Rating: PG
Feedback: Yes please! This is currently an un-betaed writing exercise. Both positive and negative feedback are extremely welcome. Like, "please rip this to shreds" welcome.
Disclaimer: The entire Buffyverse (including setting, characters, and plot) is property of its owners, including but not limited to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement is intended by this work.
Original Piece:
A Traditional New Year’s Eve by wayland
Acknowledgments: Thanks to wayland, for the permission to write this, as well as for her assistance with some of the Anglification. Mad props to everyone who writes in American who doesn't natively speak our dialect.
Notes: Yet another POV swap . . . because . . . god, because I'm in a rut. I should mix this shit up. I mean, um, because this lent itself to a POV swap. Yeah.
Notes II: Happy Birthday, Clare.
Sincerest Form of Flattery #6: RitualsAs a cuckoo clock sounded the hour, Tara stood at her gas hob, idly pushing diced chicken around a wok for her supper. Though the meat was cooking a mere couple of feet from her nose, the smell of the charcoal fires and Middle Eastern spices from downstairs permeated her flat, the way it always did.
Half metre, she reminded herself. She was never going to get the hang of metric if she kept thinking in imperial.
She looked over to the clock, confirming the time. Five hours. Five hours until 2012. Thankfully, it was a Saturday, and she’d had time to take care of almost all of her pre-New Year’s rituals: her debts were paid, her washing was done, the rubbish was out, and the only washing up to do was the dishes she was dirtying making her stir fry. Not that she believed in any of those superstitions. But her mother had been firm about putting the house in order before the end of the year. Tara had continued them in her own home.
Tara felt her thumbnail at the base of her ring finger. She looked down in consternation before she realised what was wrong: she’d taken off her ring to handle the raw chicken. Though she worried that she would eventually wear the ring down, she had never got the hang of not fidgeting with her ring. It was almost as though the stutter she had worked so hard to eliminate had simply moved to her left thumb.
At least the bit with the ring didn’t interfere with her job.
After a quick glance at her chicken, Tara decided she could leave it for a moment. She turned about face in the narrow hallway of a kitchen to her sink and washed her hands. After drying them, she reached up to the picture of her mother that hung above the sink. ‘Happy New Year, Mum,’ she murmured as she brushed her fingers across the photo and up to the nail holding it up, where she had hooked her ring.
Tara spun once more as she replaced the ring on her finger and returned to her food with a frown. Even more than Christmas, New Year’s Eve was a day of tradition. Of rituals. Of habits she had learned as a small child. Tonight there was a game of pinochle she should be playing. Sure, it was at her friend Livia’s house instead of the old family house in Hampstead, and it was among friends instead of her immediate family. Still, she’d played cards into the new year as long as she could remember: pinochle since her parents taught her and Donny when she was ten, and rummy before that. Before rummy, though, she couldn’t remember. The idea of not being able to play cards was like the idea of not being able to read: simply impossible to imagine.
Tara glanced at her clock again. Her friends would be sitting down to their Indian take away right about now. And yet, here she was, making herself stir fry.
What the hell am I doing? It was a question she’d been asking herself since she had finally, hands shaking, picked up the phone to call Livia and cancel. That was two hours ago. It felt like ages. Tara knew she was a creature of habit. This disruption felt like an itch she just couldn’t quite reach. At the same time, New Year’s Eve was the only excuse she could think of to see Willow Rosenberg.
Tara knew that the company Health and Safety course she taught was not a favourite of the staff. But the numbers didn’t lie: injuries were down 17% from when employees were allowed to take the course online. So, once a month, she stood up in front of a class that did not want to be there, and did her best to charm them into remembering the information.
Tara was used to people lumbering unwillingly into the classroom, gripping their coffees like life rafts. It took a few jokes, a few dozen doughnuts, and reassurance that she believed that their time was valuable, but Tara was always able to get most people to stop grumbling and pay attention.
Last week’s class, however, had thrown her.
