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The Waiting Season
by Annie Sewell-Jennings
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Through "Grave"
DISCLAIMER: The characters within this story are
the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy
Productions, and I infringe upon the almighty
copyright laws for the sake of angsty smut. Do
you think that argument would hold up in a court
of law? The lyrics are courtesy of Mary Chapin
Carpenter, from her brilliant, heartbreaking song
"Where Time Stands Still" from _Stones in the
Road_; Travis's elegant and spare "Slide Show"
from _The Man Who_; and "Mad World" by Tears for
Fears, though I credit Gary Jules's superior,
haunting piano version from the _Donnie Darko_
soundtrack. It's what I listened to, and the original
is, IMHO, crap on a synthesizer.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Feedback is always appreciated, and
I'm making a better effort to reply to all of it.
Really, I am. Don't hurt me. This is a prequel to my
next big epic WIP, "Waking the Dead", and it's kind
of necessary to read this first. Enjoy!
Thanks very, very much to Devil Piglet, who provided
encouragement and good grammar and style. :)
*****
The Waiting Season
*****
Chapter One: All the Candles Burning Bright
*****
"Baby, where's that place where time stands still?
I remember like a lover can
But I forget it like a leaver will
It's no place you can get to by yourself
You've got to love someone
And they love you
Time will stop for nothing else"
--Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Where Time Stands Still"
*****
In the dimming light of dusk, Willow draws the curtains
and turns off the lights, and begins to light the candles.
They were banished from her hands for a long time, too
long, paying for her crimes in the basement of the house.
Collecting dust, making penance. She knows how they feel.
Now they have air, no more must and dampness, no more
living in shoeboxes or wasting away in cardboard. They
can burn again. After all, it isn't their fault that
everything shattered.
//Eye to eye, nose to nose, they stare at each other on
the dirty floor of the sewer, a breath away from a kiss
that will never happen. Memory rushes back in a whirlwind
of badness, and as Willow pushes herself off of Tara,
she looks at her lover's eyes and knows that it is over.//
Sandalwood. Mulberry. Cinnamon. Orange rind. The long,
scratchy scrape of match striking flame, and then the
warm, familiar smell of burning things wafts to her
nostrils, warming her heart. Once upon a time, she used
to burn candles and paint dreams on her lover's tummy as
they snuggled in and watched the rain fall against the
glass, water streaking down everywhere.
Scent is a part of sense memory; she learned this in
psychology, back when she was interested in things
other than how to levitate in the air or which blend
of herbs and crystals could make the dead walk on
solid ground. Back when she was content to let the
words remain in the binding of books rather than let
the ink and meaning swarm through her veins. Back
when she was beautiful and not so. Well, not so broken.
Willow has not spoken since that morning.
Voices travel from downstairs, but she listens not
with her ears, but with other senses. Murmured
whisperings, rushing worries, and she knows what
they are saying. What to do with Willow now? Scarred
and wicked Willow, the rock, the geyser. Old Reliable
gone off the deep end. They want her away. She cannot
blame them, because she knows that they love her, and
they are concerned, but she cannot move yet. Moving.
It taxes her.
Besides, she has things to do.
//"I have places to be!" Tara exclaims abruptly, and
then she shivers, crawls back into herself, hugging
her knees like a little child and tucking her chin
down as she whimpers nonsense under her breath. The
haunted look in her eyes, the way that she sees but
doesn't see, everything all muddled and glazed. It
tugs at Willow's heart like nothing else before.//
There are things left behind, souvenirs tucked into
the back of the closet where no one else could see.
Not the magical things, not the incense and crystals,
but the simpler, more mundane objects that are tools
of the heart rather than of the spirit. Boxes of Tara,
snippets of sorcery and sugar, packaged and stored
away for safekeeping and hopeful returns. Flowing silk
dresses and glittery hair clips, worn-out novels read
too many times, photographs and postcards from the edge
of romance.
That last night, the night before everything crumbled
and slipped away from her, Willow watched as Tara lay
sleeping and brought out the box again, smiling with
the silly dreams of nave girls who didn't realize that
life was a cruelty and not always a comfort. //I knew
it,// she thought to herself. //I knew that she'd come
back. I was right all along.//
//Barefoot and dressed in nothing but the tumbled red
sheet, Tara shifts her weight from foot to foot and
nervously tucks her mussed hair behind her ear. "Do
you... Do you have something I can wear?" she asks a
little shyly, and Willow smirks.
"I think you look great just as you are," she says
archly, slyly, hands traveling underneath the folds
of crimson linen to where the creamy, baby- smooth
skin of her lover lies.
Sotto chuckling, and the slightest of moans when
Willow's fingers dance across a damp patch of flesh.
"Oh," Tara sighs, lolling her head back so that
cornsilk strands brush across her bare shoulders,
"but think of the scandal. Scantily-clad lesbian
streaks across campus after all-night sexfest. I'd
be a tramp." But then all thoughts of modesty are
laid to rest, and the sheet puddles on the floor...//
With steady fingers, Willow picks up the first item
in the small box, and the candlelight catches in the
faceted glass beads of the Victorian-style necklace.
It is a dainty little trinket, a gift she gave to
Tara on their second night together, back when they
were so fragile and girlish. When she wore bright
and colorful things, fuzzy sweaters and silly duckies
embroidered into skirts.
Willow is all grown-up now. No more orange hats or
purple overalls. No more Victorian jewelry. Still,
it would be nice to keep the necklace.
All of these things must be packed away, shipped off
to her family in Mississippi. Her dormitory room is
already vacant, her shiny love beads and moody
Christmas lights taken down. Willow snuck out of
the house a couple of nights ago to see it, to
stand in the barren single and look at blank walls
where angels and charms once hung, to see the mattress
where they first made love, stripped of all of its
sheets. And the candles...
//When they make love for the first time, it's by the
light of a dozen candles, the room plunged into
darkness by lack of electricity, but they create all
the light that they need in their bed. Surprises,
secrets revealed as Willow widens her eyes to drink
in the nude figure of Tara. Soft, round breasts, curve
of her belly, skin brocaded by roseate light. She's
everything holy and sacred, and when she smiles, Willow
is in love.//
Mundane little items follow, like the tube of toothpaste
she forgot in their bathroom, or a suede pouch filled
with tumbled gemstones. These little things are easy to
give up, effortlessly packed away in the box, because
they aren't the essence of Tara. They're just things.
It's the pair of silk stockings, the single garnet
earring, the pair of russet silk panties... Well, her
parents won't want her underwear anyway.
Calmly, without wavering or weeping, Willow places
these items into boxes and files them away. Her
parents would never know about this box of things,
and she knows that she could probably keep all of
these little possessions and no one would ever be
the wiser, but the fact is that it doesn't matter.
