that, Buffy.” she said urgently, “About Angel—”
Buffy interrupted her, gesturing to stop. She didn’t have it in her to revisit that moment, it was just too painful. Too much after today. She clenched her jaw tightly a few times and took a few deep breaths, gathering herself with everything that had just been said.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it deeply. “But I think I’ve hit my heavy conversation limit for the day. There’s probably a lot more for us to talk about, like,” she exhaled, cheeks puffing out, “A
lot more, but maybe we could hit the big ol’ pause button for tonight? My brain kinda feels like it’s about to explode.”
Willow nodded in agreement. “Yeah, do you have this little pressure headache –”
“Right behind the eyes? Oh yeah.”
“Tea?” Willow offered, handing her the mug.
Buffy blinked in surprise. “Tea? From Ms. Mocha-so-strong-it-vibrates?”
Willow chuckled. “Yeah, well. Things change, I guess.”
“Thank you,” repeated Buffy, deeply, “For telling me.” She took one of Willow’s hands and threaded their fingers together.
“All of it.”
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Tara knows she’s out of time.
Well, technically, she has all the time in the world. Never ending amounts of time trapped in this undying, unliving limbo of an existence, where nothing ages, nothing dies, nothing
is. There’s nothing to suggest that she can’t stay here forever if she wants to. But if anything, that interminable immortality reminds her of the unnaturality of it. She looks down at the spell she created and gnaws her lip in fear.
After Spike’s appearance, the more time she spends here, the more she’s reminded of what she’s missing. But the more she witnesses from the other side, through him, the more she doubts herself
She’s dead.
That’s it.
To change what the natural order has decided? Magic can’t . . .
shouldn’t be used to change things. Every magical cell in her body knows this.
But, oh, she remembers how tempting it is. How badly she wanted to say a few words and have her mother back after she’d passed. Her only connection to the world—the only person who had made her feel loved and who she had loved in return—gone, leaving the world a cruel and colorless place. So instead she ran away to escape that feeling. Sure, she’d wanted to leave the rest of her family behind, but mostly she couldn’t bear to stay in the negative spaces where her mother used to be. She ran to California, where she hoped the sunshine could brighten the greyscale of her world. Sure enough, it did. And two years later at a wicca group meeting, Tara’s world colored.
She’s run away from death only to have it find her again. And again, and again, and again. Death is never far from the Scoobies; it waits in the wings, just around the corner. Taking and taking and taking, without discrimination. She remembers Dawn’s grief, the way it nearly knocked on the front door as a monstrous thing. Dawn’s grief mirrors her own, and her chest hurts with the familiar unfairness of it all. First Joyce. Then Buffy. Then...herself.
Fate has spoken, the fabric of life cut.
Who is she to say otherwise?
To interfere is to make the world come unglued; manipulate it piece by piece until it is nothing more than a lie reshaped to resemble the shadow of truth.
“I’m scared,” she admitted to him quietly, late one night.
“Can tell that much myself, thanks.”
Tara swears she can hear the words of spell whisper. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“If it doesn’t work?”
“No,” she admitted softly, “If it does.”
He squints, confused. “Sorry, gonna have to explain that one, love. Isn’t it what you want?”
“The spell,” she explains. “It’s not for a resurrection.”
“What?” He asks incredulously, “Why the bloody hell not?”
“Because,” she says, searching for words to explain what she knows deep inside, “It’s not right. It’s not natural.”
“You think this,” he gestures around them, “Is natural?”
“No, I don’t, but Spike. I died. I can’t change that. And who would I be if I did?”
Spike sighs and shakes his head. Looking at her seriously for a moment, he knelt beside her, nudging her chin gently to meet his gaze. His voice is soft. “I’ve been alive longer th’n most, and I‘m still afraid of death. All vampires are. Trust me when I say you’re never going to be ready. There’s never a good time to go, but you can’t stay here. And neither can I, frankly. I’m either getting more crazy or less, but either way your window might be closing, Tara. It’s now or never.”
“Don’t suppose it could be never,” she joked through tears.
“I may be immortal,” he smiled back, “But I’m definitely not a saint.”There is nothing to say her spell will work. It is of Tara’s own creation, worded as ambiguously as possible: calling on Isis to help restore her to wholeness. She has no idea if that will mean life or death. If it will bring her back to the real Sunnydale, or help her pass on to wherever she should have gone after her death.
All the same, despite knowing that this place, this existence is unnatural and that the spell is justifiable, it is a huge risk. Here, at least, she exists.
She thinks of her mother. She thinks of Dawn and Buffy, Xander and Anya. She thinks, as always, of Willow. Thinks of all the people who have given her life meaning and purpose, says a quiet goodbye in her heart, just in case, and kisses them farewell. Tara doesn’t know what, if anything, lies on the other side of the spell. It could be a second chance, or It could be nothing. But she has loved and been loved and that, in itself, is a good life.
He’s right. It’s time. She takes a deep breath, relinquishing the decision of her fate to the those who may know better, says a prayer to the goddess, and begins.