Hi kittens,

I felt bad about making you wait several months for my next long project, so I thought I would share with you a smaller story that's been rattling in my brain for over a year. Two warnings: this has not been beta'ed (sorry, masterjendu, but I just couldn't wait!), and these story segments are shorter than the ones I used to write The Lamb.

Enjoy!



Title: The Apothecary
Author: Phoenix
Email: tara_the_phoenix@yahoo.ca
Spoilers: None. Completely uber.
Rating: PG to start with, though that will change...
Feedback: Please!

[center]~1~[/center]

Tara could not deny that she had been scouring the live security feed from downstairs, delighted and dismayed to find a familiar woman making her way through the poppy den. The woman wove through the stupefied multitude with necessary tolerance and a considerable lack of grace, stepping over an arm or a leg as needed, apologizing as she bumped her way to her habitual spot. Though she had become a common face in the den, she did not hail anyone as friend. She had remained aloof, lounging

(in bleakness)

in faked ease, the gold buttons of her silk shirt revealing more of her modest cleavage than she ever would in any place but this. She had coughed the first time she drew smoke through the poppy pipe, and the lighted coal that kept the tincture hot had barely illuminated the face of a woman skirting with disaster and despair.

That had been several months ago. The woman did not cough any more.

Tara continued to watch as the woman continued through the den, exiting through the nondescript doors that led to the upper levels. Tara bid her heart not to beat in such a frenzy; the woman had made it this far at least two times before today. Today she did not pause at the reek of the stairwell, the sweet incense and bleach not quite concealing the odours of burnt poppy and urine. Many would falter there, at the smell, at the Chinese and skater symbols deliberately spray-painted on the walls. They would not pay the price

(no one is immortal but me)

and would retreat back to the poppy den, ready to haze their disappointments with the narcotic blessing of opium.

Whatever demons possessed this woman, they had finally driven her up the stairs. Through the increased tempo of her heart, Tara could barely hear the woman deliberately making noise as she ascended the stairs. Would she know to stop on Tara's level, or could she possibly be going further upstairs, her troubles and the faint smell of poppy driving her onward?

Tara hoped not. The price was always too high to pay. Poppy already clouded this woman's green eyes, her senses, dulled her pain. She needed what only Tara could provide, and no more.

(just a perfect dream, please

please help me forget!)

Tara allowed herself one more moment to look at the unnamed woman through the vid screen; her face was young and determined, her red hair impeccably coiffed and styled, her eyes the blighted green that had first captured Tara's interest those months ago. Tara had been afraid that the woman would eventually make her way upstairs to Tara's door, simultaneously afraid and hopeful.

This woman was a fool, and Tara was damned.

Tara finally turned from her screen to put on the kettle. The woman would want tea, and a miracle. Tara wanted only a kiss.

(just on the forehead, as always)

When it was over, would the woman forgive her? Did she deserve her forgiveness?

The woman would arrive any moment, and Tara looked at herself in the mirror. Gilded with gold, the mirror revealed a pale-faced woman whose cobalt eyes were filled with equal parts excitement and self-loathing. Sleek blonde hair whispered at her shawl-lined shoulders, and her entire frame was small and perfect; her beauty a weapon as sharp as any sword and wielded with equal dexterity on both men and women alike.

There was no sign at the door that led to Tara's den; her clientele knew exactly where she worked. Only new clients would pause in indecision and fear. Tara heard a pause before the dull wooden bead curtain clattered at her arrival. Tara calmed herself, drew in several deep breaths. Only then did she walk through the silk curtain that separated her living quarters from her storefront den, whisking through the fabric with not even a hint of noise. Tara wanted one moment, at least, to look.

The woman's eyes were wide and almost childlike as she took in Tara's strange den. It resembled a tea parlour more than anything else, with long mahogany shelves crawling across three walls, crammed from floor to ceiling with books. Her books were Tara's solace and great joy, thousands upon thousands of titles shelved haphazardly, with nary a care for the alphabet. Not merely tomes on dreams or the occult, but also volumes on Everett's Theory of Quantum Mechanics

(many worlds)

and the latest Stephen King. Some were in Spanish, French, Romanian. Her clients would wonder if she could actually read them, or if she was just being pretentious. Tara let them wonder.

(Fereste-te de omul însemnat de Dumnezeu!)

Tara's heart smouldered in impatience, wanting the woman to turn around, so she could finally see her face, to see what only she could see, what the vid screen could never show her, no matter how long she stared upon it.

(cracker jack ring)

Finally sensing Tara's presence, the woman turned around, her hands clutching reflexively on the handle of her purse.

And Tara knew.

The red hair was a source of constant contention for her as she hovered between short and curly or sleek and long and which would make her appear older. She didn't trust her hairdresser. Freckles were a bane as a teenager and only now was she moderately proud of them. She considered her nose to be her best feature, though Tara thought it was her mouth. She wore shoes that gleamed as if they had been spit polished by the Devil himself. Her socks would be threadbare at the heels, darned with a hand trembling with alcohol and memory. The cut of her clothing was considerable. It was a very practiced casual outfit, remarkable in colour, too desperate to be random. She was well-off, or perilously close to it, but it was not inherited wealth. She had worked hard for it, every step of the way, and a tiny measure of class resentment shone in her face.

(one step above a tinker are you? Your parents are academics.)

She was almost thirty years old, younger than Tara herself, and she thought she was a failure in life and in love, despite her money. Her fingernails were unpainted and cut short; she used a computer often. Today she wore a beautiful watch, all gold and chip diamonds, but Tara knew that she usually wore one with three alarms, two different time zones, and an indiglo light. She wore a single ring on one hand, made of plastic, and Tara knew it came from a cracker jack box and was a source of constant hope and despair for her.

(oh my dear one)

Did Willow sleep with that ring on? Did she remember the fingers that gave it to her, the sharp smell of horse manure at the fair, the dancing lights and the laughing music, the crunch of popcorn from the cracker jack box?

Some destinies were writ in stone. There was blood in Willow's past, and in her future as well. Would Tara's dream be enough to ease her?

There was a conflicting scent arising from her; she had washed her hair this morning with a strong coconut rinse

(you bought it at WalMart, didn't you, instead of buying the subtle stuff from the salon)

she used Glysomed hand lotion, and then spritzed herself with Chanel, hoping it would help her appear strong and confident and womanly. Her handbag matched her outfit, and hung awkwardly from her shoulder, unaccustomed weight and bearing. She hunched in her shoulders slightly, whether from bad computer posture or from protecting herself, Tara couldn't tell.

A perfect client.

Tara still didn't know her profession, though. What did this woman do to make her unwelcome money, that left her seeking narcotic escapes and finally soporific dreams?

“Hi, I'm Willow,” the woman said, stretching out her hand. Tara took it warmly, and held it longer than was commonly practiced in western culture, seeking to throw the woman off balance.

