BuffyFan4ever--no worries. I'm really psyched that you enjoyed Anya. I have really come to adore her character over the years, not as much as Tara and Willow of course.
She's seeing the same reality as the rest of them, but her demon nature was triggered by the major bad mojo. Willow's body is still feeling all that vengeance and rage...
Without further ado, here's the update:
• Title - The Wish of Three Hearts
• Author name – LonelyTara
• Email Address -
9kodama@gmail.com
• Rating - PG-13, eventually R
• Disclaimer - While filled with plenty of angst, tension, and grief, please know this will be a happy fic in the end. Not just because of the rules, but because I love W/T too much to mess a great thing up! Oh, and all this belongs to Joss Whedon et al, I'm just borrowing, please don't sue.
• Feedback-Please, please!
• Summary- Wave is an AU post season 7. It's been three years since Tara's death. Willow travels to the canyon that was once Sunnydale California to celebrate her lost love's birthday. Willow makes a wish, and everything changes...
• Notes-Thanks to everyone who will read. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Fox, and many other powerful entities. I am just a visitor in this world—please don’t sue me. Some dialogue in this episode belongs to the writers of S6E20 Villains.
Chapter Five
“Warren,” Andrew said softly. “I knew you’d come for us.” Warren’s hair was lit with a glow from the sunlight outside their cell.
In Andrew’s mind, Warren was the perfect picture of the valiant hero, climbing up to rescue his boon companions, a knight in shining armor who would sweep in to rescue his fair-haired damsel, gracing her lips with a crushing kiss—in a totally non-gay one dude coming to rescue another dude kind of way. His daydream was disrupted by a long, low laugh from Jonathan.
“What, Jonathan?” Andrew snapped.
“So what went wrong?” Jonathan asked, ignoring Andrew.
“What do you mean?” Andrew pouted, stomping his foot. “Stop ignoring me.”
Jonathan turned to him with a tight little grin on his face. “What I mean, Andrew, is that Warren would never risk jail coming to save us unless we had something he wanted, or he was desperate.” He turned to Warren, still smiling. “I’m guessing it’s a little bit of both. So, what went wrong?”
Warren’s grin never faltered. “Hey guys, time to go. Unless you’d like to stay?” He repeated.
“Warren,” Andrew said softly. “Ignore the long lost fourth member of the lollipop guild. Are you all right?”
Warren nodded and Andrew felt a little burst of relief until Warren said cheerfully, “Hey guys, time to go. Unless you’d like to stay?”
Jonathan began to laugh. “Hate to burst your traitorous, jet-pack having bubble, Andrew, but your precious Warren didn’t come to rescue us.”
“What are you talking about?” Andrew squealed, gesturing toward the window. “He’s right here. Warren, tell him you’re right here.”
“He didn’t come to rescue us,” Jonathan repeated, lying back on his cot with the arms folded behind his head. “He sent one of his damned bots to do it.” He crossed his feet and laughed again. “Look Warren-bot, go back to your mad scientist creator and tell him he’ll just have to fix his problems himself this time. I’m staying here.”
“Jonathan Levinson and Andrew Wells must accompany me to the preprogrammed destination.” The Warren-bot said cheerfully.
“So Warren sent a bot,” Andrew muttered. “That doesn’t mean anything. Warren’s just being smart. What good would it do us if he came to save us and ended up getting arrested himself?”
“Shut up, Andrew,” Jonathan snapped. “And you shut up too,” he told the Warren-bot. “Why should we go anywhere with you?”
Andrew fell backwards onto the floor as the Warren-bot slowly bent the bars to their jail cell, the metal shrieking in protest. Jonathan sat up and scrambled to the far end of his cot, pressing again the wall. The Warren-bot stepped into their cell and dropped two harnesses and a coil of rope on the floor, still grinning that broad, disturbing smile.
“If Jonathan Levinson and Andrew Wells will not return to the preprogrammed destination then my programming states that they must be eliminated.”
“E-eliminated?” Andrew breathed.
“What?” Jonathan squawked. “He programmed you to kill us?”
“Warren Mears must be sure that no person is left in police custody who may be able to bring condemning evidence against him in a court of law, in the event, however slim the chance, that he was ever captured.” The Warren-bot took another step toward them.
“We’re coming with you!” Andrew and Jonathan replied at the same moment, standing up and grabbing the harnesses.
“Hey guys, time to go. Unless you’d like to leave your bodies here?” The Warren-bot asked.
“We’re harnessing as fast as we can,” Jonathan panted, pulling the final strap over his shoulder. “Come on Andrew,” he growled, tugging the boy’s harness up.
“Harness wedgie,” Andrew whined, and then looked over at the Warren-bot. He shuddered at the site of that fixed grin. “I’ll complain about it later.”
The Warren-bot tied the rope off on the bent bars, and watched as Jonathan and Andrew rappelled to the ground. As soon as their feet hit the pavement the bot leapt from the cell, landing with a distinctly metallic clang. The bot ripped the harnesses off Jonathan and Andrew effortlessly.
