Part: 1/?
Distribution: We'll see.
Spoilers: All episodes.
Couples: W/T for the patient and brave.
Summary: Lot's 'O Willow Angst. Can't say too much more since it isn't written yet, but I see more Rack, more Amy, a full serving of Scoobies, and a pinch of Spike. And a Special Guest Appearance by Miss Kitty Fantastico. Oh, oh, and Willow and Tara make up sex! We have a month of BtVS reruns...let's play.
Rating: PG-13 (R?) today due to language, though this is looking to be a rather dark, but respectful, serial, so expect anything from R to NC-17 to pop up eventually. My motto is to never write anything that would make Marti Noxon uncomfortable. I think that gives me free reign, don't you?
Lyrics: "He's Simple, He's Dumb, He' the Pilot"/Grandaddy/The Sophtware Slump-A cd that strangely inspired me to start this series. This cd will be making numerous appearances. Go buy a copy if you like Radiohead and/or Sparklehorse, or just want to play along at home.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy-types own these beloved characters. I do not. Joss has money. I do not. Joss has a career. I do not. Joss is adored by millions. I am not. Do you see a pattern? Joss is a genius. I merely feed on the underbelly of his creativity.
Feedback: This is my first online fic. I'm scared. Hold me.
In all seriousness, please tell me what you think. It's important because I'm using this as a writing exercise to hone my skills (such as they are) for other paid writing projects (people have been known to write me a check, though it's rare). I have NO experience in this type of fiction. It's very new to me. I should also warn you that I'm kind of a slow writer. You might get only one or two updates a week. I'm trying to pressure myself into writing faster by doing this. Thanks for your input and your time. P.S. I have no editor or beta readers or whatever, so typos will happen. I'll filter them out as quickly as possible. I just might not see them right away.
Good god, I'm shutting up now...
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The evening was too miserable for color. The rain, apparently afraid of appearing maudlin and obvious, filtered itself through the low hung ash clouds until it was fine mist. It blanketed downtown Sunnydale, bleeding the stop lights of their hue and breeding with the exhaust of passing cars to conjure swirling ghosts of steam.
Willow Rosenberg stood outside Sunnydale Theater, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet in an attempt to stretch her legs and circulate her blood. She didn't remember Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal being so long...or so depressing. But, hello, Ingmar Bergman. Isolation. Search for meaning in a godless world. What had she been thinking? At least she had avoided holiday movie goers by attending a classic film on a Thursday afternoon. She couldn't handle crowds right now—or blockbusters. She made her way to the street corner just as the theater's outdoor lights switched on, rebuking the approaching dusk and brightly illuminating a Harry Potter film poster in its marquee.
Willow still carried her book bag from morning classes at U.C.--Sunnydale. It hung heavily from her right shoulder, pulling the collar of her leather jacket from her neck, exposing a gray t-shirt that read "Monte's Grill," and throwing her walk slightly off kilter. She stared vacantly at her shuffling tennis shoes, half-heartedly dodging passersby.
Tara switched to the afternoon section.
Willow shared only one class with her former lover, Tara Maclay, this semester. Botany fulfilled one of their general science requirements and was a wonderful complement to their magickal pursuits. Tara was much more knowledgeable about the natural world than she was, and Willow had greatly enjoyed her girlfriend's gentle tutelage on the subject. Willow was used to just grabbing what she needed for a spell and getting on with it. Tara slowed her down, taught her to revel in detail, history, and purpose. When they studied for class, it was easy for Willow to imagine Tara as a little girl, walking with her mother--a gifted wicca who had taught Tara much of what she knew--through the woods surrounding her childhood home. Listening. Learning. Loving. Happy. Willow loved that a silly college class--a required one at that--had turned into such a sweet opportunity to bond with her lover. It was special. And now, given the rift between them, it was opportune. Not for bonding, really. Just for saying hello. Maybe.
Just maybe.
Willow had missed the first class after her horrifically ill-advised and ill-fated "girls night out" with Dawn, but had attended every class after that. Not that she'd wanted to. The bruising events of the past week, and, indeed, the past year, had left her emotionally, spiritually and intellectually winded. For the first time in her life, she actually had little interest in her studies. Nothing made sense to her right now--Tara, magick, or her friends—and Willow was troubled to find she was now just as confused about school as she was everything else in her life. But she couldn't figure it all out right now. She was enrolled for the semester and she decided she should simply attend. It helped provide her much needed structure and—bonus—it was the stable, upright, old-Willow type thing to do. At least that's how she had hoped it would appear to Tara.
Stable. Upright. Old-Willow.
She had waited for Tara all week. Spit-shined. Earnest. When Tara had missed Tuesday's class, she was disappointed but not really worried. However, when she failed to show up for today's exam, Willow approached the teachers's assistant, Christian, to see if she had dropped the course. "Tara switched to the afternoon section," he said gently, somehow aware that he was delivering a sucker punch.
"When?" Willow asked, shocked and trying unsuccessfully to conceal her hurt.
"Just before this morning's class," he replied.
"Oh," was all she'd managed to say. "Oh, umm...oh."