Willow.

Her parents were certainly academics, and it was likely her mother's choice of name. Not only a name; a weapon as well, and her mother used it to prove to her own tightly-wound parents

(jumped up tinkers, maybe farmers now, and practicing Protestants)

that she was well-educated and erudite, and there was no need to use heirloom names. Willow was a break in tradition, the physicality of a family schism, and Tara doubted she'd met her mother's parents more than once or twice.

Still holding Willow's hand, Tara asked softly, “Are your mother's parents still alive?”

There was a tiny tug, as if Willow wanted her hand back. Her face, already guarded and wary, now showed a considerable amount of confusion which she didn't try to hide. “What?”

Tara released her hand, and Willow immediately clutched her handbag again. Yes. Get her off-balance. First with the handshake

(she must use lotion, her skin is so soft)

and then with the question of her grandparents. “Are your mother's parents still alive?” Tara repeated.

Willow looked as if she wanted to take a step back, but she didn't, and Tara admired her for it. “I think they are. They live in Kansas. I...” and she paused, and Tara knew she was debating whether or not to reveal such information to a complete stranger. “I don't see them very often,” Willow finished lamely.

Ah, yes. Kansas. Tara imagined she could smell the faint odour of chicken manure on her, see an overweight woman in a floral print apron, grey hair covered with a kerchief. She would throw feed and lament her daughter's decisions to uninterested barnyard fowl. Yes.

“My name is Tara,” she revealed, using her soft and seductive voice. She imagined using that same soft breath to puff at the delicate skin of Willow's wrist. Willow would shiver. “Will you have tea with me?” she asked, the bracelets on her wrist tinkling brightly as she wrapped her shawl arm around Willow's shoulders, not quite touching her, almost herding her to the single table covered with a pristine chintz tablecloth. Tara wondered if Willow was evaluating her clumsiness, hoping she wouldn't spill tea on the tablecloth.

“Um, okay,” Willow said, mustering her failing courage and lifting her chin triumphantly, as if trying to prove she was in complete control of the situation, even when it was completely obvious that she was not. Tara had done this a thousand times or more. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Did Willow know she would pay in both money and time? Had anyone warned her of the dangers of Tara's loft, the softness of Tara's hands?

(no devil could be more seductive)

There was no heaven for Tara.



Phoenix

um, yesdibs

_________________
Lotus

I read part one of this almost a year ago exactly (Seriously, I just found it on my 'puter and it was saved January 30, 2008!), so I am very happy to see that you are finally posting it.

As I told you back then, I love the sensuality of the piece. Although I know a bit of what is going to happen next (the part one you sent me was quite a bit longer than this and I also have various versions of Too Late), I friggin can't wait for you to continue!!

Welcome back to the board, Missy!! You've been missed!!


And NICE WORK on the dibs, Rach!!

_________________
BABY BLOG NOMADIC BLOG GEEKY T's
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. ~Helen Keller

Heh Phoenix, that has got to be my reward for a grammar exam done! I'm very curious as to all the how's and why's, the texture of this piece is so rich, velvety in that slightly seductive sense, can't wait to read more!

Fly forever free!
-Nenyath

_________________
My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die
I can fly - my friends
~The Show Must Go On by Queen

Yay for great beginning... I hope both Willow and Tara very soon are able to enjoy their love for eachother without chemical stimulants...

_________________
We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.

Phoenix!

I remember this one, too, and I remember that I liked it a lot. It's a great piece that showcases your style, and it's fun to see it here.

Welcome back.

Diane

_________________
The dlline Short Fic Thread

Wow, that's... I don't really know what to make of it, but I'm intrigued. You've really got a way with words, describing the scene and Willow and Tara's actions here - despite the presence of modern-day elements like security cameras and watches and computers, the chapter felt like it belonged in some dark fantasy setting, driven by a shadowy, off-kilter kind of magic. I'm really fascinated to find out who these versions of Willow and Tara are - especially Tara, who like the chapter as a whole has a strange magical-tragic quality to her.

_________________
Chris Cook

Through the Looking-glass - Every world needs a Willow and Tara.

Hello..!!

This seems like an interesting fic. I'm definitely intrigued.

Sorta confused right now, but I just need to wait a bit for the answers to come up, so... next update soonish?

_________________
Nadie debe decidir por mí a quién debo amar, con quién debo acostarme.

Hector Avellan.

Confession time. I have very little idea of where this story is going, but I'm going to share it with you anyway. Hopefully I'll know the end when I hit it. Hmm. Writing by the seat of my pants. Fun.

Response time!

Zooey's Bridge
You dear soul! You reminded me of the good ole days on The Lamb by replying in only a minute. Thanks for jumping on board so quickly! I hope you like it.

masterjendu
Yeah, this one has been collecting dust. I thought I'd shake it off a bit and share it. It might not end up as polished as The Lamb, but it should still be fun. I broke it up into much smaller segments, to make it go farther, you know?
Besides, I missed posting here.

Nenyath
I hope you got an awesome mark on your grammar exam. You won't have to wait long to read more, as more is coming very soon! Glad to have you here.

Zampsa
It wouldn't be a story without a posting from you. We'll see how long Willow needs narcotics to help her out. I hope you enjoy what's coming. Thanks for reading, and commenting.

dlline
Excellent to see you again, my dear. I hope you continue to enjoy this piece, as we all discover together what the heck I'm doing with it.

Artemis
Yay! I'm happy to see you here. I'm glad you noticed the slightly off-kilter elements of this piece. As you may suspect, it's not exactly our world, but it's very similar. We'll all find out how that will play in the end. Thanks for commenting!

ceridwen
All my favourite people are back! I'm so happy you are here, too. You won't be confused for long, as I'm about to dribble out a little more story. I hope you enjoy it.

Because the segments are small, I might be able to post often. Then again, I might now. More confession time: this isn't my priority piece right now. I'm working simultaneously on the novelization of The Lamb, and working on this comes right after that. That being said, I will continue, because this is the best forum for testing story ideas!

I hope you enjoy the next segment.

Va pup,
Phoenix

ps anyone google the romanian yet to see what it means? masterjendu?

[center]~2~[/center]

Willow chose the bright floral armchair that faced the entrance. Tara's clients always chose that chair, as if by seeing the exit they could convince themselves that they had the power to flee. Flee, before paying the price. Flee, retreat back to the poppy den, whispering that they had changed their minds before it was too late.

They would always wonder what would have happened up here, what delightful dreams Tara could have created for them.

Tara would sit opposite Willow in a chair equally brash, carefully chosen, the empty tea table between them. A great deal of reflection had gone into those chairs, into the disarray of her bookshelves. The incongruity kept her clients off balance, especially the rich ones. Their very natures were soothed by matching colour palettes, soft lighting, alphabetical ordering of books. Tara's parlour was lit with creamy globes of naphtha, but she used the mismatched furniture as well as the books to keep them on edge. Fingers would twitch to rearrange the books, eyes would blink at brassy chairs. It really worked on the wealthy.

