Edge

[Boschi]

Title: Edge

Author: Boschi
Disclaimer: All characters, etc. property of Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, blah blah. I shall not profit from (even if I could), blah blah blah.

Setting: After 5th season. Buffy dead, Faith still comatose (which just goes to show it was too a soap opera). Giles is in town. Xander and Anya are together.

Rating: Whatever a little trauma and tongue warrant. "R" I suppose? May go up to NC-17 if I continue.

Pairing: Nixon and Eisenhower. Duh.

Author's Note: First fic posting. This will alternate POVs - we'll begin with Tara's. Warning: This isn't exactly warm and fuzzy to start, or particularly coherent. But I hope you'll hang in.


********************************************************

I'm shaking as I remember the weight of the energy bearing down and then through us. A howling power that bared it's teeth and went for our throats. Horrible, yes - almost to the pee your pants degree, but not why I'm shaking. I'm shaking because I failed her and it didn't matter - she didn't falter, she somehow harnessed all of that power and became it.

I'm telling myself it's relief. I'm relieved. That she lived, and I lived and that somehow what's left of this group kept the Hellmouth from being ripped open.

I didn't get to see it of course, I was too busy being unconscious. Too busy failing. I can hear them downstairs now, talking and laughing and I can't help but smile even as my stomach lurches at the crackling excitement in her voice.

"Oh! Ohoh! And when I all ..."

She must be gesturing now, maybe punching?

"with my leg and then ..."

Crash.

I cringe for a moment, recalling other moments spent listening to things crash and break downstairs.

Xander's voice now: "Whoa there Willster .... slay not the china cabinet."

His voice is ... tight? Like a sort of skittery drum trying to sound cheerful.
Her voice rises, looping deliriously as laughter bubbles under her words.

"Ooopsy! Silly cabinet. You can fix it, right Xander? Xander can fix it. Xander my man with your amazing fix-it abilities." Now she purrs, her voice like caramel, like a whisper in my ear when she holds me down.

It's down there now, with all of them, let loose to wander while I'm left behind. Tara's up in the bedroom while things happen downstairs. Adult things. That I don't understand. And before I know it I rise from the bed, creeping quietly to the top of the stairs to crouch behind the corner and listen; just like home, just like before, just like ...

"Tara?"

Oh Goddess, she heard. She heard me up here in the dark.
She finds me there, frozen at the top of the stairs. Just like home I put on a smile. Put on a smile Tara.

"H-hh-hi" I manage. Two letters, but I can't manage it right now. I could smell her, feel her as she flew up the stairs, a jagged aura hurtling toward me, still riding that same dark wave that drove me under, until she stood in front of me reaching out with her hand, her Willowhand that I love and can't help leaning towards, even as the waves batter me.

"Hey baby. Are you O.K.? We did it." The caramel is sweet again, all innocent concern as her eyes widen and she draws me to her.

I want to scream, or stand apart and clear my mind to figure out what happened, where my Willow has gone, but I can't help myself. She is holding me and my mind is bound silently to the body that folds itself into hers, clinging to the feathery red hair, the slim, strong frame, losing myself in her soft kisses that bless the top of my head, whisper over my hands and trace my jawline, growing firmer as they approach my mouth.

Her hands grip the back of my neck now, tangling in my hair as my mouth opens. I mean to speak but words are lost as I welcome her tongue, her warm lips smiling as they engulf mine. Forgive me forgive me forgive me.

"Will?"

I hear Xander's voice somewhere far away.

"Will? Is Tara OK? Ahn and I are going to take off unless you need something else."

"Oh please." I hear Anya say, "They are more than OK. Willow has that whole post-slayage thing going on. They're probably half naked by now. I say we ..."

Clinging to the most unlikely of rafts, I haul myself from the ocean of Willow's attentions and draw back, calling out down the stairs.

"Anya!"

My voice is almost too weak to carry but she answers, bless her demonically inappropriate self.

"Tara, I'm trying to get his ass out of here, but you know how he is when you and Willow do spells together."

Disentangling myself hurriedly I stumble to the top step, Willow's left hand still clinging awkwardly to my hair. I can feel the dark cloud of her confusion behind me, lightening crackling ominously.

"No Anya, it's f-f-fine. P-Please stay." I'm surprised by the edge of desperation in my voice, or am I? I know Willow is - her hand recoils.
I tuck my hair back as I hurry down the stairs, painfully aware of Willow's hurt in the stairwell above me.

Xander and Anya stare up at me, surprised.

"I'm going to make some tea, do you w-w-want some?" I'm trying to act calm, but I know the stutter gives me away. Momma always made tea afterwards, when I couldn't sleep. I know it's foolish to want them here right now. I know I need to be with Willow but ... I'm scared. I'm scared of Willow.

"Tara?" I start at the feel of Anya's hand on my wrist, surprisingly gentle as she takes the teapot from my hand. I don't know how long I've been standing here, holding it. Her voice is firm as she guides me to a chair.

"You need to sit down. Xander, don't just stand there, make tea." She thrusts the pot out at him and glares until he takes the pot and fills it.

Silence descends on the kitchen, broken only by the sound of tapwater rushing into the teapot.