“Thanks,” Jonathan choked, thinking about how much easier it was to tear human flesh than inch-and-a-half thick nylon.
The Warren-bot threw his arms around the shoulders of the two quavering boys and squeezed them close, pulling them along as he strolled off down the street toward their unknown destination.
“I hope my programmed joke didn’t cause untoward anxiety,” the bot said, and then tilted back his head and let out a long mechanical squeal. “Ah, my maker has such a sense of humor.”
“Right,” Jonathan drawled.
“See Jonathan,” Andrew said hesitantly, leaning forward to glare at the smaller man. “Everything is going to be fine. Better than fine.” He smiled and gave a little chuckle. “We’re all going to be together again.”
“Hooray,” Jonathan muttered, “The Manson family reunion.”
* * *
The Magic Box looked like it had been robbed. The front half of the store was completely bare, all the magical books, statues, crystals, candles and sundry other items had either been tossed behind the counter or moved back into Buffy’s training room, all in the effort to create a safe space for Willow. Anya had gone so far as to order Xander and Buffy to move the freestanding shelves back into the training room as well, afraid of the magical residue that might’ve permeated the oak and pine. The final step in the buffer was a large circle built of yarrow branches, surrounding Tara and Willow.
Tara held Willow cradled in her lap, watching her lover closely, afraid that the redhead might begin to seize again, stop breathing, or—Tara shook her head, running a hand down Willow’s hair.
You’ll be fine, Tara thought, pulling Willow more tightly against her.
You have to be, baby. Each breath Willow took was shallow and quick, and Tara could see her eyes darting under shadowed lids. Her aura revealed her struggle so clearly. Tara’s heart leapt at each glimpse of amber and green, only to watch again and again as black and pearl roiled like a storm in her love, in the essence of everything that made her Willow.
I’m going to help you. Tara thought, closing her eyes and laying a gentle hand against Willow’s cheek. As she had back in Buffy’s yard, Tara found herself driven to call on her magics, her connection to the earth, and share that energy with Willow. She called on the name of all the goddesses that she knew, asking for their blessing as she channeled the power gifted to her into her lover. Tara could feel the energy moving through her body in pulses. She took slow deep breaths, trembling with effort of passing her strength to Willow slowly, gradually.
“Tara?”
Without changing her breathing, or wavering in her focus, Tara opened her eyes and saw Buffy watching her, crouched down on the far side of the yarrow circle. There were little flecks of light in Tara’s vision, she blinked and shook her head as the world gave a slight tilt to the right.
“What’s wrong Buffy?”
The slayer shook her head. “We’ve moved everything we can, Anya even had me pull up a few things that probably should’ve have been permanently attached, but if I hadn’t, Xander would’ve tried and just ended up hurting himself.” She smiled weakly, but it didn’t show in her eyes. “We were about to hit research mode and we saw you looking kind of pale.”
Tara looked back at the research table and Xander held up a hand, giving her a small wave. Anya stood on the far side of the table from him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, leg wiggling impatiently. She gave a nod when she saw Tara looking.
“I’m f-fine,” Tara replied.
“You’re sure? Cause I can sit with her for a little while, if you need a break—”
Tara just shook her head. “She needs me.”
Buffy nodded her head; her hands picking at a frayed seam on the bottom her shirt. “I know, we know,” she said, waving a hand back toward Xander and Anya. “But if you need a break, need to rest…”
“I’ll tell you, I p-promise.”
Buffy nodded again, but didn’t move. “What about something to eat? Have you even looked at food today?”
Tara shrugged. “I’m not hungry,” she replied. And then she yawned. As if that weren’t damning enough, as the yawn ended her stomach let out a long, low gurgle. Tara couldn’t stop herself; she blushed and ducked her head.
“Okay,” Buffy said sardonically. “Not tired or hungry. I can see that. And hear it.”
Tara looked up at the slayer and found Buffy was really smiling at her now, a small grin, but an earnest one. She was holding a wrapped bar out toward Tara.
“Please, just eat something. I-When, when Will wakes up, I don’t want her to be mad at me because you passed out from exhaustion or lack of food.” When Tara didn’t move to take the offered bar, Buffy sighed. “It’s just a granola bar from my slayer kit. You know I always get hungry after I wallop on some vamps. Come on,” she said, waving the bar up and down. “Xander and Anya already have theirs. Succumb to peer pressure. Eat.”
Tara looked up and had to laugh when she saw Xander wave again, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk as he chewed. Anya held up the wrapper for her granola bar like she was holding a dead mouse by its tail. The ex-demon patted her stomach with her free hand.
“Yummy high fructose corn syrup and grain mash,” she called to Tara across the shop. “Eat up!”
Tara held out her hand toward Buffy and the slayer unwrapped the end of the granola bar, leaning across the yarrow barrier to hand it to her, smiling gratefully. Tara took a big bite of the bar, chewed, and swallowed without tasting a thing. She set the rest of the bar down on her knee and Buffy cleared her throat.
“I promise I’ll eat the whole thing,” Tara murmured.
“And you’ll let one of us take a shift in a little while? You need to rest too, Tare.”