Willow nearly ran into the hallway. Tears welled up, hot and insistant. Tara had been there before class--right there--no doubt copiously working to stay out of Willow's sight. Methodically taking care of paperwork. In Willow's mind, this was worse than Tara simply dropping the course. Much worse. Dropping the class meant Tara couldn't bear to see her right now. Willow could understand that. It was darkly romantic in a falling-on-your-sword kind of way. But switching to the afternoon class meant she was moving on, dividing the assets. Filing for divorce, she thought bitterly. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Her hands were shaking.
Willow jammed them into her coat pockets and walked across the street. Though the evening was cool and the mist drizzled over her face and hair, she couldn't blame her case of the shakes on the weather. It felt as though a thousand little minnows were racing through her veins. Her very organs were trembling. It wasn't withdrawal from her encounter with Rack. No, that had been acute but, thankfully, short lived. This was something else, something heavy and sooty and...active. It had been stalking her for the last few hours...or maybe days. Peaking at her from behind corners, sneaking up on her shadow. She was so tired.
Glancing at her watch, Willow realized she couldn't go home yet. Buffy and Dawn would be there soon. Buffy had been cooly polite since Willow had admitted her magick addiction in the overwrought hours following her accident with Dawn, but the tension between them was sticky and thick. Nearly all their conversations disintegrated into awkard, spiraling stretches of silence--odd, uneasy minutes that had the weight and depth of many years, many lies, many regrets. As for Dawn, the teen wasn't speaking to her at all. Willow wanted to return to the Summers home when Buffy and Dawn were sleeping and she could enjoy the comfort of their presence without the reality of their disdain or, worse, their indifference.
Willow ducked inside the Espresso Pump and moved to its large, open bar, where a thirty-ish man vaguely reminiscent of Dave Grohl held court. "Can I have a decaf please?" That's pretty whitebread for an alleged badgirl. The thought brought a rueful smile to her lips as she placed her hands atop the bar to toy with the little paper napkins neatly stacked before her. She was alarmed to find that her fingers were trembling so badly she overshot her target and knocked over the container of red stir sticks that sat beside the napkins.
"Umm, you know, could you put a shot of Kahlua in that...please?" Willow requested, figuring a touch of alcohol might be just the tranqualizer she needed tonight.
"That kind of day, huh?" the barkeep asked, his back to her.
"That kind of year," she replied as she righted the spilled container.
He reached for the bottle of Kahlua and poured a generous amount into the oversized coffee mug that contained Willow's company for the evening.
"You're not gonna card me?" Willow said, sounding a bit more disappointed than she intended.
The bartender turned to her, laughing. "You want me to?"
"Well, no, it's just that usually...," her voiced trailed off as her shoulders gave a little shrug and she pointed a finger to the face more than one of her friends called babyish.
"As much as I'd love to read a card bearing any of your personal information," he said, leaning in flirtatiously, "I'm getting pretty good at guessing people's age. It's all in the eyes. And nothing about your eyes say 'underage.'" He placed the drink in front of her.
Willow wasn't sure whether to be pissed off or impressed at the accuracy of his guesswork. Before she could decide, she was distracted by the sudden sensation of a warm, wet energy oozing in her gut. It spread slowly outward until it engulfed her torso and dripped into her limbs. She shot her eyes downward, strangely expecting to see a bloodstain seeping across her shirt, but there was nothing.
"Hey, are you okay?" the bartender asked, reaching for her arm.
"Wha-? Oh...yeah," Willow answered tentatively, eyes still on her stomach, before finally raising her gaze to meet his. The sensation subsided like a receding wave. "I'm okay. Really. Thanks."
Willow quickly paid for her drink and popped a tip in the bartender's tip jar. She barely heard him thank her as she unsteadily made her way to a corner table near, but not on, the patio. She held her coffee mug with still shaking hands, trying to take comfort in its warmth and fighting to contain the lowgrade panic that was rising beneath her skin. She watched holiday shoppers hurredly cross in front of the coffee shop window, bags in hand, somewhere to go, someone to go to. They were making her dizzy. Slowly, her consciousness keyed onto the rather mournful electronic music trickling down from the cafe's sound system.
Did you love this world
And did this world not love you?
Did you love this world
And did this world not love you?
Willow closed her eyes. She saw herself as she was on the worst night of her magickal withdrawal: kneeling in front of the toilet, head resting on porcelain, staring down at what had been the contents of her stomach as a single droplet of blood fell from the tip of her nose. But as the crimson ball hit the water, it bled outward, overtaking the liquid, making it darker and darker until all Willow could see was blackness as thick as ink and as bottomless as the hole in her heart.
I think they want you to give in.
Part 2 (PG-13)
Rain drops beaded the front windows of the Magic Box, pixelating car and street lights into glowing multi-colored orbs that acted as faux stained glass, lending the building's interior an ornamental, church-like beauty. It was a beauty the occupants of the shop's lower level—Anya Jenkins, Dawn Summers, and William "Spike" the Bloody—all failed to notice as they went about their respective businesses of inventory, homework and loitering.