[onyxsundrops]

Great start, and very interesting. Tara's POV immediately drew me in and I cannot help but to wonder what she fears and why... especially in Willow. I'm assuming it has to do with her abuse of power, but I look forward to learning more. Thanks for the update and I hope that you continue on with this story.

Yvonne

[Garner]

Boschi, excellent first fic post. I don't get the time to read much, and usually miss the beginnings of stuff but I hope I can keep up with this. You do a good job with Tara'sn feelings while Willow is downstairs, you definitely get her sense of apprehension and fear. I liked how you made reference to her family life earlier but had her shy away from remembering all of what she's gone through in the past. The stuttering returning at this late time is good since being afraid of Willow should be one of the worst things for her. Normally Willow should make her feel safe, that terror that family or lovers are not who they appear to be is a very primal one. I also like how you had Tara fretting over being useless, that was well done too, though this is a bit late for her to really feel so fifth wheel, still nicely done. You might remember that Tara went through a lot with Glory's mindsucking and being crazy and that might also color her mind and view of things, residual fears and such left over.
I also liked Willow's sort of incoherent babble and response to breaking things. That sounded like both her and Xander. Getting the Scoobies dialog down is not always easy.
I hope that you do continue and that we are able to find out what the spell was and whether Willow was affected by dark energy or somehow replaced by it. So far the hints are intriguing. One suggestion I might make is that there is little sense of the world around Tara in this. So far not a big deal since this is mostly pyschological, but you might use a little description like the broken china cabinet glimpsed in the corner of Tara's eye as she heads to the kitchen, stuff like that or maybe how people are standing. It doesn't need to be overdone given the emphasis and tone you are using, but don't forget it either.
And I definitely agree, by season 5 the show was definitely a soap opera of sorts, probably always was, but those aspects loomed larger and larger by season sux.

Great job,
Garner

[Boschi]

Doom duh doom doom doom...

onyxsundrops - thanks fer the kynd wurds. I've always felt that most of the fun of having power was abusing it. Which is probably why I haven't been given it often....

Garner - Ask/suggest and ye shall receive. At least in this case. I really appreciate the trouble you took to respond so thoughtfully. Swell uvya. I wish I had posted the beginning at a different point and after a little more editing. I'm not particularly happy with it, but at least I posted. I had been at a bit of an impasse with that.
I realize that I am playing Tara a bit (OK extremely) insecure. I hope the reasons for this become more apparent. I would reference the whole Buffy resurrection episode though as evidence that Tara wasn't exactly standing on her own two feet at that point. I cringed while watching it because she seemed like such a fawning (doh - bad choice of words...) yes-man to Willows strong lead.
As for my lack of setting - yes. Mea culpa. It doesn't improve a great deal below, but mostly that is because so far the story really is all in Tara's head. I'll try to ground a little more as I go, but be warned - random time shifts ahead...

On to update:

Author: Boschi.
Disclaimer: See above "blah blah"

Amended Summary: Tara's a tad upset at the mo, and Willow's been busy breaking plates in the kitchen. Evil is afoot I say. Eeeevil, evil purple feet.

Rating: This chapter just a little ole PG-13, but in a rather bleak, violent kind of way. May go up to NC-17 if I continue.

Pairing: Ratzinger and Ratbert. Duh.

Author's Note: Tara's POV. Warning: This isn't exactly warm and fuzzy to start...or really at all. Somewhere out there I smell the mild stink of redemption though.

Here goes....

* * * * *

I sit at the kitchen table examining my hands. My eyes drift past the steaming mug of tea and across the tabletop to the scattered and half complete homework assignment (half complete? Dawnie you said you finished...), over the stain-ringed empty coffee cups (should've washed those), then down to the floor where Xander kneels awkwardly, carefully sweeping fragments of broken plates into the dustpan. I look anywhere but up.

Her feet are there to my left, stained purple sneakers shifting back and forth anxiously. This morning she asked if I thought they looked silly. Too childish. She was nervous about the spell and I remember her suddenly plaintive words:

* * * * *

"Should I wear these? They're sneakers, which, given the name, good for sneaking I know. But tonights not so much about the sneaking, you know?"

She sat suddenly on the edge of the bed, sighing as she morosely examined her feet. Then I was beside her on the bed, wrapping my arms around her from behind and tucking my chin over her shoulder to be tickled by soft red. She glanced briefly to make sure the door was closed before leaning back to rest her head on my shoulder.

"They just look so silly, like some little kids shoes, and I'm not sure I'm up for striking fear in to the heart of an interdimensional demonic killing machine if ... I mean, really, if you saw someone wearing these, " she straightened her legs, sticking her purple clad feet out in the air to wiggle. "would you tremble in fear? I think not."

I didn't need to see her face to feel her beginning to smile then. Her tension eased away and I smiled knowing that our touching did that.

"Well me myself, no", I said, following her upswinging mood, "but I have it on good authority that the vast majority of interdimensional killing machines are mortally terrified of the color purple." I paused, considering my words. "Actually, come to think of it, a lot of things are mortally terrified of The Color Purple."

She giggled then.

"Well that's good to know, 'cause I've been considering strategies all day but I hadn't thought of using the lavender threat to my advantage."

"Do you think Converse would want to know?" I asked, "Maybe they could use it in their next ad campaign?"