“I need to be with her, Buffy.” Tara said softly, looking down at Willow and stroking her hair. Love swelled in her, so big, so bright, that she was surprised her skin didn’t shine with it. “I don’t want to leave her,” she choked on her next words. “Not again.”
“Tara—” Buffy began.
“If I’d stayed,” Tara said. She looked up and flinched at the pity she saw in Buffy’s eyes, immediately dropping her gaze back down to Willow. “If I’d helped her th-through her problem, maybe this wouldn’t be happening.”
“Hey,” Buffy said. She stepped over the barrier and dropped to her knees next to Tara, giving the blonde girl’s arm and gentle squeeze. “Tara.”
Tara looked up at Buffy—the slayer wasn’t smiling anymore.
“You did what you had to do,” she said, squeezing Tara’s arm again. “You tried to help Willow, for months, and it just wasn’t sinking in.” Buffy took a deep breath. “I think it took you leaving for her to realize that she really had a problem. If you hadn’t…I don’t know…”
“If she would’ve stopped?” Tara whispered.
“Yeah,” Buffy replied. “Yeah.” She paused and then let out a long, slow sigh. “Willow’s my best friend Tara, but you’re part of my family too. I need you to be okay too.”
That’s just it, Tara thought, holding back a sob.
It’s a package deal of okay. I can’t be okay until my Willow’s okay. “Package deal,” she murmured, voice thick.
“I get that,” Buffy said, nodding. “I really do.”
“If I get tired, I’ll lay down here with her, I promise,” Tara replied.
“Okay.” Buffy straightened and stepped back out of the circle. “Don’t forget to finish the rest of that,” she said, waving a hand toward the half-eaten granola bar.
“I promise,” Tara repeated.
Tara shifted her gaze back to Willow as the slayer walked away. Her lover still slept, if what she was doing could be called sleep, still panted with shallow breaths. Tara let her eyes lose focus as she looked at Willow’s aura and felt her heart give a little leap. She could see the energy she was giving Willow, its swirls of golden, earthy brown, of ocean blue, pushing at the storm, leaving amber and evergreen in its wake.
“Come on, Will,” Tara murmured, pressing her lips to Willow’s forehead. “Wake up. Come back to me.”
* * *
The Warren-bot led Jonathan and Andrew on a twisting path through Sunnydale, sticking to alleyways and back roads. They even spent a harrowing and nauseating half hour walking through the sewers when the bot forced them down into the underground labyrinth, claiming that he could hear sirens within a few blocks of their location. When the group left the sewers, the world was darkening toward twilight, and so it took the pair a moment to realize where the bot had taken them.
“Great,” Jonathan moaned, rubbing his face. “Just when I thought we couldn’t do any worse than the sewers.”
They were standing in front of crumbling ruins of Sunnydale High.
“Aw man,” Andrew whined. “I hate high school.”
Both boys let out high-pitched squeals when the Warren-bot grabbed their collars and dragged them toward the entrance to the school. “We must continue our progress toward the preprogrammed destination.”
“Hey,” Jonathan fumed, giving a little gasp of pain as the bot pulled them over the stretch of broken concrete leading up to the crumpled remains of the school. “We can walk, we can walk.”
“We must continue—”
“It’ll be faster if you let us walk, you giant toaster!” Jonathan shouted.
He pitched forward onto his face when the bot released him without warning. Jonathan laid there, lungs searing, and felt a hand grip his belt loop. The bot lifted him off the ground effortlessly, leaving his arms and legs swinging in the air. Jonathan opened his mouth to speak and the bot shook him once, hard.
“Releasing you did not increase your speed of progress. Further attempts to delay arrival at our preprogrammed destination will result in elimination.”
“Don’t fight it Jonathan,” Andrew said softly. The blond boy had his legs crossed and his hands tucked in his pocket, he looked like he was lying in a hammock, not being pulled across the ground by a potentially homicidal robot. “Soon we’ll be with Warren and everything will be fine.”
“That makes me feel much better,” Jonathan gasped.
“I’d think being out of jail would make you feel better, Jonathan.” Warren stepped out of shadow of the shattered doorway into the school. “Drop ‘em, handsome,” he told the bot.
Jonathan caught himself on his hands and knees while Andrew fell onto his backside with a girlie shriek.
“Are you the real Warren, or another bot come to threaten us and drag us off somewhere else?” Jonathan said, pushing himself to his feet.
“Pouty really doesn’t become you,” Warren replied. He pressed his fingers in a quick pattern on the Warren-bot’s chest and the bot moved itself against the burned wall of the hallway. Its eyes flared red, sending a spider web of lines across the entrance. “Security mode,” he said cheerfully. “If anybody tries to get in here he’ll let us know. Anyone tries to get out without me…” He paused, smiling. “Well, you wouldn’t get out without me, let’s put it that way. Come on guys,” he said happily, gesturing back into dark. “Let’s chat.”
