Part: 1/?
Distribution: We'll see.
Spoilers: All episodes.
Couples: W/T for the patient and brave.
Summary: Lot's 'O Willow Angst. Can't say too much more since it isn't written yet, but I see more Rack, more Amy, a full serving of Scoobies, and a pinch of Spike. And a Special Guest Appearance by Miss Kitty Fantastico. Oh, oh, and Willow and Tara make up sex! We have a month of BtVS reruns...let's play.
Rating: PG-13 (R?) today due to language, though this is looking to be a rather dark, but respectful, serial, so expect anything from R to NC-17 to pop up eventually. My motto is to never write anything that would make Marti Noxon uncomfortable. I think that gives me free reign, don't you?
Lyrics: "He's Simple, He's Dumb, He' the Pilot"/Grandaddy/The Sophtware Slump-A cd that strangely inspired me to start this series. This cd will be making numerous appearances. Go buy a copy if you like Radiohead and/or Sparklehorse, or just want to play along at home.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy-types own these beloved characters. I do not. Joss has money. I do not. Joss has a career. I do not. Joss is adored by millions. I am not. Do you see a pattern? Joss is a genius. I merely feed on the underbelly of his creativity.
Feedback: This is my first online fic. I'm scared. Hold me. In all seriousness, please tell me what you think. It's important because I'm using this as a writing exercise to hone my skills (such as they are) for other paid writing projects (people have been known to write me a check, though it's rare). I have NO experience in this type of fiction. It's very new to me. I should also warn you that I'm kind of a slow writer. You might get only one or two updates a week. I'm trying to pressure myself into writing faster by doing this. Thanks for your input and your time.
P.S. I have no editor or beta readers or whatever, so typos will happen. I'll filter them out as quickly as possible. I just might not see them right away.
Good god, I'm shutting up now...
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The evening was too miserable for color. The rain, apparently afraid of appearing maudlin and obvious, filtered itself through the low hung ash clouds until it was fine mist. It blanketed downtown Sunnydale, bleeding the stop lights of their hue and breeding with the exhaust of passing cars to conjure swirling ghosts of steam.
Willow Rosenberg stood outside Sunnydale Theater, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet in an attempt to stretch her legs and circulate her blood. She didn't remember Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal being so long...or so depressing. But, hello, Ingmar Bergman. Isolation. Search for meaning in a godless world. What had she been thinking? At least she had avoided holiday movie goers by attending a classic film on a Thursday afternoon. She couldn't handle crowds right now—or blockbusters. She made her way to the street corner just as the theater's outdoor lights switched on, rebuking the approaching dusk and brightly illuminating a Harry Potter film poster in its marquee.
Willow still carried her book bag from morning classes at U.C.--Sunnydale. It hung heavily from her right shoulder, pulling the collar of her leather jacket from her neck, exposing a gray t-shirt that read "Monte's Grill," and throwing her walk slightly off kilter. She stared vacantly at her shuffling tennis shoes, half-heartedly dodging passersby.
Tara switched to the afternoon section.
Willow shared only one class with her former lover, Tara Maclay, this semester. Botany fulfilled one of their general science requirements and was a wonderful complement to their magickal pursuits. Tara was much more knowledgeable about the natural world than she was, and Willow had greatly enjoyed her girlfriend's gentle tutelage on the subject. Willow was used to just grabbing what she needed for a spell and getting on with it. Tara slowed her down, taught her to revel in detail, history, and purpose. When they studied for class, it was easy for Willow to imagine Tara as a little girl, walking with her mother--a gifted wicca who had taught Tara much of what she knew--through the woods surrounding her childhood home. Listening. Learning. Loving. Happy. Willow loved that a silly college class--a required one at that--had turned into such a sweet opportunity to bond with her lover. It was special. And now, given the rift between them, it was opportune. Not for bonding, really. Just for saying hello. Maybe.
Just maybe.
Willow had missed the first class after her horrifically ill-advised and ill-fated "girls night out" with Dawn, but had attended every class after that. Not that she'd wanted to. The bruising events of the past week, and, indeed, the past year, had left her emotionally, spiritually and intellectually winded. For the first time in her life, she actually had little interest in her studies. Nothing made sense to her right now--Tara, magick, or her friends—and Willow was troubled to find she was now just as confused about school as she was everything else in her life. But she couldn't figure it all out right now. She was enrolled for the semester and she decided she should simply attend. It helped provide her much needed structure and—bonus—it was the stable, upright, old-Willow type thing to do. At least that's how she had hoped it would appear to Tara.
Stable. Upright. Old-Willow.
She had waited for Tara all week. Spit-shined. Earnest. When Tara had missed Tuesday's class, she was disappointed but not really worried. However, when she failed to show up for today's exam, Willow approached the teachers's assistant, Christian, to see if she had dropped the course. "Tara switched to the afternoon section," he said gently, somehow aware that he was delivering a sucker punch.
