"She had the capacity to to the wrong thing for the most noble of reasons"
Wow! I'm enthralled by this fic, your take on Willow's state of mind and dealings with the pain is riveting. Biting my nails waiting for the next part.
by nika » Tue Oct 02, 2001 5:06 am
Wow! I'm enthralled by this fic, your take on Willow's state of mind and dealings with the pain is riveting. Biting my nails waiting for the next part.
by Wolfie » Wed Oct 03, 2001 12:32 am
Thanks for the vote of confidence on my insight into the notion of pain ... Knew all those years of sticking rusty forks into my leg wouldn't go to waste
[This message has been edited by Wolfie (edited October 03, 2001).]
by Wolfie » Sat Oct 06, 2001 3:32 am
Anyway, have been at the ole' song writing this week, and with some failed attempts, a couple of tantrums, vomiting puppies, the lastest instalment in the soap opera that is my family, I came up with this. Can you guess, I've been listening to lots of Nick Cave and Jeff Buckley this week? Oh, and found just the cutest chord, which is the musical basis for the song - an Emag7add9, with extra bits - lovely!
Anyway, it's almost kinda relevent, so I thought I would write it up here, and see what you think. It's about a seduction:
Two Profiles
You held in your hand a mystery
A single white rose you'd give to me
Said; "between the fissures and the wounds you see
Will come streams of scarlet butterflies
And though their wings will tear my soul
And my flesh is bruised from this white rose
And though I don't use cliche's as a rule
I'll give it all to you".
If tears mean anything at all
I'll forgive them, even when they're false
Written epithets of a love greater guessed
Bled white like the rose - before the petals fall
So kiss me - kiss me
Kiss me - again and again
Kiss me - hold me, devour me
As a sign of satisfaction
I'll make my decision - in the morning
Kiss me - no more, no less
Kiss me - oh, Hell, yes!
Kiss me - just try not to guess
Don't assume I've acquiesced
When my fingers slide down your chest
So I staked a claim
That love takes a chance on a whim
Barely a nod to consequence
Mouths clashing exploring searching
Collapsed in fits of giggles
In a heap of rhapsodic limbs
Just a little nip and you grinned
And slipped a hand behind my neck
Staring into a darkness
Where a ceiling used to be
New scents, with new questions like pleas
Don't give me back when you've kissed me
So kiss me - kiss me
Kiss me - just kiss me
Kiss me - don't hold me to blame
Our profiles are more or less the same
Kiss me - kiss me
Kiss me - kiss me
Kiss me - with wild abandon
Who cares what they say - I don't give a damn.
Well, that's it. Feel free to wax lyrical or grind derisorily beneath your heel, as you wish.
by WiccanBex » Sat Oct 06, 2001 4:36 am
so talented
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"if you throw a stone, something's gonna shatter somewhere. We're all so fragile, we're all so scared."
nocturnal review site
by emily 'first' » Sat Oct 27, 2001 4:11 am
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vive,valeque.
[This message has been edited by emily 'first' (edited October 27, 2001).]
by Shewolf » Sat Oct 27, 2001 5:24 am
I especially like the fact all the Scoobies have cameos in your story.Post the next part soon...Please?
[This message has been edited by Shewolf (edited October 27, 2001).]
by Bunny » Sun Oct 28, 2001 3:15 pm
oohps had to edit the comma, now you know why I read it and don't write it!
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FF Meeting: - "Hi my name's Lee and I'm a Fan Ficaholic"
[This message has been edited by Bunny (edited October 28, 2001).]
by Alliette » Mon Oct 29, 2001 5:38 pm
Alliette
by Wolfie » Sat Nov 03, 2001 12:03 pm
by Bunny » Sat Nov 03, 2001 3:24 pm
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FF Meeting: - "Hi my name's Lee and I'm a Fan Ficaholic"
by Wolfie » Fri Dec 07, 2001 5:42 pm
Well, here it is, Kitties.
Aftermath, By Wolfie
Part Six
Story: Just to remind ye'll; Post Buffy-snuffs-it fallout, and Willow goes off the rails. Will Tara save her?
Rating: Well, this one is an "R", simply because all the others are, but there's not really anything naughty in this one; I just can't remember what the next one down is.
Disclaimer: Well, everyone else has probably disowned this fic, so I shall, too. Oh, and I don't own the characters, etc.
Feedback: As always, feel free to do so. Am always willing to partake in a little Y-incision japery.
Description: Later in the morning after the night before. Tara takes a trip to see Giles, while Willow carries on being a naughty girl ...
Part as I so correctly stated at the top six.
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Tara rested the heels of her hands lightly behind her knees and drummed her fingertips on the crests of her patella's. She was in the courtyard outside Giles' apartment; perched primly on the low wall that enclosed the raised pond at its centre. Every now and again, she gave his front door a diffident half-glance, as though, at any moment, it might slough its apparent disguise; revealing the voracious maw of a predatory beast. She'd been there perhaps five minutes and for the first time, an uneasy quiet had settled over the immediate vicinity, broken only by the tinkle of wind chimes and a water feature that hunkered down in a foliage-strewn corner. It was one of those little ones; pretending to be a mountain spring, bubbling water over a clump of pink and grey pebbles. Tara shifted on her seat and shot the incessant burble a reproachful glance. Her fingers recommenced their drumming, the taps synchronised; methodically working outwards from index to pinkie, then back again.
A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth, as she ran her eye over the surrounding decor. She imagined the ghost of Father Serra, drifting contentedly into Sunnydale and clasping his ethereal hands together in delighted anticipation, as he surveyed the parades of missionary architecture, only to discover, once across their wrought and carved thresholds, not the symbols of Catholic piety, but the trappings of a cursorily pagan fashion sense: The residents of LA's tributary Vales dressed their abodes the same way they dressed themselves; in a dilettantish conglomeration of styles that slipped out of an ether of their own devising. Cultural resonance was thinned by the colloquialisms of fashionable designers...
(Tara brought her train of thought to a guilty halt. Was she being unfair? She certainly sounded like an undergrad student; all bluster and big words. Sunnydale had seemed so exotic when she first arrived. Familiarity so often usurped irony with contempt: Given time, she would apply such cynicism to any city or town in the world - All the monument-laden cities in the East; the historical treasure-troves of Europe. She smiled self-deprecatingly. Still, she wasn't the only one: What did Giles call it? Cultural Jerry-building?)
She like the details, however: The little terra cotta tiles on the steps; the cascades of trailing ivy; the painstakingly "aged" finishes on the woodwork. It was all very decorative - much more than her home town - which eschewed chic values, preferring a rugged pragmatism instead. It highlighted her own outsider status - an irony not lost on her - but at least it lent her the luxury of being an anomaly with a cause.
Tara rolled her eyes at herself: Little-Miss-Outsider-Looking-In. If Willow was here, she would be looking at her right now, with that little knowing smile of hers, ready for Tara to talk herself into a self-conscious impasse, sensing an opportunity to raise a sultry eyebrow and deftly close the subject with a secret promise. Something that would make her blush from her neck to her ears, and excuse her, with the delicate hand of a nurturing lover, of the number of faux pas already committed in the name of cultural difference. She still cringed, when she recalled plunging in, early on in their relationship, talking animatedly about disarmament issues to an increasingly bemused Willow, all because she had assumed the symbol on her sweater meant something. It did, but, Willow explained rather sheepishly, she actually chose it because she simply "liked the pattern".
Willow was interesting in this respect: Here was a young woman who was prodigiously intelligent - she pursued issues and ideas with a passion that bordered on a wild, frenetic fanaticism at times - and had, like her, a familiarity with the darker walls of obscurity, yet she was still redolent with the dictates of fashion and the drive to "make a statement". Tara tried not to bother with such things, usually deflecting Willow's cajoling, with a wry "I d-don't really think I n-need to advertise my insecurity, honey".