Warren walked back into the school and let a slow, satisfied grin spread across his face when he heard Andrew and Jonathan scurry into action behind him. The interior of the school was even more pathetic and blasted than the outside, filled with half-collapsed walls, burnt chunks of insulation on the floors and spilling from the walls, and wiring like misshapen serpents, hanging from the ceiling. He led them through the debris, and then suddenly it gave way, leaving the trio standing in a wide, open space.
“Home sweet home boys,” Warren said. He gestured toward some sleeping bags, a lantern, and folding table piled together in the corner of the space. “All the comforts of a refugee camp courtesy of a hair transplant and some sunglasses on that handsome bot out there.”
He walked around Jonathan and Andrew in a slow circle. “Well, not all thanks to the handsome bot, huh? From the comfort of a home and the power of a demigod to a campout in a dank cave on the hellmouth, courtesy of the slayer.”
“Buffy?” Jonathan said, turning to watch Warren’s progress. “What does this have to do with Buffy?”
“Hello?” Warren said, freezing in his tracks. He leaned forward until his face was just inches from Jonathan’s. “This has everything. To do. With that little. Blonde. Bitch!” He screamed the last word, spraying spittle over Jonathan’s face. Warren blinked and stepped back, smiling again, and he resumed his slow path around his allies. “Every move we make she’s there to block us, and no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try. She just won’t stay dead.”
“You tried to kill her again?” Jonathan asked incredulously. “But you got away.”
“He wouldn’t just leave without us, Jonathan,” Andrew said bitingly.
“Oh, I killed her,” Warren said. He pointed at Jonathan with two fingers and shouted, “Bang. Bang. Bang.”
“Wow,” Andrew breathed. “You shot her?”
“But she won’t stay dead. And you know why?”
Andrew shook his head as Jonathan grumbled under his breath about good conquering evil.
“Of course you don’t. How could you when I didn’t figure it out until today?” Warren laughed. “It was too simple, that’s why I missed it. Buffy’s the slayer, she’s got the strength and the agility, sure, but we’ve hit her with physical attacks, psychological attacks, magical attacks, and nothing. It’s because she’s protected.” He slapped his hands together and then rubbed his palms slowly, back and forth. “Take away her protection, and the slayer is as good as dead.”
“Her protection?” Jonathan asked
“The witches,” Andrew breathed.
“Give the boy a gold star!” Warren cried. Andrew beamed.
“First you want to kill Buffy and now you want to kill Rosenberg and the blonde?” Jonathan asked.
“Her girlfriend,” Andrew giggled.
“Shut up, Andrew,” Jonathan snapped, slapped the boy in the back of the head. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it isn’t,” Warren agreed. “Do I hear some hesitation there, Jonathan?” He came to a halt again, staring at Jonathan. “Because if you’re not sure that you want to be a part of the Trio, a part of our quest glory, maybe you should just stay here with the bot while Andrew and I change the world.”
Warren’s voice was calm, but his eyes were wide, wilding and darting. Jonathan had a very clear realization. Warren Mears was a complete and total maniac, a basket case. And if he stayed behind with the bot, he would never walk out of Sunnydale High again.
“That’s not what I said,” Jonathan replied in a rush, waving his hands. “It’s just that…if they’re so powerful, if they’ve thwarted us at every turn, how are we supposed to beat them now?”
“We’ll fight magic with magic,” Warren replied.
“Uh, I don’t know if demons are gonna do it,” Andrew murmured, wringing his hands.
“No, not demons,” Warren agreed. Andrew looked over at Jonathan and Warren laughed, shaking his head. “Not shorty either. No, my happy idiots, we need someone powerful. Someone who knows Rosenberg’s weaknesses.” A smile spread across his face, sincere and absolutely mad. “I know just the guy.”
He walked toward the hallway, turning back to wave Jonathan and Andrew into motion. “Let’s go. Or did you two decide to keep Mr. Handsome up there company?”
Andrew and Jonathan rushed to Warren’s side and he led them down a new path through the ruined school. The area was dank, thick with the stench of mold and decay. The sound of water dripping against metal was a sharp ping behind every sound they made—the echo of their footsteps, their breath, Warren’s off-key humming.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t try going after them,” Andrew sulked after stepping down into a knee-deep puddle. “There’s this one demon—”
“Andrew, Andrew,” Warren said, clapping a hand on the blond boy’s shoulder. “I don’t need you to make demons that will just get taken out by the slayer and her witches. I need you and Jonathan for something far more important.”
They walked around a corner and came face to face with a large double door.
“What’s that?” Jonathan asked, suddenly afraid that Warren was about to use them as part of some terrible blood sacrifice.
Warren pushed open the door and stepped out into the night, barely visible in the light cast from the crescent moon, the stars. “I need you two to lead me to the magic man. I need you to lead me to Rack.”
Jonathan froze on the threshold of the school and Andrew stepped up beside him, looking pale.
“Rack?” Andrew quavered. “Uh, I don’t know, Warren. I’ve heard really bad things about that guy.”
“Well that’s perfect then, isn’t it?” Warren replied. “Because we want to do really bad things.”