She sat up enough to turn and grin impishly at me.

"New from Converse - the lovely but lethal Lavender Threat!"

We dissolved in to giggles then, falling over in the bed and on to eachother. Afterward, as we lay still and her breath lulled my head gently up and down, I whispered to her softly.

"We can do this baby, I know it. You'll do great tonight."


* * * * *

And we could. And she did.

The spell itself she made. A cocktail of wards, summonings and bindings that came together somehow in to a compelling entreaty to the power of the Slayer.

Giles and she discussed the spell they had used to defeat Adam for sometime but after a while Willow seemed to lose him. I helped; researching while she sat for hours nested in a ring of books with her laptop in front of her. In the beginning she would explain to us what she was doing, pausing to let us offer possible options but as the hours passed she became more distant and in the end the books merely floated to her without our assistance. I guess they call it "in the zone"? Which I guess works - I'm just blown away by her focus at times like this.

She doesn't seem to even use the laptop anymore, but despite the fact that her fingers never touch the keys the screen still scrolls and clicks through pages.

Giles avoided getting too close to her while she worked. I don't know if he was wary of the laptop or of what she was doing. He kept looking at me as we paced, dusted and read our way through the waiting. I could guess what he wanted - we shared unease at her casual use of magic. He didn't seem to understand fully how central she is to this ... everything... though. We had spent days looking for other options. There weren't any. Willow was our option. We needed a functional Slayer. And we needed Willow in her zone.

Finally he pulled me aside. He'd just begun to remove his glasses, summoning up a breath to say my name in that utterly reasonable, mildly exasperated tone of his, when Willow's voice interrupted.

Her voice was flatly calm.

"Got it."

We both turned to face her, moving quickly to peer over her shoulder. Giles squinted through his glasses, muttering to himself as he read through the spell which Willow had diagrammed carefully. He paused for a moment and then nodded briefly at the screen.

"Have you examined whether Ruathin's binding ... "

Before he could finish Willow clicked over to another screen that detailed her alteration of Ruathin's Fourth.

After that Giles just stood and stared, muttering "Remarkable" occasionally as he traced the connections. His tone grew more excited as he gradually comprehended what she had done and delight at her accomplishment overtook any caution.

"Oh well that's just .... remarkable. ...mmmm ... ah yes .... oh Willow, that inversion is quite nicely done ... quite. Remarkable."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes when his voice grew high pitched and he began gesturing at the screen. ' Mmmm, ah yes, oh Willow' indeed. I almost felt I should hand him a cigarette once he finally grew quiet. His enthusiasm became more reasonable however once I gazed at the patterns on the screen.

Over and over again I am astounded by what Willow can accomplish. Being able to be with her while she grew from a hesitant caster to an incredibly powerful witch in the space of a year has been incredible.

It's not that her power surprises me really - I knew from the first touch that she held more, well, everything ... than anyone I had ever met.
What amazes me is what she can do with the power.

She made this spell. She made it. I've made spells before - little things, charms and blessings. I can read the language of spells, maybe write a little rhyme. You know, 'roses are red, violets are blue'. But Willow writes poetry with it. Everything from haikus to full epics just dance out of her with ease.

This spell was well beyond what I ever thought I would see outside the older texts. The complexity was astounding, but my first impression was of elegance. Close on the heels of elegance followed alarm. Some of the components woven in to the spell came from places far darker than I cared for. Yes, they were bound carefully - bent and twisted artfully into loops that fed their darkness elsewhere, but still .... This spell - it bound the spirit of the Slayer.

She had met the spirit of the first Slayer before and barely lived through it. This went deeper still, tapping the source of that wild girls power. Could she handle that? I had looked down then, ashamed at my own thoughts. Of course she could. She stole me back from a god with her bare hands.

* * * * *

I've felt safe in those hands ever since. Until now.
My attention returns to the jittery reflection in my tea, the warm yellow of the kitchen light fracturing around my face. Soon I have to fill this silence or things will fall apart; people will start asking questions that I don't have answers for yet. On cue, Anya pipes up.

"Well what did she do?"

I look up at her, confused.

"Do?"

"Well Willow has obviously done something. She looks like she's just stepped on a small puppy. Your small puppy to be precise. And you're obviously disturbed - I've never seen you fail to lead the 'Yeah Willow' parade before. And believe you me, it's ticker tape time - your girlfriend just royally destroyed a friggin' armada of evil. So what's up? Is it very bad?"

Anya leans in close, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Was there a man involved? I still have connections you know - Halfrek still owes me for a little mix up in Prague. It seems a shame to waste a perfectly new Slayer, but I just heard about this neat trick with entrails, baking powder, and a clothes pin that sounded quite remarkable. Quite."

It occurs to me that Anya: 1) Spends much of her time around Giles. and 2) Misses her old career far more than any of us like to realize. Far more than may be healthy as a matter of fact.

Xander stands, carefully cradling the full dustpan. "Honey ... how 'bout a hand with the broken plates here. And an ix-nay on the engeance-vay."

"Stop it with your strange geekish codes Harris. This is girl talk. Go ... tidy; or something manly. Scoot."

My mind returns to Anya's question.

