My deep thanks to the KB and all the kittens who've been so very kind to me as I taught myself I could in fact write a novel.
If anyone wants to beta this puppy, I will forever be in is her/his debt.
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Author: Technopagan78 aka Technopagan21 aka Tecnopagan (you get the idea)
Title: Doppelganger Redux
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. All Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters are the intellectual property of Mutant Enemy. All non-BTVS characters are the intellectual property of the author, as is the story.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Willow/Tara
Rating: R for scenes of intense violence, minor strong language, and minor spicy bits (the spicy bits are strictly PG-13). If you’re looking for PWP, keep looking, DR will disappoint.
Summary: In this story the terrible events of season six’s closing have happened, as well a few events of the events from season seven. DR springs in large part from two season three episodes: The Wish (Marti Noxon) and Doppelgangerland (Joss Whedon). At the story’s beginnings, Willow has returned from England and the caring of Devon Coven’s Miss Hartness as a shaken and sobered young woman. The Magic Box has been rebuilt and is being run by Anya, who is also keeping up with her vengeance duties. Buffy, Xander, and Willow are trying to rebuild their friendships. Willow is returned to UC Sunnydale. Dawn is enduring the horrors of high school and puberty. Tara is dead. Things begin to happen.
Explanation/Feedback: After writing two short pieces of fanfiction (circa 2001) which have mercifully slipped off of the Web, I began writing DR in 2002. Sometime in late 2003, I hit a wall and the story went into hiatus. In 2005 I tried punching through the wall, but failed. And then in late 2009, as the Southern California summer slid into autumn slid into winter (think fire, rain, mud), I started writing again, because I was missing BTVS, because I was missing writing, because I owed it to a group of people I’d promised a happy ending. So, with the comments from the famed Kitten Board (and a few very old emails) to cheer me on, I started work, first reading what I’d written, then editing (fixing continuity errors, layering in details, adjusting tone and grammar) and writing and writing and writing. Thank heavens for my long ago outline. My aspirations to have DR complete by spring 2010 turned to naught, however. I became stuck in the narrative yet again. But with October 2010 came the frisson of new ideas and I began writing once more, determined to finish DR once and for all. But then life kept getting in the way, and so now here I am in the year 2017, 15 years later, finally posting the final installments of what has become an epic.
Now, given DR’s length and the likelihood many fans have moved on to other fandoms, I’m not sure who will be willing to follow me into the complex world of DR and its two heroines Willow and Tara. If any do, please drop me a comment. I would love to hear from you.
A Second Warning: This story is long. It exceeds in word count Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (would that it even approach Austen’s brilliance in writing ). It took 15 years to write and it will take hours to read. There is violence, disturbing imagery, minor spicy bits, smoochies galore, sentimentality, cold rationality, narrative complexity, and everywhere my deep, deep love for a set of characters who charm me to this day. Did I mention DR is long? Do not read it in one sitting lest you over tax your eyes. Really, there’s just way too much in this story, chock-full with magick and falling in love and memory, absolutely full to the brim and I just couldn’t bear to leave anything out. The story covers seven weeks and through the magic of memory, a twenty some year life.
Dedication: And finally, this story is for my “what-if” girl. The girl I almost kissed after we’d gone to see a Hitchcock movie, the girl who wore Renaissance fair dresses for everyday, whose sense of humor was often arcane, and who sometimes tripped over her own shadow. It is she who always keeps me thinking about the consequences of turning left or right, choosing A or B, leaning in for the kiss or letting fear take hold. Yes, this story is for her.
Spoiler: None (the series jetted off the television airwaves years ago!)
DOPPELGANGER REDUX, PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Consciousness returned slowly. She noticed first the concrete floor: cold, hard and damp against her bare skin. She’d landed face first. Every muscle hurt, her heart was pounding, and she could not stop shivering. A mouse scurried across the floor, but aside from that the room was quiet. Too quiet? After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. The room was darkly lit and it took another minute or two for her eyes to adjust. She moved her head and felt the pull of dried blood upon her forehead. The girl assumed she’d hurt herself when she’d landed on the floor.
Not sure where she was, not sure “when” she was, the girl tamped down the fear rising inside her chest and took a deep breath before pulling herself up on to her hands and knees. She moved too fast. The floor seemed to shift beneath her knees and her stomach threatened to rebel. The girl bent over to press her head against the concrete until the room stopped spinning. Moving more slowly this time, she stood up, only then noticing she’d cut her head from the fall.