That was their difference, perhaps: Willow, for instance, was still smarting from an episode prior to their own meeting, when a chance conversation with an old High School colleague ended with her being referred to as a "geek". Tara, of course, had failed to assuage the angst (when the matter was aired during one of Willow's monthly self-doubtathons), with the pre-requisite "there-there", by suggesting that being a "geek" wasn't all that bad, that at least it meant Willow had belonged to an established part of High School society. It was, surely, she reasoned to herself, better than some of the labels she'd endured. She was, however, oh, so very wrong. Willow, it seemed, wanted to belong. And in College life, she actually did, she felt, and certainly didn't like being reminded of a time when it was otherwise; especially by people on sports scholarships. So, despite her ironic, and, at times, downright acrid asides to the fashion ho's around them, image was still important. But even if she wanted to, Tara couldn't keep up with Willow's compulsive ecstasies when investigating the latest line in Wiccan chic. Tara was usually content to sit and observe the flurry of items: "Now, um, that was the size, oh, no - wait - um ... Tare, did you see what I did with the hanger for, no, here it is ... No, wait a moment ... that one went there, so what happened to this one ..?" Truth was, she found it sweet - not that she would dare say that to Willow.
Tara snapped out of her reverie and glanced back at the door. It must be ten minutes by now. Perhaps she should try again. She stifled a yawn and disengaged her hands from her knees to facilitate a furtive stretch.
It was stupid, really: She had been so preoccupied with her thoughts, that she failed to notice the tidal wave of sound flooding from the apartment. Consequentially, she found herself caught, with the door knocker poised between forefinger and thumb; wearing a cartoonish expression of flinching surprise, as a terrifying, near-bestial howl jarred her into awareness:
"DAWN!! WILL YOU TURN THAT BLOODY NOISE DOWN!!!"
That was Giles' voice. Tara became suddenly aware that not only the apartment, but the whole condo was throbbing with the metal excesses of a band she recognised as Kittie (a legacy of Willow's first dorm-mate - they had trawled through a carrier-bag-full of tapes that "happened" to fall into Willow's possession when she moved out, and had never gotten around to giving back, owing to the owner having dropped out shortly after. Most were shockingly bad, but Xander, who had been present, had been rather taken by the "rare chicks", and had ordered them play the tape). Mind you, the music took her back: Craning over a cluttered desk, attempting to snatch homework time between the vociferous demands of her brothers, while the stereo in the next room pulsed with the gargled bellows of hairy men in Nu-metal shorts.
Poor Giles, she thought. She sneaked a peek through the adjacent window, and caught a glimpse of someone striding purposefully towards the stairs.
She glanced down at the knocker, which was still poised to advertise her presence. Very gently, she eased it back into place, and with baited breath, backed gingerly from the door. So, she was now biding her time for a less confrontational moment to venture into the Giles household. Confrontations weren't her best suit.
She sighed - she really ought to be making some sort of move - sitting here would do no good. She glanced at the door. It stared unflinchingly back. Tara heaved another sigh, crossed her legs and looked about some more. A white gleam caught her attention. A neo-classical statue - some sort of water nymph, she supposed, noting its proximity to the "spring" - enticed her with its smooth, alabaster nudity. She ran her gaze over it for an appreciative moment, even tilting back slightly to facilitate a better view, then smiled wryly, noting the fullness of the nymph's figure: Obviously, nobody had worked out a way of force-feeding ex-lax to sculptures, she thought. She frowned and flexed her shoulders, forcibly turning her attention back to the front door.
Just then, it opened, and a somewhat dischevelled Giles emerged, stooping to retrieve the morning paper. He suddenly noticed Tara, and straightened, peering owlishly at her.
"Oh! Ah, Tara. Hello. You were waiting for me?"
Tara blushed and wished she'd taken a walk around the block.
"I-I um, I w-was. Hi, Mr Giles," she added, her expression flitting between a smile and a grimace. "Y-you seemed a l-little, um ... Busy."
Enlightenment flooded Giles' face, pursued by mortification at the lack of decorum his household was evidently exhibiting. He gratefully accepted the concilliatory smile Tara offered, herself grateful at having something constructive to offer, other than shuffle and feel embarrassed over her poor timing. He pushed the door wide, and flapped a hand at the interior beyond.
"Please, come in ... If you dare. Personally, I think anyone who isn't an earless demon is at risk in there, but that's just my opinion, which, of course, counts for nothing."
"Dawnie's musical taste is developing," commented Tara, as she walked past.
"Hmmm, I-I'd prefer to debate the use of words, like 'music' and 'taste'. I always like to think of myself as being open-minded, but there are limits." He followed Tara and closed the door after them. "I'm finding myself thinking of the time when Dawn actually favoured boys who knew how to shave - or, indeed, didn't need to - and who did nothing more than smile glibly while dancing in synchronised groups, and," he smiled whistfully, "missing it terribly."
They wandered further into the room; Tara, as usual, battling with early-conversational jitters, while Giles absently leafed through his mail.
"So," he asked, without looking up, "how are you? How's Willow? I-is she eating?"
"Oh, I-I'm fine. Willow's -" she wagged her head from side to side, "- progressing, I guess. S-she's still not eating -"
"Oh, Lord."
Tara looked up, to find Giles staring aghast at what appeared to be a phone bill. With a shudder, he stuffed it back into the envelope, and dropped it onto the writing desk. He became aware that Tara was standing, politely smiling, waiting for a comment.
"Hmmm, what? She's still not eating?" He frowned. "That's not good. Well, apart from that, how is she?"
Tara shrugged. "Suddenly very sweet. Had a talk to self, apparently."
Giles smiled at the Willowism, and wondered whether Tara had noticed she'd picked it up.
There was a crash over their heads, followed by the thunder of footsteps across the ceiling. A figure appeared at the top of the stairs; slightly gawky, and no longer cheerfully dressed, but clad, alternatively, in black, ludicrously hipster jeans, crowned with a low-slung belt, studded with chrome eyelets (Tara rolled her eyes to herself: Willow had been trying to get her into a pair like that, justifying, with apparent logic, "hipsters seem, well, kinda redundant when you don't have any hips"), black cropped top, teeny biker boots, aggressively applied black eyeliner, and hair that had possibly been caught in the crossfire in a dye-factory explosion.
"That wasn't me - I didn't touch anything," said Dawn, through the bannisters.
Giles groaned and sloped off towards the kitchen, muttering, "I don't want to know." Dawn, noticing Tara, grinned cheerfully. "Oh, hi, Tara."
Tara bobbed and offered a wave. "Hi, Dawnie."
"Say, Willow's not done anything else, has she -" Dawn rolled her eyes, "'cause, yikes!" She tilted her head in Giles' direction. "Don't wanna stir that pot." She grimaced, and clomped down the stairs. Once at the bottom, she bounded over to the back of the sofa, vaulted over it, and landed in a flurry of cushions. Giles' disembodied head popped crossly through the kitchen hatch.
"Dawn!"
Dawn looked at him with a pained expression. "What?" she asked, accusingly. They glared at each other for a moment, before Giles retreated with a discernable shudder.
Dawn rolled her eyes, and turned back, folding her arms in a fit of pique.
"God," she said, not quite loud enough for her voice to carry to the kitchen. Tara stifled a snigger, and positioned herself on a stool at the kitchen hatch. Giles sighed and glanced at her. She offered a commiserating smile - something she seemed to be doing a lot, these days.
"Some tea?" he asked.
She nodded, a trifle hesitantly. "Y-yes, please. I-if y-you're -"
"O-oh, a-ah, yes, I-I -"
"T-thank -"
They stopped when they heard a derisory snort from the direction of the sofa, and silently concluded it was probably best for Giles to get on with the tea-making.