What did Willow do? I knew what would happen - we all agreed that she would be the most logical target of the spell. Redirecting the energies she focused to someone else, particularly a non-magic user, would have added a great deal of risk. So she called, and the spirit came knocking.
My stomach trembles again remembering that knocking.
Willow became a Slayer. A, not The. Faith was The Slayer - Willow was just borrowing the spirit long enough to prevent the "armada of evil" as Anya had so aptly called it, from strolling in to Sunnydale Memorial Hospital outside of visiting hours to tie a closing knot in the Slayer heritage.

What did Willow do? She saved us and she saved the Slayer lineage. Which could very well mean she saved the world. My girl, the hero.

What did Willow do?

She single handedly tore apart twenty demons. She gutted the first one with a word but the next one she used her hands on, snapping it's neck with ease. She spun, kicked, and grabbed the third by its throat before driving it to the ground and its death, one of those cute purple shoes driving heel first in to the demons temple over and over again. She looked up then, her back arched and her eyes greedy for the fourth. I remember, just for a moment, pitying those demons. Which is when I lost consciousness, and the anchor.

What did Willow do? She flew away. I failed to hold the anchor and she flew away. She flew strong and true without me, and then she came back. And for some reason I don't recognize what flew back. Or maybe I just don't like what I do recognize: the way her hands were weapons, and the look in her eyes as she used them.

I face it then - that I saw my father in her as she killed. I feel the vomit rising in my throat and barely fight it down.

In the corner of my eye I see a stained purple sneaker step forward and her voice breaks through everything, shaky with concern.

"Tara?"

[HalfCamel]

This is very intriguing. I had read the first part and I was a little confused, and I'm still a tad confused but I I'm starting to understand it now.

I like how you show giddy-Willow in the flashback and then in-the-zone-Willow right after. It shows the big contrast between the W who couldn't decide on her purple shoes and the W who was in complete control. You do a great job of making the differences come across.

Now, I'm wondering what exactly happened to W. Is she different now? I'm thinking yes, but how, exactly?

I can't wait to see how Tara reacts and deals with W now. She's afraid of W, yes, but why? Because W seemed to take a little to much pleasure in the torturing and killing, like her father? Or because T is afraid that W might turn somewhat into her father, the person she needed to get away from to begin with? Or is it because of something else?

I like where you're taking this. Can't wait for more.

[Boschi]

Half Camel: Thanks, glad you find it intriguing. Sad to say this will probably not answer any of your questions or clear up a damn thing. It's just some back story that occurred and I tapped out. Real fear takes a little context, ya know? Hope you are having a fandiddlyastic day.

- Boschi

For my fan horde I present (in the distance a dim cry is heard, but it is just a lonely auctioneer, practicing...):

Title: Edge, chapter #3
Author: Boschi
Disclaimer: All characters, etc. property of Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, blah blah. I shall not profit from (even if I could), blah blah blah.

Summary: Just a little flashback O' Tara's. Keeps my fingers nimble till my brain returns enough to continue with something longer.

Pairing: Nameless prom king and queen.

Author's Note: Tara's POV. Leeeetle Tara.

*********************************************************

I am sitting on my father's shoulders, the ground a long way down.

Drums roll down the street as the high school band from Higginsville marches around the corner. I cover my ears and squeeze my eyes closed at the blare of trumpets, but when cheers erupt from the crowd around me I can't help but open my eyes to the sight of a high school boy and girl riding slowly down the street in the back of a shining white convertible.

It is bigger than John Bouchard's Bronco, which is the biggest car I have ever seen; but for everything tall and rough about the Bronco there is something wide and smooth about this car. Gliding down the street on tires as pristine as a pearl, it is clearly a visitor here; the star of the parade. It comes from somewhere else - somewhere I think I might like to be. I start to bounce and wave, caught in the wave of excitement around me but my father's voice silences me.

"Settle down Tara. You need to learn to be patient. It won't be much longer now."

And I realize that we are not here to see this marvelous car, or even the pretty girl in her pink dress or the smiling boy beside her. We are not part of the wave of excitement. My father is waiting for something else.

There are funny little cars motorcycles buzzing around eachother in circles and then row after row of girls twirling shining batons. I think of how it would be to hold one of those batons, flashing as it spins in the sunlight, but I get nervous at the thought. I usually drop things, and someone could get hurt. It's not good to hurt people, so I have to be careful.

I grow thirsty, but try hard to be patient. To be good. I can wait. These are just things to be waited through, and so I need to wait, like my daddy is waiting. We are waiting together, he and I. Mama kissed me on the forehead and told me to be good this morning, and Donnie is away at boy scout camp. Daddy has never taken me anywhere before. I am a big girl now.

I feel the change in my Daddy before he speaks. The crowd is unchanged, but beneath me he has become perfectly still. His head has turned to face the oncoming marchers, his chin lifted to see into the distance. I know what his eyes look like - he is just like Jeanie, his bird dog, when she up and points, everything falling away but the bird, hidden in the grass. I shiver as I feel his stillness pass in to me, drawing my eyes to the same point. I want to see what he sees. The crowd doesn't matter.

I see them.

A handful of old men are coming down the street, walking slowly in dark green suits. Some have sashes across their shoulders, or ribbons fluttering on their chests. They move slowly, like all the old men I have seen in church.