With dirty fingers, she wiped away the blood and gently fingered the wound. The cut was about mid-way above her left eyebrow. Fortunately, it wasn’t more than half a centimeter or so long and did not seem very deep. No need for stitches. She rubbed the blood from her fingers on her thigh, trying to rid herself of the stickiness. She hated the feeling of blood on her fingers, almost as much as she hated blood’s sick, sweet scent.
Finally adjusted to the dim light, her eyes took in her surroundings. She’d arrived inside a basement, presumably unused. The floor hadn’t been swept for a long time, and the air was musty. Streetlight spilled haphazardly from the four small dirty windows that lined two sides of the ceiling. High as they were, at least the widows weren’t barred. A doable, if not easy escape hatch. Of course there remained the small matter of clothes; nothing is ever simple Sam’s voice reminded her.
She wondered how long she had lain unconscious and then dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter. First things first. She surveyed the rest of the room. Broken down shelf units, most of them empty, lined two of the walls. A large washtub sink dominated another wall, and an open-step, metal staircase lined the fourth. She could see the outline of a door at the top of the staircase. Another escape hatch, things were looking up, maybe. Still, she wasn’t going anywhere until she found clothing.
The girl advanced on a dozen or so packing boxes tucked underneath the staircase. Good fortune was on her side, and a silent prayer of thanks was sent, as the girl sorted through several boxes stuffed with used clothes. Near the bottom of the first box she found a well-worn pair of boy’s jeans that more or less fit once she cuffed the legs. In another box she found three well washed tee shirts, all white; a man’s long sleeved red flannel shirt with a hole in the elbow; and an oversized sweatshirt. She slipped into one of the tee shirts, pulled the flannel shirt over it and rolled the rest of the tee shirts inside the sweatshirt. She didn’t find any underwear or socks, but she did find an old pair of women’s sandals. They were slightly large on her feet, but they would do until she could find better.
After sorting through the rest of the boxes, and discovering a few more useful items, she rewrapped the rest of her bounty inside the sweatshirt. Almost ready to go, she stopped to do one last thing. At the sink, she tried turning on the faucet. Again, luck was on her side. Cold water ran from the tap. Using one of the two bandanas she’d found amid a box filled with Christmas tree lights, dish towels and deflated pool toys, she washed her face, trying to clean away the blood as best she could without soap. Some of the blood had gotten into her hair, and she tried to wash that away as well. It seemed as if the cut had closed again. The girl wished she could look in a mirror and examine the wound to see for sure. The last thing on earth she needed was to appear vulnerable. She used the second bandana as a scarf to tie over her hair and forehead. It wouldn’t be very attractive, but it would hide the cut from view. The girl looked around the basement one last time, checking to make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. Confident she’d made use of all the available resources, the girl took a deep breath. It was time to leave to discover if her calculations were correct.
The girl, long practiced at moving quietly, crept up the stairs and pressed her ear to the door. There were no sounds on the other side. She twisted the doorknob; it was unlocked. Slowly, she pushed the door open only to jump back when the door’s hinges made a sudden and unexpectedly loud squeak. The noise sent the girl into a terrible fright until she realized there was no one around to hear it but her. She took another deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves, but then fell into a fit of hysterical laughter. Who did she think she was Nancy Drew? Then she wondered if Nancy Drew was even a part of this world; it was all too confusing. Best not to think about it, she decided, best to stay focused on the moment and the task. She had a job to do. There was nothing else.
The door led into another large room. Streetlights shined through two large show windows, lighting the floor space of what was apparently a hardware store. She panicked, her eyes searching for the flash of a silent alarm system. She saw nothing. No bars on the windows, no alarm system, maybe she’d found Mayberry? Smiling, the girl stepped inside, and then nearly tripped over several low stacks of floor tiles. The girl cursed as she rubbed her now bruised shins.
At the front of the store was a cash register. The drawer contained about thirty dollars and some change. The money was American and only slightly different in appearance from the money of her world, and the denominations were the same except this world still had a penny. A quick exploration of the store’s aisles led to a small hunting and fishing department. There the girl found a canvas backpack that would hold her clothes and an insulated water bottle. She wasted several minutes trying to jimmy open a small lock before using a rubber hammer to shatter the glass door of a showcase holding hunting knives. She chose two, one serrated, the other smooth. Both were well balanced and came with leather carry cases; quality knives for the professional demon hunter she thought chuckling to herself. The girl slipped the blades into one of the backpack’s deep side pockets where they would be easy to reach when she ran into trouble. If she was confident about anything, it was that trouble was a true constant. From hunting and fishing the girl moved to arts and crafts. She was tempted to take a drawing pad, but instead gathered up a few other makeshift weapons including several wood dowels that could be easily fashioned into stakes. A demon hunter could never be too careful.