* * *
Warren, Jonathan, and Andrew wandered alleys all around Sunnydale, trying to find, Rack’s place. It took hours, but finally they were able to feel the heat, the sinister draw, of the magic man’s lair. When they parted the shielding to gain entrance, when the air and their own images rippled like water, both Jonathan and Andrew had a small moment of appreciation for that beauty, though neither would’ve admitted it. The moment passed as quickly as it came, as both men saw very quickly it was just another false front, another draw, to pull in the weak, the wounded.
The place might’ve been nice, once, a long time ago, if it had ever been cleaned. If it didn’t look and smell like the walls had been painted with a wash of every possible bodily excretion known to man and demon kind. Under it all there was a sweet, rotted scent, like decaying flowers. A thick coat of dust and cobwebs muted the light from the old glass-paned lamps scattered around the room.
Rack’s place was faded, putrid, just like the pale, bedraggled people waiting for their next fix. There was no beauty here.
“If someone had told me this morning that by tonight I’d be free and missing my jail cell, I would’ve told them they were full of crap.” Jonathan muttered. “Silly me.”
“Ew,” Andrew drawled, staring around the room. “Just…ew.”
“You two shut up,” Warren snapped, slapping both of them in the back of the head. “Just go, go sit over there on that thing that used to be a sofa.” He waved an arm toward a long rectangular lump of vomity mustard-brown fabric.
They slouched over to the couch, sat perched on the edge of the cushions, trying to touch as little of the dirty fabric as possible. Warren gave them a little nod, a satisfied smirk curling his face at their obedience. Without a word, he turned and pushed past the scraggly, pathetic junkies waiting for Rack, taking the first spot in front of the thick oak door to the warlock’s chambers. Warren raised his hand to knock, and found the door opening beneath his hand, just as his flesh was about the strike the wood. Instead his fist was hanging in front of a craggy face, thick with scars, framed by lank brown hair. Eyes bored into Warren, one a bright slate gray, the other a horrific, pale milky-blue.
“What can I do for you…sir?” Rack asked drolly, smirking.
Warren snatched his hand down. “I need weapons. I can pay.”
“Target?” Rack replied, still smirking, one eyebrow creeping up.
Warren slid a hand into his pocket and pulled it out, holding up a fat wad of bills. “I have a few witches I need to take care of.”
“Witches, huh?” Rack’s smirk widened. “Sounds like that could be fun. My first suggestion would be to get a shield, preferably a fleshy, screaming, distracting one.” The warlock’s gaze flickered over Warren’s shoulder and back again. “But it looks like you already have a matched set,” he murmured, chuckling.
Warren looked at Jonathan and Andrew, both sitting perfectly still, just their eyes darting around for any sign of danger.
Pathetic, Warren thought. “Yeah,” he told Rack in a whisper. “ But Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum aren’t going to last long. What else have you got?”
“You gotta tell me a bit more about the ladies that are giving you trouble.” Rack leaned toward Warren and leered as he said ladies. “The more I know, the more effective the weapons. And if you’re going after real witches, not simpering little dabblers, you’re gonna need good weapons.”
“We’ve got to take out Jean Gray and Ms. Marvel if we have any hope of getting rid of Rogue,” Andrew called cheerfully.
Warren watched a look of confusion cross and vanish from Rack’s face, to be quickly replaced by annoyance. “Chatty, isn’t he.”
Before Warren could reply, Jonathan elbowed Andrew in the side. “Shut up numb-nut. The powerful, creepy warlock doesn’t want to hear about your fanboy comic book addiction.” The little man took a breath, eyes shifting to Warren. “Besides, if we’re going to focus on anybody it better be Jea-Rosenberg. It better be Rosenberg. You heard what she did to that hell god last year.”
All the expression dropped from Rack’s face. He held up a hand, fingers curving in like talons. At the same moment Warren felt something grip his throat.
“What?” He croaked.
Rack lifted his arm and Warren’s feet left the floor. He took gasping little breaths, scrabbling with both hands at the invisible force gripping his throat, finding nothing but his own skin. The warlock yanked his hand toward his own body and Warren found himself floating face to face with the scarred man.
“You’re out to kill
my Strawberry?” Rack asked in a low growl. He shook his fist and Warren flailed in the air, his head snapping back. “I don’t let anybody play with my toys.”
“Don’t listen to the shields,” Warren gasped, desperate to take a full breath of air into his burning lungs.
“Did he just call us shields? He called us shields!” Jonathan hissed to Andrew. “Your precious Warren is going to get us killed.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “S.H.I.E.L.D you ass, he’s keeping with the comics reference. It’s a Nick Fury joke. Don’t worry, he’s got Rack right where he wants him.”
Jonathan watched Warren kicking and flailing in front of the furious warlock, like he was trying to tread air. “Oh yeah, I’m the ass in this scenario. Sure.”
Warren wheezed and saw dark spots begin to float across his vision. Rack was like a statue of some malevolent, ugly god, glaring at him as his hand clenched tighter.
“You want your strawberry?” He gasped. “I can make it happen.”
“What? Can’t hear you…” Rack laughed.