One walks ahead of the rest, carrying a flag. Behind him comes a man in wheelchair. I have never seen a wheelchair before and cannot stop staring at the blanket across his lap. Is he sitting indian style, like Ms. Bruck showed us in kindergarten? The blanket hangs empty past his knees.

I see other men in the crowd now, standing stiffly with their hands to their foreheads as the men walk by. Sure enough, Daddy is doing the same. I feel funny up here, like I don't belong, but I don't want to stop this moment.

I want to ask him who they are, but I know, for the first time I think, what to do around my father. I need to be quiet. I need to wait. That is what a good girl does. What he and I are doing together.

The men shuffle past and the red of their flag disappears as the parade trudges on. Up ahead I can see horses coming, bright feathers on their harnesses, but my father has exhaled, his shoulders falling down again as he turns to go. I look back once at the horses wistfully before my father lifts me down.

We are walking back to the car and he is holding my hand. His hand is different from Mama's softness - all scratchy and warm like a dog's paw in summer. People are talking to eachother around us but we move through them and I am proud of this. We know something they don't. The old men in green are our quiet secret. But I need to know. Is it safe to talk yet, I wonder?

"Who were the green men Daddy?" I ask, squinting up at him in the early summer sun.

He looks down at me then, his lower jaw sticking out a bit while he decides what to say. He is watching me as he answers and I am lost in his eyes.

"That was your uncle Buck's army unit. Buck and they were very brave together."

"What did they do?"

"They fought together in a war against some very bad people. When I was little, just like you ... "

I grin at this - he was like me!

" ... and I was too little to fight, Buck went away to protect me and my mama and your aunt Mina. I couldn't go, so Buck went for both of us. Men go to war to protect their families Tara. And sometimes they don't get to come back, so going away is a very brave thing. Do you understand?"

I know the answer to my question, but I ask it anyway. "Did Uncle Buck ever come back?"

Daddy squeezes my hand tight and whispers his response.

"No baby girl, he didn't."


We go for ice cream then. At Gelly's Drugstore I get a whole banana split, with whipped cream and three whole cherries, which I make myself sick eating. It is the first and last time he and I ever go there together, but everytime I walk past, even after Mrs. Gelly dies and it becomes a pizza parlor, I remember how happy we were together that day.

That wasn't the only time my father ever talked about Buck, or about the Vietnam, or about how brave his unit had been. Sometimes at dinner he would tell stories from the letters Buck had sent home. He mainly told the stories to Donnie, but I heard too as I went from dining room to kitchen, retrieving the dishes.

As I got older Mama and I might share an eye roll in the kitchen at how many times he could tell the same story, but I always felt a twinge of guilt when I mocked him. Even when he terrified me my father made me feel that my family was worth protecting. That he would protect it, that he would be brave for us.

When he began to beat Mama I believed him when he said it was for the best; that sometimes men had to do hard things to protect their families. I believed him because of that day at the parade.

"It doesn't feel evil" I said, and his reply held everything.

"Evil never does."

He wanted to be a good man. Sometimes that's not enough.

[fun in dysfuntion]

Wow.

Uh, wow.

Ok, new thought. I am always marveled at writers such as yourself who are both concise and able to draw the reader into an emotional scene. Even though you began this story from a dark point, I enjoy how you are able to add some levity into the scene (hehe...lavendar threat) without the overall piece appearing disjointed. I'm a sucker for good contradistinction.

I look forward to reading more.

Cheers,
teddy

[Garner]

Well I was just going to comment on the previous update, but now there are two parts done. That's always good. I liked the attention to the sneakers in the second part, that was well done. I also like how you had Willow using the computer, floating books to her and working on the spell. There is definitely a 'zone' thing when people are into creative pursuits. And I also really like the setup with Tara worried about what came back after Willow took out whatever threat it was that made her bind the Slayer Spirit to her. Giles reaction was interesting as well. Nothing against your story, but I do hate that 'casual' magic and things that shouldn't be a big deal, like floating the books and such, all of a sudden become "using too much magic" due to the crappy stories and ideas in Season Sux. The whole attitude about how to use magic, when, the ramifications of it, are all so warpped and twisted now in the Buffyverse. That's too bad. I also tend to fall into the camp that thinks Willow progressed too far too quickly and that Tara is actually a lot stronger than we saw or that she realized. Yes, Willow is a prodigy and all that, but still, Tara's been studying for a long time and in magic that usually makes a big difference. Still, I like the description of the Slayer possessed Willow and Giles being impressed with the elegance of her spell, that was nicely done. It was nice to see Anya being the one to raise questions. She could often cut through the things no one was saying but all thinking.

In the new part, you do an excellent job showing how as children we all have memories of parents that are good and pure, no matter what happens later. The part could use a bit more transition from the last one though. That is a pretty big jump without much explanation. I can see, maybe, what you are going for, but if one were reading this all at once a bit more lead in might be useful. Tara's family is a hard one to get a grip on. Her father is bad, but not BAD. One has to keep in mind that the mother was a witch and I've always wondered how the father controlled her without getting cursed or something. For me that leaves out constant spousal abuse, but then Will is the key to magic and not having the will to use it on an abuser could be possible. You do a good job of showing some of the human side to the family and that was nice. It will be interesting to see how you tie this part into the main story. Keep up the good work.