The measure of a woman cannot be found in stockings
or an earring. That's not where Tara lives. All of
her memories, her wonderful memories... That's where
Tara is buried.
//Arms wrapped around each other, they smile and
dance to the music, surrounded by people yet entirely
alone, secluded in the paradise they built for each
other, and neither is surprised when their feet leave
the ground. After all, they've been existing above
the earth ever since they met.//
Concealed beneath a flap of cardboard, she finds
what she has been looking for in this box. Carefully,
Willow removes the stack of photographs that she has
of the two of them, and sighs when she sees how young
they used to be. They were taken in that first radiant
summer together, in their old dorm at the school, shot
after twilight and in the nude. There were several
pictures, but they each selected two to keep, just
to "remember ourselves by". It's excruciatingly
painful to look at the first picture, the one of
Tara reclining on the bed, her head cocked to the
side and her eyes so dewy and ethereal that it fools
her into believing that Tara is still alive.
//Laughing, Tara tosses her hair and gives Willow a
dirty little smirk, her hand cupping her left breast
and thumb pushing over the nipple. "How about this?"
she asked. "We can send these into Playboy and become
porn stars."
Giggling, Willow lowers the camera and gives her lover
a lascivious look, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
"Cause hey, there's nothing more fun than having porno
names," she says, and Tara throws her head back, laughing
uproariously as the flash illuminates the room...//
There is a knock at the door suddenly, and Willow
jumps a bit, startled out of her reverie. "Will?"
Uncertain, male, worried. Xander. "Are... Are you
in there? You decent?" She says nothing, but then
again, she never says anything, not to any of them.
Not after what she... They should not have to listen
to her. A brittle laugh, and then, "Stupid me. You're
doing the silent treatment thing."
He refuses to leave. Buffy and Giles have tried to
make him go home, tried to make him rest, but he will
not leave. Sometimes, he sleeps on the floor outside
of her bedroom, but deeply enough so that he cannot
hear her when she climbs out on the roof and watches
the stars, like she used to do with Tara. Still,
Willow understands why Xander can't go home. It's
the same reason why she promised Tara her life when
Glory ravaged her mind, why she swore that she would
never leave. The bonds of love are unbreakable, no
matter what kind of love it is.
Sighing, Willow pushes the box back into the closet
and stands up, padding barefoot across the carpeting
to the door and opening it. There he stands, ragged
and red-eyed, a relieved smile on his face as he
stares at her. It startles her sometimes to see him
now, because it's difficult to see the little boy
from her childhood in his eyes. Shadows hang where
humor used to ring, and he looks like he has seen
too much in his life for any average person. Average.
That's what everyone always called Xander Harris.
She knows he's anything but.
Gently, Xander reaches out his hand and strokes her
cheek, a fond smile on his face. She averts her eyes,
as always, because she remembers what she tried to do
to him. Tried to kill him, tried to rid the world of
a man like Xander, tried to rob the earth of his warm
heart and loyal nature. "Hey," he says softly, and he
arches his eyebrows at her. "Is it... Can we talk?" He
winces, running his hand through his dark hair. "Let
me rephrase that. Can I talk while you listen?" His
brow furrows with worry. "Can you... Can you even
listen?"
She says nothing, just looks down at her bare feet,
and Xander sighs, placing his hand at the small of
her back and guiding her towards the bed. "Come on,
sit down for a minute with me," he says, and she
appreciates the way that he talks to her. Buffy
talks over her, about her, but never to her. Giles
speaks to her like she is still a child, and Dawn
will not look at her at all. But Xander. Well,
they've always known how to talk to each other.
Side by side, they sit on the edge of the bed,
Willow folding her hands neatly in her lap as
Xander speaks. "I miss you," he says in his gentle
voice. "I really do. It's been. Well, it's been
pretty weird, what with the whole ending of the
world stuff, but." He sighs, frustrated. "I wish
you'd say something, Will, anything. It's kind of
freaking all of us out. Major wiggins below. But
I guess you need your space. Lots of space."
He turns towards her now, takes her limp hands from
her lap and covers them with his large, callused
worker's hands. They're so warm; everything about
him is warm. Not hot, not scorching, not like she
is. Just. Warm. "Giles wants you to go back to
England with him," he says. "He says that the
coven up there can help you get the magic under
control, teach you how to use it, and he'll be
Watcher guy for you. And. I think he's right,
Willow. They can help you and I. Well, all I can
do is love you."
And he does; he loves her so much that she can
feel it transferring from his hands to her heart.
They have known each other for the whole of their
lives, and Willow does not have any memories without
Xander in them. Playing in sandboxes, bemoaning
growing pains, fighting the forces of evil. They're
all in it together. It's good, this love that they
have for each other, and she lets her hands rest
in his for a while longer, warming herself by his
fire.
Xander is talking again. "Will, everything got so
screwed up somewhere. How did we let it go this far?
Anya, Tara, and, oh God, Buffy. And you. Everything's
so different, so changed. I'm not big on the change.
Static guy, that's me. But I guess that you knew that.
You know everything about me. And I... I still know
everything about you. I know who you are, and what
you are, and I love you for it. You don't have to
keep this bottled up inside. We love you, even if
you do want to start a couple of apocalypses every
now and then. It doesn't change who you are."
Licking his lips, Xander shakes his head and then
wraps her in his arms, engulfing her like he did
eight days ago on that bright, blistering morning
before an effigy of disaster. All of his love for
her surrounds her, blankets and comforts her, and
Willow wilts in his embrace. Grief and guilt overwhelm
her, all of her sins lit ablaze, and she feels like
weeping like she did that dawning day.
But she does not, and he pulls away, disappointed
and a little shattered. He sighs, rakes his hand
through his hair and gives her that wonderful, quirky
Xander-grin, and then kisses her forehead. "We'll
wait for you," he promises, and she says nothing.
Nothing at all, not even as he walks out of the
bedroom and leaves her alone with her thoughts.
For a few moments, Willow does not move. She simply
remains on the bed, arms loose by her sides and eyes
not really registering all that she sees. Pillow,
blanket, carpet, curtains. All that she can see is
what she has done, the blood on her hands and the
fury in her soul, and the way that she tried to
destroy everything that she loves. Herself included.
The photographs are waiting for her in the little
box in the closet, and Willow moves towards them
with open hands, kneeling once again on the floor
and pulling out the box. Shiny celluloid gleams in
her palms as she looks at the picture of herself,
the one that Tara took and the one that she liked
best at the time. Bright, redheaded nymphet shaking
her shorn hair proudly, chin tilted and smile bright
and deadly. For the first time, Willow sees the
arrogance in her posture, the conceit in her eyes,
and feels nauseous. This is who she has been for a
long time. This is what she loved about herself.
Power. Control. The feeling that she knows what is
best, that she knows what is right, and she can fix
anything and everything. Capability and confidence,
and violence lurking underneath delicate bones and
skin. This is the photograph that she selected, her
pick.