It didn't seem to work on Willow. The girl sitting so carefully in that brash chair probably remembered living as a pauper, with sticky pine boards and bricks for her bookshelves, furniture from the thrift store, and Nipponese ramen noodles for supper. She would have no television, but she would have a laptop computer, and an Interlink connection. No doubt Willow lived in a house now, bright and airy, and she kept that overstuffed chair in the basement as a reminder of how things change. She had a pet, a husky puppy, with eyes the exact shade of Tara's own.

And a cracker jack ring always on her finger.

The kettle whistled in the distance, and Willow wouldn't look at Tara in the eyes. Her fingers curled reflexively on the handle of her purse, her lips tight, swallowing every question that should have poured forth like a waterfall. With a small smile, Tara said, “Excuse me,” and disappeared behind the silk curtain, wondering if Willow's eyes followed her, staring at her back, the blonde hair that whispered, the grey silk dress that rustled invitingly over her hips. Would she stare, and then look at her hands, and at the books, and wonder what she was thinking?

Tara shortly returned, bearing a laden tea tray in her hands, and Willow was sitting upright

(uptight)

in her squashy chair, not allowing herself to rest against the back of it. Willow's cream coloured blouse with discreet gold buttons was actually unbuttoned one button more than commonly accepted in western society. She was leaning forward in her chair, and Tara could see the slight swelling of the woman's modest breasts. Tara thought of puffing air on Willow's delicate wrist and swallowed. Lightly. Willow didn't seem to notice.

(I am a demon.)

The gold bracelets on Tara's wrists tinkled as she leaned forward to pour the tea. Willow sat stiffly, building her walls high, unassailable, as if she could somehow keep Tara out. Tara nearly felt sorry for her. Willow had no idea what Tara was capable of.

She would learn, in time.

White tea with jasmine, possibly too floral for Willow's taste. But she took the porcelain cup, sniffing carefully, then she smiled as she sipped the too-hot tea, her face colouring as the hot liquid burned her tongue. Tara pretended not to notice. She took her own cup and sat back in her chair, carefully thrusting her breasts out, just slightly. Just enough.

She had kissed thousands of men and women in that chair. Always on the forehead.

And they were always enchanted by her.

(I am damned.)

The silence was uncomfortable to Willow; it was obvious she was trying to think of something to say, and coming up with nothing. Tara could have smiled in delight. This silence was the sea she swam in, the air she breathed. It was heavy and tight with expectation and fear. Tara could almost taste it on her tongue, honey and jasmine.

What dreams had Willow been having lately, that had sent her to the poppy den, and then into Tara's loft? What sorrows anchored this poor woman's soul?

What kind of dream would she ask for? The woman was obviously uncomfortable in her wealth, in her purchased station in life. Would she ask for a lover to return to her, a tall man with icy eyes and disdain written all over his face? Or would she ask for a situation at work to be resolved the way she desired, a client placated, a boss maligned, a coworker killed? Would she desire only a dream of peace, a slice of heaven too exquisite to be borne, tears wetting the pillow upon awakening from it?

Tara carefully counted a hundred beats of her heart, and waited. Willow was nearly squirming in her seat, and Tara knew that Willow wanted to speak. The silence was too threatening, too close for comfort. A gold necklace hung from her neck, with a single pendant that caressed the skin just below her clavicle. Tara wondered what she tasted like just there.

“What can the apothecary do for you today?” Tara finally asked. She set down her cup of tea, and Willow followed suit. The woman fidgeted; she straightened her pants leg and picked off a short white hair.

(What is her puppy's name?)

“I hear that you... make dreams,” Willow said, her voice starting out confident, but faltering under Tara's steady gaze.

“That is true,” Tara replied. She said nothing more.

“I'd like to purchase one.”

Tara knew that Willow had been about to say 'buy', but changed her mind instantly to say 'purchase' instead, because it sounded more grown-up. Tara wondered if Willow knew just how transparent she was. Tara also wondered what kind of sound Willow would make if Tara puffed air at her wrist, or at her throat.

Or upon her breast.

What would Tara dream of tonight?

(the nightmare, always the nightmare)

And would Willow want a dream of a tall man with icy eyes?

“Of course,” Tara said smoothly. “What kind of dream do you wish?” She almost held her breath.

Willow twisted the ring on her hand as she said, “I want to dream of my best friend, Buffy.”

“Do you have a picture of her?” Tara asked, her mind opening.

Willow's mouth was tight, and she didn't say anything as she drew a picture from her handbag, opening the mother of pearl clasp almost roughly.

Tara took the picture in her hands. The woman was beautiful, had been beautiful far longer than Willow had, and held her beauty in a confidence that Willow coveted. Looking over the rim of the picture, she saw Willow's face tighten even more, her eyes narrowing, her breath short and shallow.

Tara suddenly understood, probably more perfectly than Willow could ever imagine. A sudden ache for Willow's pain grabbed her heart in a tight fist; for a moment, Tara could barely breathe.

(oh the nightmare)

“How did she die?” Tara asked softly, careful not to pour out so much concern that Willow would cry because of it. It was a narrow precipice that kept the green-eyed woman from tears, and Tara did not want to push too hard.

Not yet.

Willow licked her lips and said a single word. “Violently.”

Willow had no power to change Buffy's fate. Blood was her design.

Tara could see it. She could see Buffy and Willow one sultry night, two months into Buffy's marriage with Riley, nibbling marzipan and drinking sweet jenniver wine. Walking arm in arm down a street thinly lit with gas lamps. Nearby a jazz band would be performing for tossed coins; the music was a feast, and Willow and Buffy gorged themselves on it, leaving eight shiny rupahs in the frayed fedora hat. They walked and giggled and sighed, and the moon was pregnant in the night sky

(mirroring Buffy's darkling womb)

and the crickets would be performing. Buffy's face would be lit from within, her vivacity too much for this paltry earth. She had cheated death too many times before.

So God called her home.

And when Willow woke in the hospital, Buffy's hair would have already been washed of its blood, a tag on her toe. Despite her too-oft excursions to the Sunnydale cemetery, burying friends and family alike, Willow was not inoculated against grief, a testament to her humanity.

Buffy had given her that ring when they were girls, and it was the locus of Willow's transformation.

How soon after Buffy's death had Willow come to the poppy den?

(Too soon; she should not be here already.)

“You do not need to apologize to her,” Tara said, leaning forward slightly in her chair, watching Willow's eyes widen, and then tighten. “No matter what you believe, it was not your fault. You don't need to wear your guilt like a shroud.”

Willow began fighting tears, and she asked almost angrily, “How do you know all this?”