“I can get you your strawberry,” Warren screamed, throat raw. “Just yours, forever.” His eyes closed as the pressure on his throat tightened. His chest burnt like he’d been set on fire.
So close, he thought.
I was so close.
And then he was falling. For a moment Warren wondered if he was feeling his soul leave his body, felt a brief flair of nerves at the distinctly downward direction, but then he slammed into the floor. He sprawled on the filthy tile, grateful for the gritty coolness, taking deep, shuddering breaths.
“Up,” Rack barked.
Warren staggered as the force returned, pulling him to his feet. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with the warlock; their faces only inches apart. Rack spoke again, and Warren was washed in a flood of warm breath that smelled of dying roses. The cloying dead-flower scent that filled the place—that was the warlock, essence of Rack. A wave of nausea swept over him.
“You’re gonna get me my girl?”
Warren lifted his hand to his throat, nodding his head. “That’s right. We can get you your girl. Look, these two witches, they guard the slayer. I want her dead, and that’s not ever going to happen because together, the witches are too powerful.”
He took a breath, still rubbing his throat. “But if their bond is broken, if one of them dies, the other will be weakened.” Warren took a step closer to Rack, staring up at that milky eye. “You want your strawberry? That’s fine. Help us take out the blonde and Willow will be broken. You can bring her back here to your lovely home and fix her.”
The warlock stared at him. For the third time that day, Warren wondered if he was going to die. Rack reached out and Warren closed his eyes, waiting for the Vader death grip to start again. His eyes shot open when the warlock patted him on the back.
“The blonde huh?” Rack said, his smile revealing a mouthful of crooked, yellowed teeth. “Amy told me all about her. I’ve been waiting to play with her for ages.” Warren winced when Rack smacked him again, leaving his back stinging. The warlock laughed. “Now that’s a plan.”
* * *
Tara was curled on the floor in the yarrow circle, feigning sleep, with Willow cradled to her chest. She’d been watching her fellow Scoobies, her friends, her family, pouring over books for hours, looking for some way to help Willow. After several more entreaties from Buffy and Xander to eat, to rest, she’d laid down with her lover just to ease one of their worries. She knew sleep wouldn’t come, her fear kept it at bay. So she watched over them, watched over her beloved, the world haloed by her own golden lashes.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Buffy groaned, tossing another book down on the table. “We need a plan.”
“Just add that to the long, long list of things that go wrong when we don’t have Wills around to help out,” Xander muttered sadly.
Anya flipped through the book in her hands with vicious little swipes; smacking each page in place as if it were personally responsible for the situation they’d found themselves in.
“You’re sure she said Ter Sis Animi?” She asked Xander, frowning. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Tara said that’s what Willow told her.” Xander said, his voice soft.
“Maybe she got it wrong.” Anya replied.
“It was definitely Ter Sis Animi,” Tara said, holding Willow against her as she sat up in the circle.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you—”
Tara shook her head. “I wasn’t asleep, Anya. It’s all right.”
Buffy stuck her finger in the spine of the heavy, leather-bound text she was skimming to hold her place, and closed the cover. “Did you get any rest at all?”
Tara opened her mouth to reassure the slayer and then closed it again. It wouldn’t do them any good to start hiding things from each other. She shook her head. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Buffy just nodded and looked down at the book she was holding. Xander closed his book and put his head in his hands with a sigh. Anya stared at them both and then threw down the book she was holding. It landed with a loud thud on the table. Tara gave a little jerk, startled by the sudden noise.
“It’s probably in one of the books that Giles took with him, back to London.” Anya gave a throaty growl and picked the book up and slammed it down again. “Damn it, I told him he should leave the books here. He went home to tea-and-crumpet town, we’re on the freakin’ hellmouth here!”
“Anya,” Xander said gently, laying a hand on her book. “I wish all the books were here too, but I don’t think beating the ones Giles left behind will make them talk.”
“Books-shmooks,” Buffy sighed. “I wish Giles were here.”
“Me too, Buffy.”
Her voice was a groan, so soft that Tara thought she was imagining it at first. “Willow?” She asked, voice shaking.
“Hey baby,” Willow replied softly. She opened her eyes and smiled up at Tara weakly.
“Hey love,” Tara said, giddy with relief. “I’ve been missing you.” She leaned down and planted a soft kiss on her lover’s forehead, helping Willow to sit up a bit, propping the redhead against her body.
“Willow!” Buffy and Xander exclaimed together, rushing over to the yarrow circle, followed closely by Anya.
“How you feeling, Will?” Xander asked, reaching over the boundary to lay a hand on Willow’s leg.
“Okay,” Willow replied. Buffy shot her a look of pure skepticism and Willow grinned, wincing at the pain the lanced through her head. “And by okay I mean alive, tired, and kind of really terribly achy.” She scanned the Magic Box and her brow furrowed. The place was a mess. “You guys have been busy while I was out. What’s with the minimalist look?”
“Call it the Willow special,” Buffy said tenderly, squeezing Willow’s ankle.
“I’m sorry for the trouble, Anya,” Willow said, looking up at the former demon.
“It was Anya’s idea, Willow,” Tara murmured.