Over his shoulder, Giles called, "Dawn? Would you like -"
"- Ewww! No, thankyou!"
Giles turned and placed a mug on the ledge in front of Tara.
"Tea," he announced. Tara smiled, and lacing her fingers gently around the handle, cradled the mug to her. Upon examining the contents, however, she was unable to hide a look of suspicion, and surreptitiously sniffed at it.
"W-what kind of tea is this, Mr Giles?"
"Oh, ah, camomile, I think. A-at least that's what it says on the box. I can change it if it is horrible."
"Oh, n-no, th-thankyou. I'm sure it's lovely," she gushed unconvincingly.
Giles appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tea towel draped over one shoulder. He leaned against the wall, and slurped enthusiastically from his mug, while taking hawkish glances at the sofa and its occupant, who was, apparently, ignoring him.
"But no tantrums?"
"What?"
"Willow. No cross words?"
"Oh. None."
Giles nodded hopefully at the news. "Well, I must say, this is a development in the right direction. Hard to know how to handle someone of Willow's age suffering from, well, a fit of adolescent pique. It's one thing in a fourteen year old -"
A petulant voice rose from the depths of the sofa. "Oh, I so don't have tantrums!"
Giles raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked. Dawn, baited by the sardonic tone of his voice, stiffened and looked at him crossly. Tara began a close scrutiny of her cuticles.
"Oh, right. Like I've ever used language like that." Dawn grimaced theatrically. "Jeeze."
Giles glanced enquiringly at Tara. "Language?" he asked mildy.
"Oh, n-no ... Well, ah -"
"Great. Fine."
"Oh, don't worry," chimed in Dawn, with a helpful grin. "Nothing I hadn't already heard."
"Well, it's comforting to know that Willow's efforts were not wholly needed." Giles took a swig from his mug, and dropped wearily into an arm chair. After a moment, he looked at Tara, and asked, "so, do you think it's genuine, this 'talking to' she's given herself?"
"Well, um ..."
Tara looked pointedly at Dawn, who was sitting, knees clamped to her chest, rocking slightly on the settee. She was humming to herself, while making a blank study of the wall opposite. Obviously, hanging onto every syllable. Giles cleared his throat, and leaned towards her.
"Dawn? Would you do me a favour?"
Dawn looked at him dryly. "What?"
"There's, ah, a box of books in the boot of the car. Could you get them for me?"
"A box of books?"
Giles nodded patiently. "Yes," he replied. "A box of books. The keys are on the hook in the kitchen."
Dawn glanced over at Tara, who was wriggling uncomfortably on her stool, then back at Giles. He arched his brow and smiled expectantly at her. She sighed heavily, and with as much laboured effort as she could muster, hauled herself to her feet. With a reproachful glare at Giles, she shuffled towards the kitchen. She reached past Tara, almost brushing her shoulder, and snatched the keys from their hook, just inside the hatch. Tara offered her an olive branch by way of a look that, she hoped, said "at least you're not drinking strange tea and plotting behind your girlfriends back". In return, she received a sardonic, but blameless grimace. Then, noticing that Giles was still waiting, Dawn said crossly,
"What? I'm going, aren't I? God, like I really need to know every word Willow says." She turned on her heel and mooched deliberately out of the apartment. They listened to her heavy tread up the steps, then, when they had sufficiently faded, Giles motioned at the empty settee before him.
"Please," he said. Tara smiled shyly, slid gratefully from her perch and scooted over to the settee. Perching on the edge, she took a deep breath, then said,
"S-she's not lying, exactly, but, I don't know ..." She shrugged and looked at the floor.
"- She's not being entirely honest, either?"
Tara shook her head. "No. She's hiding something. Willow said all this stuff, like she was being open, but, I-I think she was, well, a bit off, you know?"
Giles smiled and nodded.
"I found some things, in-in her wash bag, w-when she was asleep ... And there was a spell."
"- A spell?" Giles seemed to flinch at the word. He leaned forward and looked at her intently.
"A protection spell. I-it was on the bag, so she would know if anyone looked."
Giles frowned. "What did you find?"
"Well, there was a photograph, a diary - one of Buffy's -"
"- Buffy's?"
"- A-and a talisman of some kind."
Giles looked at her, then suddenly dropped his gaze, and, removing his glasses, began polishing them furiously.
"W-W-Willow said it came from someone called D'Hoffryn."
"Willow told you?" Giles seemed incredulous.
Tara shrugged. "Yes. Is this the demon you were worried about?"
"Well, one, anyway." Giles climbed out of his seat and walked over to the book case. As he browsed through the volumes neatly stacked there, he gave a mini lecture on the owner of Willow's amulet.
"D'Hoffryn, apparently, presides over some kind of demon court. He seems to enjoy bestowing gifts of immortality on those he feels will add a little spice to our already muddled world. It was D'Hoffryn who gave Anya her powers, allowing her to offer vengeance to scorned women for well over a thousand years, until I destroyed her power centre. But last year, he approached Willow, and offered her the same thing, hoping that, in her traumatised state, she would accept. She didn't, thankfully, but he evidently left a calling card. Willow had never admitted as much to me, but I had always suspected."
"T-traumatised?"
"Yes, ah, after, oh ..."
Giles turned, and, upon seeing Tara's expression, changed tack.
"... Well, what with one thing and another, but s-she got through it, a-and I'm sure she'll get through this -"
"Was it Oz?"
Giles sighed, smiled sympathetically, and replied, "yes."
"What did she do? I mean, it must have been serious, for -"
Gently, Giles interrupted her. "Well, it was only a few missplaced spells, really. I'm sure Willow would tell you herself, if you asked her."
Tara, taking the hint, blushed, smiled quickly, and went back to scrutinising the contents of her mug.
"And you say Willow placed a protection spell over the wash bag?"
"Yes."
"A-and you triggered it, when you looked in the bag?"
"Yes." Tara grimaced at herself. "Stupid, really. I didn't think."
"So, did Willow catch you?"
"N-not really. I decided to confront her with it this morning."
Giles removed his glasses and peered at her. "I must say, you took a bit of a chance. What did she say?"
"Well, Willow told me what it was for, and we talked. She admitted that she'd kind of thought of using it, but had decided not to, on account of the repercussions. She said she couldn't consider it, you know ..." Tara tailed off, abashed. She suddenly wanted to turn her attention elsewhere, and almost took a sip of tea.
Giles pursed his lips. "Do you believe her?"
"Oh, yes. A-about that, anyway."
"Still, it does seem to point to the fact that Willow is at least considering something. So, where is D'Hoffryn's talisman now?"
"Oh." Tara put her mug on the coffee table in front of her, and fished into her shoulder bag. Producing the amulet, she held it out to Giles. He took it eagerly, and scurried over to a window to take a closer look.
"A-and Willow gave this to you?" he asked, while he scrutinised the surface, running his fingers enquiringly over it.
"N-not exactly. Willow just left it lying on the bed."
"Well, that's not being very stealthy ... Though I suppose she might be telling the truth. She must have known you'd pick it up. So ... If the spell wasn't there for that - assuming, that is, she didn't change her mind, after you challenged her with it - then what?"
"The only other things were the photo and the diary."
Giles looked around quizzically.
"Did you say it was one of Buffy's diaries?" he asked.
"Yes."
"What year?"
"Uh, ninety-eight, I think."
"Was there anything dog-eared, or marked in any way?"
Tara shook her head. "Mmmm, no, I don't think so. I read some of the first entry. Seemed pretty normal. I was guessing Willow snagged it for sentimental reasons."
"Possibly." He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then shrugged to himself, and went back to browsing the book shelves.
"But nothing else has been moved?"
"No. Not that I could see. What about at the shop?"