Last week, she received the polite, indifferent attention she always did from her co-workers. Except for one. One woman—a decidedly beautiful woman—sat enraptured through the entire class. It was peculiar. The woman had shuffled into the room with the last of the stragglers, an appallingly large coffee in her hand. Tara didn’t recognise her, but that wasn’t unusual: the classes usually contained a good number of new hires. She did, however, recognise the entrance demeanour. People who came in like that were the hardest to persuade to look at anything other than the doughnuts.
And yet.
And yet this woman had come to life as soon as Tara stepped forward to introduce herself. From the distance, she couldn’t see the colour, but her eyes were . . . expressive. And on her. Of course they were on her, though. She was teaching. It had taken time, but she’d grown accustomed to a room full of people watching her. But this was different.
As she scanned the faces in the room, Tara couldn’t help but find her eyes resting on this woman’s over and over. At one point, she seemed to have been caught looking, as the woman’s cheeks tinged pink and she squirmed a bit in her chair. Years of practice let Tara continue her presentation, but the experience was more like watching herself in a dream.
Finally, Tara found herself wrapping up the presentation. It felt like mere minutes had passed, not three hours. Worried she had been distracted into forgetting to cover something important, Tara moved to quickly pack up her materials.
An energetic voice at her side startled her. The woman, who introduced herself as Willow Rosenberg, had come up to talk. She spoke quickly but clearly, and in an American accent. That Willow had come to talk to her at all broke Tara out of the confident poise she adopted when she presented. That Willow’s words were full of emphatic praise made Tara retreat into her near-banished shyness.
The next day, Tara found herself casually looking up the company’s dating policies. Sometimes people asked questions at her sessions outside of the purview of her department, but she still wanted to be able to answer them. That she felt delight that there were no prohibitions against dating people in other departments meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
Two days after her presentation, Tara found herself subtly asking around the office about the American girl who had transferred down from Edinburgh—the transfer being one of the details about Willow that had come mixed in with all the praise. Tara discovered that Willow was from California, was already well liked by those who knew her, and highly regarded by those who worked with her. Tara also discovered Willow would be leaving soon.
Tara knew two things. First, the lack of interest she had feigned was just that. Feigned. Second, she knew she had a choice. She could hold onto the praise from and brief interactions with a beautiful woman. A woman who would likely be returning to the States in six months. She could think back on it, and it would make her smile.
Or she could take a chance.
As she poured her vegetables into the pan, Tara tried to comfort herself with the fact that, should things go terribly wrong, Willow would be leaving and she wouldn’t have a constant reminder of her blunder. Of course, if things went well . . . Tara could only hope that the first impression the local office had of Willow would develop into an offer for another contract, or perhaps a permanent position.
Tara shook her head. She’d made her choice. Now she just had to follow through. In the meantime, she needed to distract herself. Tara headed into the living room and picked up her laptop before depositing it on her card table (a much cheaper alternative, not to mention easier to haul up to her flat, than a proper dining room table). She slid in her film, pressed play, and let herself become absorbed into the story as she finished preparing her meal.
Maybe I can borrow some courage from Maria von Trapp.When the credits rolled, Tara had already finished the last remnants of the washing up and tidied the kitchen. Everything was in order. Rather than let herself sit and talk herself out of leaving, Tara promptly stood and put on her coat. As she pulled on her hat and gloves, she wavered: should she bring something? Champagne would be traditional for New Year’s, of course, but she didn’t have any. Returning to her kitchen, she discovered the bottle of red wine she had planned to bring to Livia’s. She grabbed it with a smile, and made it halfway to the door before she stopped.
Tara knew she was pushing her luck. She planned to show up unannounced on the doorstep of a total stranger on New Year’s Eve. Would a bottle of wine be too obvious? How could it she possibly make it look casual with a bottle of wine in her hand? She frowned. With a sigh, she turned around again and put the bottle back in the kitchen. If she had been going to friend’s place, Tara would stop by a shop and pick up . . . something. But it was late enough as it was.