But the beauty was not lost on all. Beyond the jars of butterfly wings and vials of badger whiskers, past the shelves of trance crystals and carefully arranged beetle shells, up the wide, creaky ladder that ascended to the loft, and behind a stack of dusty leather bound books sat Tara Maclay. She was ostensibly reading, but she found herself most often staring across the length of the room, taking in the delicate light patterns dancing across the windows and listening to the rain gently thumping the roof. In the two devastatingly painful weeks since she left Willow, Tara had set foot in the Magic Box only twice. Once to drop off Dawn. Once to pick up Dawn. She had been busy settling into her dorm room (again) and rescheduling some classes, so she hadn't much time for researching or other Scooby-type activities, but mostly she had avoided the place because she suddenly found it unsettling. Even eerie. Not the entire shop. Just the loft.
The loft was the place where the most advanced and dangerous magickal books and periphenalia were stored. It had served as the "war room" for some of the Scoobies' greatest victories—including her return to sanity after Glory's vicious assault—but it had most recently served as the backdrop for her greatest heartbreak. She had always had a healthy respect for the tools of dark magicks, but she had never feared them. Now, however, the books, plants and potions that filled the area seemed shadowy and secretive and duplicitous. They seemed to whisper to one another, mocking her misfortune and making pointed accusations. Tara did not want to be in their company. But she had swallowed her misgivings and ventured here tonight because she wanted to start making sense of what was happening to Willow. She needed answers. Answers that could only be found in the shadowy, secretive, duplicitous confines of the loft.
"I love that sound," a weary voice spoke from behind her.
Willow.
Tara turned to face her. "Me, too. I wish it rained here more often."
"But if it did, nights like this wouldn't be so special," Willow replied.
Tara regarded Willow for a long moment. She was sitting cross-legged, surrounded by a half-circle of the yellowing texts and dusty volumes that had become her frequent late night companions. The rain on the loft's skylight created tendriled, melancholy shadows across her face, giving her a triste, ethereal beauty. In the dim light, Tara could make out the delicate lines around the redhead's mouth. Strange, she thought, that what were commonly known as "laugh lines" had deepened over a period in which Willow had barely smiled, much less laughed. This had been a black summer, following a bleak spring. A time when the unbearably heavy mantle of adulthood had been dropped with particular violence on young, fawn-like legs. They had wobbled under the weight of their grief and responsibility, all of them—Tara, Willow, Dawn, Xander, Anya—but they had not faltered. And none of them had been stronger or braver than Willow. She had been focused and determined. A leader. A tiny, babbling, unlikely bundle of authority. I love her laugh lines, Tara thought with a sweet sadness. "Are you finished researching?" she asked.
"I think so. I think I finally found all the information I need to do it," Willow answered, closing the spell book that sat on her lap with a thud of finality.
"Really?" Tara paused, unsure if she were happy or uneasy with this knowledge. "S-So now what?"
"I vote we celebrate," Willow said, pulling herself off the floor.
Tara raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"I mean, after we bring Buffy back...well, I don't know how everything is gonna be...I'm sure it will be wonderful and everyone will be like 'Yippee!' and break out the puppies. I mean, it's gonna work. It has to, but just in case, you know, on the off chance that--"
Tara placed a finger over Willow's lips to quiet her babbling and then looked her straight in the eye to quiet her fears. "Shhh. I know. Tonight we celebrate the...hope."
Willow looked back at her with damp, heavy eyes. "I can't wait to see her again."
Tara cupped Willow's face in her hands, then kissed her softly. Their lips slowly separated, but their foreheads quickly met. Tara closed her eyes and listened to Willow's even, weighted breathing. After a moment, Willow raised a hand to Tara's chest. She hovered briefly over her breasts, then nimbly freed the first button of her lover's blouse. The second button. The third. Becoming eager, she tried to push the shirt completely open, but was thwarted by a lone button guarding the bottom edge. She let out a small, frustrated groan.
Tara quieted her with a kiss to her ear. "One more," she whispered in a tone that was intended both to calm and encourage.
Willow popped the stubborn button with a determined tug, then pulled her own shirt over her head, meeting Tara belly to belly. Their melding skin coaxed and teased a rising desire from each of them as they slowly descended to the floor.
"Bloody hell!"
Tara jumped and the ghosts of her memory fled to secluded, hallowed regions of her mind. She peered over the bannister in time to see Spike wallop the side of the nine-inch television Anya kept at the shop to entertain Xander when she worked late on inventory or just counting money.
"Stop that! You'll break it and then you'll owe me two days labor," Anya scolded.
"But they're cutting into one of my favorite movies and...," Spike stopped his tirade and frowned, pointing to the tiny, unimpressive black and white TV. "Two days? For this piece of shit?"
"Minimum wage," she pointedly offered as explanation. "And don't insult my hard-earned appliances, you two-bit mooch."
"Well, aren't you just the little Scroogette," he said dryly. "And it's an electronic, not an appliance, love."
"Why are you here anyway?" the ex-demon asked from behind the counter as she counted out neat piles of dried mouse tails for packaging.
"Buffy's supposed to meet me here for patrol. In the meantime, I thought I'd catch some telly, 'cause the reception is bloody awful in the crypt. But just when I settle into Dead Again—I'm a sucker for Ken and Em—your git of a president interrupts with a press conference."
"Well, we do have a war going on," Dawn chimed in with all the earnest concern appropriate to a high schooler.