Before she left the girl offered a blessing upon the shop owner, believing a thank you note would only add insult to injury given the petty theft and minor vandalism. The blessing was simple; one she’d learned from her mother. She then slipped into moon dark streets.
About an hour later the sun was rising and the girl had covered twice the town’s center, which wasn’t saying much. In addition to a city hall, and a police station, the six-block grid consisted of several office buildings, dozens of small shops, restaurants, and a two block open-air shopping mall. While a few store signs were written in Spanish, most were written in English. Another small blessing, her Spanish was limited to say the least. The faint scent of sea salt told her she was near the ocean, and one long street lined with churches, synagogues, mosques, temples and other houses of worship of every possible kind told her she must have landed on another hellmouth. But that was inevitable, and at least this one seemed less active.
There had been some human activity outside a bail bondsman office near the police station, but she’d been able to avoid being spotted. Other “life” was found near a cemetery. She easily evaded a trio of vampires and a small smattering of demons. Astonishingly, none of them seemed organized on a hunt. Maybe this town was truly different from the one she’d left behind. One thing she knew for sure, the relocation had worked; she wasn’t in Sunnydale anymore.
Another certainty, she needed to sleep. The girl backtracked to a burned out shell of a building she’d noticed on her initial survey of the town. A high fence had been erected around the perimeter, but, after tossing her backpack and sandals over to the other side, she was easily able to scale it. Near seven years practiced at running, climbing, and hiding had turned her once soft body hard with muscle. The girl crossed a weed-infested parking lot that led to a wide entrance with four doors. All of the doors were locked. A good sign, she thought. The building was probably free of squatters. Since she was an accomplished trespasser, the breaking and entering took little time.
Inside, after a short exploration, the girl concluded the building must have once been a school and the students wealthy. She’d searched a few of the lockers at random and found cash, twenty-seven dollars in bills and coins, several small bags of what she took to be marijuana, and a wide variety of wards, charms, and talismans. She’d also found a narrow notebook labeled in neat, cursive script, book of shadows. Maybe this world was more like hers than would first appear? In a cavernous room that appeared to have been a cafeteria she constructed a shelter for herself underneath a large table using her sweatshirt as a blanket and her backpack as a makeshift pillow, taking care to keep both of her knives within easy reach. She knew she needed to sleep, but the after effects of her journey had not fully abated. Hating herself for her weakness, she made herself relax by remembering a song her mother sang to her when she was a child. She’d always thought her mother had the most beautiful voice in the world. It was a small comfort, and one she did not feel entitled.
Her dreams took her back to her childhood home. It was evening; a harvest moon hung above the foothills and the air was thick with the perfume of night jasmine. A few fireflies circled over the flowerbeds and, in the distance, she could hear neighborhood children playing basketball.
She was playing on the swing-set with her brother, hanging upside down from the monkey bar while her brother played on the swing, laughing as he pumped himself higher and higher into the sky. She noticed she was wearing her favorite turquoise shorts and a white sleeveless top with turquoise rickrack. Already the details of the dream were wrong. She’d received the outfit for her eighth birthday, but on the night her life changed forever she was already ten and the outfit was long outgrown.
Her father sat on the back porch swing, reading the newspaper, and she could hear her mother moving about the kitchen, washing the dinner plates. The girl heard her mother close the cabinet door and then make a small sound of surprise. Moments later, her mother was screaming. Her legs gave way and she slid to the ground in a small heap; her eyes locked on her father as he leaped from the porch swing and ran into the house. Her father’s scream came next.
The girl’s brother continued to swing back and forth, as if he did not hear his parents’ cries for help. She jumped to her feet, caught her brother by the arm and roughly pulled him from the swing. “We have to hide,” she whispered. “They’re coming for us next.”
Almost dizzy with fear, she dragged her brother by the arm towards the woods that lined the back of the family home. Together, they hid in the family hidey-hole until the girl decided it was safe to come out. She thought her heart would pound out of her chest as she made her way back to the house. Near the back door she stopped. Even though she knew already what she would discover on the other side of the door, she called out to her parents. She heard no response.
The girl told her younger brother to wait for her outside, and watched as the little boy agreeably crawled up on the porch swing, where he promptly curled up and went to sleep. He did not seem to understand what was going on. She wished she were little again, so that she would not have to go in the house. But she was a big girl, almost eleven. It was her responsibility to take care of things.