"Nothing further. I-I mean, we still don't know it was Willow for sure, but I think she's our most likely candidate."
"I think she knows."
"That we suspect her? Oh, I expect so. She's a bright girl."
Tara smiled. "Yes, she is."
"Still, if she does, but hasn't confronted us over our suspicions, then I would say that in itself is an admission of guilt, wouldn't you say?"
"Um ... Perhaps."
Giles pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think the order of the day is caution. We must remain careful not to excite her. We must make sure Willow doesn't resort to ever more extreme measures. She may still do so. She's been known to do impulsive and, well, unconventional things in the past." He turned around in time to miss Tara's blush, but caught sight of her, as yet, undrained mug, sitting on the table.
"That must be cold," he said. "Do you want another?"
Tara looked ashamedly at the mug, and plucked it off the table. "It's okay," she said hurriedly. "I don't like it too hot."
Giles nodded and headed towards the kitchen. He paused, when he heard a glugging, followed by a choke. He turned around, to find Tara lowering the mug, and wiping her chin with her sleeve. She smiled guiltily at him.
"Lovely," she said.
*
The crypt was dank. But then, it was supposed to be; that was their raison d'etre; to infuse the bones with a funereal dampness. It was all the more incongruous, then, for this one to appear, for want of a better phrase, lived in. Mind you, the motley selection of furniture seemed to suggest something like an Emmin installation, rather than hint at any largesse in the area of home-building: They were more the rudimentary comforts of the bored than the conscious acquisition of material possessions.
There was a black leatherette armchair, which had seen better days; and, barely ten feet in front of it, an old, chunky television atop a battered plywood coffee table. One of its legs had, at some stage, been badly chewed. Another, similarly battered table stood beside the armchair; crowned with a tarnished brass table lamp, which gave a ruddy yellow glow through its nicotine-stained shade. Beside the lamp was an ash tray, overflowing with cigarette butts; and a selection of beer cans and whiskey bottles, a few half-consumed. These last, along with the odd butt, seemingly crushed into the stone in a fit of forgetfulness, spilled onto the floor. In the corner of the crypt, on the far side of a large stone casket, stood an old bed. It was empty, and the covers were in disarray.
Willow knocked gingerly on the heavy crypt door, pushing it open. She squinted into the darkness.
"Hallo?" she called, stepping into the gloom.
A hand appeared from behind the door and tapped Willow on the shoulder. Willow yelped and wheeled around.
"Well, well. Hallo, Red," a voice said.
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Well, that's it for part six. Who has Willow visited? Oh, come on! Who am I kidding?!? It's hardly Bertie the Amazing Yellow Bus, now, is it? well, tune in, very soon, for the next part of Afterthemildhysteria, which is what I'm expecting to accompany the writing!
This has been posted horribly late, and off the back of loud music rehearsals (I'm not making excuses, I really am not), so spelling mistakes shall be dealt with in due course. I promise to be strict with them, when found.
It's good to be back. I've missed this, not to mention, y'all!
Note: Have edited to add corrections/ tinker with a couple of things that have been niggling, etc. What can I say? It's a work in progress. Also, re-reading this thing, I realised all the themes I was trying to cram into a single piece of description at the beginning: As I began writing the bit in the courtyard, I thought of more and more stuff that screamed out for attention - too much stuff, really, but what the Hell At least the next bit can only zip along at a fair pace, as it will be all dialogue (you can hold me to that - and flog and punish if I stray ) That is all.
[This message has been edited by Wolfie (edited December 08, 2001).]
by emily 'first' » Sat Dec 08, 2001 5:03 am
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vive,valeque.
by Wolfie » Mon Feb 04, 2002 8:36 am
But I had an idea last week, and since then, words have been flowing from the pen, so to speak (well, also literally, as some of my drafts are written long hand - I write in lots of different ways, and in different parts of the house, as is my want, although I am mostly clothed). So, with part 8 being edited, and part 9 spewing forth as you read this, I give you part 7, in the knowledge that there will be/should be/hope to be/possibly/will it? another ep forthcoming in a very short space of time.
Be careful, kitties: This is due to go in wholly new and confounding (I bloody well hope) directions, possibly all at the same time. (Chuckles maniacally).
So, here's a little episode to get the taste buds flowing once more.
Aftermath Episode 7
By Wolfie.
Rating: I'm gonna up this to NC17, as, although this ep doesn't really warrent it, future ones might well do so. Naughty language, plus other bits (of the wobbly kind).
Disclaimer: Joss, bet you thought I'd done my worst, old chap, didn't you? Well, I'm back, to blight your wonderful characters with a non-profit sleazing
Story: To recap - Buffy's dead. Spike is mourning, and holding up the Scoobie end. Giles is Dawn's surrogate Daddy, and is due to take her to England. Forever. Xander and Anya are having lots of sex, and cleaning up Willow barf. Willow has gone off the rails, lost them, and is now trying to rediscover them under a broken table, littered with bottles of meths, the black arts, even blacker eyeliner, pictures of Richie Edwards, and the odd rusty razor blade. And Tara is wondering whether she should start slapping Willow any time, now. In short: Willow isn't coping, and is plotting something naughty and ressurectiony.
Part 7: The Crypt, or A Very Dank Place.
“Spike!” Willow wheeled around and glared at the figure emerging smugly from the shadows.
“Did I scare ya?” His face bore that expression (an annoying favourite of his, evidently): A self-satisfied grin he made with his mouth pulled up on one side, with his tongue pushed up behind his bottom teeth and what she supposed he thought would be taken as a perceptive glint in his eyes. Actually, it just made him look like he was suffering from constipation. And look at the way he was swaggering over to her - all chest and pelvis. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Although, she noticed, his bravado seemed a bit forced: He seemed a little more wary, these days; a little less inclined to get in her face.
Willow shot him a look of (she hoped) withering contempt. Spike swaggered up, until his nose was less than two inches from hers. He lingered briefly, leering at her, then stepped towards the stone casket, satisfied at the little squeak she had just made. When he reached it, he turned and nonchalantly pulled himself up and sat on the lid. Willow blinked several times and attempted to restore her composure. Neutered or not, undead was still, well, ugh.
“So, stepping out with the sunless, now, are we?” He paused, momentarily at a loss for a follow up. This seemed to be happening a lot to him, lately: What do you say to someone you should, by all rights, be eating, but are unable to? When he continued, it was with a decided lack of brio. “What do you want, Red? If it’s affairs of the bloody heart, I’m sorry -” he cocked his head and smiled patronisingly at her. “- I don’t dole out advice. Oh, and if you’re after denting my drinks cabinet, then you can sod off.” He leaned back, and grabbed a packet of cigarettes that was lying behind him. That was better. He allowed a self-satisfied grin to spread across his face. By the time he had righted himself and begun fishing around in a hip pocket for a lighter, Willow was spluttering satisfyingly.
“Who told you? It was Xander, wasn’t it? Oh, that’s so like him - giggling at the big spaz - “ooh, Willow got drunk and barfed” and like Anya would need any encouragement -” she donned a supercilious expression and bobbed her head from side to side in an effusive and pointed impression: “‘Oh, yes, that Willow: I always thought she was unstable, blah, blah, thousand years vengeance-thingy, blah, blah’, like I get drunk and fall down all the time and, like, I’ll ever get to hear the last of it, and ... And it‘s my issue and therefore none of your business.”
Spike had paused, lighter in hand, and was watching her with an expression of wry amusement. When he realised that Willow had stopped talking - babbling, more like - he affected a look of revulsion, and protested:
“Oh, please. Like I ever hang around with Lack Brain.” He sniffed, scandalized, then rolled his eyes and added, “I‘m not blind - and I don‘t need demon perception to notice your little habits - and don’t think I care, either: You can do what you bloody want.”