"I'm not knocking your patriotism, Little Bit, I've got a Union Jack flag tattooed to my ass, but, honestly, I keep expecting the man to choke on his own tongue." He turned to Tara, who was now making her way down the ladder from the loft. "Help us out, Glenda. Can't you whip up some 'extra virgin' witchy goodness and cast a remedial pronunciation spell on him or something?"
"Ummm, what would that make me? Official Witch of the Republican Party?" Tara furrowed her brow. That sounded even worse passing her lips than it had in her head. "No, thanks."
"Oh, they already have one of those anyway," Anya announced. The group regarded her uncertainly. "Oh, come on, you didn't think that whole Election 2000 debacle just happened, did you?"
"That was kinda weird," Dawn mused.
Tara walked to the front window. Seeing the wispy breath of a pedestrian, she caught herself wondering if Willow was warm. She had seen her estranged girlfriend sitting in Botany class, waiting. Waiting for her. She had been wearing the Monte's Grill t-shirt Tara bought her for her birthday last year, jeans, and brown suede tennis shoes. Her jacket was too thin for tonight's weather, she thought. Willow's outfit, sans the black leather jacket, was a bit of a throwback for her. In the months following Buffy's death, she had adopted a darker, sleeker, more polished sense of fashion that reflected both her grief and her elevated role within the Scoobies. "Stop me if I start looking too Dark Angel," she had once joked to Tara. "Like the TV show, I mean, not like evil, grrr Angel, but then again he wears lots of black stuff, too, so...." Tara smiled remembering Willow's prattling commentary. While she had been glad to see Willow embracing the retro part of her wardrobe, she was somewhat alarmed by her physical condition. Her girlfriend had always been thin, but she now appeared gaunt. And, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the classroom, her skin looked ash and sallow, much like Tara's father had looked when he had a bleeding ulcer several years back. Her instincts screamed at her to rush over to Willow and start mothering her. Instead Tara had ducked into the TA's office and filled out a request form to move to the afternoon Botany class.
Though her intent in switching class sections had not been to hurt Willow, she was sure that's what the move had done. It wasn't that Tara couldn't bear to see her—although it was difficult--it was more that she didn't want to be forced into seeing her twice a week at specific time. It was an added pressure she just didn't need right now. Neither, she suspected, did Willow, whether she realized that yet or not. Besides, after everything that had happened, did Willow honestly think she would continue taking a class with her that they jokingly referred to as "Advanced Magickal Engineering?" I might as well have built her a crystal meth lab for Hanukkah.
Tara retreated from the window and approached Dawn. The teen sat at the large, circular table near the back of the shop with her books fanned before her, creating a half moon of paper, text and numbers. She punched the keys of a graphing calculator with her right hand, while occasionally counting out numbers with the fingers of her left, which protruded from a white cast covered with squiggles and various forms of graffiti. She punctuated each completed problem with an impish, satisfied grin.
Anya passed by with a huge feather duster in her hand, preparing for another round of battle with the dust that continually lurked around the shop. Dawn had other ideas. "Hey, you wanna sign my cast?"
Anya stopped. "Sure. This is a ritual in which you write encouraging messages on a broken body part in hopes it will speed the victim's healing. Or at least help them forget the incessant itching. Right?"
"Something like that," Dawn replied, furrowing her brow as she slid a pencil underneath her cast to reach a sudden itch.
Anya pulled a red pen out of her pocket and began to write her name in large capital letters. "You've got a lot of signatures on here. Good for you! Sympathy is a valid form of currency, I've learned, and—GAAHH!" She leapt backward, involuntarily swatting Dawn's cast with the feather duster. "A bunny! Someone drew a bunny on your arm. How is that comforting? Now he'll be stuck to you until the cast comes off. Like a twitchy little stalker. Oh, god." She turned her head to the side, squeezing her eyes shut as she scrawled the remaining letters of her name on the suddenly distasteful cast, then quickly retreated to the bookshelf on the far side of the table.
"How's the homework coming?" Tara asked.
"Okay, I think. I'm almost done. The math took me a long time since I kinda suck at it," Dawn replied.
"I'm not very good at math either," Tara offered. "I wish I could be more help."
"What are you talking about? You helped with History and British Lit." Dawn then lowered her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "And you drew a cool stalker bunny on my cast."
Tara raised the left side of her mouth into a wicked grin.
Dawn inspected the bunny and Anya's signature for a moment, then held the cast out before her, flexing her fingers. "I think it's feeling better."
"Good," Tara said simply.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Dawn blurted, "You know, I've kind of been avoiding her and stuff and she's been coming home a bit late, but that may be because I haven't been talking to her and I probably should start because I still love her and all and I don't like being all avoidy, but I don't think Willow's been doing magick."
Tara blinked, surprised at how many words Dawn could say without taking a single breath. She then realized she'd been holding her own breath and let it out in a slow, measured sigh. "Dawn, you don't have to defend her. In fact, please don't. What happened..., " she stopped to choose her words carefully. "There's just no excuse for what happened to you."
"I know. But I don't want you to be all worried about me. Things have been pretty calm at home. They've really been okay."