“You could say I'm a scholar of the human condition,” Tara replied. At the hurt confusion in Willow's face, she explained, “I can read people, as easily as I read books.” She gave a small wave at her bookcase, her bracelets jingling. Tara wondered whether to show off a bit more, tell the girl that she knew she didn't trust her hairdresser, that she had a husky puppy, and she never invited her parents for supper; but Tara decided, wisely, not to.

Tara looked down at the picture again, releasing Willow from her gaze, giving Willow some space and time to recover. This Buffy

(and what did that name reveal about Buffy's parents?)

was responsible for Willow's metamorphosis in school. For some reason, lushly beautiful Buffy had taken a computer nerd under her wing. Willow had been ashamed of her freckles back then, and dressed in Sears castoffs given her by her mother, and dreamed of impossible worlds. The day Buffy gave her that cracker jack ring was the best day of her life. What did Buffy say to Willow the day Willow made her first million?

(I kinda love you, you know?

And can you loan me a tenski?)

Lipstick on a pig. Tara felt an incredible rush of desire for Willow, a tingling that began in her toes and swept her entire body, leaving her hair on end. She licked her lips, slowly. What did Willow taste like?

(jenniver and marzipan and jasmine)

Willow was watching her again, but her eyes were still tight. She was closed up, protecting herself against Tara's microscopic gaze, Tara's uncanny knowledge. For a moment, Tara mourned. She would make the dream so perfect that Willow would come begging for more. It would take only a little extra effort, a little push.

And damn her, Tara would now push.




To be continued... probably on Sunday or Monday.

Phoenix

haven't even done fb on Ch.1 and lookit this! dib

Okay, I think I'm rather comfortable saying I'm not entirely comfortable in this world. Not that it isn't intriguing, or mysterious, or dragging me in. It's dark and I don't know what's going on.

The space that this Willow and Tara exist in is foreign, and in a way, so are they. But I'm looking forward to knowing them. So will we.



I think this story must taste and feel and be a date. A warm, sticky date.

_________________
Lotus

Very strange start, but I love it. Hope you get around to writing more soon

_________________
"To days to come."
"All my love to long ago.

I hope, we'll have more happy ever after
I hope, we can all live more fearlessly...

~Jas

It sounds really good with updates often on this little dark one, but if waiting a bit for this, means that you are working on The Lamb, then it is just fine with me! Just out of curiousity though, in turning it into a novel, do you then remove the elements of the story which infringe copyright and replace them with something else? No matter what, you have to keep us/me up to date, because I want to get to knowit in its new shape! Oh yeah, and if you need an extra to read through it and check for mistakes, I'd be happy to give my service if I possibly can!



Thanks Phoenix, I have a good feeling about the exam, it can be a month or two yet before I know though.. And, I'm glad I'm here as well!

And onwards to the update! I will agree that the atmosphere and our girls is nothing like we know them, but I am just looking forward to the slow unravelling of the plot! By the way, the parenthesises made me very happy, it's clearly the return of the Phoenix Style!

Fly forever free,
-Nenyath

_________________
My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die
I can fly - my friends
~The Show Must Go On by Queen

Yay for great update-y goodness... I really hope that Tara is able to help Willow to get over Buffy's death...

_________________
We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.

I've got more story, so here's feedback response!

zooey's bridge - You're gonna be queen dibs if you keep this up! I understand what you mean about not being comfortable in this world. It's a place that I have never taken characters before. I am beginning to realize that I am incapable of writing fluff. Oh, well. This story may well be a warm and sticky date. Hang in there, I've got neat Willow stuff coming up...

crazytarawitch - Glad to see you here. I work on this piece nearly every day, so more will be coming very shortly.

nenyath - I hope you continue to enjoy the slow unraveling of plot. I don't often write by the seat of my pants, so I'm enjoying this too, in a gee I'm scared what am I doing kind of way. And as for the Phoenix style I am my own metaphor? Cool. I just like it is all.

zampsa - Hello! Oh, you will see very soon if Tara is able to help. On Tuesday I'll put up part 4. You're gonna like it. I promise.


Hang in there, folks, I know this is different.

Phoenix

[center]~3~[/center]

“It is only a dream, you know,” Tara said gently. “She cannot speak to you from the dead.”

“I know,” Willow replied, just as soft. “I just miss her, is all. I don't know how you know what you do, but she meant everything to me. And now that she's gone, everything is just...”

Tara's lips moved in concert with Willow's, knowing exactly what she was going to say, but not saying it aloud, letting Willow say it, even though the admission would hurt, because truth always hurts.

(Will I ever be freed? Everything is...)

“Wrong.”

Tara wished she could take Willow's hand, to comfort her in this strange place. She would not. Despite all her reactions since the woman first walked into the poppy den, Tara needed to remember that Willow was just a client, and Tara would use her as she needed to.

Truth hurts.

“Give me an hour,” Tara said, getting to her feet with as much grace as she could muster under Willow's questioning and bonemelting gaze. Tara knew that if Willow ever looked on her with desire, her knees wouldn't work at all. Was there a tall man with icy eyes in her life?

(how damned do you want to be, Tara?)

“Please, feel free to read whatever you wish while you wait,” Tara continued, waving her arm at the entire array of books. A genuine smile lit up Willow's face and Tara's chest thudded as if she'd been punched. Tara could barely walk away, wondering if Willow was watching her walk away, the grey silk that rustled over her hips, her blonde hair that shone like spun gold in the creamy lights, or if Willow was already looking at the books with a desire never shown to any woman at all.

Tara could not help herself; after she had exited through the curtain she parted it slightly to look at her newest client. Willow had gotten up with a surprising amount of grace, drained the last drop of tea in her cup, then strode over to the bookshelves, her fingers questing over the titles, her lower lip caught adorably in her white teeth.

How much hair colour would Tara lose to make this dream?

Tara was exhausted when she parted the curtain an hour and forty minutes later. She knew Willow had not been looking at her watch, not like some other clients who felt intimidated by her books. She again whisked through the divider with the smallest of sounds and then stood still, frozen in place by the sight in front of her.

Willow was lost in a book; her immaculately clad legs were swung over the arm of the squashy chair, her long red hair poured in a waterfall over the other arm where she had pillowed her head. She lounged facing the curtain that separated the living quarters, no doubt to notice when Tara would return. Her eyes were dappled meadows of oak trees, leaves embossed by sunlight and kissed by a zephyr wind.

Willow was engrossed by the heavy tome in her hands, and Tara smiled at her choice. Willow was reading 'The Chronicles of Narnia', a handsome and extraordinarily valuable first edition, bound with leather and signed by the late C.S. Lewis. Tara remembered the day that Clive Staples Lewis had come to her den, bearing this book as payment for his dream. She had given him only two dreams, and then he had passed away. Tara was delighted to see that Willow didn't wet her finger as she turned the pages; she handled the book with a practiced reverence, delicate fingers above a delicate wrist.