The screen door on the back porch led into the mudroom. The girl brushed by dirty shoes, coats hung from hooks, and her mother’s new washing machine. The next door led into the pantry. She slipped inside the darkened room, reaching for the light switch. The electricity must have been turned off, because the overhead light remained dark. On tiptoes, she crept towards the kitchen door, nearly tripping over something that blocked the floor. The girl reached down and ran her hands over something. What was it? She continued to feel around. Her fingers brushed over something sticky, warm and wet. Slowly, she realized it was blood. The girl swallowed her scream; they might still be in the house. She remembered her father kept a flashlight in the mudroom and went back to fetch it.
With flashlight in hand, the girl crept back into the pantry. The light flashed over her father’s face. All of her life she’d been afraid of him. With the unerring accuracy of childhood wisdom she knew he preferred her brother to her. She knew he feared she was like her mother. But now, with his eyes starring upward and his mouth open, as if he were caught in an unending scream, she felt only grief at his death. She tried to close his eyes with her hand, but they would not stay closed. Unable to bear the idea of leaving him that way, she searched about the pantry until she found an old dishtowel to drape over his face.
The person she loved most in the world was found crumpled on the kitchen floor. Her mother’s dress was ripped open and her neck was bruised and torn; the flesh marred by two deep fang marks. The girl bent over and retched on her mother’s clean floor, and then on her hands and knees the girl crawled to her mother’s side. The body was still warm. The girl lay down next to her mother and pulled the dead woman’s arms around her. Only then could she begin to cry. Time seemed to pass, and shift. Her mother’s body grew cold. The girl heard noises in the front room of the house. She thought she heard her brother’s voice.
She left her mother’s embrace and headed down the hall that led to the front room. Somehow, she must have gotten turned around, because she ended up back in the pantry. She wished she’d remembered to take the flashlight with her. Something seemed to be moving in the pantry, but she could not see it, only an ill-formed shadow. A chill ran down her spine. The girl backed up towards the kitchen. She’d nearly made it to the door, when a hand grabbed her by the arm.
The thing dragged her away from the kitchen door and towards the mudroom. The girl fought, trying to get away from it, but she was too weak. She soon lost her balance, and stumbled, falling to her knees. The thing did not stop; it dragged her out of the pantry, through the mudroom and out into the backyard.
The sun had fully set, but the moon now hung high in the sky casting the backyard in blue and black shadows. The thing flipped the girl on to her back and the girl looked up into her father’s face. She began screaming. She lost control of her body, and a warm stream of urine ran down her thigh. As her father leaned down to sink his fangs into her neck, she looked into a pair of golden eyes set deep underneath a thick brow ridge.
The girl fought her way out of the nightmare, screaming herself awake. When the sleep left her, she jumped to her feet, her eyes casting about for intruders. There was no one else present. Still shaking from the effects of the dream, the girl gathered up her meager belongings and made her way out of the building. Not until she stepped back into the warm sunlight did she notice she was running a fever. Great, she thought, all she needed was to be sick on top of being lost. She also noticed she’d wet her pants in her sleep. Even better. Feeling humiliated and more alone than she’d ever felt before, not knowing what else to do, the girl searched the grounds of the building. She found an enclosed patio and waited there until her pants dried. By then it was going on noon, and she knew she needed to find food, bandages and aspirin.
The day was warm, but the fever chilled the girl, and she pulled the sweatshirt over the flannel. It was navy blue; the front sported a large picture of Mickey Mouse. Apparently, in this dimension, as in her own, the mouse held a place of importance. She was sure old Walt Disney would be proud. The girl was less sure she could scale the fence a second time, not while she was running a fever and weak with hunger. The girl looked about and found a place where she could crawl underneath. Once outside the perimeter, she brushed the dirt and dust away as best she could, readjusted her bandana to ensure the cut on her forehead was hidden and began walking back to the town’s center.
The girl remembered seeing a drug store the night before. Still, it took her a while to find it again. Inside, she was able to buy a box of bandages, a small tube of antiseptic, aspirin, two pairs of thick cotton socks, and a cheap pair of canvas shoes. She did not waste her money on food; if this town at all resembled the towns of her world, city dumpsters and park trashcans would be filled with the stuff. But she did buy a bag of chocolates, she might be twenty-two years old, but she still had her childhood sweet tooth.
While she paid for her purchases, she caught her reflection on a mirror behind the counter. It was obvious she’d slept in her clothes. Below her bandana hung poorly cut hair, and the gash on her forehead had opened again, staining the navy blue cloth. The girl knew from his expression that the clerk wanted her to leave as quickly as possible, and she obliged him.