Garner

[HalfCamel]

hey boschi,

This was very well written. The imagery was wonderful, it felt like I was actually there watching it and feeling it.

The parade you described is almost exactly like what we have where I'm from, except ours are a lot more elaborate. It's called the Washington's Birthday Celebration and it lasts about a month, but the parade is the thing almost everyone goes out to see. I'd gone several times when I was younger, so in a way you had me relive this memory with Tara.

I'm very curious as to what brought on this particular memory for Tara, and how you're gonna connect it to the rest of the story. Young-Tara is very much like Older-Tara, she's very perceptive to her father's change of moods, she's trying to please him and not cause a stir, etc.

He wanted to be a good man. Sometimes that's not enough.

I found this very sad and yet so true. I've been sitting here for about five minutes and I have so much to say over these two lines but I can't seem to articulate it. It hit close to home for me, especially with my father; and I'm sure a whole lot of people can relate to this as well.

You're doing a wonderful job. I can't wait til you confuse me some more or get my wheels turning, which I'm sure it'll be both. Keep it up!

[Boschi]

Well shucks folks. No update, just wanted to send out a few thankful replies. Your responses were an awesome pick me up in the middle of a crummy week.

HalfCamel -
Father/daughter (or perhaps son, I don't know) relationships can be real humzingers, no?
I'll take it as high praise that I got your wheels turning - if you get anywhere interesting please let me know. I know that my own idea of my relationship with my father is still developing and maturing, and I expect it will continue to do so throughout my life. This little story certainly plays in to that process.
Thanks for reading!

Teddy -
I have been rolling "contradistinction" around in my head all day. It makes a pleasant jingle jangle there.
I havent the foggiest idea how you don't find this ramble disjointed, but I'm thrilled for you. I may need you to explain it to me later as I go along, would that be possible?
Thanks for the "wow" - tis my first, and I will sign, date and post it on the wall.

Garner -
So let me get this straight...Season Six was not your favorite? Do I have that right? .
Your reply is as always delightfully thoughtful.

I think your takes on two things are somewhat related. First, your opinion that Willow progressed too quickly and that Tara's magic was underated so to speak; and second, your comment that overt spousal abuse of a witch would just be asking for a curse or some sort of comeuppance.

I tend to objectively agree with both. .... However, power dynamics in a relationship are essentially subjective. The actual relative magical talent/power of Willow v. Tara is irrelevant. What is significant is how they view their relative abilities. Tara is essentially an insecure but supportive person. It could be argued that her perception of the relationship would therefore be one which idealized Willow's talent and minimized her own.

As for the spousal abuse - I think the scariest part of an abusive relationship is that it is exactly that - a relationship. Physical brutality by itself is horrible, and is certainly something that a witch could defend against. But loving an abuser? Again, not objective at all.

I find myself treading on thin ice here, as I am implying that an abuser is empowered by his/her victim's complicity which is a pretty dreadful thing to say. I in no way mean to state that abuse is the victims fault.

My point is that relationships have their own logic and rules. An abuser can warp the perceptions and priorities of a relationship. Love conquers all, including self preservation and good sense sometimes.

I dunno - just my current thoughts.

As for casual magic being an abuse of power - nah, more like a disrespect to others I think. Kind of like having a conversation in a language most of the people around you don't understand.

I will say that I liked the examination of power and how Willow dealt with it in the show. It pissed me off a bit when it became an after school special about addiction.

But enough of my rambles...thanks again for your input and thoughts - I was pleased as punch to see you had checked in on my humble musings and am crossing my fingers that you will continue to.

***********
My life is a tad hectic at the mo', but I will try to update sooner or at the very least, later.

Regards,

Boschi

[Boschi]

Title: Edge
Author: Boschi


Summary: Ummm... more of the same confusion. The world has been saved, yet nothing is really good.

Rating: One of these days I'll get to the wild monkey luv, but today is not the day. Perhaps when I am reminded of what it is like ... sigh.

Pairing: Angst and yer pants. Duh.

Author's Note: So! I thought I would just keep writing the same scene over and over again! Sound good! Outstanding! This starts off in the kitchen where the second installment ended, but switches from Tara's POV to Willows quickly.

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"Tara?"

Have to answer. Need to answer. Goddess, what's wrong with me? She's right there. Right there. But it feels like I couldn't reach her if I tried. If I wanted to.
I can't. Why can't I do this?
I wish my stomach would stop hurting. I wish I would stop this stupid shaking. I wish ... I wish I could just make everyone hold still until I figured this all out. Everyone is here, and I'm surrounded by staring faces and I want them to leave me alone. I need to be alone. I deserve to be alone.
Please leave me alone. But not with her. Not right now.

"Please..." I whisper, then take a couple deep breaths. I need to be OK, to stop this spiral. I need to be calm so everyone will stop staring.

Her voice cuts through, pleading and confused. "Tara, what's wrong?"

She is coming towards me now and before I can stop myself I flinch. Oh God Will, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please don't be hurt, please just give me a chance to figure this out. But all I manage again is a whispered "P-p-please." before I feel a sob shuddering up. I'm losing control. I'm losing control again. I'm hurting her and everybody is looking at me and I can't find my way out of this.