Willow closed her eyes at the swell of gratitude that grew in her chest, pressing back at the darkness flickering inside her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Anya replied, sounding surprised. “We’ve all been worried.” She paused and leaned closer to Willow and Tara, hands clasped in front of herself. “So,” Anya said then, her voice soft and kind, “Do you feel like you’re going to snap and kill us all yet?”
Willow recoiled from the former demon, burying her face in Tara’s chest. Anya’s words triggered a flood of memories, each one more terrible than the last, of how she’d hurt her friends, how close she’d come to killing them, when she lost herself.
Not again, Willow thought.
Never again, please.
“Anya,” Tara gasped, taking Willow in her arms. “Stop it.”
Xander took Anya by the arm and pulled her away from the circle.
“What?” She said, looking around at all of them with her hands on her hips. “A little advance warning would be nice!” Anya pulled away from Xander, glaring up at the carpenter. “And keep your grabby hands to yourself, Xander. You’ve lost touchy privileges.”
“Oh I remember,” Xander said, voice absolutely caustic. “You transferred those to Spike.”
Anya opened her mouth to speak but in an instant Buffy was there, standing between them, holding out her hands. “This isn’t the time, guys.” She looked from Anya to Xander and back again. “We’ve got to help Willow. The minute we know for sure that she’ll be all right, feel free to beat the crap out of each other. Hell, I might even sell tickets.” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was low, emphatic. “For now, shut up.”
“Sorry, Buffy,” Xander murmured, cheeks flushed.
“Sorry,” Anya echoed. She walked back to the research table and picked up a new book. “Page one,” she murmured, dropping into a chair.
While Buffy and Xander hovered, torn between their best friend and getting back to research, Tara rocked Willow, felt the trembling that Anya’s thoughtlessness had provoked begin to ease. She pressed her lips to the redhead’s hair and hummed softly, pausing every now and again to punctuate the tune with a kiss. After she made it through a few bars, her efforts had the desired effect; Willow leaned back and looked up at her with a teary smile.
“Are you humming the theme song for Greatest American Hero?” Willow asked her, flashing a tiny and incredulous grin.
“I had to find some way to get a smile out of you,” Tara teased. “Desperate times and all.”
“Oh, how I love you,” Willow whispered, felt a tear streak down her cheek. Her head hurt, everything hurt, a bone-deep ache that she knew might never leave her, and it just didn’t matter. She was in Tara’s arms. “Sorry, I feel like a leaky water sprinkler.”
Tara kissed her way down Willow’s face, from the crown of her head, to her forehead, to the tip of her nose, and then kissed her gently on the mouth. When she pulled back from the soft, lingering kiss, Willow felt Tara’s lips press down after her tears.
“You’re my little sprinkler,” Tara whispered, feeling her own warm breath bounce back from Willow’s ear. “And I love you too. Just don’t fight it baby, goddess knows you’ve…you’ve been through so much.”
For the first time Tara found herself thinking about what it really meant. Three years. Alone. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of it. Tara didn’t know if she would’ve had the strength to go on without Willow, and she knew she never wanted to find out.
There was a rush of relief at the permission inherent in Tara’s words. Willow’s body shook as she gave in, allowing herself to feel the pain and regret of her own potential for evil, her fierce joy and gratitude for the woman holding her. The war of magic in her faded in that moment, it was a pale echo of the depth of emotion she was feeling. She crawled up all the way into Tara’s lap, letting her lover rock and sooth her like a little child. Even as she accepted the offered solace gratefully, she could feel the magic tension rising in her body like a moon-pulled tide, feel the dull ache of it stoking back into agony in her gut, her bones. Willow gasped at the pain of it and then fell into a coughing fit.
“Easy,” Tara soothed, patting Willow on the back. “Easy.”
“Is she okay?” Buffy asked, crouching down in front of them.
Willow nodded her head, keeping her face carefully blank despite the pain of moving. “I’m okay. Could I have a drink?”
“Water coming up,” Xander replied, wringing his hands. “Unless you want coffee instead? Cause I can go and get coffee. Mochas all around.”
“Water’s fine, thanks Xander.” Willow smiled up at her dear friend and he nodded, heading back into Buffy’s workout room, she was sure, to grab a bottle of water for her. She felt a gently squeeze on her ankle and looked down to see Buffy watching her.
“Hey Buff,” she said, trying to smile.
“Hey Will,” Buffy said gently. “We haven’t had any luck finding out information about the whole Ter Sis Animi thing.” She paused, sighed. “What should we do?”
I wish I knew, Willow thought. There was only one certainty. “I shouldn’t stay here,” she told Buffy. “It isn’t safe for me to be here.”
“Where should we go?” Tara asked.
Willow shook her head. “I don’t know, baby.”
“Do we need to get you out of Sunnydale?” Buffy asked.
Willow pressed herself against Tara, pulled her lover’s arms more tightly around her. “I don’t know if that will help.”
“I return, victorious, with water,” Xander said, strolling up to the yarrow circle. “Why’s everyone all frowny?” He asked. “Did I miss something?”