//"Don't leave me," Willow says in a dull, hollow
voice as Tara packs her belongings up, her motions
slow and heavy. "I mean it. Don't. Don't go. I know
I screwed up, but I can do better. I'm strong like
that."
"Oh, you're strong," Tara says bitterly, her words
as hot and sour as lemon and vodka. "I just didn't
know how strong you really were." She can't be leaving,
because it's not fair. Everyone makes mistakes, and
Willow can fix it. She knows how to repair the damage
that she's done, and if that doesn't work, then
there's always the spells. Always the magic.
"Don't go," Willow says again, and it's not a request.
It's a command. "Don't."//
It is change that scares her, just like Xander, because
their world is so unsteady in the first place. They
live on the edge of the world and walk on a mad blade,
teetering back and forth between good and evil. If
she can keep everything the same, then she can handle
the monsters and the darkness. She can handle it just
fine, so long as Buffy still slays the vampires and
goes shopping, and so long as Tara loves her.
Everything changes, and she is beginning to accept
that. The people that she loves are growing up into
different people, and where she once rebelled against
that thought, she now understands it. They have gone
through ravaging events in their lives; it would be
impossible for them to still skip along eating
lollipops and trading snappy jibes. Life is harrowing,
and it is vicious, and it can be unbearably cruel. It
can take away the people that she loves, and it can
weather her and strip her down into nothing at all.
For the first time, Willow understands why Buffy
jumped.
Yet even as she sits here, holding a photograph of
herself taken merely two years ago and contemplating
crying, she feels the energy and the muted joy from
below her. The love inside of Buffy Summers, the
rapture that she feels when she looks outside of a
window and sees the world stretched out around her,
even after everything that has happened. Bliss is not
impossible, and there is a girl who has been torn out
of heaven who is smiling downstairs, even after all
of this. Even after, and it gives her happiness.
//Fine sunlight beams down onto their entwined bodies,
just a little morning delight, chuckling and sighing
as the two women stroke hands across hips, fingers across
tummies, lips across warm, wet places. Love is everywhere,
tying them together, binding them with the radiance of
romance renewed. They are happy here, in their bed of
dreams, with the sounds of birds awakening and the fragile
light peeking through glass, showering them in sun.//
The wispy curtains push away with ease, and Willow peers
out the window at the backyard laid out before her eyes.
The sunlight has faded into night all of a sudden, and
she does not remember when that happened, but it is all
right. The twilight is gorgeous, soaked in sapphire and
violet, and she wants to go out and dance underneath the
stars. She thinks that Tara would have liked that.
But there is more packing to be done, and Willow resumes
her task with renewed energy, with a sense of purpose
rather than obligation, placing clothing into suitcases
and fragile mementos in packaging peanuts. There is a
world out there that is filled with the kind of joy
that her friend feels downstairs, and a globe scattered
with the memories that she so badly needs to hold onto.
Her mind is made up. She knows what she must do.
She has to change, too.
Smiling, Willow slips into her denim jacket and then
pats the pockets, careful not to rumple the delicate
photographs that she carries with her. Little Tara and
Willow from years past, from happier times, and she
can remember how they were, how lovely and young they
used to be.
After all, love is but a memory preserved above all
others.
When the others come upstairs later on, they find that
she is gone, as is half of her closet and mementos.
There is a small cardboard box sitting peacefully on
the bed, simply labeled "For Tara's Family", and a
slip of lavender stationary tucked into the flap.
"Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Wait for me."
*****
"So, baby, where's that place where time stands still?
I remember like a lover can
I forget it like a leaver will
It's the first time that you held my hand
It's the smell, and the taste
And the fear and the thrill
It's everything I understand
And all the things I never will"
--Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Where Time Stands Still"
*****
Chapter Two: All the Pretty Maids
*****
"There is no design for life
There's no devil's haircut in my mind
There is not a wonderwall to climb or step around
But there is a slide show and it's so slow
Flashing through my mind
Today is the day, but only for the first time"
--Travis, "Slide Show"
*****
The dress hangs patiently in the closet, untouched,
unused, just a swirl of white satin and intricate
beading. It smells like uncorked champagne and unheard
wishes, lost dreams embroidered into the bodice with
the sequins and the gathers, the careful tucks and so
many fittings until it was Just Right. All gauzy and
filmy, dreamy and delicate, and as she looks at it, it
seems to represent everything that she is not.
"It's ugly," Anya says with surprise, blinking her
eyelashes as she looks at her wedding dress. "Oh,
my God. This dress... It's so *ugly*."
It never struck her before that this dress is not
right for her, too frothy and starry-eyed. She is
none of those things. She's the frank one, the one
who has the smarts and the wits, matter-of-fact and
delightfully insensitive. Foamy, bubbly mermaid
dresses are not made for a girl like her when she
likes everything starched and neat, clean and tidy.
Then why did she choose it? Why did she pick this
fairy-tale monstrosity out instead of something
sensible, something straightforward and no- nonsense,
like her? A pantsuit, maybe, or a nice, conservative
dress with a pencil skirt? Anya is not a woman who
stares off into space, all giggles and dumb smiles
and princess dreams, and nowadays, she's not even
a woman at all.
Craning her neck around to see what Anya has spied,
Buffy swallows her comment and struggles to come up
with something complimentary. "But the... The sequins,"
she says, nodding her head like this will be helpful.
Yes, the sequins. They will solve everything, because
Buffy does not know how to tell Anya that she has
never understood the selection of the gown. She
tries again. "The bridesmaid dresses were worse."
Sadly, Anya pulls the dress out of the closet and
lays it on the bed, amidst a sea of half-packed
cardboard boxes carrying her most prized possessions.
Sequins and beaded baubles are stitched over the
bodice of the dress with loving care, and it looks
like a cloud, something unstable and soft, like
it could fly away if she were to just open the
window. Is that what love is? Tenuous and fragile,
uncertain and wispy? If she opens up her bedroom
window, will her heart fly from her chest and
ascend towards the sun?
//She stands in front of the full-length mirror
in the bridal shop, looking at herself in the mirror
with this feeling of absolute light and awe. The
smiling, gushing clerk carefully places the gauzy
veil atop her head of tight lemony curls, and Anya
sighs at the reflection. She looks like something
out of a story, like something human and happy, and
her heart is swelling as she gazes at her reflection,
spellbound by her own glory.
When she spins to smile at Xander, she sees that he
is on the verge of tears and she frowns. "What?"
she asks, irritated. Can't he see how beautiful she
is? Asshole. "You think I look fat in this, don't
you? You think my ass looks big. Well, I'd like to
know how you're going to fit in your tux if you
keep cramming--"
But he is shaking his head, his mouth smiling so
wide that she realizes without listening to his
words that she was mistaken. "No, An," he says
softly, his breath caught in his throat. "You
look stunning."//
Love flies away so fast.