"When?" Willow asked, shocked and trying unsuccessfully to conceal her hurt.
"Just before this morning's class," he replied.
"Oh," was all she'd managed to say. "Oh, umm...oh."
Willow nearly ran into the hallway. Tears welled up, hot and insistant. Tara had been there before class--right there--no doubt copiously working to stay out of Willow's sight. Methodically taking care of paperwork. In Willow's mind, this was worse than Tara simply dropping the course. Much worse. Dropping the class meant Tara couldn't bear to see her right now. Willow could understand that. It was darkly romantic in a falling-on-your-sword kind of way. But switching to the afternoon class meant she was moving on, dividing the assets. Filing for divorce, she thought bitterly. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Her hands were shaking.
Willow jammed them into her coat pockets and walked across the street. Though the evening was cool and the mist drizzled over her face and hair, she couldn't blame her case of the shakes on the weather. It felt as though a thousand little minnows were racing through her veins. Her very organs were trembling. It wasn't withdrawal from her encounter with Rack. No, that had been acute but, thankfully, short lived. This was something else, something heavy and sooty and...active. It had been stalking her for the last few hours...or maybe days. Peaking at her from behind corners, sneaking up on her shadow. She was so tired.
Glancing at her watch, Willow realized she couldn't go home yet. Buffy and Dawn would be there soon. Buffy had been cooly polite since Willow had admitted her magick addiction in the overwrought hours following her accident with Dawn, but the tension between them was sticky and thick. Nearly all their conversations disintegrated into awkard, spiraling stretches of silence--odd, uneasy minutes that had the weight and depth of many years, many lies, many regrets. As for Dawn, the teen wasn't speaking to her at all. Willow wanted to return to the Summers home when Buffy and Dawn were sleeping and she could enjoy the comfort of their presence without the reality of their disdain or, worse, their indifference.
Willow ducked inside the Espresso Pump and moved to its large, open bar, where a thirty-ish man vaguely reminiscent of Dave Grohl held court. "Can I have a decaf please?" That's pretty whitebread for an alleged badgirl. The thought brought a rueful smile to her lips as she placed her hands atop the bar to toy with the little paper napkins neatly stacked before her. She was alarmed to find that her fingers were trembling so badly she overshot her target and knocked over the container of red stir sticks that sat beside the napkins.
"Umm, you know, could you put a shot of Kahlua in that...please?" Willow requested, figuring a touch of alcohol might be just the tranqualizer she needed tonight.
"That kind of day, huh?" the barkeep asked, his back to her.
"That kind of year," she replied as she righted the spilled container.
He reached for the bottle of Kahlua and poured a generous amount into the oversized coffee mug that contained Willow's company for the evening.
"You're not gonna card me?" Willow said, sounding a bit more disappointed than she intended.
The bartender turned to her, laughing. "You want me to?"
"Well, no, it's just that usually...," her voiced trailed off as her shoulders gave a little shrug and she pointed a finger to the face more than one of her friends called babyish.
"As much as I'd love to read a card bearing any of your personal information," he said, leaning in flirtatiously, "I'm getting pretty good at guessing people's age. It's all in the eyes. And nothing about your eyes say 'underage.'" He placed the drink in front of her.
Willow wasn't sure whether to be pissed off or impressed at the accuracy of his guesswork. Before she could decide, she was distracted by the sudden sensation of a warm, wet energy oozing in her gut. It spread slowly outward until it engulfed her torso and dripped into her limbs. She shot her eyes downward, strangely expecting to see a bloodstain seeping across her shirt, but there was nothing.
"Hey, are you okay?" the bartender asked, reaching for her arm.
"Wha-? Oh...yeah," Willow answered tentatively, eyes still on her stomach, before finally raising her gaze to meet his. The sensation subsided like a receding wave. "I'm okay. Really. Thanks."
Willow quickly paid for her drink and popped a tip in the bartender's tip jar. She barely heard him thank her as she unsteadily made her way to a corner table near, but not on, the patio. She held her coffee mug with still shaking hands, trying to take comfort in its warmth and fighting to contain the lowgrade panic that was rising beneath her skin. She watched holiday shoppers hurredly cross in front of the coffee shop window, bags in hand, somewhere to go, someone to go to. They were making her dizzy. Slowly, her consciousness keyed onto the rather mournful electronic music trickling down from the cafe's sound system.
Did you love this world
And did this world not love you?
Did you love this world
And did this world not love you?
Willow closed her eyes. She saw herself as she was on the worst night of her magickal withdrawal: kneeling in front of the toilet, head resting on porcelain, staring down at what had been the contents of her stomach as a single droplet of blood fell from the tip of her nose. But as the crimson ball hit the water, it bled outward, overtaking the liquid, making it darker and darker until all Willow could see was blackness as thick as ink and as bottomless as the hole in her heart.
I think they want you to give in.
[This message has been edited by Nobody (edited December 05, 2001).]