****************************************************************

"What did you do to her!" come Anya's words, charging up to stand between Tara and I.
I have no idea what she's talking about, or what just happened. What did I do? What did I do?! I saved everything. I pulled it off - I did it. Me. Little, can-barely-stake-a-newbie-vamp-on-a-good-day, always-got-picked-last-for-kickball, five-foot-nothing, Willow. I made the spell, I borrowed Faith's power, I killed the bad guys, I saved the day, and then I came home to kiss my girl.

See, I can follow all that; strange as it is I can trace what happened moment to moment there - the flow chart would be comparitively easy to do, but this? I have no idea what's going on - continuity is kaput, Tara is falling apart and I can't fix it with Anya standing there between us.

When she flinched my world stopped. When Anya spoke it started again. I need to fix this. I can do something about Anya, I can start there. How dare she.

I step forward and shove as I reach her. Expecting to see her step back I prepare to unload my indignation - 'this isnt the time for accusations, Anya! How dare you accuse me! What do you know about Tara and I! Do you have any idea ...', but my words never materialize as I see her fly backwards instead, hear the crash of the china cabinet again, the shattering of dishes, the plasticky clatter of the dustpan Xander drops as he rushes to her.

When he looks at me I am a monster - his eyes leaden and angry.

"Leave. Now. Get out."

His words send me fleeing the room and the house, unspoken accusations hounding me all the way out the door and in to the night. What did I do? What have I done? Why is my baby afraid of me? Where did this all go wrong?

I can straighten all this out; I can make it all better if I can just understand what happened...

*****************************************************************

Two days earlier, Monday, 7:30 a.m.:

The jangling bell on the door of the Magic Shop wakes me and I jerk upright. Texts come in to focus, spread across the table in front of me.
Wow. Ow.

Reaching up to scrub the sleep out of my eyes I encounter a strand of drool. OK-sey, Willow, I can't believe you fell asleep. I can't believe you'd just drift off when there's an apocalypse pending. I never did this the other ... how many times? I am so getting old, I can't believe ... AH! Drool! I can't believe I drooled on Ghravneth's Protocol! Oh hey, hey there little ancient mystical text. Please don't be all smudgy...no smudgy ancient runes here, no siree. Eep.
I watch as the runes for "fierce maw" and "endless song" slowly bleed together.

( ~ In the halls of Gravthor the sound of crunching bone ceases and the wails of the sacrificed ones are replaced by a slowly building tone, filling the halls and echoing out in to the stone fields ~)

"Good lord Willow, have you been here all night?"

I hear footsteps approaching and again I say Eep. Giles. I slam the Protocol closed and wipe my face, greeting him with a smile I hope says 'What a great day to be researching essence transfer!' and not 'Say, you didn't need that incredibly rare, impossible to replace dimensional magic tome, did you?'

( ~ within the text the wetness spreads, pulling ink from one page to another. "Spinning" joins "hooves" in the inky blot, conjugating eachother in the rarely used Dahn-Yewb tense. In Gravthor the unholy brothers find themselves moving, shuffling faster and faster. The sacrificed ones can only watch in amazement as their tormentors pull away, waltzing to the strange song they have begun ~)

"Good morning Mr. Giles."

"Good morning Tara."

Giles greets my girl with a smile. She is standing up, straightening out her long skirts and winding her hair back up. She walks towards the table and smiles at me.
"May I?" she asks, reaching for a pencil and I nod happily. She twists her hair once and slides the pencil into it, yawning as her arms stretch behind her head. Unable to resist, I reach for her waist and pull her towards me so I can rest my head against her side. She sways easily to me, resting her hand on my shoulder and for a moment I am completely content. I don't know how it works, but somehow in the crazy life I live this is home - leaning against Tara in a magic shop as an Englishman fixes tea and we prepare to find a magic spell to save the world. Again.

'Buffy should be here' I think, but there's no sense in thinking that. She isn't and we are and I miss her so much, but we'll just have to go with what we got - two witches, a one time hooligan sorceror gone tweed, a retired vengeance demon, a former ball of cosmic energy, and ... Xander. Then I smile at the image of a wrecking ball crashing in to Glory, sending her flying. Yeah, we have Xander too.

The sun filters in to the shop and I breath in the smell of old books, the arrhuna ritual oil that spilled yesterday, and Tara-belly.

Clarity. The world crystallizes around me and I desperately want a photograph of this; some sort of record. Maybe I could just stop time, right here, before Giles turns back to us with the cups of English Breakfast (could he be more cliche?) and the news he so obviously has, before Tara moves away from me, before I have to open myself up to the magics again and feel that giddy darkness writhing under me. Before I have to somehow wake up a psychokiller that knows I hate her. Before the end of the world.

I close my eyes and squeeze Tara a little tighter. When I open them a mug is hovering in front of me. Giles stands besides me and I feel Tara slipping away to sit down. The three of us sit at the table, sipping our tea for a moment before Giles speaks.

"I fear we may have less time than we thought."

Opening the book he has carried to the table, he lets it fall open to the page his thumb marked and pushes his glasses a little closer to his eyes.