Everything is packed away in her neat little apartment,
not as nice as Xander's or even the small loft she
occupied before him, but adequate for a single
vengeance demon with no direction whatsoever. But
now, with the Magic Box out of business and her
apartment turning into a co-op, Anya simply cannot
afford it anymore. Since Buffy has an extra bedroom
and the need for cash, fast, Anya will live with her
for the time being, until she figures out what to do
next.
And so the two girls stand amidst a sea of cardboard
boxes, staring at a beaded wedding dress sewn with all
the hopes and dreams of little girls.
Tentatively, Buffy reaches out her hand and touches
the fine chiffon train, her fingertip caressing the
piped lining, and she shakes her head a little. "I
always wanted to get married," she says a little
regretfully, and Anya frowns at her.
"You're not an old maid yet," she says helpfully, and
Buffy rolls her eyes a bit, not meanly, just in
amusement.
"No," she agrees, "but I'm not bridal material,
either. No pretty white dresses for Buffy."
No, Slayers do not get married in churches with
everyone throwing rice and catching good luck bouquets.
Warriors are not meant to walk down velvety aisles
with lacy trains trailing behind them, blushing brides
behind demure veils. All that she gets is blood,
sweat and tears. Slayers are too dark to wear white,
too tainted and stained, and she knows this from
experience.
//Furiously, hatefully, she thrusts her mouth against
his and forces her tongue inside, not waiting for
permission because she doesn't give a fuck what he
wants. Want. Take. Have. Faith is right, and she'll
do what she pleases with him. Spike moans as she
bites her blunt teeth into the lush peach of his
lower lip, and she digs her fingernails deep enough
into his back to make him bleed. That's all she
wants, anyway. To bleed him to death.//
"Do you want to take it?" she asks Anya gently,
and the girl stands there, looking down at her
ill-fated wedding dress, not touching it or even
breathing on it. "You don't have to if you don't
want to."
But Anya is not listening; she is moving away from
the wedding dress and towards the closet, rummaging
through boxes of trendy shoes until she finds what
she is looking for. A shoebox, just a shoebox,
tucked away in the back where no one else can see.
She is not a sentimental woman, and she is known
for her callous speech and thoughtless words. If
they know that even she cannot banish things from
her heart, then they will be disappointed.
Hesitantly, she holds the box in her hand for a
moment and looks over nervously at Buffy, who still
stands caressing the bodice of the bridal gown.
There is a distinct sadness in her posture, like
she is regretting something as she stands there.
The others think that she is so happy now, overcome
with the joy of living, and while Buffy has
rediscovered the rapture of existence, she has not
forgotten that sometimes, all life can bring is pain.
//The look on his face, the regret and the sorrow,
the fear and uncertainty. The way that he drops her
hand, the way that he staggers a little dazedly out
of the chapel, leaving her alone in her magic gown,
the gown that she looks so stunning in. Is the music
playing? Oh, God, it is, and now she will walk down
the aisle without anybody to love her, without anybody
to cherish her, and for the first time in her life
Anya knows what it is like to be fucked. It hurts
worse than anything.//
When Anya places the box on the mattress, Buffy is
startled and recoils from the dress, blinking her
eyes. Bluntly, Anya opens up the box and dumps its
contents onto the bed, spilling them out in a shower
of lost love's memorabilia. "This is what I kept,"
she says in a dull, sorrowful tone. "Isn't it pretty?"
It is not as pretty as it is sad, all of these wishes
Anya made only to watch them crumble. A dried vanilla-
colored rose with a sprig of fragile baby's breath.
Blue satin garter belt trimmed with lace. The
champagne flute embossed with "Mr. and Mrs. Xander
Harris" and their wedding date. The miniature bride
and groom that was placed atop their uneaten, three-
tiered cake. All these pointless items, but Anya had
staked her heart on them. They remind Buffy of pennies
children throw into mall fountains, only to watch
bullies fish for their dreams an hour later, greedy
arms swimming in dirty water.
Lovingly, Anya strokes the garter belt, a smile too
old for her youthful face resting on her lips. "Willow
said I had to have something borrowed, and Tara said
I had to have something blue," she explains, and a
mischievous look seizes her face as she pulls out a
lacy white strapless bra from the pile. "So Tara made
the garter, and Willow gave me her bra."
A sharp bark of laughter makes its way out of Buffy's
throat, and she shakes her head as she looks down at
the scrap of filmy lace dangling from Anya's manicured
fingertips. "That's terrible," she says, but she
doesn't mean it and Anya knows it. It's actually
very wonderful that she has these mementos, these
objects to hold onto, and Buffy is envious of the
fact that the girl has a shoebox full of memories
and she has nothing to hold onto of her own torrid
love affair with Spike. Nothing but one thing...
//It rests in the closet, where the others cannot
see it, because all good skeletons like to hang out
in bureaus and wardrobes and other out-of-the- way
places. She doesn't do anything dumb or high-school
like sleep with it (even though she's tempted), and
she won't ever wear it out (because she tried it on
and it doesn't fit), but it's still there nonetheless.
Just an embrace of leather, a snatched scent of spent
tobacco and spilled semen, and that good, undetectable
Spike smell that promises chaos and undying love.//
"I'll never get married, you know," Anya says in a
quiet, sad sort of voice, like there's something
breaking inside of her chest. It might be her heart.
She sits on the bed, the bra replaced with the
champagne glass, reading the words over and over
again to herself like a mantra. Mr. and Mrs. Xander
Harris. "Vengeance demons don't get married. We're
lone ducks."
"Wolves," Buffy corrects absently, but she knows
what Anya means. It's the same for her, destined
to never wear a band on her finger or have a first
dance underneath the starlight. Giles will never
escort her down the aisle and give her away to her
beloved, and Dawn will never get dressed up in lace
and baby's breath to be her flower teenager. It used
to make her sad, and she's a little down right now as
she looks at all of what she can never have. What she
never should have wanted. "I know. Me either."
Anya understands, and she places a hand on top of
Buffy's, commiserating with the warrior doomed to
die before she turns thirty. What must that be like,
to know that there would only be a limited amount of
time, much less than the others, and to know that
with such certainty because it had already happened
twice before? The third time, she knows that it will
be final. Permanent. No hope for the future...
//"I want to have a baby," Anya announces with pride,
and Xander drops his jaw and coffee, the latter
shattering into irreparable porcelain pieces stained
with dark caffeine.
"What?" he asks in a shrill, brittle voice. "You want
to have a... What?"
