by AntigoneUnbound » Thu May 08, 2003 3:15 pm
Gods Served and Abandoned
Disclaimers:
There once were two lezbos on Buffy,
But their treatment made all of us huffy.
Though I don’t claim to own them,
I adore and enthrone them,
And delight in describing their muff-y(s).
Spoilers:
Up to season 5. I’ve played slightly with the timing of a certain Big Bad’s appearance, with some implications for Dawn’s entrance.
Rating:
R for now; if it changes, I’ll give heads-up.
Distribution:
Sure, with acknowledgement.
Feedback:
…is like sex: I’m not quite sure how, but it seemed right when I wrote it.
*****
Part 27
*****
Less than a week after Joyce had kissed her daughters for the last time, they laid her to rest in a mahogany casket draped with yellow roses. Willow wept in the sheltering crook of Tara’s arm, and wondered how Buffy and Dawn could survive this.
How are they even standing? How in the goddess’ name do they not just collapse with how completely wrong this is?
But they didn’t collapse, because they just didn’t do things like that; even Dawn. Instead, they leaned slightly on each other, never taking their eyes off of the dark enclosure that sealed their mother away from them. And at the very end, after all the mourners had expressed their final condolences and trickled off in groups of two and three, they turned away in unison, as if heeding some silent message that only they could hear, and left the gravesite.
*****
Riding in the back of Xander’s car on the way to Buffy’s, Willow looked over at Tara and wondered anew at her partner’s strength. She tried to envision Tara, standing alone at her mother’s grave and trying to accept the finality of her death; dreading the return home because it could only mean more neglect from her father, more terrorizing from her brother. Fresh tears splashed onto her silk blouse; without thinking, she huddled closer to Tara, who looked at her with her gentle blue gaze.
"C’mere, Sweetie," Tara whispered, not realizing the actual cause of the tears that were now spilling from Willow’s cheeks onto her own shoulder. Willow didn’t explain, not then. Instead, she accepted the invitation and burrowed tightly into Tara’s warmth.
"What happens now?" Anya asked, her voice hesitant in the front seat.
"Buffy said there would probably be some more people stopping by with food. I guess they have enough cold cuts and lasagnas to last until the Hell Mouth freezes over."
"People want to feel like they’re doing something to help," Tara commented softly. "They can’t do what the person wants most, but they need to do something."
Tentatively, unsure if Tara would want to talk of it, Willow asked, "Did people bring lots of food when—when your mom died?"
A surprisingly bitter smile twisted quickly across Tara’s mouth. Looking out the window, she replied, "No. Daddy wasn’t much for socializing, so there weren’t that many people at the funeral. We ate meat-loaf that Aunt Margaret made for the next couple of days, and then I was cooking again."
She has two decades of good stuff coming to her. At least two decades.
"Will we be expected to entertain them?" Anya asked in the same anxious tone.
"Ahn, they’re bringing over food to grieving daughters," Xander replied, his voice laced with impatience. "They won’t really be expecting a Broadway revival." Anya huddled back in her seat, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.
"It’s a reasonable question," Tara said unexpectedly. "We didn’t have many visitors, Anya, but I wondered the same thing. Here were these people in my house, just milling around, and I kept thinking I should, I don’t know, take care of them in some way; make them comfortable."
"Really?" Anya turned as far as her seat-belt would allow, edging off her glasses to look at Tara through red-rimmed eyes.
"Definitely," Tara nodded. "But I think these people will probably just drop off their food and tell Buffy and Dawn they’re sorry. They’ll tell them to call if they need anything. Some of them will even mean it." Again, the bitter smile. "But all we have to do is take the food, help find a place for it, and thank them. I doubt they’ll stay long."
Anya looked at her gratefully, and then turned back in her seat. Willow realized that Tara had just chastised Xander in her own quiet way.
Thinking about it, it hadn’t been a stupid question. Death had so many rituals, many specific to one culture or another. Some of those rituals seemed to contradict each other. The Irish threw the equivalent of a big party, which might seem like blasphemy to other cultures. Some cultures buried the deceased as soon as possible; others waited over a week. Mourning traditions weren’t a function of deductive logic. You only knew them because you had learned them, like the Periodic Table or the state capitals. Tara, she realized, had particular compassion for someone who struggled to understand how to act, how to figure out what everyone around her seemed to take for granted.