It was a short enough drive from her flat on the High Road to Kensington, but it was long enough for Tara’s nerves to set in. She should have phoned first. Not that she could have done. The company apartment didn’t actually have a phone, since everyone who had needed it carried a mobile. Of course, if she had been able to phone . . . Tara gripped the wheel tightly. Somehow, showing up unannounced seemed less daunting than picking up a telephone.
By the time Tara found somewhere to park, Tara had passed by the flat three times. But she could see the light was on through the window, and each time it sent an excited jolt down her spine. As she walked to the door, she rehearsed her fabricated explanation for her appearance. Finally, Tara held her breath as she rang the buzzer.
Nothing.
No sounds of movement, but no muffled voices, either. She tried again, blinking in disbelief. She hadn’t thought through what she would do if Willow didn’t answer the door. Besides, she had seen the lights. Hadn’t she? Any other night, she would worry that Willow had simply fallen asleep with the lights on. But who went to bed early on New Year’s Eve?
After a third try, Tara prepared to turn away. But then there was the sound of scurried movement inside. The door opened, and Tara swallowed at the sight of Willow framed in the doorway.
Tara couldn’t have told anyone what she expected to happen once Willow opened the door. But she knew she didn’t expect what actually happened. Willow simply stood, frozen. After the warm way Willow had spoken to her after the class, Tara had certainly hoped for a smile, at the very least. But she got none. When Willow finally moved, she looked down at the floor, then back up. Her hand jumped to her face and her fingers moved across it as though she was searching for a message written on it in Braille. Finally, her hand dropped again, and she simply stared at Tara once more.
‘Hi Willow, it’s Tara.’ Tara finally managed to get out. ‘From the office. I was just passing and you said you were staying here, and it’s New Year’s Eve and you just arrived in London . . . ,’ Tara’s more articulate explanation had gone flying out the window in the face of Willow’s strange behaviour, ‘and I thought . . . ,’ Tara felt deeply foolish as she waited for Willow to say something, anything, but was met with silence, ‘I was passing and . . . .’ Tara shrugged helplessly.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I hate New Year’s Eve, I mean, it’s so bleak, isn’t it? All that hype and frenzied anticipation of . . . what, exactly? A hangover and resolutions that won’t last the week?’ The loud and enthusiastic disparaging of the holiday filled the hallway.
‘Oh.’
God, this was a mistake. I should just apologise for bothering her and go home. ‘No, no, I’m being the Grinch, no, wrong country, I’m Ebenezer Scrooge, ‘Bah, humbug!’ Except that’s not right either, because I love Christmas, even though I’m Jewish and a tiny part of me thinks I really shouldn’t.’ Tara blinked, dazed by the rapid mood shift. ‘Love it. I mean.’
Silence hung between them again before Willow gestured into the flat. ‘Please, come in.’
In the two minutes at the door, Tara had managed to feel more uncomfortable than she had in the past year. As much as she had earlier hoped for this very invitation, she found herself suddenly wary. ‘Well, it’s rather late . . . .’ Tara wanted to be convinced to come in, but instead Willow’s eyes darted up to a clock. Embarrassment settled sickeningly in Tara’s stomach. It was far too late for her to be calling on a stranger.
Besides, Tara suddenly realised,
if she wanted company, a girl that looks like that would already have it. She began stepping away, preparing to turn tail and run. ‘. . . . And so long as you’re okay—’
‘No!’ The shouted interruption stopped Tara in her tracks. ‘Please, do come in. Have a drink with me. Really, it’s lovely to have company. Please.’
Tara stalled, unsure if she should return to her ‘flee’ plan. But then there was a warm hand on her elbow, and Tara let herself be guided inside. Words once more poured from Willow’s mouth, but Tara couldn’t hear past the warm tingling that spread from where the hand rested on her elbow.
Then the hand was gone, and Tara found herself in the kitchen.
I guess I’m staying. She tugged off her gloves as Willow opened a cupboard. And another one. And another.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve only been here a week, and haven’t gotten anything but coffee yet.’
‘That’s okay, coffee would be fine.’ Tara smiled, thinking of the bottle of wine sitting on her kitchen counter. She could have passed it off as a ‘welcome to London’ gift, now that she thought about it. ‘Honestly, I’m driving, anyway.’