Back on the city streets, the girl marveled at the sight of humans moving freely and without fear. Mothers pushed children in strollers, old people sunned themselves on city benches, men and women in business clothes hurried about, and kids and teens roamed on bicycles, skateboards, and on foot. It reminded her of old television shows and the few movies she’d seen as a child. Here, no one seemed worried, although many people appeared to look at her with disdain. The people might not live in fear, but they displayed little tolerance for the poor. Another wave of loneliness fell upon her as she realized there was not a single person in this world that knew her. She reminded herself that the number of people from her own world that knew her and continued to live were few in number; it was cold comfort.
Across the street from an open-air food court, she re-found a small city park with a public restroom. Inside, she took off the bandana and examined the cut in the mirror. The edges were reddened and seemed warm to the touch. Ignoring the sting, she washed the wound using the restroom hand soap and then applied the antiseptic and a Band-Aid. Her hair was a mess and she wished she’d thought to buy a comb and brush at the drug store. Fortunately, she spotted a rubber band lying on the floor underneath the sink, and after giving it thorough washing, she used it to pull her hair back into a ponytail. With her hair pulled back, notwithstanding the Band-Aid, she thought she looked more presentable than with the bandana. The girl carefully folded the cloth and placed it inside her backpack. Now ravenously hungry, she decided to go search for her lunch.
A thorough exploration of the park’s waste cans produced someone’s discarded, half-finished sandwich and some cold French-fries. The food was reasonably fresh, and it would hold her until she could find better. Another trashcan produced a copy of the local newspaper. Aware two older women were watching her from a nearby park bench, not wanting to invite conversation or further suspicion, the girl quickly headed to the other side of the park and claimed her own park bench.
From experience she knew she’d be likely to lose it if she ate too quickly, so the girl made herself eat slowly, carefully chewing each bite. Only after she’d finished with her lunch did she allow herself to look at the newspaper. One glance at the front page and everything became clear to her. She wasn’t entirely surprised. It only stood to reason. With some food in her belly she could see the resemblance. The city blocks more or less matched up and some of the older architecture matched brick for brick. A quick survey of the skyline revealed a large billboard erected on top of a six-storied building proudly announcing the city’s name and a new housing development on the town’s east side.
The girl carefully read the newspaper from front to back. The local and national news convinced her this reality was far closer to her own than would even seem possible, which was good news and bad news. Judging by the newspaper’s date, she had seven weeks and change to prepare. Seven weeks was good. Seven weeks was plenty of time to plan. The girl ignored the small voice in the back of her thoughts challenging if her plan was even possible. The girl made herself remember Sam, who had often said anticipating the worst helped make the worst possible. This was no time to start feeling sorry for herself.
Long experienced at being homeless and sick, the girl waited to make sure her lunch was going to stay down before pulling out the aspirin bottle. The cap was surprisingly difficult and frustrating to remove. By the time she figured it out, her head was pounding. She washed three tablets down with water from her carry bottle, and sat back waiting for her fever and headache to lessen. After a while, the girl noticed a police car had passed by twice before. Between her ragged clothes and unkempt hair, the girl realized she appeared suspicious. Not wanting to have to explain why she had no identification or two long hunting knives in her possession, the girl smiled at the police officers, revealing straight white teeth and a beautiful face. She wasn’t surprised when it turned out that that was enough to make the officers continue on their way.
Knowing it was better not to move until she had a plan, the girl sat back and considered her situation. What she needed now was a place to blend in and the city center wasn’t it. Soon enough a smile crossed her face. She wouldn’t really belong, but she’d fit right in. The girl took off her sandals and put on her new socks and shoes. There was at least a two-mile walk ahead of her.
CHAPTER TWO
Willow Rosenberg awoke to sunlight filtering through the curtains of her bedroom. Dust motes danced about the room, darting back and forth like little fairy lights. She watched their movements, enjoying for a moment their graceful, if unmotivated dance. Without thinking, she reached to her right, and found the empty space next to her. For a moment the grief was too much to bear. She tried to breathe it out, let go of the pain. But the best she could do was to push it to the side. It had been almost five months since that awful day when normal life ended.
The voice came from the overstuffed chair that stood in the far corner of the room. “Are you going to keep lying there feeling sorry for yourself, or are you going to get up?” The voice was a gentle alto and as familiar to Willow as the back of her hand. She turned to look at her lover. Tara was sitting on top of the pile of clothes Willow had heaped in the chair the night before.
“Sorry our room is such a mess,” Willow offered as she rolled out of bed and began to stretch out some of the tension in her back. “I should really clean it up.”
“I know it’s hard, baby,” Tara said, smiling. “But you have to keep trying to live.”
“But I miss you so much.” Willow’s voice broke. She struggled for a moment to regain her self-control.