She huddled in closer once again, realizing anew just how capable were the arms to which she entrusted her heart and her life.
*****
At the neat two-story house on Revello Drive, they took turns answering the door and escorting the visitors into the house. Anya greeted one heavy-set man who was holding a cooled casserole dish.
"Thank you so much for coming," she announced, in a pleasant, even voice. "Please come in. Let me just find a place for this." Willow saw Tara squeeze Anya’s shoulder briefly as she walked by.
In the living room Buffy and Dawn were trying to make intelligible conversation.
"Yes, it was very sudden."
"No, there was nothing they could do."
"Yes, she was an incredible woman. Thank you."
Listening to Buffy’s automatic agreement with one visitor’s assertion that God has a plan, Willow found herself wondering exactly what that plan was.
Let’s see…I think God wanted Joyce to die so that Buffy would feel even more completely responsible for Dawn. Yeah—I think God’s plan was for Buffy to have just one more totally overwhelming loss and struggle in her life. Sure. Sounds good to me.
When another person commented a few minutes later that Joyce was now at peace, Willow had to fight the urge to ask, "How do you know? Did she send you a post-card saying, ‘Sure is peaceful here!’?" But she didn’t. She thought about Tara’s earlier statement, that people just wanted to do something. Standing silently in the face of grief was harder than it sounded. So she just greeted people and wedged plates of food into the crowded refrigerator and tried not to think about losing her own mother. While they had never been close. Willow now found herself preoccupied with the notion that her mother was one of the very few people who had been in her life from the moment she’d had a life. It was a group with limited membership, and something about that fact made her hold it in more particular esteem.
By early evening, practically all the guests had left and all available refrigerator and counter space had been claimed by one dish or another. Willow felt more exhausted than she could remember; she was at a complete loss as to how Buffy and Dawn were still functioning at all. Giles had left shortly after arriving, complaining apologetically of a migraine. At the ringing of the doorbell, Willow sighed. Please, God—not another tray of lunch meats.
Fixing her smile in place, she opened the door to greet the next visitor—who was nowhere to be seen. She looked around in confusion, wondering if she could possibly have imagined the noise. But then she glanced down and saw the neatly wrapped plate of brownies, artistically arranged on what appeared to Willow’s untrained eye to be good china. A small envelope sat just to the side of the plate, with the words "Buffy and Dawn Summers" written in perfect script across its front.
"What the…" she muttered in total bewilderment. She stepped out onto the porch and then down the sidewalk, casting about in all directions for any sign of the mysterious caller. Finally she shrugged and walked back to the house, stooping to retrieve the brownies. She set them on the counter and made a mental note to tell Buffy about this later.
*****
Finally the lastcaller left. Reaching out to rub Buffy’s shoulder, Willow commented, "It was nice of everybody to come, but I’m glad they’re gone. You’re totally wiped out. It’s time for you and Dawn to have the house to yourself so you can get some rest."
But Buffy just shook her head. "No—now the hard part begins."
Willow looked at her quizzically. "I’m not sure what you mean."
Buffy turned slowly and met Willow’s eyes with her own dull gaze. "As long as people were here, everything was still about Mom. They came to pay their respects to Mom. We talked about Mom. Now…now the world comes back. Now we start dealing with things that don’t have anything to do with Mom." She wrapped her arms tightly about herself and looked vacantly back toward the living room. "Now I really start my life as someone without a mother."
Willow had watched Buffy endure more pain and hardship than most people twice her age, but she had never seen the Slayer look more utterly heartbroken.
When does it end? When does she get her reward for saving all of us so many times?
Willow felt as much as saw Tara approaching them. Long tapered fingers rubbed the back of her neck with great gentleness, as her partner reached out with her other hand and rested it lightly on the Slayer’s back.
"It may sound funny, but I r-really found that reading people’s cards and notes helped me. It was like seeing l-little snippets of her through other people’s lenses." She looked uncertainly from one woman to the other. "Does that make any sense?"
Buffy just nodded wordlessly. Then she turned and hesitantly replied, "It might—it might be good for us. To—to read what people had to say." Looking down, she added softly, "It might keep the other world away for a little bit longer."