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she crosses her trim
legs and thumbs through the newspaper until she finds
the stock section. Even though she's not currently
investing, it never hurts to know what she will invest
in when she becomes a millionaire. "A baby," she
repeats in a slower voice, in case he can't understand
her. Suddenly, his look of abject terror makes sense
and she huffs a little sigh. "Oh, for God's sake,
Xander, not tomorrow. Just... One day. We should have
children one day. And we can name them and feed them
and teach them how to be capitalists and to love America
and love us, and they'll be these little mini-Xanders
and mini-Anyas and..."
But then he's kissing her and she just wants him.//
"I'll never have a baby," Anya says in a sudden, shocked
voice, blinking her eyes as she stares at her hands. "I
never... I didn't even think about it. I can't ever have
children, and I can't ever have children with Xander."
Buffy frowns, confused. "What do you mean?" she asks.
"You can't have little half-vengeance, half-construction
worker babies?"
Numbly, Anya shakes her head, and she thinks that her
hands are shaking a little, too. Her fingers are tightly
clutching the stem of the champagne flute, and she knows
that if she grips it much tighter it will snap, but that
doesn't matter. Not in the face of this. "Vengeance doesn't
breed anything but discontent," she says. "It's a barren
field. I gave up... I gave up my life."
//Nineteen years old now, big girl in college, with
the big guy boyfriend who's large and strong and normal,
and she's looking at herself in the mirror in just her bra
and panties, her cheeks streaked with drying tears.
Trembling hands cover her flat stomach, and she thinks
about creation and conception and the miracle of life,
and then she knows that a Slayer is just a killer after
all.//
"I can't have children, either," Buffy whispers, and
it's the first time she's told anybody. Only to Anya,
because she understands. Because they both know what
it is like to walk down the street and see a pregnant
woman ripe with vitality and heavy with child, so
beautiful and proud, glowing radiantly because she's
so lucky. So fucking lucky. "Giles told me. It was
after I started seeing Riley, and we were training one
day. I knocked my purse off the table and a condom fell
out. It was so embarrassing, and then he sat me down and
said..."
//"Buffy, I know that this might come as a... You can't
have children. Slayers. They can't have children. Every
Slayer is sterile. It's genetic and mystic all at once,
to keep the girls from getting pregnant in the line of
duty. It's cruel, and it's inhuman, but there's
nothing that can be done about it. I can't tell
you differently. And Buffy... I'm so terribly sorry."//
"I'm sorry," Anya murmurs, and her hand is cool and
tight around hers, palms so dry because demons don't
sweat. No sweaty palms for Anya, not ever, and there's
this overwhelming sadness that washes over her and drags
her underneath, back to the dark place where the waves
drown out her joys and she can just lay there, dying.
//Cool cubes of ice press softly at the nape of her
neck, and she sighs, relaxing against his lukewarm body,
so nice and non-invasive, always easy to lean against
while he smoothes sweaty tendrils of hair away from
her face. In the afterglow, she's often mean and
bitter, calling him names, taunting his sexuality,
calling him a thing, but he's always so... Tender.
Delicate. Gentle. "You're the most incredible person
I've ever met," he breathes into her ear, and the ice
is melting against her too-hot skin and she's content.//
The wedding dress is still on the bed, its sequins
and beads glittering underneath the bright afternoon
sunshine and its stiff train trailing on the cheap
shag carpeting. The veil is just a fog of froth, and
Buffy touches it briefly. Suddenly, she looks at this
silly fairy tale concoction and sees that Anya is
right. It's not Anya at all. It's too sugary and
saccharine, too ethereal and dreamy for a girl who
prefers severe pencil skirts and matching sets of
underwear.
This is somebody else's dream, spread out across
the bed for every little girl to twirl around in
and giggle in, like something Cinderella or Snow
White would wear to the enchanted ball or inside
the glass coffin. Starlight and dew drops are not
the end-all be-all of femininity, and she realizes
with a shocking revelation that the time she felt
most like a woman was in Spike's bed, when he looked
at her with wide, worshipful eyes and told her that
she was incredible.
She was *happy* with him.
"We don't need this," Buffy says all of a sudden,
shaking her head in amazement at the dress. "Really.
We don't. We *so* don't have to have the stupid white
dress, and the cheesy first song, and the big
honeymoon in Paris."
"We were going to Vegas," Anya says moodily, morosely
staring at the white confection of cloth sprawled
across her bed.
"But it doesn't *matter*," she says, and she takes
Anya's hands tightly within hers, body and blood
racing with the joy of her revelation. "Get it?
None of it. Because you're wonderful, Anya; you
really *are*, and we're such stupid, stupid people
for getting all suckered into that fantasy of
happily ever after. There's no light at the end of
the tunnel unless you make it yourself, right? Right?"
And Buffy is *right*, so damn right, and Anya parts
her lips as she looks at the Slayer. "You think I'm
wonderful?" she asks in her small, uncertain voice
that's so rare because she is articulate and
confident. "Really?"
Smiling, Buffy wraps her arms around the demon and
hugs her tightly. "Of course you are," she whispers.
"It doesn't matter what you are. It's the who. The
who is the wonderful thing. The vengeance demon thing
is just... Well, it's actually kind of cool. The
teleporting? Way awesome."
Anya beams happily at Buffy. "And it's cheaper than
buying gas."
Feeling an incredible lightness, this ease of being
that is better than any sunny day, Anya picks the
dress up from the bed and holds it up against her
body, looking at herself in the mirror. As she looks
at herself, she remembers the way that Xander saw
her in his eyes, and how silly she was to think that
it was just the dress. He loves her for who she is,
not what she wears or what she is. Just the essence
of Anya, and the rest of it is all icing on the
proverbial cake.
//After they lower her body into the ground, the
plain, stolen casket covered with violet hydrangea
(her favorite), it becomes too much to take and
Anya starts crying. She doesn't even know the Slayer
that well, doesn't know what her hopes and dreams are,
but she knows something about death now. She knows
that it's permanent and damning, that her life is
over and she'll never have fruit punch again, and
those are things that she'll one day have to give
up, too.
That night, Xander makes love to her while he cries,
and when it's over, he breathes the words into her
ear while sliding the ring on her finger. "I promise
you it's forever," he whispers, his voice shaky and
weak. "I love you so much. I want to be with you
until I die."
They make love four more times that night.//
Laughing, she runs over to the window and thrusts
it open, and then lets the wedding dress flutter
from the fifth story down to the pond below, and
it floats for a moment before the heavy train and
satin drags it to the bottom. As it disappears into
the murky waters, Anya feels remarkably satisfied,
like this is exactly what she needed to do. She is
who she is, and Xander loves her for that. Marriage
is not necessary. She doesn't need the ring or the
papers or the American dream.
She has her own dreams now.
*****
After Anya's life is packed up into boxes, Buffy
walks home to the little house on Revello Drive and
smiles to herself the entire way. There is a skip in
her step again, a song in her heart, and a sudden eye
for beauty that makes her incredibly light to the touch.