Willow folded her arms, unimpressed.
Spike shrugged and busied himself with the task of lighting his cigarette. Snapping the Zippo shut, he dragged deeply and plucked the cigarette from his lips with a flourish. He squinted knowingly at her, then exhaled, pushing the smoke through his teeth with a faint hiss. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. Willow scowled and turned away, running her eyes in a cursory assessment of the surroundings.
“Look,” Spike said, wiping a speck of ash from his eye, “much as I love your little rants about your Scooby friends, let’s get down to business, shall we?” He jumped down, and wandered in a deliberate, contemplative circle around her. “Now, as I see it, you’re either here to tell me about some new big bad that you need me to squish -” he paused and seemed to consider this. “- But seeing as you’re all the anti-Scoobies now, you getting the drop on me is hardly likely ... Or maybe you’ve had a fight with the great doe-eyed blond bint you hang around with, and you simply have to tell Uncle Spike every sordid detail -”
“Her name’s Tara, and -“ Willow fluttered her eyelids indignantly. “- We don’t fight.”
Spike eyed her dryly. “Well, that’s lovely. I can’t wait to tell my friends.”
“Why are you so mean, Spike?”
“Because I don’t like you.”
Willow pouted. “I don’t -”
“- Or,” Spike continued, cutting her off, “you’re here about some ‘other matter’ - whatever that might be.” He cocked his head on one side and looked mildly at her. “Now,” he said, “you wouldn’t be thinking of doing something naughty, would you?” He paused, then said slowly and very deliberately, “Willow?”
Willow had begun picking lint from the front of her jumper. Through the gloom, Spike caught her glancing furtively at him through her lashes. He pursed his lips, then snorted wryly to himself.
“Thought so.” He suddenly marched to the door and standing to one side, gestured emphatically at it. “Thanks, all the same, Red, but you can count me out of this one.”
“W-what?”
“What nothing. Come on.” He gestured at the doorway again, though this time, an air of futility had crept into his body language: She was now alternately glancing at him with those big, soulful eyes of hers, and picking at her clothing. He squinted. Did her bottom lip just tremble? Spike sighed heavily.
“Bollocks” he muttered, and took a long drag on his cigarette. He clasped his lips together and pushed smoke out through his nostrils. “Are you going to give me the big ‘you’re the only one who can help me’ speech? Forget it, Red. I’m not doing it.” He began to stump over to the arm chair. When he was halfway there, Willow said,
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
He stopped, and eyed her suspiciously. “In what way?”.
Willow wet her lips. “I’ll ... I’ll put in a good word.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “I know you love her -” Her face flushed and she shrugged. “You know ...”
Spike frowned, glanced sharply at her, then raised his eyebrows and said “oh,” in a surprised voice. He then performed a double-take, and followed an incredulous-sounding “what?” with a couple more “oh‘s“; each more affronted than the previous. Finally, he seemed to get very cross; his countenance now not so much offended as murderously psychotic. With a roar, Spike flung his head back and lunged at her, his right hand drawn back and clenched into a fist.
Willow shrieked and recoiled, when Spike suddenly let out a yell, and doubled over, clutching at his forehead. Willow stared at him wide-eyed, while he stood hunched in front of her, head cupped in his hands. Eventually, she heard a low chuckle, and he straightened and turned away. He reached the arm chair and slumped into it. He snorted, not without mirth.
“Oh, God, you’re a piece of work, Red,” he said. Willow realised that she had forgotten to breathe some time back. She decided that, as she was now fairly sure that she wasn’t about to get murdered in cold blood, it might be prudent to start again. She sighed, and sat tentatively on a stone step, facing him. They sat there in silence. After a while, she offered an embarrassed apology:
“Sorry.”
Spike nodded, then added, “We all have feelings, you know. Even vampires.”
A question crossed Willow’s mind, but she decided not to ask it.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything -”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your bloody face.”
“It’s not - I don’t know what you mean -”
“Oh, please!” Spike snorted, then added, “You inquisitive types are all the same.”
Willow pouted. “I’m sorry,” she said, a little defensively. “I didn’t mean to offend with inquisition.”
Spike smiled involuntarily, then rolled his eyes. Presently, he asked, “So, I take it the Blond - Tara - doesn‘t know you‘re here?”
Willow shrugged evasively. “I told her I was going to my Mom’s.”
“What do you think she’ll do when she finds out?”
“She won’t.”
“Oh, right.”
There was another, longer silence. Willow seemed preoccupied, and at one point, appeared to be holding a silent conversation with herself. A conversation which, judging by the grimaces, she was losing. Spike slumped back into the arm chair and gazed longingly at the darkened TV screen in front of him. He wondered why he didn’t just switch it on. He tutted and glanced irritably at the red head.
“You going to sit there all day?”
“No.”
“Good. People to see and all that.” Spike sighed and stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. He fidgeted, as another, possibly even longer silence began to settle over the crypt. This was intollerable -
“Look -” he exclaimed. Willow jumped as Spike leapt out of his chair, and looked up. He swung around to face her, pivoting first his feet, then knees, hips, shoulders, head and finally, arms. Willow thought of a line from Some Like It Hot, when Jack Lemmon (or was it Tony Curtis?) sighed “she’s like Jello on springs,” while gazing wistfully at a retreating Marilyn Monroe. She suppressed a giggle.
Spike reached up and scratched the back of his neck. Willow looked at him expectantly.
“Suppose I decided to help you with this thing - I’m not, by the way - but just supposing I did, what do you think Tara would say? And don‘t say she won‘t find out (Willow snapped her mouth shut and picked an extra-specially large and tenacious piece of imaginary lint from her sleeve and allowed him to continue), ‘cause she will. She might be weird, but she‘s got scruples.”
Willow frowned, and pulled at the zipper on one of her boots.
“Well, I’ll tell you. She’ll flip out, Will. And what about Giles?”
“Giles is going back to England. With Dawn,” Willow replied, flatly.
“You bloody hope. ‘Cause, if he catches you pulling a stunt like this, he’ll do more than scowl at you. He’s clinging on, Red - you better believe it ... Oh, we’re like this,” he added, holding up a pair of crossed fingers, in answer to her disbelieving expression. “He tells me everything.”
Willow raised an eyebrow.
“He was wondering about D’Hoffryn’s amulet, about whether you’re gonna call him - don’t bother denying it, Red - anyway, I told him you wouldn’t do it. Any idiot can see that - Blondie ain’t gonna want to shack up with a demon. But I do think you’ve got something hidden up that fluffy lilac sleeve of yours.”
Willow pouted and glanced suspiciously at her sleeve.
“Well?”
She looked at him.
“Oh, I won’t tell, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Spike looked expectantly at her.
Willow eyed him dubiously and said nothing.
“Come on! I’m on the edge of my bloody seat, here.”
Willow raised her eyebrows. Spike let out an exasperated sigh.
“- Look” he said, “whatever you’ve found, it’s not worth it ... Okay, say you do find a way to shove your mitt into another dimension, grab hold of another soul and haul it back into ours. It ain’t gonna work. The most likely thing is you’ll come back with your fist wrapped around some very pissed off demon.” Spike, warming to his theme, began pacing the floor. “Say, just say you do manage to grab Buffy, what do you think’ll happen? The chances - no, the likelihood is she’ll come back different, if not a raving psychotic. And psychotic’s aren’t good news, especially when they come equipped with superpowers. Or have you forgotten the last deranged superhuman we had to deal with? I don’t expect Tara has, and I don’t think she’ll thank you for bringing back another. That stuff is not meant to be messed with, you know? You’d be best off forgetting it. Grieve for her, then move on.” He trailed off, coughed, reached up and scratched the back of his head.
Willow’s eyes narrowed.