But Tara did worry. She wasn't sure Buffy made the right choice in allowing Willow to stay in the house after her wildly irresponsible and dangerous night out with Dawn. While she was deeply grateful that Willow had a warm, comfortable place to stay, was her presence a continued threat to Dawn? Her heart told her no. But her mind and instinct told her otherwise. Complicating the matter was that Buffy was not at all herself. She had lengthened the distance between her and her friends in recent weeks instead of drawing nearer to them. She was edgy and aloof. Tara wasn't sure of the details of the Slayer's emotional shutdown, but she had a creeping fear that Buffy was headed down a path as black as the one Willow was on.
Dawn continued, "I mean, if she did more magick around me, Buffy would kill her."
Tara was deeply disturbed by the image Dawn's words provoked. Mostly because she knew it was closer to the realm of possibility than any of them would dare to admit. If Dawn had been more seriously hurt that night or if Willow had still been arrogantly, stupidly drunk with magick and the need for power when Buffy happened upon them. With Buffy so detached and cynical after her resurrection, Tara could visualize the Slayer's hand moving to Willow's throat with a primal speed no spell--or rational thought--could counter. Two supernaturally inclined women on the verge of nervous breakdown.
"I don't mean kill her literally, of course," Dawn quickly clarified.
Tara swallowed the tight, black ball that had risen in her throat. "No, of course not. Of course not. They're best friends," she said, knowing that hadn't been true for a very long time.
More than one disaster had been averted the night of Dawn's accident, but Tara wasn't sure Willow or Buffy realized the extent of fate's mercy. Horrible mistakes had been made, but there were many lines that had not yet been crossed. They had stopped their calamitous skid at the very edge of a cliff and now had the rare opportunity to carefully, humbly back away. While Tara knew both Buffy and Willow had been shaken and vowed to change their respectively destructive courses, she feared that clarity had not yet been achieved. She prayed they would both open their eyes soon. There was still so much left to lose...and to save.
Anya approached the table. "Buffy just called. She says she can't make it over here tonight afterall. Tara, she hoped you could walk Dawn home? She said she'll be there soon."
"Umm, yeah, yes," Tara took a deep breath. "Definitely."
"Well, you're not going alone," Spike cut in. "All kinds of spookies out there, but I don't need to tell you that. I'm coming with you."
Tara felt no need to argue. Dawn always felt safer with Spike around and Tara desperately wanted Dawn to feel safe. Besides, if Willow happened to be home, Spike's presence might actually help diffuse the tension. Nothing like a love-sick dead guy with a smart mouth to distract you from your own problems.
Suddenly dramatic music filled the room, startling everyone. Except Spike. "Oh, it's back on!" he said as he rushed to the television, turning it so everyone could see.
Emma Thompson, Kenneth Branagh and Derek Jacobi were all poised around an antique gun on the floor. Jacobi's character spoke. "Well, I, for one, am v-v-very interested to see what's going to h-h-happen next." There was a tense pause, then he dove for the gun and a melodramatic battle ensued climaxing in the gory, if unrealistic, impaling of Jacobi's villain with a giant pair of scissors.
"Oooo, I love that part," Spike said, almost giddy.
"That's disgusting...and, well, fake," Tara said, referring more to Jacobi's stutter than his skewering.
"This is a modern classic, love," the vampire countered. "And Emma Thompson--a tasty nibblet I bet she is!"
"We better get Dawn home." Tara turned from the television just as the film concluded with Thompson and Branagh locked in a passionate kiss, fate seeing fit to reunite their characters against the daunting odds of time, circumstance, betrayal and heartbreak. Spike took in the romantic scene with an oddly soft expression, then grabbed his jacket and followed Tara and Dawn to the door.
"It's been raining too much lately," Dawn said as they reluctantly left the warmth of the shop and entered a glowering mist that was fast becoming a steady rain.
"Damn right," agreed Spike.
"Much too much," Tara added, pulling her coat tightly around her.
And so they walked toward the Summers home, forming a motley family unit, Dawn in front, Tara and Spike behind her on either side. A charge and her strange, beautiful angels.
Part 3 (PG-13ish)
Willow's fingernails dug into the bark of the massive oak tree as another painful contraction shook through her small, hunched frame. A spindly string of spittle clung to her lower lip before finally releasing to mix with the rain and vomit on the muddy ground before her. She leaned against the tree for stability as rain streamed down her water-darkened hair and poured underneath her sopped t-shirt.
Willow didn't understand. She had only one drink tonight and it was mostly coffee. She was a careful, infrequent drinker. She knew her limits. She could drink two beers without becoming overly loopy and three before her cookies became endangered. She had never gotten sick after a single drink. The only thing one drink ever did to her was make her babble...endlessly. Everything and anything was worthy of her special brand of breathy commentary when she was buzzed: SpongeBob SquarePants, the Grand Unification Theory, Buffy's hair, the Reconstruction, Ren and Stimpy, Xander's teeth, lint, the works Evelyn Waugh, why Bill Gates is a tiny, naughty man, why Bill the Cat should make a comeback, why Democrats make the best pet owners, the Torah, Jean Cocteau's The Blood of a Poet, her profound distaste for crunchy lettuce stalks (bitter!). Oh, and Anya's boobs. But I only babbled about that in my head. Once. Only once. And it wasn't out loud. Was it?