The stars brightening the sky are brilliant, promising
far-off galaxies and other wonders of the universe,
and she thinks that she might be getting all existential
in her old age because she never really contemplated
the stars before. Not really, not before. Everything
is captivating, fascinating, and there's a burning in
her heart that is making her overjoyed.
//One brief glimpse of sweetness through the tarnish.
Wrapped up in the tumbled sheets of his rarely used
bed, tethered to the bedposts with silk scarves so
delicate that she thinks she might weep, and Spike's
making love to her. Not just fucking her, not growling
and smirking and rolling her over into new and bendy
positions, but making love. Tender, fragile, wispy.
He makes it wispy. Eyelashes dance across her areole,
and she arches her back and sighs his name, and then
she starts laughing because he's tickling her belly
with his tongue. "Spike!" she giggles, and he looks
up at her with so much love that it does make her cry.
Just this once. Just this once, she'll cry for him.//
"I'm in love with him," she whispers to herself, and
the idea is so startling and new that she starts to
laugh again. It's true, though. She *is* in love with
him, has been for months, for maybe years. She doesn't
know and she doesn't care. What matters is that she's
in love with him consciously for the first time, and
she wants to run to his crypt and leap into his arms.
Ravish me, you beast of a lover. Ravish me and make me
cry again, because you make it hurt so pretty.
It will be hard to love him, and she knows that. But
she's not afraid of the hard anymore because she
doesn't know any other way to live. Life is difficult,
twisting and turning, throwing disasters like the cold,
wet bathroom tiles and the bright morning when Willow
lost her mind. Yet sometimes, there are these moments
of absolute grace, when there is nothing but this
invigorating feeling that's so much larger than she
is. It fills her and stretches her skin until she
can't take it anymore.
So Buffy sits down on the front steps of her house
and laughs, lets it all fall out of her as she thinks
of what he can be when she lets him be nice. When she
allows him his moments of intimacy, of tenderness,
instead of pushing him to the violence. They pull and
claw at each other, but when they allow it, there's
bliss there. Between the lines, there is rapture.
//"You seem to... glow," he says, tilting his head
to the side with a look of warmth and intimacy that
she rarely sees in him nowadays. Like this is how it's
going to be between them for the rest of their lives,
soft acknowledgments of what failed between them. In
that moment, Buffy almost wishes that she could be his
again. Just to hear him tell her that she glows.
But all that she says is, "The dress is radioactive."//
The message Willow left for them is taped up on the
refrigerator, and every morning when she wakes up,
Buffy reads it over again. Tonight, she stands in front
of it and reads the neat, calm handwriting, registering
its message and knowing its full meaning.
She'll wait.
*****
"There is no design for life
There's no devil's haircut in your mind
There is not a wonderwall to climb or step around
But there is a slide show, and it's so slow
Flashing through your mind
Today is the day
But only for the first time
I hope it's not the last time"
--Travis, "Slide Show"
*****
Chapter Three: All the Waves Breaking
*****
"All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
The tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hang my head, I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow"
--Gary Jules, "Mad World"
*****
Spike is beginning to wonder if perhaps regaining
his soul has cost him his sanity.
Why else would he be running down the beach naked
as a jaybird, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and
his boots in the other, giggling like a madman? He
can't think of any reason other than utter craziness.
"Lost the plot, old man," he titters to himself, lips
numbed from too much whiskey and blood running too
fast through his veins. "Bollixed it all up right and
proper... Right and..."
He forgets the rest, and that does not matter either
because damned if Spike does not remember everything
else. Remembers it all, bugger it to hell and back,
from that first moment in the alley to that bloody
bathroom with those cold, cold tiles. All of these
things just keep rushing at him from all sides, and
the only way to deal with the sheer speed and lunacy
of it all is to get and stay pissed beyond all belief.
//"You look tired as hell, honey," the woman at the
bar says, cocking her pierced eyebrow at him as he
desperately downs another shot of tequila. He doesn't
reply, doesn't bother because everything that would
come out of his mouth will be totally useless anyway.
Just ignores her and pounds his fist on the table for
another drink, because he'll start thinking about
that waitress in Calgary with the nice big tits and
the pretty throat he slit...
"Yeah," he croaks as she pours him another shot.
"Real tired."//
Not now, of course; now, Spike's bursting at the
seams with alcoholic energy, giggling and stumbling
along the rocks without any certainty whatsoever to
his steps. The night's so hot along the Pacific,
unusually hot, and he's fine with that as long as
it doesn't bother him on the ride home. Just a two
hundred miles north of Sunnydale, he is, and he's
nowhere near ready to go back. Nope, not a bit, and
that's why he's been staying in Rosetta for the past
seventeen days.
Cause if he goes home like this, he'll kill himself.
The waves and wind howls at him, stripping him of his
bare skin and throwing him to the sand, where the
world turns upside down and spins unpleasantly around
him while Spike scowls and clutches his suddenly
throbbing head. They're everywhere again, surrounding
him on all sides, attacking from the ocean like fucking
soldiers of Bad Choices Past. All of these bloody ghosts,
right bastards that they are, whispering in his ear
about everything that he's done to them and their
precious families. It's madness, he thinks, schizophrenic
delusions that must be ignored completely...
//"Do you remember me, William? The mother that you
left behind when you decided to become a man of ill
nature? Do you recall the family that you abandoned
in favor of massacring the populace and destroying your
good name? Oh, the future you might have had, my boy,
if you were not such a pigheaded fuck-up..."//
"Stop it!" Spike yells into the wind, throwing a sloppy
handful of sand at the mocking stars. Woozily, he pulls
himself to a splayed but sitting position, one bare foot
submerged ankle deep in a tidal pool, and his head spins
with the force of the whiskey and too many regrets.
It's been like this since that blasted cave, ever since
he woke up from his haze and felt the weight slam down
on his heart. Stumbling, fumbling, staggering, Spike
made his way from the cavern and into the moonlight,
abandoned and disoriented, collapsing on the sand much
like now. Sand stuck to his wounds, stinging and
blistering, and it was nothing compared to the slicing,
burning fury inside of his newfound soul. All that he'd
done, all that he'd damaged and destroyed, and that
massacred Atlantis was rising in his mind. Dreamboat
history, ship of nightmares.
And he sees her all the time.
//The back of her neck, bent forward and exposed by her
upswept hair, beaded with sweat as he pulses inside of
her, pushing and thrusting while she shudders and moans
under her breath. All the while, he tells her nasty
things, tells her how she's just a thing of shadows
like him, a dead thing like him, a monster like him,
and she takes it all like it's medicine. Swallows the
bitter pill of her desire, lets her knees tremble and
her body sing, and the whole time her head dips lower
and her heart sinks...//
Pained, Spike twists and turns on the sand, covering his
eyes from the memory of her sweat-laden neck, the muted
whimpers and hopeless sighs, all of her fading into
nothing because of his stupid, thoughtless words.