“How can you say that?” she hissed. “I can’t just move on.” She stood up. “Either I do this with help, or I do it on my own. I don’t care.”
Spike looked at her severely for a moment.
“Then you’ll have me to answer to,” he said quietly.
Willow looked at him curtly. “Fine“, she said.
A faint, eerie light flitted across her eyes, then faded. Her lips began to move. Then, her eyes suddenly turned jet black. Spike jumped, and quickly put the casket between them, where he remained, bobbing from one foot to another.
“Hey!” he called, his voice a little more shrill than usual. “Steady on, for Chrissakes! I didn’t mean it! Do what you bloody want - Jesus!”
The hard glint faded from Willow’s gaze. She glanced at him contemptuously, then turning on her heel, marched from the crypt.
Spike watched her go, then shrugged and lit a cigarette.
“Never, ever piss of a witch” he admonished himself.
He stood there for a while in thought. Then, with an irritated snort, he stalked towards a trap door in the floor, and dropped through it, disappearing from view.
*
Where is willow going? Where is Spike going? Does anyone care? Will there be real pain in the next episode, or just another, risable and half-assed attempt at a comic dialogue? Who will out-grimace whom? Or will our heroes discover new and exciting expressions?
Tune in, when I discover how to use a Thesaurus.
Coming in Part 8: Someone rains on a coming out parade ...
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*Sings*
Oh, you can tell, by the rapture on my face,
That synthetic fur makes for a sensual embrace!
[This message has been edited by Wolfie (edited February 04, 2002).]
by emily 'first' » Mon Feb 04, 2002 2:10 pm
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vive,valeque.
by Wolfie » Wed Mar 13, 2002 5:36 am
Aftermath, By Wolfie
Part Eight
Story: Post season 5 - before Season 6. No spoilers, just conjecture, therefore.
Rating: I'm gonna just plump for the NC-17 - pretty much from now on, just to be safe.
Disclaimer: Joss would never mangle his creations this badly - therefore the only credit I take is for taking what is most assuredly not mine, and sitting astride it, giving it unmerciful petrol-pumps, until it starts to cry.
Feedback: I do so love feedback. Therefore, post away, or even e-mail me. You may even tell me I am mad, raving, drooling at the mouth insane; I shall only smile benignly and offer you scones.
Description: Later in the afternoon after the morning after the night before.
Part eight: Willow and Tara play naked spanking games in the park ...
_________________
Sunnydale Main Street was basking in the glow of a mid afternoon sun. The Espresso Pump was heaving with customers, and the proprietors had hauled extra tables and chairs out onto the pavement. A happy, caffeine-induced buzz spilled out on a wave of coffee aromas. Tara, walking past quickly, took in a furtive breath, and fluttered her eyelids in appreciation.
Up ahead, tucked into a corner, where Main Street suddenly veered off at right angles and became West Avenue, was The Magic Box; a once demure little shop that catered to the select needs of the few - now looking ostensibly like a scaled-down department store. Big, bold and decidedly brassy, it now gave the impression of regarding parochialism with a desultory glance, before dismissing it with a waft of the hand, and a long, drawn-out sigh at it‘s lack of vision.
Tara hovered with one foot over the curb opposite, glancing first at the shop, then wistfully up West Street, then back again. Finally, and with a tread that suggested that she was trying, ever-so-gently, to push her feet through the surface of the tarmac, she crossed the road and entered the shop shoulder-first, like a running back charging a defensive wall.
A particular and familiar blend of sensory ingredients assailed her: The most prevalent being a range of somewhat pithy smells; as though someone had haphazardly emptied bags of compost and freshly-cut herbs in a pile on the floor, and then liberally sprinkled several bottles of perfume over the whole lot (this Tara liked: These were smells of potential, little flags that whispered more than just smell, but rather, added the suggestion of secrets, that only a few could unlock. Tara especially enjoyed this moment when accompanied by Willow, for they would invariably glance at each other, knowing they would soon be pooling the contents of their purses, to see what they could acquire).
These days, however, the rest of the shop held little that was attractive to Tara. She blinked, and, for a reticent moment, observed the movement of bodies before her. It was unsettlingly like standing at the edge of a swiftly moving river, the storm-engorged water swirling around a rock, spinning off in little eddies, before continuing on it’s way. This was also a moment to share with her lover; for Willow, in her eagerness to lay paws on all the goodies therein, would quickly usher Tara through the steadily increasing throng, to the relative sanctity of the book table at the back of the shop. She noticed a couple walk past her, carrying a paper bag between them, with the words The Magic Box emblazoned across it in an assertive, Barnum font. The couple seemed to be wearing slightly dazed expressions, like somnambulists suddenly snapped out of their stupor by an incisive pair of clicked fingers. Tara wandered towards the edge of the wooden steps that led down into the main area of the shop floor. The aforementioned rock, of course, could be found behind the counter, wearing a radiant, and somewhat fixed grin. Her gaze had the sentient quality of a predatory bird, darting astutely from one customer to another. She seemed to be holding at least four conversations at once, and every now and again, her eyes dropped to the continuous flurry of hypnotised wallets and purses, and flashed each a naked look.
“Er ...” Tara waved awkwardly. “Hey, Anya?”
Anya (the rock), glanced up, and waved energetically back, still wearing her deliberate, but cheerful smile. Tara blinked, and them smiled warily back.
“Hello, Tara. Willow’s not here.”
“Oh, I-I know. I-I w-was wondering ... If you wanted any - can I get you anything?”
Anya rewarded her customers with a feudal smile. “No thankyou,” she said. “I have everything I need.”
“Oh, well, okay ... I need to head on - I-I’m meeting Willow -”
“That’s okay. See you soon,” Anya called out, with her eyes fixed on a proffered packet of black feathers. “- No,” she continued. “You need Song Thrush. They’re right next to the crow - yes, of course they’re more expensive - they’ll also stop your eyeballs bursting -”
Tara turned and ducked quickly out of the shop. Once outside, she shivered slightly, and scuttled up West Street. About ten or so shops up from The Magic Box, she slowed, and eventually stopped to look in a window. She tilted her head, and offered an evaluative frown to a green brushed-silk dress in the display. Her expression gradually melted into one of guarded appreciation. Suddenly, her eyes shifted, as she brought her focus to bear on a reflection in the glass. She spun around, and looked sharply at the figure of a man, walking swiftly, and anonymously away from her, on the opposite side of the street. She shook her head slightly, and gave the hair clip at her temple an unnecessary adjustment. She glanced again at the man‘s brown suited back, now disappearing on the far side of the Espresso Pump crowd. Tara shrugged to herself, tilting her head to one side, then carried on her way.
*
Sheila Rosenberg wore a knitted brow the same way martyrs wore crowns of thorns and piercing arrows: That to wear anything else would be improper, and well, underdressed. On Sheila, looks of intense concentration made sense; to the point that any other kind of expression seemed disingenuous. To the unwary, she possessed the kind of quality that frequently found them clinging onto the nearest piece of furniture, while regarding her with a mixture of suspicion and expectation. She frequently gave the impression that a titanic intellectual struggle was taking place in her mind; one that was likely to cause her to leap naked from her tub (with intellectuals, there are always tubs involved, or, at least the impression of a tub), and dance incongruously around, puncturing the shocked silences of others with euphoric shouts of “eureka”.
Once, when she was eleven and three months (the inclusion of months was always critical), Willow had complained to her father:
“She makes me feel like a tightrope walker, who is happily walking across somewhere really high and dangerous - like the Grand Canyon - and they look down, to find a car park just below their feet: They‘re so surprised, they fall off and graze their knees.“
Ira Rosenberg, a thin man with a wan complexion and fierce eyes, did two things he had never done before, or since: The first, was a snort; mirthful, and resonant to the point that Willow, unnerved by this new noise, jumped, and took two steps backwards, blinking furiously. The second happened, when he turned, and regarding his daughter with twinkling eyes, reached out and ruffled her hair. He then turned back to the newspaper that was spread carefully out on the dining room table in front of him.