“And I’m still here with you, in your heart, in your head. I’ll always be there. I’m your always. Remember?”
“But you’re not real,” Willow said, her face flaming over the betrayal.
“I’m as real as you can imagine me, my Willow, my love,” Tara said, stepping up from the chair and crossing to her.
Willow closed her eyes, and imagined she could feel her lover’s touch. For a moment it seemed as if she felt the warmth of a hand. She turned into it, trying to breathe in her lover’s scent. Nothing. When she opened her eyes, Tara was gone. Not until after she’d made the bed and picked up all of the clothes strewn across the room, not until the room was tidy once more did she open the top drawer of their dresser and pull out the silvery silk pillowcase.
She pressed the soft cloth to her face and inhaled the now almost faded scent. Tara’s family had left it to her friends to dispose of their only daughter’s things, and most of them had ended up in Buffy’s basement, carefully stored in several watertight chests. There they had sat until Willow returned home from England for the fall semester. Buffy had raised an eyebrow, if not a quarrel when Willow reclaimed Tara’s prized doll’s eye crystal from one of the storage chests, returning it to its place on the nightstand. They both knew Willow was through with magick, dark and white. The crystal and a few other things that had belonged to the shy and gentle witch were now nothing more than mementos.
Reassured in ways she didn’t understand, Willow returned the pillowcase to its hiding spot inside one of their favorite shared sweaters and continued with the process of getting ready for school. Showering, getting dressed, and a quick breakfast, it was only a means for getting through the morning and moving to the next phase of her day. Her life had become processes, following procedures, taking one step after the next. She wasn’t living life in any real sense, but it was as close to living life as she could get. School, homework, and studying, sleep and meals somewhere in between: they were a series of tasks that she could chain together to make a day. Tasks to move through as she thought about Tara, missed Tara, and hoped whatever it was Tara had become would return to her another time.
Before leaving the house, Willow checked to make sure she’d placed her extra laptop battery in her shoulder bag. Wednesdays were her long day at school. She had three classes, plus her evening computer lab. Usually, she had dinner on campus, sometimes with friends, more often alone.
Since UC Sunnydale had begun its latest building craze, parking had become next to impossible. Most days, Willow caught the bus to school. But, since it was Wednesday, and she did not like to ride the bus after dark she took her car. For once she was able to find a good parking spot. By sheer luck Willow pulled into the main student parking lot just as someone was leaving. The small triumph put a smile on her face. From the passenger seat, Tara teased, “Hey, it’s nice to see that smile for a change. I miss it, you know.”
Tara was dressed in one of her peasant tops and a long brocaded skirt. She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and Willow thought she might be wearing the lightest touch of lipstick. “Must be my lucky day, huh.” Willow rested her hand on the seat, behind her lover’s head. She imagined she could feel the faint wisps of blond hair wafting against her hand. “You look beautiful.”
Tara acknowledged the compliment by blushing slightly. “I know it’s your long day at school, so I thought I’d get dressed up in one of your favorite outfits.”
“You really spoil me, you know?” Willow joked.
A wide grin crossed the Tara’s face. “Who else do I have to spoil, Will? Anyway, it’s time to head for class. Maybe I can meet you for lunch?”
“By the trees near the science building?” Willow asked while checking to make sure her parking permit was hanging securely from her rear view mirror.
“It’s a date.” Tara promised.
Willow turned back, already knowing Tara would be gone. She ran her hand over the car seat. The upholstery felt warm to her touch. An effect of the sun? She placed a kiss on her fingertips and pressed it to the headrest. “It’s a date.”
When Willow had put together her schedule, she’d signed up for the course on nineteenth century British novels thinking it would be a low stress way to start the day. Unfortunately, the professor had a droning voice, and easily managed to make the most interesting novel seem dull. She would have dropped the class, but for the fact it was a necessary elective, and she was trying to finish all of her general education requirements by the end of the semester.
Undecided if she was running away or trying something new, Willow was contemplating applying to the study abroad. Although she’d missed the preliminary due date, since she was pre-accepted to Oxford as a student in full standing Willow’s college advisor was confident she could write a successful late application for the spring term. But only if she finished the last of her pesky generals, which meant persevering though today’s boring lecture on Wuthering Heights.
Already three students were dozing and one was lightly snoring. Professor Noxon soldiered on unperturbed, analyzing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff as forces of nature. Willow took careful notes, as much a hedge for keeping awake as preparing for next week’s midterm. Someone towards the front coughed loudly, pulling Willow’s attention to the lecture hall’s western corner. Tara was sitting in the front row listening attentively. Willow knew to stay focused on the professor; if she watched Tara too long, she would disappear and maybe even miss their lunch date.