She didn't make her money in the stock markets, not alone, not with her open face and her insecurity. Not with those fingers that caressed the book, those fingers that had never caressed a lover in a similar manner. Where did you make your million, Willow?

(And will you ever touch me like you touch that book?

Remember, Tara. She's not for you. No one is. You paid the price already.)

Only as Tara drew closer did Willow realize that she had entered the room, and she swung her legs back, blushing. The book rested in her lap like a babe. Then she must have really looked at Tara's face, Tara's changed hair, because her eyes crinkled in vast concern. “Are you all right?” she actually asked.

(How many people ask, Tara? Out of the thousands of your clients, the hundreds of your years, who has asked?)

Tara wanted to taste her, badly. There, just underneath that emerald pendant. What would she taste like? Could she lick Willow's wrist and then puff air on it?

Tara had to sit, her knees were buckling. She handed the picture back to Willow, who awkwardly put it back in her clutch. Willow was a new client; she looked at Tara's empty hands for the dream. Had no one told her?

Tara sat in the chair, more heavily than she would have wished, the silk flirting with her shapely calves. She lifted a spangled hand and picked out a strand of hair by her ear. The brown extended nearly six inches before fading back into her platinum blonde. It had taken a lot out of her to prepare this dream for Willow. Did she want to impress her, or just draw her back? Either way, Tara was walking on dangerous ground.

Tara decided to evaluate her welter of emotions later on, when Willow wasn't around to confuse her. Her hair would revert during the night, as it always did. During the nightmare.

(I give what I never have for myself.)

Willow was looking at her with genuine concern. Then she did something that taught Tara more about her true nature than any other thing, more than her cultured clothes, her demeanor, her cracker jack ring. Willow placed the book carefully on the little table, lifted herself from the comfortable chair, then knelt on the rug at Tara's feet. Eyes wide, Tara watched, stunned.

Willow took one of Tara's hands, ran her delicate unpolished fingers over the back of it, then around, pressing into her palm. Tara's fingers brushed against the skin of Willow's wrist, paper thin, spidery veins like ink, her last will and testament writ there by Tara's duplicity. No devil could be more seductive.

(You are a fool.)

Tara nearly unraveled there, under Willow's gaze, Willow's warm hand nestled inside her own.

“Tara, are you all right?” Willow asked softly. For the first time Tara was close enough to feel the puff of air as Willow spoke; she smelled a faint whiff of spearmint gum masking the floral jasmine.

She's a client, Tara. Ignoring the question, not without a certain knowledge that it would only make Willow more concerned and reveling in it, Tara answered, “Your dream is ready.”

Once again Willow looked down at Tara's empty hands, and she actually turned over the palm that she held in her hand. There was nothing there, obviously. Willow didn't know how this part happened, because no one told her. Tara was tired, and feeling thick and clumsy. The dream was heavy behind her eyes, and she wanted to give it away.

It was one of the most heavenly things she had ever created. As a consequence, Tara doubted she would sleep at all this night.

(But I'll scream.)

She had never told any of her clients the side effect of their business. The nightmare tonight would be terrifying, but Tara believed that Willow was worth it.

Willow was still looking at her, her face deceptively open, her eyes concerned but still wary. “I-I give it with a kiss,” Tara stammered, cursing herself. She hadn't stuttered in decades. What was going on?

Get Willow out.

Now.

Willow's finger was definitely touching her wrist, and at those words Willow blinked. On her knees in front of Tara, Willow was uncertain. Tara could see the war waging in her mind. Tara could see it so clear in Willow's eyes; the hesitation, the longing. Willow had never been kissed by a woman, Tara was sure of it.

(The forehead, Tara. Kiss her on the forehead just like everyone else. Do it before you do something you'll regret.)

Tara tried to look at Willow's forehead, to send the unspoken message that had worked thousands of times before today. It's just the forehead, it's no problem, no intimidation.

But Willow's pert mouth drew her, held her. If the woman before her wore lipstick at all it was subtle and expensive. Those lips, they were a whirlpool, and Tara was being sucked in. Was Willow a siren then, to so captivate her and draw her into watery depths?

(She will ruin me.)

Tara could count on one hand the number of times she'd kissed on the mouth, and none of them had been with a client.

(My price to pay.)

Goosebumps swept Tara's body. She was suddenly sure that this woman would be her undoing. Willow would kill her.

So be it.

Tara wanted Willow to know how it felt, the perfection of a woman's lips, so different from a man's. So knowledgeable, giving, and quiet. Tara wanted it to be her lips that would so educate her. Tara wanted Willow to think only of Tara every time she kissed someone else, and all those other kisses to be shallow mockeries of the truth Tara would teach her in this moment.

Jealousy flamed her stomach. Tara didn't want Willow to kiss anyone else ever again, and she could not quite comprehend where these feelings were coming from. What about Willow had so captivated her from the moment she walked into the poppy den, so that Tara would watch the vid screen, and review those moments that captured the redhead on camera?

Willow dropped Tara's hand, but she still looked Tara in the eyes. They were close now, oak trees dripping in sunlight, hiding small and deep pools of memory, the warm greenery of summer days, all in Willow's eyes. Tara lifted her hands, and she knew that they were soft, they were luscious, and she grasped Willow just behind her neck.

Willow's shoulders were surprisingly tight and hard, and the neck cords underneath her skin like sinew. Tara faltered again, confused. Willow worked out, or something.

(how did you make your millions, Willow?)

Willow's hair was silken and delicious to Tara's greedy touch. Tara could barely get over the contradictions of this woman.

(Still time to get out, Tara. The forehead. Kiss her on the forehead.)

Closer.

The dream was heavy; Buffy was waiting to go to the fair. She and Willow would have the time of their lives, the music, the laughter, the heady attention of boys, youth and verve and innocence all in one, with the ferris wheel and the cotton candy and the ice cold root beer. From a cracker jack box would spill a plastic ring, and the promise of becoming as close to blood relations as is possible between best friends.

This young Buffy would not know that blood was her design, and the dream-girl would frolic with Willow at her side, not caring that the world had teeth and would swallow her whole without blinking in remorse.

(Was the killing blow meant for Buffy, or for Willow?)

And later on, they would both get to fly.

Starlight would bathe Willow's skin, her garments would be spun of the clouds, and the world would rotate beneath them. From those great heights they would look down on the world, spread out with the twinkling glory of Christmas lights.

Willow would remember this dream forever.

Looking at her client, Tara could see the empty bedroom in Willow's eyes, the king size bed with two sets of pillows but only one was ever used. Would Willow undress tonight in the bathroom, put on unflattering flannel pajamas and sneak to her unwelcome bower in the dark of night? Would her puppy curl up with her, or be relegated to sleeping on a dog bed? Upon waking, would one hand still be flung out, aching to caress skin or sky instead of cloth? And when she dreamed of Buffy, would she wrap the sheets around her hands in her guilt, or would she lie oh so quiet oh so still, tears wetting the pillow as she smiled in adolescent bliss?