“Just trying to figure out what to do, Xan-man,” Willow replied. She put on a smile, knowing that Xander would probably see right through it.
“Let’s just take it one step at a time, huh?” He asked, holding out the bottle. “The first thing you should do is have a drink.”
Willow reached for the bottle, frowning at the noticeable tremble. Before she could do more than wrap her hand around it, Tara was there, adding her grip to it, helping Willow bring the bottle to her mouth.
“Thank you, baby,” she told Tara, taking a sip.
Tara kept a gentle pressure on the bottle, taking the weight of it, letting Willow guide it to and away from her mouth almost effortlessly. After a few sips she could feel the trembling in her arms ease. Tara must’ve felt it to, because she let the bottle slide from her fingers and moved her hand up to Willow’s hair, stroking her from the crown of her head to the ends of her hair where it brushed her shoulders. Willow leaned into Tara and took another sip of water.
“We’re gonna go back to research mode,” Buffy said, patting Willow’s leg. She stood and took Xander by the arm. “Call us if you need anything.” The pair moved back to the table in silence.
The cool water and Tara’s warmth were a comfort, a physical lullaby. She let her eyes drift closed again, breathing deep of her love’s scent, and wondered if she would actually be able to rest, just for a moment.
When the tingling started in her toes, Willow thought that her legs must be falling asleep. She shifted against Tara, straightening her legs a bit, but the tingling just grew, spreading up the soles of her feet, the palms of her hands, a burn with a weight behind it, a pressure. Willow tried to sit up, but the pressure made her limbs heavy. When it spread into her trunk her heart skipped a beat and she whimpered.
“Baby?” Tara asked, still caressing her hair. “You okay?”
Willow shook her head, struggled to breathe against the weight on her chest. “Something,” she began, couldn’t finish.
Something’s coming, she sent to Tara, gripping her lover’s hand.
Something’s coming, you’ve got to keep it away from me.
“Buffy!” Tara cried, pulling Willow tight against her.
Within a second Buffy was crouched by their side again. “What’s wrong, another seizure?”
Tara shook her head. “W-Willow, she said, something’s coming.” Her voice was shaking, tearful. The redhead began to shiver in her arms.
Buffy’s hands curled into fists and she moved to stand in front of the yarrow circle, poised to fight. “Xander,” she barked, “Anya. We’re about to get some company, and I don’t think they’re bringing pizza and beer.”
Xander walked up beside Buffy and gave a sour laugh. “How come nobody ever brings us nice things?”
Anya ran past them, diving behind the counter. Buffy and Xander turned when they heard a series of loud clangs and scrapes, even Tara craned her head around to see what in the world was going on. There was a moment of silence and then Anya rose up from behind the counter, holding a huge axe over her shoulder. Xander’s mouth fell open.
“What?” Anya asked, bristling. “It’s only in case of emergency. Or robbery. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses,” she said brightly after a thoughtful pause. “They really cheese me off.” She sighed as the other Scoobies continued to stare. “I have a spare back here,” she told Xander. “Want it?”
“Yes, please,” Xander said meekly, walking up to the counter with his hands out.
Suitably armed, Xander and Anya took up position next to Buffy, tensed and ready for whatever might be coming. Tara pulled Willow closer and kissed her forehead.
Look how they love you, Tara sent to her.
We all love you.
Willow gripped Tara’s arm, gave her a gentle squeeze.
Love you. The pressure hit a crescendo, she could feel the dark magic inside if her pushing, testing, as if it looked for some way to escape her body and move into that force.
“Here,” Willow said, gasping.
The door to the Magic Box began to vibrate, wood rattling against the hinges. Tara pulled Willow closer, and began murmuring a charm of protection that she could only hope would keep her family safe from whatever was trying to come through that door. As she called on the blessing of the goddess she kept a steady stream of energy moving into Willow, even though it left her head spinning. She would do whatever it took suppress the storm rising in her lover.
There was a hissing sound, and Tara realized that the metal fittings in the door were glowing red at the edges, peeling the paint around them as the wood began to burn. As suddenly as it had started, the vibrations stopped. The hissing began to ebb, the glow fading as the metal began to cool.
“What the fu—” Anya began.
Before she could finish her thought the deadbolt on the door was thrown back, the chain sliding, falling, rocking against the door. A tall, scarred man with dark, shoulder-length hair strolled into the shop, smiling.
No. Willow’s thought lanced through Tara’s mind, leaving an echo of bitter panic in its wake.
No. Why is he here?
“Who is it? Who is he, Willow?” Tara whispered.
Willow rolled her head up, staring up at Tara, eyes wide with dread. When her voice echoed in Tara’s mind the blonde shook with vestiges of the fear, the guilt pouring through Willow.
Rack. Willow sobbed weakly as she sent the thought,
Dark magic dealer. I-I murdered him.
“Hey Strawberry,” the warlock said. “Did you miss me?”
I really appreciate your thoughts on the story. I'm trying really hard to craft something that feels authentic. I look forward to more of your thoughts in the future.
I stand corrected. Now I won't be able to go to sleep. Update soon.