By the end of the lecture, Willow had five pages of neatly written notes ready to be transcribed into her computer. After years of teasing about her habit of organizing her lecture notes by color coding and transcribing them on to note cards, Willow had discovered not only was it more efficient to retype them into her laptop, her word processing program allowed her to color code the text to her heart’s content. For a while she’d tried writing her lecture notes directly into the computer but the inability to doodle during the dull parts soon quelled her of that practice. And, as she liked to remind Buffy, the process of transcription provided an invaluable review system that helped guarantee her continuing position on the dean’s list.
As was her routine, as soon as Professor Noxon dismissed the class Willow headed to the campus coffee shop for a post-lecture hazelnut Americano, planning on studying until her next class. But once there, despite her best efforts, she found herself unable to concentrate on the extra-credit assignment for her network security class. Instead she began an email to her mother. Since coming back, she’d made more of an effort to keep in touch with her parents. Willow now emailed her mother once or twice a week at the University of Chicago, where Dr. Rosenberg was on sabbatical, and she kept a first Tuesday of the month dinner date with her father. For so many years her parents had seemed completely irrelevant to her life, but after Tara’s death everything had changed.
Grief, terrible, aching grief, became a bridge for bringing parents and daughter together. Willow could not help but appreciate how much they tried to say the right things, even if they could not entirely understand the scope of her loss. Buffy and Xander understood better, but the only person who could even begin to fathom the emptiness in her heart was Tara, or the person or thing or whatever she was that came to her as Tara. Afraid Buffy, Xander and the rest would think she’d lost her mind, or, even worse, fallen back into dark magicks, Willow did not tell them about her faithful visitor. Only in her journal did she let herself speculate about her phantom friend. Sometimes, Willow wondered if she was indeed losing her mind, but she could not deny that since Tara had started coming to her, her days had been easier, her sleep less troubled. At the very least, Tara or not, Willow knew spending time with the apparition helped to hold back the depression that seemed ready to engulf her at any minute.
Lost in thought, Willow soon forgot the time and would have been late for class but for the sudden interruption of a nearby cell phone. Drawn too quickly out of her reverie, Willow looked around the coffee shop, momentarily confused. Finally, noticing the hour, she repacked her book bag and rushed off to her network security class.
While her computer science professor did not drone as badly as her English professor, Dr. Whedon had his own unrelenting method for sending his students into catatonia, which to be fair was mostly due to subject matter, the finer points of advanced network security procedures far from scintillating fare. To stay awake during lecture, Willow not only took prodigious notes, but also kept a running tally of students as they dropped asleep. By the end of the semester, Willow thought she would have sufficient evidence to be able to chart the professor’s student boredom rate. The research would make a terrific, if anonymous, addition to the UC Sunnydale computer club bulletin board. As always, the eighty-minute class passed slowly, and by the time the professor dismissed them with a reminder about the upcoming mid-term, Willow was nearly ready to jump out of her skin.
Willow hurried out of the lecture hall, smiling at a couple of friends, but not stopping to say hello. As usual, the sidewalks were crowded with students walking, skateboarding and bicycling to their next class or to lunch. Expertly weaving between the crowds of students, Willow didn’t notice her pounding heart, or how it stilled as soon as she spied a familiar figure sitting on the grounds in front of the science building.
Tara, now wearing a purple and black sundress Willow had always liked, had claimed a prime spot underneath a large pepper tree. Willow sat down next to her. A wide smile crossed her face as she pulled her lunch sack and water flask out of her book bag. She’d packed a sandwich, a small bag of cookies and a banana at home.
“Peanut-butter and jelly? Will, what will I need to do to get you to eat something green?” Tara asked, lying back on her elbows, a half-grin decorating her face.
“The banana’s green. Well, I suppose it’s yellow. But it fits the sprit of greenness,” Willow protested, before biting into her sandwich.
Tara wrinkled her nose. “Okay, the banana counts. But you need to eat more good stuff and less processed sugar.”
“Hey, it’s not as if I made my sandwich on Wonder bread,” Willow declared, laughing as she took another bite of her sandwich.
“No, but Dawnie’s back to eating Wonder bread again.” Tara twisted a piece of grass between her fingers. “You really need to talk to her about that. Dawnie’s still growing, and I don’t want her to get rickets, or something.”
“Rickets?” Willow asked, softening her question with an affectionate grin. “Sweetie, I think you’re taking Professor Noxon’s English novel lecture way too much to heart. Dawn is in no more danger of developing rickets, than scurvy, or the vapors for that matter.”