"Why don’t I go get them?" Tara offered, moving off to do so. It took some time, because there were several sympathy cards that had arrived in the mail and still others attached to the various dishes that people had brought. Watching Tara head off to gather them up, Willow remembered the mysterious delivery from earlier.
"That reminds me, Buffy. Someone dropped off a plate of brownies on what looks like pretty expensive china. There was a card attached, too—to both of you."
"So who brought it?" Buffy asked, confusion in her voice.
"I don’t know," Willow shrugged. "When I opened the door, no one was there. I looked up and down the street, but I didn’t see anybody and I didn’t hear a car drive away."
"That’s weird," Buffy commented absently before returning to the couch to sit beside Dawn. The younger girl hadn’t said much that day; mostly she had stuck by Buffy as if she might drown if she lost contact. As soon as Buffy had dropped back onto the couch, Dawn leaned over slowly and rested her head on her sister’s shoulder.
Watching them read slowly through the cards and letters, Willow realized that Tara had been right.
"Read this one from Stephanie."
"Wait, who’s Stephanie?"
"She lived down the street in LA. She moved two years before we did."
"Oh, yeah—she was funny…God, I’d totally forgotten about her. Remember how she used to make banana bread? She’d bring over a loaf and she and Mom would sit there and dish about their husbands all morning!"
"And here’s one from Reverend Thompson. Mom always loved him."
"Yeah, he was cool. Hey—remember that one Sunday when you were about five and you kept asking Mom if he was naked under his robe? The more she tried to quiet you down, the louder you asked. I remember Mrs. Penfield in the pew behind us glared at you like you were the anti-Christ!"
"Well, I wanted to know! I mean, you couldn’t see any pants legs or anything."
"So you thought what—he was wearing culottes under his robe?"
It’s amazing…Right now, neither of them believe for a single second that Dawn wasn’t really around for all of that.
When they reached the cream-colored envelope with the perfect writing that had accompanied the brownies, Buffy frowned slightly. "That’s so weird, the person not even waiting to hand it to you, Will."
Xander had smuggled one of the treats into his own mouth and was chewing appreciatively. "Whoever made these, they know their way around chocolate."
Dawn shrugged and looked expectantly at her sister. Buffy ran her finger quickly under the flap and pulled out the delicate stationery. She froze, and then re-read the contents as if hoping that her eyes had betrayed her on the first reading.
"Buffy? What is it?" Dawn’s voice sounded small and scared.
Shock was quickly eclipsed by anger, which flared almost immediately into rage. Buffy dropped the card to the table and grabbed Dawn’s hand as if by instinct.
Willow, her heart pounding fiercely, reached down and retrieved the letter. Aloud, she read:
Dearest Slayer and Little Miss Dawn,
Please accept my deepest sympathies on the loss of your mother. You may hurt now, but I know you’ll survive this. Remember—perseverance is the Key to everything. If you really want something, never stop looking. I haven’t, and now I’m close to finding what I want. Enjoy the brownies—they may not be heavenly, but they’re certainly to die for.
With you in spirit,
Glory
Dawn’s face had drained of all color, while Buffy’s burned hot with fury. "That bitch! She came here, today, to our house—to Mom’s house—and left this. She walked up to the door and…" She trailed off, her voice shaking with rage.
Xander had already swallowed one mouthful, but now threw the remainder on the floor and looked for a moment as if he might try to purge what he’d just eaten. No one could bring themselves to speak. Willow felt somehow that it was her fault; that if she’d been quicker she could have spotted the demon and…and what? Stopped her? Created a scene on the day of Joyce’s funeral?
"She knows," Dawn whispered. "She knows I’m the Key."
Buffy wheeled back to face her sister and took both of her hands in her own. "Dawn, no. That’s not true. If she knew, she’d have tried to take you. And I’ll never let her take you," she added quietly. After a moment, Dawn nodded and Buffy pulled her near. Watching Buffy’s face, though, Willow could see the fear. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Buffy looking truly frightened.
"How could she just ring the door bell one second and be gone the next?" Willow wondered aloud. "I mean, it really was about a second, Buffy. I had just walked past the door into the dining room when I heard the bell. And I checked the street. She wasn’t anywhere around unless she was hiding somewhere."