‘Really? Did you find a parking space okay? The traffic wardens around here are meant to be ferocious.’ Tara nodded, suddenly grateful she had passed by the space at the end of a street that would have put her car on double yellow lines.
Willow’s face tensed for a moment before she continued. ‘So, your husband doesn’t mind you abandoning him on New Year’s Eve?’
‘What?’
Husband? What . . . ? Tara followed Willow’s eyes down to her ring.
Of course. ‘Oh, I’m not married.’ Tara took a breath as she tried to push the inevitable sadness from her voice. ‘This was my mother’s ring.’ When the words came out, she knew she had failed.
Looking away, Tara steadied herself. The ring had proved to be not only a physical connection to her mother, but a convenient way to stave off unwanted attention. It was only now that she realised she would have to explain it, and end up thinking of her mother, when trying to flirt. Tara looked back to Willow. ‘I should wear it on the other hand, I guess, but this avoids . . . complications.’ The silence that followed made Tara squirm.
Trying and failing. ‘I imagined your husband.’
‘What?’ The nonsensical statement threw Tara.
‘He’s a big guy, he used to play rugby, but he’s kind and funny. You met at university. He’s called Joe. Or Tom. Something simple. You have two children. Both boys. Or maybe one of each, I haven’t decided. You all live in a detached house in the suburbs. It’s pretty. And you have a dog. A Golden Labrador.’
Tara could only stare. As she decided to call on Willow over the past week, Tara had simply hoped that Willow would recognise her. Would remember who she was. But instead . . . instead, Willow had invested time thinking about her. Wondering about her. Imagining her life. Sure, in this story she had ended up with a man, but still. And of course, another vital detail was wrong. ‘I prefer cats.’ Tara relaxed enough to smile a bit as she let Willow in on the rest. ‘And I live alone. In a flat in Kilburn, above a kebab shop.’
Willow leaned back on the counter, and Tara felt herself relax further. That Willow had bothered to think so much about her was deeply flattering. Maybe she wasn’t as terribly mistaken in coming over tonight after all. ‘Do you do this a lot?’
‘You mean, make up stories about complete strangers?’ she checked. When Tara nodded, Willow continued. ‘Sure. It passes the time.’
Maybe, of course, this didn’t make Tara special at all. Still, no one had ever done that before. At least, not that she knew. ‘It’s sweet. Deeply strange, but sweet.’
Willow turned to the coffee cups, and Tara caught what she thought was a flush of embarrassment on her face.
Well done, Tara. Way to call your extremely attractive host ‘strange.’ When she turned back to Tara, Willow’s bright smile was back. Perhaps she’d been wrong. ‘Here you go,’ she said, handing Tara one of the cups. ‘C’mon, the living room is just this way.’ Tara hoped for Willow’s hand to land on her elbow once more, but instead, Willow just led the way to the next room.
As they settled onto the couch, Tara racked her brain for ways to ingratiate herself with Willow, rather than call her names. She remembered, and promptly launched into, her carefully thought-out explanation for showing up unannounced. Halfway through, however, she remembered what Willow had said at the door.
‘. . . But if you don’t like New Year’s—’
‘Oh, no, Hogmanay was fun last year. Kind of interesting, anyway.’ Tara smiled at the interruption.
She cares what I think of her. The thought distracted Tara away from the beginning of the story Willow told.
‘. . . tall, dark men were a valuable resource at that time of year, and, in good conscience, I couldn’t deprive my neighbours of their share of good luck by keeping him all to myself.’
‘That was very public spirited of you.’ Tara nodded, hoping her disengagement was not obvious.
‘I thought so,’ Willow replied, ‘And I confiscated the mistletoe on Health and Safety grounds.’
‘Prevention is our watch word,’ Tara deadpanned. She thought back: she’d missed the mistletoe. There hadn’t been kissing, had there? ‘And, it’s a good job we’re in England,’ she continued, changing the subject quickly, ‘or this would all be terribly bad luck.’