*
“Mom? It’s me.”
Sheila‘s disembodied voice floated towards Willow from the direction of the dining room. It carried a preoccupied air that was instantly recognisable.
“Oh, hi, honey.”
Willow pulled a face; a combination of lip and eye-work that was partly rueful, partly hopeful, and reserved particularly for members of her family. She turned, and with an air of finality, closed the front door with a firm, but steady push that involved, despite the door’s easy swing, her whole shoulder.
This task completed, Willow turned her back to the door and cast a critical eye over the hallway. It had been recently redecorated - the atmosphere was still heavy with the scent of fresh paint - and the previously rich colours had been replaced by wan greys and beiges, with a significant enough amount of rag work and stencilling to hint at the professional touch of a designer. However, with a true sense of sobriety and the stylistic uncouthness of the academe, the new look had already been invaded by the vagaries of personalised possessions: A proud double line of framed academic certificates from all three family members ran along one wall; with the threat of more to come. Continuing the lower, incomplete line (unlike the one above, it wasn’t as yet providing a Samson-like anchor between both end walls of the hall), was a crop of freshly-installed picture hooks, together with their chaperone pencil marks (the thrice-made hallmark of a careful amateur), yet to be erased. Ira (for he was the perpetrator), had been known to lie in wait, ready to ambush visitors, and usher them, with a custodial hand on the elbow, from one certificate to the next. Each would be presented in conjunction with its own lengthy anecdote. It was a ritual Willow regarded with abject horror, and some love. The other touches, no less insidious and deplorable from a designers point of view, were all Sheila’s: The afterthought inclusion of odd pieces of furniture - a couple of unrelated chairs and three small coffee tables of different sizes. These last, as a final testament to aesthetic damnation, already supported growing piles of magazines; an inelegant and severely white plastic phone (which was spreading its rash of scribbled on post-it slips from the back of the handset to the table surface and the wall behind); an old, battered cardboard box, covered with creased scarlet wrapping paper, with a slot roughly hewn in the top, and with a solemn sign designating the role of “swear box” in a childish hand; and some fairly nasty china ornaments, which, had they been placed in a secure cabinet, wouldn’t have been quite so chipped, but perhaps that was the reason for their positioning in the first place. A coat stand, situated just behind the front door, tottered precariously whenever anyone tried to add to its already cumbersome load of hats, jackets, raincoats, and umbrellas - some of which hadn’t been used or worn in years, yet had somehow managed to find their way back onto the stand almost immediately after the decorators had moved out. An aged pine book case filled another section of wall space, carefully catering for part of their book overflow - resolutely paperbacks - each neatly assigned its own place: It was here that Humbert Humbert rubbed shoulders with Holly Golightly, Holden Caulfield and Karl Rossmann, and glowered at the dry historical and psychology tomes that occupied the more illustrious positions in the living room. One or two family photographs adorned the case’s top surface, but depicted sepia-toned nods to heritage, rather than the collective development of the current family unit. All of these things painted a picture of the two senior Rosenbergs as particular, if constantly distracted people.
Willow softened her gaze as she perused these familiar items. Gently, she reached out and adjusted the alignment of a silk painting, framed with thick, polished walnut, and nodded to herself. Talking a deep breath, she walked towards the dining room. As she neared its threshold, she could hear one half of a phone conversation.
As she crossed into the dining room, Willow underwent a small, but discernable change: By subtly rounding her shoulders and turning her feet in, she conveyed the impression of inverting herself, while simultaneously affecting an expression of wide-eyed childishness that might, or might not have been deliberate. Sheila was sitting at the head of a large, oval oak table, covered by an ornate embroidered table cloth. On the tabletop, aside from another, identical white telephone, there were a great many papers, neatly stacked into piles. A large, spiral-bound notepad lay open before her. The topmost page contained a half-dozen paragraphs written in an attractive, if assiduous hand. Crossings-out (very few), were denoted with the same precision as the dots over the i‘s and the crosses for the t‘s. A laptop lay open and quietly humming in front of an adjacent seat, which was sitting slightly back from the table. Willow skirted this one, although it was nearer to the door, and drew back a chair opposite. This, she slid quietly into and waited discretely (and with a certain amount of preoccupation) for her mother to finish her conversation. As she sat, Willow locked her elbows at her sides and clasped the rim of her seat, suggesting that, at any moment, she might suddenly raise herself off the chair, and perform some kind of acrobatic stunt. Watching her sit there, a casual observer would inevitably (if they had any heart at all) conclude that it was only through a travesty of nature that she was too tall to be able to swing her feet: It was, ultimately, the only thing missing from the ensemble. Sheila, with typical focus, was still gamely battling with the (as yet) anonymous caller at the other end of the phone:
“- No, of course she won‘t stay. No, she wasn’t really mature enough - well, you know Willow, she’s not very gregarious -” Sheila glanced at her daughter, and mouthed the name ‘Andrea‘. Willow showed recognition, then tactfully redirected her gaze, as Sheila continued. “- Well, she’s always struggled in that department, and, you know, not really one for adventure, which - yes, I agree - Yes ... Which - which is why I think it’s a good idea, Andrea. Wait, I’ll tell her -” Sheila dropped the receiver to her collar bone, and carefully cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Aunt Andrea,” she said. Willow smiled politely. “She’s, well, you know, doing another lecture tour - mostly in the East, I gather - but she needs a research assistant - apparently, it‘s to be an interactive thing - and as you still have three weeks to go, before you start back for college -”
Willow was already inching out of her chair.
“- No, Mum, I can’t go. I’ve got too much going on here -”
“- Of course you don’t, dear. What ever happens in Sunnydale? No, it’s a good opportunity -”
“- I can’t, you know, just whoosh -” Willow swept her hands upwards, “and fly off and leave T-well ... Leave, anyway.”
With the receiver still clasped protectively to her chest, Sheila blinked two, three, then four times at the table, then, with the sort of vaguely dissenting weariness that one often shows when faced with having to venture out into a storm with only a light summer jacket for protection, she shrugged on a frown. Her reply, typically, combined both a rhetorical inflection, and the demand for an answer:
“Why ever not, Willow?”
Willow grimaced, and glanced hopefully at a large, florid fruit bowl that sat in the centre of the table. The fruit bowl looked benignly, but helplessly back. A faint rustling at Willow’s right showed that Sheila was settling into a more receptive position, and her face was once again showing a bland neutrality - the kind of expression that had, on occasion, elicited the odd (private and post-mortem) tantrum from her daughter. Willow bowed her head a fraction and, having evidently given up on the fruit bowl for moral support, was now staring fiercely at the table cloth through her fringe, which had flopped like a veil across her face. She had also returned to her original seated position; intently gripping the edge of the chair, locked elbows pushing her shoulders protectively up around her neck. She thinned her lips, which had paled considerably, then parted them with a faint smack. When she spoke, her voice was carefully shorn of much of it’s usual inflection
“I have commitments. Well, only one commitment, really, but it’s a biggie. And - and I can’t leave, because of this commitment -”
“Commitment, Honey?”
Willow sighed, and released her grip on the chair. She sat back, and, brushing her face clear of fringe, softened her gaze before looking at her mother.
“It’s because of Tara,” she explained.
Sheila looked at her blankly. “Tara?” she asked.