Willow had already woken once to a Buffy dead and gone. Would this dream shatter her again?

(Can I live with the guilt?)

Yes.

After all, guilt is only pain. Pain is only temporary. A kiss is forever.

And Willow's face softened, as if she had lost the war; the wary hurt vanished from her eyes, replaced with trust and acceptance. Tara could see expectation hovering there, and the rationale behind her decision. If Willow liked the kiss, it was forced, she hadn't asked for it, it had just been given, no choice, no choice at all.

There was no way Tara was going to force it. She knew the signs, as instinctively as any woman.

There may be a tall man with icy eyes in Willow's life, but at this moment that man didn't exist. Her eyes were responding to Tara, and she pursed her lips, ever so slightly. Those eyes, those green grass and sunshine eyes, they weren't looking at Tara's eyes any more. They were looking at Tara's lips, and there was fascination in them. She never would have crossed this line by herself, Tara knew it. But here, with Tara, in silence, in discomfort, the smell of white tea with jasmine and leather books, Willow was fulfilling a fantasy she never knew she had.

Tara wondered if Willow would ever be the same again.

If Tara would ever be the same again.






I'll put up part 4 on Tuesday. Enjoy!

Phoenix

seriously? this is awesome. dibs.

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Lotus

Yay for great update-y goodness... I'm starting to wonder how old Tara really is, is she still human? I hope Willow is able to help Tara in her strugle against her nightmares...

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We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.

Just when I thought, I’d get on this train at the departure point I find myself running to three stops down the line!

I just know I’m going to be as enthralled with this tale as I was with The Lamb.

I feel like a fly enticed onto the web, and your storytelling is the spider that’s going to wrap me up in the silk of your words and leave me dangling for the next installment.

I’d been thinking of the spider/fly analogy as I started reading. Tara was the spider, but now it seems like Willow is the more dangerous – to Tara at any rate.

It’s a very different take on our girls, and all the more delicious for it.

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People grow through experience if they meet life honestly and courageously. This is how character is built. Eleanor Roosevelt

Damn, woman, you know how to describe a tense moment that literally drips with meaning, desire, fear, mystery, history, and gee wiz, how about anything else. I forgot how well you can captivate my attention. I'm struck by how quickly and effortlessly Willow got under Tara's skin. And I remember just how masterfully you wield Tara. Is it as easy to write for you as I suspect it is? If not, my goodness, you make it seem effortless.

I love this. Keep 'em coming.


And I dunno how I'm getting so lucky with these dibses, I honestly just checked here for the first time all day and was dumbfounded to have gotten a third one in a row. I suppose I'm just lucky that masterjendu is busy with school and not here as often as she might like. Hee!

eta: I forgot to mention just how thrilled I was reading about the respect and care described in this chapter in regard to books. They're physical things I cherish, and parts of me cringe with the disrespect shown to them more often than not. So thank for making part of me sing

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Lotus

A little confusing, but very amazing. I love seeing into Tara's thoughts.

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"To days to come."
"All my love to long ago.

I hope, we'll have more happy ever after
I hope, we can all live more fearlessly...

~Jas

This is so cool!

And it's getting more interesting with each update.

You definitely got the Midas touch.

Congrats on another great fic!

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Nadie debe decidir por mí a quién debo amar, con quién debo acostarme.

Hector Avellan.

Jen - I’ve really enjoyed these first three installments. I’ve been reading along even if I couldn’t manage the feedback right off.

Part I – Well my first thought was that I just couldn’t imagine Willow chasing the dragon. I mean in any incarnation it’s hard to imagine her as a dope-head, especially opium. But you do a very good job of showing her pain.

Well that’s just enough to tell us nothing about what we’re about to read.

Both this update and the next make me think of Tara sort of like when you watch cop dramas on the tv. The detectives manage to know so much about people by whether their car is clean and whether they field strip their cigarettes. Tara’s like that – reading so much by clothing and name and stance. It’s quite beautiful to read/watch. I like that she tells Willow her name. It lends a sort of equality to what is not at all an equal situation.

An excellent end to the first update. You’ve captured your readers and now can keep them.

Then we’re all in this together. How fun.

Part 2 – Interesting that Willow wasn’t made off-balance by the setting.
I think this really shows what I love about this update. I love the intimacy of Tara’s fantasies of Willow. Each one is sort of the lightest touch or a puff of air. It would have been as erotic but more forceful to have had her fantasize about kissing the inside of Willow’s thigh or edge of her nipple and especially to imagine Willow throwing her head back in orgasm. I think many writers would have gone there, imagining that as restrained. But this Tara is the height of restrained in her fantasies. They are type of thing that you could almost tell a client without her feeling violated. Almost.

I do this sometimes for timing as well. There’s a funny story from The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. The writer is talking about how the koolaiders were taking acid in lab tests and they were trying to tell the scientists just what the effects were but the scientists didn’t care. They just wanted to test pulse and temperature and time distortion. So the subjects started playing games. The scientist would write 82 for a pulse rate, then say, “could you tell me when you think it’s been a minute?” One time the subject would count 3 beats and say, “Now!” The next, he might count 3000 beats and say, “Now!” Boy was that OT.

Even that is restrained. It shows so much about Tara’s distance.

Part 3 –

I can tell you as someone who has dreamt of the dead that they don’t have to speak. Tara’s gift can still be extremely valuable.

I love Tara’s infatuation here because I feel like it adds some equality. Not that it seems possible but I’m hopeful. I love that Willow asks if Tara is ok.

So, Tara gives dreams and takes nightmares? But what does she get from the client? A piece of soul? Immortality? Can she give it up? You’ve planted a wonderful premise and set of questions.

I can only assume that this “puff of air” repetition is intentional. I’m also wondering to what extent you’re using the nature of the elements here.

Oh Tara. You are surely damned.

I’m so very excited by all of this and I hope the updates will be frequently and regular.

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Menorah Tales | Working It Out | Random Bits

I just wanted to pop in and give a bit of feedback before the next installment arrives.. I love the slow unravelling of this fic, coiling like the smoke down in the poppy den.. Who is Tara? What is it with giving dreams and pyaing for it with nightmares (I have a feeling it's the client's nightmares she takes..). Willow will come back though after this dream, I know it, and she will keep coming back until it is not for the dreams but for the shared comfort of being together.. Only, what is the price Tara keep talking about, and how will it affect their frail, newly blossoming intimity? Hmm.. Looking forward to the next chapter and to get to ask more questions

Fly forever free,
-Nenyath

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My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies
Fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die
I can fly - my friends
~The Show Must Go On by Queen

Feedback, update, and a little news!