"That must be it," Xander replied, nodding emphatically. "She didn’t want to get into it with you right now, Buff, so she drops off a little ‘gift’ just to play with you and then ducks around a corner somewhere like a big honking sissy."
Buffy only nodded slowly. Willow wondered if Buffy, like herself, had difficulty imagining this particular creature hiding from anyone, for any reason.
*****
Xander and Anya left soon after the discovery of Glory’s "gift." Good-byes had been an uneasy mixture of sadness and dread.
Later, as they lay under the thick comforter on the pull-out couch, Willow and Tara spoke in hushed tones about the day that had thankfully come to a close.
"Do you think there’s any chance Glory really does know that Dawn’s the Key?" Willow asked, pulling Tara’s arm more tightly about her.
"If she knew, I think she’d have tried something already. I think Xander’s right—she’s just trying to mess with Buffy’s mind."
"I’m guessing she did a pretty good job," Willow muttered, remembering the shock on her best friend’s face. After a moment, she asked, "How are you doing, Baby? Today must have been so hard on you, too."
For a few seconds, Tara’s only response was to nuzzle her head against Willow’s chest. When she finally spoke, her voice was small.
"Yeah, it was. Harder than I actually thought it would be, you know?"
"I know," Willow replied, though she really didn’t.
"I’d expected it to bring up memories of Mom’s death, and it did. But it also brought up everything I just learned. Not that those things have been exactly absent since we got back from Cold Springs," she added. She pulled back and looked at Willow. "There are so many things I need to ask her, Will, and now I’ll never get the chance. And Mrs. Summers will never get to see Buffy graduate and Dawn will never get to show Mrs. Summers her SAT scores and they’ll never get to sit down together for another meal, ever. I hate it, Willow. I hate how Death just takes whomever it wants, whenever it wants them, whether we’re ready to let them go or not."
"I know, Baby—but we’d never be ready to let them go, would we? Maybe, if we have to lose people at some point, it’s better that Death does it for us so that we don’t have to decide when it will happen." Worried that her words had sounded callous or indifferent, she kissed Tara’s forehead and looked at her uncertainly. "Baby, I didn’t mean to sound all ‘Hey, it’s for the best’ just now." When Tara didn’t answer immediately, she added, "So, um, did I sound all ‘Hey, it’s for the best’ just now?"
Tara rested her head against Willow’s breasts once more and sighed. "No, Sweetie. It’s just…"
"Just what?" Willow prompted, when Tara had trailed off into silence.
Tara sighed again, deeper this time. "It’s just that we do all this fighting, and we spend so much energy trying to fight the most terrifying creatures imaginable, but we can’t save the people we love from things like cancer or strokes. It makes me feel like we’re giving away the very best gifts to people we barely know, while we give the people closest to us scraps, hand-me-downs. It makes me—it makes me angry at myself."
Willow frowned in confusion. "But Tara, Baby, it’s not one or the other. It’s not like fighting demons takes away our ability to heal our family."
"I know," Tara replied, a faint trace of irritation in her voice. "I didn’t say it was rational, or right. I’m just saying I hate the fact that we can save so many people we barely know but we can’t save our own families."
Willow had heard the frustration in Tara’s voice, and realized that now was not a moment for analytical discourse. "Yeah," she finally answered. "I get that. I guess I always sort of have in the back of my mind that when I help kill some demon, I’m making the world a little safer for you. So it’s not some abstract cause that I’m fighting for—it’s to make the world a better place for you. And for our children," she added quietly.
She felt Tara’s small grin against her chest before her beloved pulled back once more and looked at Willow with soft blue eyes. "Honestly, Ms. Rosenberg—for someone who claims to be a babbler, you sure know what to say to make a girl feel special."
"Not just any girl," Willow murmured around the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. "Takes someone special to bring out the Cicero in me."
They lay entwined like that for a long time afterwards…not really speaking, just unconsciously rendering their breathing synchronous until they fell into a sad but much-needed sleep.
*****
To Be Continued
Edited by: AntigoneUnbound at: 5/8/03 7:09:32 pm
at: 5/5/03 5:03:22 pm
). Anyway your version of glory seems to be more inteligent than the one on TV.
.
Now who's the psychopath!
But they really do give the phrase "the little death" a whole new meaning!