Buffy is everywhere, haunting him as he drives home.
He sees her as a ghostly hitchhiker on the road,
wearing the dress that she was buried in and sticking
out her thumb, trying to get a ride back to heaven.
She's the nameless girl in the bar who takes shots
of hard liquor that she can't handle, giving him eyes
like she can't handle him, either. And always, always
his companion for dreams.
//Lying naked on her belly, back exposed and covered
in ink. Shorn hair flying away from her face in a
crown of stubbly blonde, scalp bleeding from where
the scissors cut too close. "You're killing me," she
says in a dull, empty voice. "You're destroying me
with every passing moment, and do you care? Oh, so
what that you got a soul? It's not like it's going to
help me now. I'm too far gone for you. Bye-bye, Buffy.
Thanks for murdering me. It's all I wanted from you in
the first place."
And then he sees that the ink is not black; it's red,
and it's coming from her because his paintbrush is a
scalpel and he's just cutting out chunks of her flesh.
All for the sake of the four words written over and over
into her skin, and as she turns to glare over her
shoulder with dead, corpse's eyes, he reads it aloud:
"You'll feel it again."//
Another swig of whiskey, bracing and blistering, and
Spike's falling back on his elbows, his head all sore
and heavy from too much booze and brooding. He's not
supposed to be like this, disoriented and dismal,
weeping over spilled milk like a right nance. That is
Angel's lot in life, to mope about atoning for the
sins of the world and being wretched, and Spike's not
having any of that. At least when he's grieving, he's
messy and loud about it, screaming his outrage and
torment into the night sky with a bottle of Jack in
one hand and a fist for the other.
"It's not supposed to be like this!" he yells,
stomping his foot in the sand with indignation.
"Fucking..." He falters for a moment; who's he
yelling at again? God? No, not that. Spike is an
atheist in the truest sense of the world, because
God's not any fun and life isn't the same without
a spot of pleasure every now and, well, now. Oh,
right then. The soul. He's yelling at himself.
"Stupid bloody me! And stupid... Stupid fucking
*Buffy*!"
Yeah, that's right. That's more like it, Spike. It's
all her fault anyway, what with her undying goodness
and her stupid, vapid virtue. All of her damn morals,
trampling his undead body with her high horse as she
rides off into the sunlight, taking everything that
he loves about himself with her. If it wasn't for her,
he'd be happily slitting throats and slaughtering the
innocents, right alongside his princess, and not
longing for the reigning Queen of Pain.
"Should kill you," he slurs, groaning as he pulls
himself to his feet. He sways for a moment, then
takes another bracing gulp of whiskey and starts to
stumble down the beach. "Yeah... Should just go
ahead and do it, do it good..."
//She screams, her arms flailing and her eyes filling
up with tears, and she's shaking her head and trying
to wrench herself away from him. Always fighting, stupid
bint, fighting what's got to be inside of her. Love,
this kind of love, this kind that eats up everything
else and then destroys, destroys, destroys...//
A wretched moan slips out of his mouth and he's back
on the sand again, his face crumpling up as drunken
tears spill out of his eyes. He's always doing this,
going mad with memory and then sobbing like a right
wanker. Always crying, because he can't keep the
balance between what he is now and what he used to be.
Because he does not know what this soul will make of
him, what it will change him into, and there is nothing
scarier than change like that.
The waves continue to pound at his naked body, lapping
at his skin and stinging the lingering wounds from
Africa, and Spike doesn't care. He merely wants to
sleep, to let it go, sink into the abyss of
unconsciousness and not wake up ever again.
But of course, he dreams.
The desert stretches out as far as his eyes can see,
brilliant and scorching, the winds creating absent
and meaningless patterns in the glass landscape as it
shifts and moves around him. The sun is high in the
sky, but his skin does not burn in his dreaming daylight,
and he swears that he can hear Jim Morrison crooning
drug-addled insanity in the background.
"This is the end... My only friend, the end..."
In a billowing sweep of white linen, she descends from
the middle of the desert and into the sands, her hair
flying on the wings of the wind, all pale skin and hair,
bleached out by the ivory gown. Midriff exposed,
voluptuous breasts enticingly insinuated by the low
cut of the garment, diamonds and stones embedded into
her skin so that she shimmers as she walks. The Doors
continue to play on, and when Morrison hits the
crescendo, an explosion of white feathers bursts from
where she stands, and she's before him suddenly.
Tara, lady of the desert sand.
Confused, Spike gives her a deadpan expression as she
dully looks back at him, and when it is clear that she
offers nothing, he shrugs and reaches for his pockets.
Oh, of course. He doesn't have any because he's naked.
Rolling his eyes, he arches his scarred eyebrow at her
and sighs. "Got a fag?" he asks, and she does not
respond. Frustrated, Spike grunts and plops down on
the sand, scowling at her in disgust. "Well, was worth
a shot, right?"
"Everything's worth a shot for you," she then says,
and her voice is calm and serene, evoking images of
placid Pacific waters and calm, soothing skies studded
with starlight. It occurs to him that this is a dream,
a strange and silly dream full of gratuitous nudity and
blatant _Apocalypse Now_ rip-offs. He thinks that if he
can just find the jukebox blaring this Morrison crap,
he'll turn it to something especially vicious from The
Clash and dig up some smokes. Yeah, that would be about
right. "There is no jukebox. Do not look for it."
Spike rolls his eyes and wishes that the dream had also
transported his whiskey. Precognitive dreaming requires
a good pint of solid Irish liquor. "Right," he says
flatly, and then he drums his fingertips on his knees,
sitting Indian-style on the uncomfortable desert floor.
"So, let's just cut to the chase, pet. What sort of
nasty event are you giving me the eye for? Another
apocalypse? Some more murders from the good old days?
Oh, wait. Let me guess. Another image of Her Lowness
suffering her pretty little head over me. That's always
a good one. Chart-topper and all that, but I usually
don't get such a choice soundtrack."
Sighing, Tara's blank and blunt demeanor is suddenly
stripped away from her along with her billowing white
robes, and she's suddenly sitting before him in plainclothes,
looking more like herself with her blonde hair loose
around her shoulders and a blue shirt and jeans. She's
more comfortable and accessible in denim, and she sits
down across from him, holding a yard of the white fabric
in her hands. "Here," she offers in that tentative Tara-
way of hers, giving him the white linen. "You're kind of
naked. Do you...?"
The wind picks up the edge of the fine fabric, tossing
it every which way, and Spike stares at it blankly for
a moment, seeing something interwoven with the tiny
white threads. It's the story of his life, from infancy
in the hands of the nanny to the darkness of the cave,
and he sees every etching come alive with the perfection
of memory. His mother scolding him and ripping apart his
poetry, the look of disinterest on Cecily's china features,
the sound of bone snapping as he twists the Slayer's neck,
the smell of his only great love as he lowers his head
between her thighs, and the way that she cries as he tries
to destroy her...