She threw up again.
Clinging to the trunk, Willow attempted to ground herself. She envisioned the tree's roots snaking deep underground, solid, strong, unyielding. Like an anchor. She needed an anchor. What's wrong with me?
Swallowing down the unpleasant blend of tastes in her mouth, Willow wiped her face with her sleeve and continued her wobbly trek. She turned the corner onto Revello and walked into the middle of the quiet, dark street. The oaks and maple trees craned overhead, creating a pensive, sinister arch. The streetlights pushed long shadows from their trunks and the wind stole leaves from their branches, dropping them slowly to the ground like lazy birds.
Arriving at the edge of the Summers' lawn, her heart sank a notch. The house was fully lit inside and out. White Christmas lights framed the doorway and coiled cheerfully around the length of the porch bannister. The large front window glowed warmly. Through the sheer curtains of the front window, Willow saw two hazy forms on the sofa: a tall figure perched on the arm and a shorter one curled comfortably on the center cushion. It was Dawn and Spike.
"Once again, it's lumps of coal for the Jewish girl," Willow mumbled to herself as she stepped onto the porch. She leaned against the railing, exhausted and defeated. There would be no skulking up to her room unconfronted tonight. She felt like a cornered animal, her only path to safety blocked. As she watched the duo mime what appeared to be a pleasant conversation, a third figure entered the frame. She was blonde, shapely and bore two steaming mugs of (chocolatey?) goodness.
"Tara."
Pushed to the end of its resolve, Willow's lower lip tightened then protruded in trembling surrender. Willow looked like shit and she knew it. No matter how innocent the cause, she knew Tara could not see her like this. It would be too hard to explain away even if she knew the answers to give, which she didn't. She could work no WillowCharm tonight. Not that she believed Tara was shopping for WillowCharm at the moment anyway. WillowResponsibility, maybe. Or WillowHonesty. Or... oh, let's just cut the cute crap, Rosenberg. Tara wanted Willow, the Adult. Plain and simple. Plain and simple? Oh god, that's the fear that started this whole mess. Her mind was spinning again. Stop. She had a lot of things to sort out, absorb, purge and analyze before she could even hope Tara would give her another chance. All in all, she reasoned, it would help neither of them to come face to face tonight.
A change of plans was in order.
Willow walked around to the back of the house. Her head was throbbing and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep off whatever this was, though she feared her shadowy stalker would be with her in the morning, as well. She eyed the back door and for a second contemplated sneaking through the kitchen and dining room and on up the stairs, but then realized that she'd never make it undetected. She went to the trellis that hung beside the back porch and, taking a deep breath, began a careful, stealthy climb to the bedroom windows above. She came first to Buffy's window and gave it hearty push with her right hand while clinging tightly to the trellis with her left. It came open with an abrupt thump and Buffy's drapes, sucked through the window with the change in air pressure, greeted Willow with nervous flapping. She teetered outside the window, unmoving, afraid that the noise had been heard. After a tense minute she gathered the courage to continue and, pushing the curtains aside, made a furtive climb into Buffy's bedroom. Again she froze, listening for approaching footsteps or any other indication she should dive for cover. She could hear only the muffled voices of Dawn, Spike and Tara from below. Willow crept into the hallway and proceeded to her room trying to avoid areas of the carpet that hid creaky floorboards.
When she finally drug her dripping, trembling body into her bedroom and closed the door, she half expected to hear: "And now dear God, about Willow. Help her to know that I'm her friend and help her to tell me what she's been up to." The Sound of Music had been one of her favorite films when she was a child. She adored Maria and loved the thunderstorm scene with Leisl all drenched and remorseful. She often fantasized that the famously caring and attentive governess lovingly tucked her into bed at night with a stroke of her hair and a kiss on her cheek. Not that Willow was ever allowed to watch the classic musical at her house, however. "It glorifies the Catholic Church," her father, ever protective of their Jewish faith and heritage, proclaimed. "And don't get me started on Captain von Trapp's subjugation and taming of Maria," her mother added from behind one of her hundreds of psychology books. No, The Sound of Music was one of a litany of "offensive" films and TV shows she migrated to Xander's home to see.
For all the rules and protocols Willow's stiff, academic parents thrust upon her childhood, they were never outwardly bothered that she spent hours each day playing in the home of bona fide drunkards. It was, she realized early on, a convenient way to get her acutely curious brain and chattering mouth out of the house. Xander's parents had no rules regarding the programs the children watched. Quite the contrary. The glowing box was Xander's pacifier, nanny and, next to Willow, his best friend. He began his day with a remote control and ended his day with it. No one said a word. In a strange way, the Rosenbergs and the Harrises had similar parenting goals, if wildly different styles. The object was to keep Willow and Xander silent and out of the way. After all, there was always another six-pack to be downed and another 10 pages of dissertation to be written. So, underneath their parents' radar, which was jammed with adult self-absorbtions both literary and base, Willow and Xander became surrogate siblings and quietly rebelled against loneliness and neglect. Cuddled up under a blanket in the basement, they would share their toys and secrets and sing along with the von Trapp children. They had everything they needed. Except Maria.