“Tara, mum. You know -”
Recognition dawned across Sheila’s face. “Oh,” she said. “You mean the shy girl with the stutter.” She nodded. “ Well, I’m sure she‘ll understand, Dear -”
A faint irritation crept into Willow’s voice. “Yes. She’d understand, but that’s not the point -”
“Well, frankly, I don’t really see what sort of point you are trying to make, Willow. I’m sure all your little friends will miss you, but you will soon be back-”
Willow cut her short with a mirthless laugh. Sheila (still clutching the phone - now uncovered and, albeit temporarily, forgotten - to her chest) removed her glasses with her free hand, gently laid them on the table before her , and looked at them for a brief, but wistful moment, before returning her attention to her daughter. Willow was currently preoccupied with her right eye, and was rubbing it with a deliberation that was nevertheless a little perfunctory.
“Willow?”
Willow stopped rubbing, and glanced at Sheila. Then, with effort, she half turned in her seat, and looked solemnly at her. She settled carefully into her new position, and gently dropped her hands into her lap, where they remained, carefully inexpressive, except for her thumbs, which every now and again traced the other’s contours. She smiled - a slightly guarded but nevertheless hopeful smile - and explained; “Tara and I, Mum, are, well -” she glanced at her hands, then back up again, “- Tara and I are ... More than just friends.”
The tiniest flicker passed across Sheila’s expression - it was not unlike a small, insolent cloud flitting playfully across the sun in an otherwise cloudless sky - before it was replaced with an inscrutable smile. She suddenly seemed to be roused to perform some kind of symbolic action, like the cursory patting of her daughter’s hands, for instance, but owing to the table, and the fact that Willow’s hands were safely stowed away in her lap, was prevented from doing so. Unable to prevent a palpably betrayed glance in the direction of Willow’s hands along the way, Sheila dragged her gaze over her daughter’s shoulder, and looked intently at the bookcase on the far wall. Willow innocently followed her mother’s gaze - a feat that involved craning her head back over her shoulder - then turned to look expectantly at her. Sheila shot her a hunted look, and fished instead for the verbal equivalent of the hand-pat.
“Well, whatever makes you happy, dear,” she said. She suddenly - and pointedly - became aware of the telephone receiver, and quickly brought it back into play, clamping it to her ear. “Andrea? Are you still there? Ah - good -”
“Mum -” Sheila paused, as though interrupted in mid-conversation, and raised her eyebrows. Irritation had returned to Willow’s voice.
“Is that it?” She paused, then deliberately added, “you’re not going into denial mode, are you?”
Sheila, with the forced politeness of one who has been constantly interrupted midway through an excessively important task, explained, “no, Willow, I understood what you said. We’ll even talk about it when I’ve finished on the phone, if you like -” a voice crackled at the other end of the receiver. Sheila listened intently. “What? Oh, yes, she did.” Slightly hesitantly, then with more assurance, she affected a tone of voice that Willow remembered from visits to the doctors - and to fellow therapists - where she would stand chatting about this condition and that, with Willow sitting bemused and mute in a chair between, her head ricocheting back and forth between the dictums of various eminent names. “Yes, I know -” Sheila let out a somewhat shrill laugh. “- Yes: Sophomore college - well, it‘s not atypical -”
Willow was suddenly out of her seat and shouting.
“Mum, how dare you! This is not some Sapphic school-girl thing - all right it is - college, anyway - what I mean is, it’s not some adolescent experiment - ah, I mean, I‘m not going through a ‘phase‘, or, or - looking for kicks. I’m gay. I’m a gay lesbian, in love with-with another gay lesbian woman. I‘m in a serious relationship - very serious. We have sex - a-a lot -” A cruel gleam hardened Willow’s expression. “Tara just bends me over the bed and f-”
“Willow, that’s enough!”
“- No! You don’t get to be all disapproving - it doesn’t wear well with your liberal street cred, for one. Tara and I have crazy naked sex: What does that matter? As long as I don’t embarrass you, or distract you from your work for too long ... You’ve never made it your business, apart from one time, and then you were under the sway of a demon! Along with the rest of the town. You have no idea what’s going on in my life, and I’ve just told you one of the most significant things that has ever, ever happened to me, and you act like it’s some fucking experiment. And no, I don’t expect I will tell Dad - what is he going to care? The last thing he said to me, beyond ‘pass me the literary supplement’, was ‘don’t you think it’s time you read for yourself’, when I was four year‘s old. I’m an academic notch in your gimmer sticks: Just carve ‘em out, while I rack ‘em up. And-and don’t bother explaining it all to Aunt Andrea - I expect she’ll be pleased, anyway. Now, if you don‘t mind, I‘m going to go home to my lesbian lover -” Willow suddenly marched past her mother, who, for once, was lost for words, and, gathering speed as she reached the hall, ran to the front door and slammed it behind her with a resounding bang.
A startled silence descended upon the house. A voice crackled at the other end of the phone. Sheila, startled, raised the piece to her ear, and listened. Slowly, she regained her composure. “What? Oh, yes, I expect so,” she said. “Well, I suppose she’s trying to assert her independence. Yes. Oh, I expect like most teenage girls, she has done a few things. Well, they do like their totems and such - tattoo’s and all those ugly piercings and - yes, she probably has a Celtic symbol tattooed on her bottom, or something - the sort that‘s supposed to say ‘love‘ or ‘serendipity‘, but actually means ’granite’ - well, she seems to like that sort of thing. Oh, you know, Andrea, she identifies with all this ‘Wicca’ stuff - you know - investigating the pagan ‘alternatives‘. Frankly, I don’t tell Ira that much - Ira? Oh, he‘s on another of his lecture tours. Oh, yes, vanity for intellectuals - present company excepted, of course - well, it‘s better than buying a motorbike - what, Ira? Oh, dear, the only kind figure he appreciates comes complete with brackets and an equals sign -”
_________________
Will Superman and Lois Lane ever use jam? Will Batman ever confess his true feelings for Robin? Is that a large volley of primed fish poo flying towards my head at supersonic speeds? Will I survive to return, and post what might (for some), be an unexpected part nine??? Will Joss finally finance that hitman to take me out, in a glorious, gory fountain of blood and brains, thus rescuing the Buffyverse from my micturating and plurdled utterances? Tune in some time in the future, when I once again foist overwritten tripe on my favourite online darlings.
Luke.
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I am the sunlight on the sides of houses.
[This message has been edited by Wolfie (edited March 13, 2002).]
[This message has been edited by Wolfie (edited March 13, 2002).]
by Charlie » Wed Mar 13, 2002 12:24 pm
*mutters something about some people being too clever by half*
I'm loving it, love Willow's screwed-up-ness and Tara's worriedness and Spike's Spikeness... that opening scene was hysterical! All in all, an A+, and you can have a rainbow-coloured lolly as well. But only when we get another update...
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“You’re my wife now…” Papa Lazarou
-The League of Gentlemen
by Pixie » Wed Mar 13, 2002 7:33 pm
by Wolfie » Thu Mar 14, 2002 1:36 am
Glad you like it. I keep sitting down to write what I think is an easy episode - you know the one - "oh, this one's nice and simple, so I'll bang it out, quick, like", then, suddenly it turns into a swine. What with everything that's been going on in my life, it's been really difficult to keep it going, not to mention large, doughy bouts of writer's block, but I am now reasonably happy with the changes I've made to the plot, and am working a couple of eps ahead with my first drafts - It takes many drafts to get this over-written - so, hopefully, family members notwithstanding, I should have ep 9 posted soon. It's basically written, just needs approximately 65,789,438.5 corrections before it's finished! The next few should give me a chance to try some different writing styles, and approaches, too, which I'm hoping will keep it at least as fresh as a pair of socks after the hundred years' war (thankyou, Mr Blackadder for that one).
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I am the sunlight on the sides of houses.
by emily 'first' » Thu Mar 14, 2002 1:35 pm
*****
Hopefully not as long this time,but I will wait...
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There is fresh snow on the ground
I can see where you've been walking,
and I follow in your footsteps...
vive,valeque.
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