So, among my hobbies I like to write (no really!), and I like to sing. So in October I decided to join a local barbershop chorus. We're rather good, actually. We've been invited to do a gig in New York.

At Carnegie Hall.

That's right. You heard me. Carnegie. Hall.



ahem.

So if you happen to be around the Big Apple on February 15, please come see me on stage at Carnegie with my chorus!

On to the feedback (I just found out today that I passed the screening test, so that's why the extra excitement).

Zooey's Bridge - Yep. Spycam. I'm onto you now. Well done on your three for three! Let's see if anyone can knock you off the dibs throne!


Zampsa - Hmm, you're sensing some Tara-not-human vibes? I shall reveal all in time! As to how old she really is, I went to ask her and she countered with the ole "How old do you think I am?" ploy. So I just shut up.


Paint the sky - I could be sorry for making you run three stops down the track, but that would mean slower updating, and then you'd be drawn and quartered by everyone else. I'm glad you caught the train and that you are enjoying the ride. The spider/fly analogy is a good one, but you're right: who is the spider, and who is the fly?


Zooey's bridge - again - I'm glad you liked the part about the respect for books. As you can imagine, masterjendu loved that part as well. This Tara is actually pretty easy for me to write - and this whole story has been an intoxicating experience for me. I hope you continue to enjoy it.


crazytarawitch - I'm notorious for meaning within meaning. If you're ever so confused you want to stop reading, please let me know. Sometimes I go over the top with my own cleverness. Do keep reading, though, some things are about to become clear.


ceridwen - Yay! I'm glad to see you here. Midas touch? He turned everything into gold right? Aw shucks. I'm glad you're enjoying it.


JustSkipIt - DEB! Awesome to hear from you, and to have such nuggets of feedback. I feel extra special; I know time and you don't always get along. I'm glad you enjoyed Tara's fantasies of Willow, how restrained they were. They were so much fun to write, and fit in so well with her overall character of this piece. I love that you've brought up the "what's in it for Tara" question. I will tell you eventually - I just figured it out today myself on my walk home from work! Keep reading, and chime in when you can!


Nenyath - Thanks for popping in before the next post and leaving me your nuggets. I love the KB feedback system - I can always get ideas from all of you! Of course, we're all pretty certain Willow will come back, just how? I promise a slow and delicious unraveling.


Update in a few minutes!
Phoenix

[center]~4~[/center]

On her knees before Tara, Willow waited, her serene patience belied only by a slight twinge in her eyes. Tara's hands were clasped behind Willow's neck, her thumbs in that hollow just below Willow's ears. There was no sound except for breathing: Tara's slow and steady exhalation, and Willow's slightly more ragged breaths. Both of their worlds had crystallized in this one moment, the fulcrum of their destiny.

(I must bring her back

I don't have much time left)

Tara didn't have to pull. Of her own accord, Willow rose on her knees, then hovered at the distance she deemed appropriate, somewhere between forehead and mouth. Yet she still distanced herself from the event about to occur; her arms lay passively by her sides. Tara calculated that distance between Willow's mouth and her own, and hated herself for it. With a slight puff of breath on Willow's skin, Tara drew her face close, close, closer, and then stopped, hovering just above completion. She could pull, but she wouldn't.

How long would Willow wait with the hint of warmth just above, just millimetres away?

(Kiss me, Willow.)

Willow closed the distance as Tara hoped

(despaired!)

she would, thrusting her lips at Tara in a manner that might almost be deemed frantic. Tara caught them, and held them, and could have wept for the pain of it. It had been so very long.

Here, in safety, in privacy, Tara let Willow explore, though she doubted Willow knew that was what she was doing. For a long moment Willow's lips simply pressed against Tara's own, then a bit harder as she adjusted to the fullness, the roundness. There was the tiniest tilt as Willow breathed through her nose and Tara, helpless now, captive of Willow's whirlpool, felt the tip of Willow's tongue brush against her closed lips.

With a great deal of restraint, Tara kept herself from crushing the woman in an embrace, choosing for now to let her hands stay exactly where they were, nestled in the silken depths of Willow's hair. She felt Willow's tongue again, and Tara parted her lips ever so slightly, wondering, wondering.

What was this? Willow's hands had been by her sides mere moments ago. Now they were lifting, and Tara felt the tips of Willow's fingers run almost shyly along the ridge of Tara's spine, igniting sparks and shivers deep in Tara's core, then those fingers crested the rise of Tara's shoulders to sink into the warmth of blonde hair. Her thumbs were mimicking Tara's thumbs, finding that exquisite hollow between jaw and ear, and pressing lightly in it.

And Willow pulled her lips away, and for a moment Tara despaired, but then Willow recaptured Tara's lips again, turning what had been a somewhat chaste kiss into a lover's kiss. Tara wondered if Willow knew it, had planned it, but then she had no more space in her addled brain to analyze anything but the exquisite taste of Willow's lips, the lips that opened a little more now, the lips that teased open Tara's own, the shy tongue that would run over Tara's bottom lip but no more.

It was all Tara could do to suppress a moan, and Willow pulled away only to find yet another sweet spot, another oasis for unlucky and lovelorn travelers. Willow's fingers had been content in Tara's hair, but now they moved closer, squeezing Tara's unadorned earlobes between thumb and forefinger. Desire pooled in Tara's limbs, made her feel weak, and she wondered what signals she had been sending Willow to make her so brazen.

The beauty could not last, and a moment later Willow pressed hard one last time before she pulled back for good, Tara's kiss-swollen lips feeling stark and empty. Tara could immediately feel the emptiness behind her eyes and knew that the dream had been transferred successfully to her newest client. Would Willow like it? Would Willow come back for another one?

(I should bring her back, I should)

Would there be shame in Willow's eyes when she opened them now?

Astonishingly Willow's gaze was clear, her cheeks flushed, and she was trying to control her breathing, as Tara was. There was something in her eyes, some new confusion as she looked on Tara, but Tara was too exhausted and exhilarated to determine just what it was.

“That's it?” Willow asked timidly, using the arm of the chair to help her stand up. “Just a kiss and it's done?”

(I should)

Tara nodded, then she tried to rise. Her muscles felt gummy and thick, and Willow seemed to notice. She extended her fingers, those delicate and exquisite fingers, and helped Tara rise. Her designer clothing and petite frame very effectively hid the enormous amount of strength in Willow's arms and hands. Tara was lifted so quickly and efficiently that she felt dizzy for a moment. Tara stood there, blinking, her head ducked, and Willow kept holding her hands.

(get her out)

Chanel and jasmine and oiled leather. Tara was drowning in Willow, captured in the depths of the Aegean seas of Willow's eyes, chained by her soft and strong hands.

(Remember the collar.)