"The signs indicate that Faith may be in immediate danger - there is a confluence of signs tomorrow at sunset that is an ideal opportunity for the Brethren to manifest in this dimension. With Faith incapacitated and no other Slayers currently called they would be able to effectively eliminate the Slayer lineage if they are able to abduct Faith and maintain her in her current condition indefinitely. Since we have..." He paused to remove and clean his glasses,

"...eliminated other options, we must by necessity wake Faith or prevent the abduction in hopes she eventually recovers."

He looks at me expectantly, which I am growing used to. Used to, but not happy with.

"How are you coming with your research?" He prompts.

Oh boy, here goes...

"I've sort of changed my angle of approach", I began hesitantly and am amazed as always to see their gazes remain steady, waiting for my words.

"I don't think we can safely wake Faith up. I've looked at a number of options, but if she has remained in a vegetative state this long then healing spells aren't likely to do much. The only options I can find are risky at best - risky as in resurrection."

I pause here, biting my lip as I let the implications of that sink in. Faith = psycho. Resurrected Faith = psycho zombie.

"See," I continue, opening up a history of the Slayer. "In eleven fifteen a resurrection was attempted on a Slayer soon after death - she had no Watcher and no one knew that another one would be called after her, so they were kinda desperate? Didn't go so well - sounds like our little dream friend - and I don't mean Mr. Cheese - came calling and rained down all sorts of Slayery spirit mojo on the warlock that tried. The warlock, the Slayer he was attempting to resurrect, and a good number of villagers were killed.
And then in fifteen sixty eight we have several accounts of resurrections attempted on people who hadn't actually died yet, mainly plague victims - including, convieniently enough, Elspeth Bomley, a Slayer. Again, didn't go so well."

I pivot the book to display the illustrations and watch the expressions of dismay and disgust grow on their faces.

"So!" I speak out, drawing the book back, eager to dispell the distress evident on Tara's face.

"I kept looking and found this - an account of Kima M'tembe - the mother of a Slayer who appealed to the spirit of the Slayer when her Slayer daughter was in a long labor and took on the mantle of the Slayer until her grandchild was born. It seems the spirit of the Slayer is a little more accomodating when approached courteously - which I have to say, kinda weird given the whole primal killer thing, but go figure ... apparently primal killing spirits are all big with the protocol.

The only thing is the spell was sort of lost, or maybe not recorded. I'm not really sure yet, but I think I might be able to construct something similar using elements of the spell we used to defeat Adam." And maybe a bit of Gravneth's, but we don't really need to mention that right now, do we ... "What do you think?"

And again to my amazement they look back at me calmly, as if I had just given out a recipe for chicken soup. Giles nods as Tara squeezes my shoulder.

"Excellent - let's get to work."

************************************************************************

I did it - I made the spell. They didn't stop me, or question me. Possibly, just possibly... because I didn't take any pains to point out certain aspects of the spell that might have upset Tara.

It was hard enough to convince her of what I had reluctantly concluded - that I was the most obvious person to take on the mantle of the Slayer. She didn't need to know all of it. I wish I didn't know all of it.

I've never figured out if I like how Tara and I can talk about anything, or sit comfortably in silence more. Sometimes it feels like the silence says more. But lately the silences have been ... I dunno ... empty? Maybe hidden? It's like the the warm, comfy room we live in has slowly grown colder and darker. She can't follow me where I have to go anymore - she can't see this, because I don't know if she would understand. I'm not sure anyone would understand.

That's a lie. I think Buffy would understand. Moot-filled point however. Big-ole honking mooty moat between me and everybody else right now. And the things swimming out there... shudder. I didn't ask for this, you know? I didn't ask to be the one who could swim with the monsters and somehow keep breathing. The magics in half the spells I use anymore are dark, but they get things done. And in the end, that's what everyone wants. What everyone needs - things done. Not thoughts, or feelings. Things. Things killed, things defeated, things saved, or things sent away. Feels like I spend a lot of my time lately with things.

Right on cue I feel the tingle that I somehow know heralds one of those things. I don't remember walking to the cemetary - but I suppose it makes sense. I'm still the Slayer - for a little bit longer at least.

The dark figure glides out from behind a tree and I feel an ugly humming in my gut. The sensation lessens only slightly when it speaks, smoke snaking into the dark around a point of dim orange.

"Well hullo there - whatsa nice bird like you doing out'n'about, night like this?"

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[fun in dysfuntion]

I'm intrigued. The image I had stuck in my head while I was reading this post was of a flat piece of oragami paper that had already been folded to form a shape but now lays unfolded. Systematic creases let me know the paper once held a shape, but unless the person who originally folded it does so again, the shape is a mystery. In essence, I believe that in this story, there is order in the confusion.

Oh hey, hey there little ancient mystical text. Please don't be all smudgy...no smudgy ancient runes here, no siree.

You're Willow thoughts are very funny. You have an excellent ear for her dialogue to be able to recreate it this well.

Willow hid something from Tara about the spell, but it's unlikely that Tara doesn't already know what went wrong...and does the damaged Ghravneth's Protocol play a role in all of this? And, why is Willow the obvious one to take perform the spell?

Hm...I think there is a reason I normally leave feedback before midnight...apparently, I turn into a rambly pumpkin.

Thanks for the update.
Cheers,
teddy