Willow clicked on a lamp and found the room empty. There was no Maria—or anyone else—waiting to gently dry her off and give her advice. She was both disappointed and relieved. She pulled off her jacket, kicked out of her sneakers and peeled off her t-shirt. Her socks made squishy sounds as she hopped out of her jeans. Soon she stood completely naked and shivering. A hot shower was high on her list of wants (and needs), but it was out of the question given the cloak and dagger nature of her entry. Her fluffy terry cloth robe would have to do. As she grabbed it from the hook on the back of the door, she heard voices ascending the stairs. Tara and Dawn.
Willow leapt to turn off the lamp. Her head was filled with the sound of her own pounding heart and the soft tick, tick, ticking of the lamp chain set in motion by her frantic tug. Shadows crept underneath the door, as feet hit the second floor and disrupted the hallway light.
"It will only take a few minutes," Dawn said cheerfully. A door creaked open and the sharp click of a light switch sounded. "Besides," she continued as her voice took on a muffled echo, "it wouldn't be as much fun with just Spike." Okay, she's in the bathroom. No problem.
The bedroom door softly rattled as the weight of a body leaned against it. Tara.
Willow swallowed nervously, then flattened her still-naked body against the door and pressed her palms to the wood . She closed her eyes, trying to somehow feel her lover through the barrier while, at the same time, praying Tara could not sense her presence.
"It's really not a problem, sweetie," Tara replied.
As she spoke, gentle vibrations passed through the door and entered Willow's chest. It soothed her and made her ache from wanting. Wanting comfort, love, forgiveness. Everything.
"Thanks for helping me with my homework. I never would've gotten it done without you," Dawn chirped on as she loudly opened and closed drawers. "I so owe you. Umm, I could help you with some of your research. You were all Studious Girl tonight. What were ya reading?"
Willow assumed they were speaking of research for one of Tara's college courses.
"I was just looking up a few of the spells the Scoobies have used over the last year."
"You mean stuff Willow's done?" Dawn asked.
"Mostly," replied Tara.
Willow's eyes snapped open. What?
Dawn continued, "You think it might have something to do with her, umm, problem?"
"Willow's problem is because of Willow, Dawn," Tara said in her best motherly tone. "I'm just curious about a couple of things. It's nothing you have to worry about. How's Buffy been doing?"
Changing the subject. Good. Or is she? Willow was getting paranoid.
"She's been good, I guess. She's still all Protective Gal with me. Wants to know where I am all the time, wants to make sure someone is with me," Dawn answered.
"It's just because she loves you," Tara replied.
Spike's English-accented voice called up the stairs. "Hey, Little Bit, don't forget to bring the black down, too! My fingers look like they've been gnawed on by a Kenlar demon. And that's not a pretty sight, let me assure you."
"Do you have everything?" Tara asked.
"Yep."
"Then let's go polish some nails."
The door jarred as Tara pushed off, and then she was gone. Willow stood there. Alone again. After a long moment, she pulled on her robe and moved to the bed. She was freezing. Burrowing under the comforter, she rubbed her hands together to warm them. A spark startled the darkness of the room.
Willow sat straight up.
She finally acknowledged what she had been trying to avoid for days. She was full. Full of rage. Full of hurt.
And full of power.
It was distending her belly, pushing on her ribs, pressing on her lungs. She was pregnant with magicks, the origins and details of which she knew not. She had not conjured, summoned or uttered any spells since Dawn's accident. She had tried to be careful, responsible and diligent. Yet for days it had felt as though a faucet had been left on and a magickal force had been dripping into her gut until she was drowning.
With apprehension, Willow held her hands before her and allowed the easy, innate commands that had been boiling in her brain to finally take form. She cocked her head ever so slightly and her hands, receiving their orders, sparked with electricity. A red and blue ball expanded between her palms as she cupped her hands together. Comforting warmth buzzed through her, melting the cold crystals of fear and illness. Her nausea dissipated and her headache fled. It was here. Whatever "it" was. The thing that empowered her, let her do the fantastical things that had made her first revered, then revolting to her friends and to Tara. She climbed out of bed, again turned on the lamp and went to the mirror. She wanted to see for herself what had only been described to her in squeamish, uncomfortable tones by the Scoobies. She looked up reluctantly and found two onyx eyes staring back at her. They were cold and...Other.
She took a step back. "Oh, my god. Go away, go away." She wrapped her arms around her head. Slowly, the blackness drained into her pupils, revealing first the whites of her eyes, then the deep emerald of her irises. What the hell is happening to me?
She went immediately to the phone and dialed.
"Amy, this is Willow. I've got to talk to you. Listen, something is wrong. I'm sick or...or... I don't know. Please pick up the phone," she sighed in frustration and fear. "Listen call me—no, wait, don't call me here. I'll call you later." She hung up the phone and then dropped her head, cradling it in her hands. When she lifted it moments later, shiny trails of tears streaked her pale face. She paced for a moment, unsure what to do.
Fuck this.
