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Title: Love and Squalor
Author: littlesage
Rating: PG-13. It won’t be R right now, but things will get dark and reach that point.
Content: Violence, drug use, bigotry, angst, and some sensuality.
Pairings: W/T, and the appearance of the rest of the Buffy cast.
Feedback: Is definitely appreciated.
Summary: AU. Willow and Tara set in the sixties. No spoilers, no monsters.
Disclaimer: This story is simply for entertainment and distraction purposes. I own none of these characters. We know they all belong to Joss & the WB. The title is borrowed from J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories—which I definitely do not own.
Notes: I don’t know much of the sixties as I wasn’t even a thought until quite sometime later. I tried my best to do my research—if you have any suggestions or factual corrections, please let me know.
*This is just a first time experiment…it may not go anywhere*
Thoughts are in italics. Please forgive and notify me of any glaring grammatical or spelling errors.
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[center]1[/center]
The house was cold. Frost had gathered on the window panes overnight and the radiator clanked pathetically, doing its best to heat the old brownstone. Books lay in stacks and mountains on the furniture and hardwood floors, creating the only real character piece in the frigid house, their pages lending no warmth to their owner (or lender, as the tenant of this house was fond of libraries.) From the hallway came a scampering black and white kitten, hastily making her way up the stairs where she hoped to find some body heat from her owner.
Though it was only six am, the sole human inhabitant of this quaint building began to stir from her bed, moving restlessly from underneath a mountain of blankets. The kitten spotted some bare feet protruding from the bedding and leapt for them in earnest, making a valiant attempt to wake her owner by making dough on the exposed appendages.
A croaky, mumbling voice came from the woman, saying something akin to; “Nmnfh…frogs…grmsh ‘n slimy…go ‘way…” She eventually managed to pull herself out of her dream-clouded haze and dragged herself slowly out of the bed. Most startling on that dim morning was not the obnoxious pink nightgown, but the appearance of the young woman’s bright red mop. For a mop is what her hair appeared to be, sticking out obstinately at awkward angles that would make any onlooker think the woman had been attempting headstands in her sleep.
Slipper-clad feet shuffled to the bathroom, to the bedroom, to breakfast, and then to her morning chair where she sat, gazing at the damp street outside her window She snapped the morning paper open, a cup of tea by her side, and mumbled softly, “October twenty-fourth…nineteen sixty-four…” She read titles of interest; an editorial about JFK’s death, a large drug bust in a warehouse, and a city council meeting regarding the demolition of a downtown city block known to be a ‘hippie hotspot’. She followed these perusals with her typical reward of the funnies section whereupon she snickered into her tea at the cartoon antics displayed.
Dressed in khakis and a blue blouse, Willow Rosenberg pulled on her pea coat and headed out the door, petting the kitten once more good-bye. Her loafers met the pavement quickly as she briskly walked to her place of work.
[center]*****[/center]
On the other side of town, a young woman of similar age and height as Miss Rosenberg was to be found shivering, seated atop the stoop of an apartment building with naught but a set of tattered clothes and a desolate expression. Her hands sat open on her lap in an unusual position, waiting vacant for some miracle to be pressed into them.
There were no passerby’s to be found on this street-block at this early hour, but if someone had walked by they would have been taken aback at this woman’s entirely devastated appearance as her piercingly blue eyes searched the air before her for some answer.
The sound of a trashcan tumbling over in an alleyway prompted the woman to her feet, pushing loose strands of long blonde hair behind her ears. She looked to her left, and then to her right. The downtown buildings that seemed so enticingly tempestuous at night were hardly appealing in the morning light with their dirty flaws made raw and visible. Uptown was clean, awake, and rich.
Moccasin clad feet turned to the left and embarked on a steady rhythm towards coffee and warmth. Uptown it was.[blockquote][/blockquote]
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