Beyond him, in the desert, there are things rustling
and moving with insect noises, skittering and scampering
in the dust to escape his watching eyes. There is a boy
in a sandbox far larger than the landscape, holding a
plastic shovel and glaring at him sullenly, his head bald
and his breath reeking of radiation. He sees Willow in the
far distance, draped in jewels that threaten to drown her,
and she is weeping because she is sinking underneath the
weight of rubies and emeralds. Beyond them all is the sound
of calculating, velveteen laughter, wrapping around his brain
stem and controlling his actions.
"No," Tara says sharply, and she quickly drapes the cloth
over his eyes, over his naked body, fashioning some sort
of garment out of the fine, snowy linen. "Don't look in
the desert. There are things that you can't control out
there. Time and destiny are not for you to see. Let the
seers see them."
"Am I not a seer?" he asks in a strange, clipped voice.
Culture sometimes seems to flow out of him at odd
moments, ruining his rebellion against high society
with awakenings of his own boyhood of wealth and fine
education. Gruffly, Spike clears his throat and tries
to leer at her, arching his eyebrow and pouting his
lips. "Can see 'bout everything you've got to offer...
Forget the old bra this morning, witchlet?"
Cocking her head to the side, Tara seems amused by his
efforts, but not in the manner that he was aiming for.
"It's hard, isn't it?" she asks. "Hard to try and see
where you end and the soul begins. But it's okay, Spike.
You don't have to try. It's all so easy if you just...
Let... *Go*."
She brings her palms to her mouth and blows sand in
his face, but it is not sand. It's just dust, the
ashes of some sacrificed vampire, and Spike recoils
briefly underneath the scent of his own self, destroyed
by the Slayer's stake. All of his history scatters on
the arrogant planes of his face, and he sees all of his
sins unfurled before him like an ashen rose in bloody
bloom. All the faces of those he has murdered, those
he has raped, those he has shattered and ruined.
They are all around him in the desert, surrounding
him and astonishing them in their sheer mass. Hundreds
of thousands of people, standing in the desert in
utter silence and desolation, dressed in the bloodied
clothes he'd killed them in. Ghosts, phantoms,
transparent and gray, filmy figments of history
undone. Gasping, Spike recoils and swallows hard,
looking around him in horror. "All of them," he
whispers, feeling sick to his stomach. He had no
idea that there were this many, so many people, more
than a million and they are all staring at him, their
killer, while the Beatles sing along with their misery.
"Let me take you down, cause I'm going to strawberry
fields... Nothing is real..."
He cannot take it. He cannot take their eyes on him,
their dead eyes and bloodied wounds. Whores he's
fucked and then destroyed, the crotches of their
revealing dresses all stained from the horrible death
he gave them, little children missing fingers and
heads, and their mothers holding their amputated
hands and cocking his head at him. //Why us? What
did we do that earned us this death? We are mothers,
wives, husbands, fathers, sisters, brothers, and we
are human like you once were. Why?//
As Spike lowers his head and covers it with his
hands, he starts to weep like always, like his tears
are going to turn back time and take back the killings.
Like crying will magically revoke all of his errors
and mistakes and give these people their lives back.
It does nothing, and he does nothing but sob.
Gentle, loving fingers twine through his hair briefly,
and Tara is soothing him, murmuring into his ear and
embracing him with her warm arms. "It's okay," she
murmurs into his ear, brushing her cheek against his.
"Let it go, Spike. There is nothing that you can do
for them. What's done is done, and you can't bring
them back. Death... It's like that. It's kind of
permanent. That's how things should be."
"You don't understand," he pleads, burying his face into
her neck as she rocks him. "It's not... I did these
things, these terrible *things*, and I didn't know it
was going to be like this and God, Tara, what Buffy...
What the others..."
"The others don't know things like this," Tara murmurs
into his hair, stroking his back and pressing kisses on
his skin. "It's over. What happened to them, what
happened to... It's over. There is nothing that can
be done about it now. Death is inevitable. It's final,
no matter how badly... No matter. It's over. Let it go."
There is an immeasurable sadness in her gestures, in
her very state of being, but there is enlightenment,
too. She's always been like that, the wise little
sorceress with her scented candles and magic eyes.
Likes her, he does, and he wants to hold her and
comfort her because there's something warm and brilliant
within her. He wants to give her all of the love that
he knows he's capable of, shelter and protect her, and
when he wraps his arms around her body, she smiles.
"Yes," she encourages, letting him hug her, letting him
comfort her. "That's it, Spike. Let go of the past.
It's done, and it's over. There are things in the desert
that you can't see, but you have to go home and fight
them. You are full of love. Love will lead you to your
gift."
She pulls away then, and oh, Tara is bleeding. There
is a blossom of blood on her left breast, spreading
and dripping, and he stares at her with a shattered
feeling inside of him as she smiles tearfully at him.
"You're bleeding," he says, reaching his hand out to
add pressure to the wound, to try and save her life,
but she shakes her head, stilling his hand with hers.
"Don't worry about it," she says, but her voice is
shaking. "I... It's not important. What's done is
done, and what shall be shall be. You're going to
go home, Spike, where she needs you, and you'll love
her. It's why you did this to yourself, right? So
that you could love her?"
Yes. He forgot about that somewhere in the middle of
grief and alcohol, that shady and necessary mission
statement that he'd tried to hold onto when he left
the crypt on his bike. Was doing this for her. So that
she could be loved and not hurt, cherished and not
destroyed. A smile spreads across his face, and he
nods his head. "Yeah. That's right. So that she
could be loved."
The desert is suddenly empty again, and the music is
gone, leaving only the austere sound of wind and sand
as Tara stands in front of him, draped in white linen
like before. No more denim and cloth, just this
ethereal beauty and diamonds in her skin. She smiles
down at him, and then bows down to kiss the top of
his head. "You'll be fine," she whispers. "She's
waiting. Go home."
When he wakes up, he finds himself dressed and
lying beside the motorcycle, though he does not
remember ever grabbing his scattered clothing or
carrying his drunken ass back to the bike. Doesn't
matter. He's got plans now, got a purpose, and he's
got just two hundred and fifty miles back to
Sunnydale before he sees her face again.
Grinning that mad-dog, feral smile that Spike loves
best, he looks up at the sky and sees the stars
blinking above him. He hops on the motorcycle with
a jaunt in his step that's been missing ever since
Africa, and smirks at the horizon.
"Spike's coming home, baby," he smiles. "Wait for
me."
*****
"And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very mad world"
--Gary Jules, "Mad World"
*****
(end)
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