Willow pulled on clean clothes then quietly opened her bedroom door and made her way to Buffy's room again. She opened the window and headed back down the trellis. Nearing the bottom, she jumped the final few feet to the ground. As she turned, there was a blurred motion followed by a crack of white light exploding in her brain and a sharp pain in her jaw. She crashed into the trellis face first, then unfurled in a slow, backward fall, sprawling on the wet grass. Stunned, she stared up at the bruised sky and, for a moment, the rain-bloated clouds separated, displaying a clear, moonlit expanse awash in a field of stars. She marveled at the infinite beauty of space and dreamily thought if she looked long enough she might be able to see heaven.
A face suddenly appeared over her. The charcoal clouds folded back onto themselves, first framing, then collapsing behind the head of Buffy Summers. "Willow?" she said, frightened. "Oh, my god. Are you okay?" Willow rolled to her stomach and spit out a mouthful of blood. She pushed herself up as Buffy helped her stand. "Here, let me see." The Slayer took Willow's face in her hands and inspected her brutal handiwork. "Something jumps in front of me and I tend to get all punchy. Sorry." She smiled an apologetic grin. "Well, you still have all your teeth. You must have strong roots."
"Yay for calcium!" Willow said, trying to act as normal as possible.
"What were you doing on the trellis? The stairs too mundane for you nowadays?" Buffy asked before the lightbulb started to flicker. "Wait...were...were you sneaking out?"
"Sneaking? I wouldn't put it that way," Willow replied with her patented "Who me?" expression. "'Artfully avoiding' maybe, but definitely not sneaking." She dabbed her bleeding lip.
Buffy scrutinized her friend. Willow looked a little looped, but she had just decked her. It was more than that, though. Her eyes were glassy and she had a disturbingly familiar flush to her cheeks. This is the way Willow had looked when she found her on the night of Dawn's accident. "You've been doing magick haven't you?" she said flatly.
"Buffy, it's not what you think," Willow replied.
"You're completely amped, Will, what am I supposed to think?" The Slayer's anger was rising.
"No, listen, something's not right. I'm not doing this." Willow was desperate. "I think Rack must have done something--"
"Rack? You saw Rack again after everything that happened with Dawn?" Buffy's anger was now cold fury.
"I didn't see him. Let me explain," Willow said.
"Yes, please do. In fact, why don't we go in and have you explain it to Tara, too?" Buffy said as she grabbed Willow's arm and hauled her toward the back door. "I'm sure she'd be very interested to see how well you're doing, Will. Let her see how hard you're working to get that monkey off your back. Come on!"
"No!" Willow nearly shrieked in protest as panic bore down on her like a freight train. She twisted and squirmed and tried to yank her arm away. The Slayer held tight. "I swear to god, Buffy, let me go." She pulled again and Buffy released her iron grip letting Willow fall on her ass. Willow rolled to her knees and gripped the earth for a moment, absorbing her humiliation. She then rose, meeting Buffy toe to toe. Her eyes were black, shiny and vast. Willow's wrath mixed dangerously with the curdled magicks that flooded her core. Her hands crackled with energy that demanded release.
Buffy took a defensive step backward. Her hands tensed and clenched at her sides, ready for instant action. "Willow," she said with a studied evenness, having abandoned her aggressive posturing and backpedaled to a mission of containment.
A moment of heavy tension passed, neither woman committing to make the first move on her friend. At last, Willow took a step backward and drew her arm behind her as if to hurl a baseball. Buffy raised her hands protectively and prepared to level another punch, but stopped when she realized Willow was not aiming at her. She flinched as a grapefruit-sized orb shot from Willow's outstretched hand and hit a large conifer tree that stood behind Buffy to her right. The tree exploded in a ball of fire, flames licking the sky and illuminating the yard with angry, orange light. Buffy made a series of quick glances between the tree and Willow, then patted herself down to ensure she had not been turned into a frog or a rat.
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," a familiar young voice cried from behind them.
Willow and Buffy turned to to see Dawn on the back porch. She was quickly joined by Tara and Spike.
"Dawn get back in the house!" Buffy ordered, instinctively moving between Willow and her sister.
"But what's going on?" she asked, then fixed her gaze onto the cause of the commotion. "Willow?"
"Now!" This time the command was repeated in unison by Buffy, Tara and Spike. Dawn shrunk into the house, but hovered just inside the threshold.
Willow fell to her knees, weakened and ashamed. She took in the blazing manifestation of her rage with panting breaths and a sweaty brow, then turned her eyes, now green and clear, upward to Tara in a pleading stare. She felt light-headed and queasy again. Her eyes darted from Tara to Buffy to Dawn, who was peering from behind the door. The weight of their combined presence crushed down on her conscience. She leaned forward and laid her forehead on the ground, curling up like an overhandled sheet of paper.
Unable to stop herself, Tara ran to Willow meeting her at ground level. She placed her hands on Willow's face, gently pulling it up from the mud, but the redhead began to pull away from her. "No, Tara. Don't. I'm...I'm not safe. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I'll go." A low, wounded cry escaped her lips as she separated from Tara's grasp, stood and tottered around the side of the house to the street.
Everyone stood motionless, speechless and ill. Slowly, chaos began to swell around them as neighbors poked their heads out of their front doors and over bushes to see what was going on at the Summers home. The sound of sirens crept toward them from the edges of the neighborhood.
Spike finally looked to Tara and spoke. "Ummm, did you know you were shagging Carrie?"