Looking into Willow's eyes, losing herself in the tranquil depths of forested paths that led through space and time, Tara deliberately ran her tongue over her mouth. She had a taste now. How long could she make it last?

Willow's open face was enchanting, with a soft and rosy glow to her cheeks, and Tara still looked at her in wonder.

(I'm running out of time

I must use her, I must)

Tara could not help herself; she dropped one of Willow's hands to caress Willow's cheek, her client's eyes widening as she did so. Tara's fingers tucked a piece of hair behind Willow's delicate ear, then trailed down Willow's neck, feeling once again the sinewy strength within. The desire to kiss her again, and again, rose inside her with clawing fury.

Tara wanted to rip off those designer clothes, and draw Willow's breast into her mouth, to feel if Willow's stomach was as hard and tight as her shoulders, to hear what sounds would come from Willow's throat if she licked the skin underneath the pendant.

(I won't)

Tara dropped her hand, forced her mouth into a tight little line. With every ounce of effort in her soul, Tara closed herself in, and set a mask of disdain and condescension on her face. Willow immediately noticed, and her eyes narrowed in surprise.

(I never want to see you again)

Silence was a two-bladed sword that cut them both. Every moment that Tara continued her haughty, arrogant posture, Willow followed suit, until they were two strangers staring at each other.

“How much do I owe you?” Willow asked, her voice tight and raw. She opened her handbag and drew out a sleek leather wallet, not new, but never used before today, either. By all indications, Willow had been preparing for this day for quite some time.

Gold buttons. Diamond studded watch.

(never again, Willow)

Tara's sliding scale went from $50 for those who could barely afford it, to $10,000 for those that could. She did not bother at all with rupahs – the coinage of the lower classes. Willow may have been surprised to know how many celebrities had been in that chair, had received a kiss on the forehead from Tara. That top calibre of her clientele just proved how lonesome their lives were, how empty and unsatisfying money and fame was. She had built many a dream of mediocrity for them, just to give a little respite. They more than willingly shelled out thousands for Tara's dreams.

And damn her, Tara let them. They may not stink of burnt poppy, shambling away in opiate bliss, but they were junkies all the same. Dream junkies, coming to her again and again, until waking was the nightmare and the dream the only reality they wanted.

(I am as much a slave)

And when that cataclysmic moment came, those clients ascended the stairs one floor further, and disappeared forever.

Tara looked into the hurt and bleeding eyes of Willow and knew she never wanted to see Willow again. Part of her heart had been captured by this fragile woman, held hostage in the shadowy recesses of Willow's soul.

And Willow could never know it.

(I will never let her go upstairs)

By entering the poppy den below, Willow had unwittingly entered a realm of the damned. In the space of this one afternoon, Tara discovered that she would not lead Willow any further down this dark and dangerous path. Willow deserved light, and love, and a future untainted by Tara's eventual betrayal.

(my road leads to hell)

“Tara?” Willow asked softly, breaking into the apothecary's reverie.

(and you will not be my sacrifice. I'll die first.)

“Ten thousand dollars,” Tara said quietly, looking straight into Willow's eyes. She wanted to memorize them, because when night came, when the screams came, she would doubt this resolve.

(You will never know enough to thank me.)

Willow didn't flinch, but her eyes started blazing. Distant, condescending, her heart aching because of it, Tara kept her mouth in that sharp line and waited for Willow's response.

Willow had to put away her wallet. She reached into her bag and withdrew 15 stacks of bank notes, staring at Tara the entire time. Neither of them said a word. When Tara would not extend her hand to take the money, Willow bent over to place it on the tea table, next to the book, next to the stale and cool pot of tea.

“Thank you,” Willow said, her chin stubbornly raised again, her eyes hard as tulipani jewels. As she brushed past her, Tara could smell Chanel in her wake. The beads clattered as Willow let herself out, and Tara stood very still, just breathing.

(go with whatever blessing you'll accept from the damned, Willow)

After a few moments, Tara forced her body to move. Her movements sluggish and slow, Tara gathered the tea tray. She ran her fingers over the book Willow had been reading. She left the bills right where they were.

Retreating to the kitchen, Tara finally realized why Willow had looked confused right after their kiss. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, Tara saw that at least half of the brown colour had retreated from her sunny tresses.

Tara had never kissed a client on the mouth before.

Willow had just taken half of Tara's nightmare with her, a most unwelcome and unknown souvenir of her visit. Tara's throat closed in pure anguish.

(You didn't want her to come back, remember?)

Now it was at least certain. Willow's perfect dream of Buffy-bliss at the fair was going to turn horrific on her. After spending fifteen thousand dollars on it, Tara knew that Willow would never return to her den.

(That's better. Safer. Not for you, but for her.)

Tara still wished she could warn Willow of the impending change, but there had been no exchange of information, no business card, no phone number.

(I don't even know her surname.)

No hope of seeing those eyes, kissing those lips again.

Tara thought of those lips, and ran her tongue over her own, tasting Willow there. Her eyes burned in remorse.

(doamne fereste!)




Next part on Thursday!
Phoenix

Dibs

ETA: Jen, Another great update and I even got dibs. What are the odds? Not very good – I’ll tell you that.

Before I get to this update, one thing I forgot to put in the last bunch of feedback was I wondered if there would come a time that Willow will ask to dream of Tara.

I like that. Very simple but very clear as well.

I feel like you had a similar imagery (nothing wrong with that – it’s quite effective) in the first kiss between Willow and the Tara/Angel in The Lamb

Actually I wonder that a bit too.

It must be a very effective mask.

Ok. What’s Willow’s beef here? She asked for a service and didn’t negotiate up front. She pays what she pays and she has it.

Oh very very interesting. I wonder what the nightmare will be? A replay of what really happened to Buffy maybe? Something worse?

I feel like this update leaves us with a lot of questions about what Tara gets from the deal and who is upstairs and how does Tara send them there. I’m also not sure why Willow is so upset about Tara’s change in mood. If she assumes (and why shouldn’t she) that a kiss is how Tara gives all dreams and she doesn’t know that it should be on the forehead, then she shouldn’t take personally the impersonality of the exchange. It’s a little like paying a hooker or a dancer and then being hurt that she’s not willing to fake affection for you if you run into her at Wal-mart. I’m not saying that Tara’s a hooker. I’m just saying that as far as Willow knows, that kiss is her SOP.

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Menorah Tales | Working It Out | Random Bits

This is sooooooo great! I really wanna read more

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Nadie debe decidir por mí a quién debo amar, con quién debo acostarme.

Hector Avellan.

Yay for great update-y goodness... I wonder how Willow would react to her dream/nightmare... I kinda hope she goes back to Tara and they both work to resolve the situation... I really hope that Willow doesn't hate Tara for giving her some of her own nightmares...

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We few, we happy few. We band of buggered.

Posting While Nude Improves Your Mood.