“Okay, maybe rickets isn’t something we need to worry about, but Dawn’s eating habits are becoming atrocious. She’s not been this bad since––” Tara trailed off, turning to look up into the sky.
Willow swallowed a large chunk of her sandwich. “Not since Buffy died.” More than anything she wished she could hold Tara’s hand, instead she added quietly, “I know, baby.”
“I feel so guilty. Dawn was starting to do really well. And now, I’m afraid, Will.”
“Afraid of what?” Willow held her breath, worried that if she pushed to hard Tara would retreat and go away.
The silence hung in the air for a moment. Tara looked towards a ring of students playing hacky-sack. “What will happen?"
Tara had given her an opening. “You mean, what will happen to Dawn if I leave for England?” Willow asked.
“Yes.” Tara sighed. “I shouldn’t say it. You need to get on with your life. But she’s lost so much.”
Finished with her sandwich, Willow placed the plastic zip bag back in her lunch sack to use for another day. She started to peel the banana; it was her turn to look away. “I worry too. I worry about Dawn, and Buffy. And I feel selfish because I worry most that if I go, I’ll lose you.”
Tara sat up, leaning toward Willow. “Sweetie, you’ll never lose me. My love for you is forever, remember?”
The question spilled from Willow’s lips without warning. “What are you?” She asked it knowing there was no answer; at least no answer Tara could give her.
Tara smiled at her lover. “I’m what I’ve always been. Yours.”
The crisis passed the two fell into a companionable silence while Willow finished the rest of her lunch. Willow thought she could hear Tara’s breathing, slow and steady. But she couldn’t be sure. Birds flew overhead, and a gentle breeze ruffled Tara’s hair. Trying not to think about it, she let her fingers slide in the grass towards Tara’s. At the last second, Tara moved her hand to brush over Willow’s. Willow thought she felt the warmth of a hand, but she could not be sure. Green eyes locked on to blue.
“Dawn misses you. She tries to hide it from me, but I know. It’s all been so awful for her. We’d just given her her heart’s desire, and then it got taken back. Maybe if we hadn’t gotten back together before—“
“Will, it’s not our fault.” Tara’s voice was sharp.
Tara was right; it wasn’t their fault Tara was shot. But maybe it was her fault that Tara was in danger in the first place. “You’re right. It’s not our fault. That blame belongs to Warren.” Willow’s lips twisted around the hated name. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “But, if you hadn’t been at the house. If I hadn’t been so stupid thinking Buffy had everything under control.” Willow felt her throat constrict. “Maybe you wouldn’t have—“
Tara didn’t let her finish. “Willow, I came to you. I was the one who showed up at your door. You can’t claim that guilt for yourself. It was just really bad luck. Just like you cannot claim responsibility for Dawn’s grief, or for the mistakes all of us made underestimating Warren and the gang”
“I know where my guilt begins,” Willow began.
Again, Tara interrupted. “And you need to know where it ends. Only then will you be able to get better, only then will you be able to help Dawnie, and Buffy, too. And only then will you be able to let yourself heal.”
Heal, Willow thought, there was no healing. Not for herself. “So what do I do for Dawnie?” She asked, the misery in her voice undisguised.
“You love her. You let her know everyday that you love her, and you remind her how much I love her until she learns to hold our love in her heart instead of the grief. And the same goes for you.” Tara’s finger’s brushed over Willow’s cheekbone. “You let go of everything but the love.”
Willow thought she could hear the grass growing underneath her fingers. There could be no mistake. She could feel Tara’s gentle touch. Her senses extended beyond her body, reaching into the air and the earth, tying her to the moment, sheltering her from the past. Her eyes held on to the women she loved more than life itself, and she wondered if it were possible to die of love, like Cathy and Heathcliff and all those other ill-fated characters that seemed to populate so many nineteenth century fictions. Tara’s smile made her let go of the thought, and, for a moment, the pain lifted. They sat together until it was time for Willow’s afternoon class.
Willow stood up, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “Will I see you again tonight?”
Tara looked up at her lover. While Willow had eaten her lunch, she’d pulled her hair loose from its ponytail, and now blond tresses spilled over her shoulders. Her eyes squinted against the sunlight. “I’m there when you need me, Will.”
Willow nodded. She turned to walk away, forcing herself not to look back until the last possible moment. Tara was still seated on the ground, seemingly watching the hacky-sack players. Willow’s strained her eyes trying to decide if the figure she saw was solid, or translucent. Part of her wanted to know the truth, but another part wanted to simply accept Tara’s presence as a gift. Blessed be.
feel free to shoot me one if you want to chat at all. 
..gotta learn to be a bit more patient, i guess..huh? 