‘Oh, how so?’ Willow leaned forward, and Tara felt her heart beat faster.
‘Let’s see, I crossed your threshold before midnight, I was bearing no gifts. I’m not tall and I’m not dark.’ Tara counted the reasons off on her fingers as she enumerated them.
‘And you’re not a man,’ Willow chipped in.
‘No, I’m not a man.’
Tara looked intently at Willow, who met her gaze. But the talkative woman didn’t fill the gap with words. Just looked. Finally, Tara felt sure that she hadn’t been wrong about Willow.
Suddenly, Willow shook her head slightly as she sat upright once more. ‘England. We’re in England.’
‘We are.’ Tara smiled at the frustrated look Willow shot her.
‘I mean, tell me about the traditions here.’
‘Um . . . at midnight I guess people toast each other with champagne or something,’ Tara said, but then Willow looked down and Tara pressed on quickly, ‘and there’s the countdown to Big Ben chiming . . . you’ve heard of Big Ben?’
‘Oh yes,’ Willow flapped her free hand in excitement, ‘boing, boing, boing!’ Tara pulled a face, and Willow explained. ‘I used to listen to the BBC World Service when I was a child. I loved the way the announcer always said ‘This is London’ as if it were the centre of the known universe.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Tara’s heart melted a little. An American who listened to the World Service counted as a civilised human being in her book.
‘Ah, a Londoner I see,’ Willow observed.
‘Born and bred.’ Tara’s father had looked into it a few years back, and discovered their family had been in London since at least 1600. ‘And you’re Californian?’ The pilgrims hadn’t even found that rock of theirs in 1600.
Willow paused for a moment before she smiled, nodded, and began to speak about her hometown of Sunnydale, a town not far from Los Angeles. ‘Not far in miles,’ Willow emphasised. ‘Still hours in a car to get there. I think whoever designed the highway system there was under the influence of something . . . bad.’ The stories of her friends and their adventures were charming, and Tara found herself more and more enamoured with every word.
Tara returned the favour, and told of her time in Hampstead: growing up around the conflict of old money and liberal culture, visiting (much to Willow’s amusement) the museum at 2 Willow Road with her mother, about her family’s home and how that had gone to Donny when he got married.
She subtly checked the clock behind Willow. It was nearing midnight. If she was going to steer this her way, she needed to return to the topic of the holiday. Tara brought up the house’s chimney, and how they not only
had a chimney sweep, but that he was always first in the door on New Year’s Day, though they had to wait up until about 2 a.m. for their turn. It wasn’t until she was older that Tara learned that not everyone had grown up with such luck.
‘And then we sing
Auld Lang Syne, of course-’
‘Yes! And you aren’t meant to link arms ‘til the last verse. The English always get that wrong.’
Eyebrow raised, Tara kept her voice almost stern. ‘Is that so?’ But the distressed look on Willow’s face kept her from teasing too long, and a heartfelt smile broke out on her face. Tara decided to test the waters before she jumped in. ‘It’s a good job you’re here, to set me straight.’
Willow blushed. Though the turn of phrase had the desired effect, Tara felt the heat rise on her own cheeks and glanced away. She had one chance go get this right. And if she got it right, it would be perfect.
She just had to get it right.
‘Any more traditions I should know about?’
Tara took a deep breath as she looked up at the clock at once more. Less than two minutes. She turned her whole body to face Willow. One more step to get right.
‘Well, it’s probably the same everywhere . . . but on the stroke of midnight here, it’s traditional to kiss.’
Tara found Willow’s eyes and held them. If Willow had any doubts, any questions, as to Tara’s meaning, Tara had no more words to explain. She looked to Willow for some sign, for some token of permission. Tara wanted to be brave, but at the same time felt exposed after being so bold.
The hell with it. Tara leaned forward and felt Willow move on the couch as she did so. Abstractly, she knew there were fireworks launching outside, but as Willow’s eyes came closer and closer, the only ones Tara cared about were the ones racing up her spine. The ones that went off as their eyes closed and lips touched.
Rituals, it turned out, weren’t everything.
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