Jiminy Christmas, has it been over a year since I updated this? Shame on the Captain! Assuming anybody's still interested in this story...Warning: it does get a little heavy here. Proceed with caution.
***
“Action!”
“Go!”
Tara took off across the tower’s balcony before the echoes from the assistant- and second-assistant director’s shouts had a chance to die. Dressed in an (deliberately) ill-fitting German soldier’s uniform, she outraced the “bullets” (actually just mildly-explosive squibs) that splittered the wood of the railing.
Right on cue, the door to the tower room fell outwards, crushing the section of railing beneath it, forming a ramp from which Tara could jump to the section of roof that Faith had outlined to her earlier. Taking a deep breath, Tara launched herself into space, clearing the distance handily and landing on the padding that would be out of camera range. Coming out of the tuck-and-roll, Tara ran along the prescribed line, while “enemy soldiers” took up the chase, climbing over gables and sliding down the eaves toward her.
Faith had gone over the route once more that morning, before disappearing with a “See ya later” tossed over her shoulder with an oddly lascivious wink. Tara had shrugged internally before getting fitted for the uniform, a close copy of the one Buffy would be wearing in her scenes; supposedly, her character was trying to disguise herself as a German soldier, with the expected unsuccessful results. Apparently, after this scene, her character was thrown into an asylum…or something. Tara was not exactly sure what was going to happen, as Xander was re-writing scenes at Willow’s direction.
Coming up to a gable on the hotel’s west side, Tara nearly bumped into two other stuntmen coming from the other side. Remembering at the last second her directions, she ducked flat to the roof, letting both men fly right over here in failed flying tackles.
Tara relished the chase, the adrenaline surge of running hell-for-leather over the rooftops, the pop and whine of faux bullets adding drama to the morning air. She had never told anyone how even in the midst of stark terror and steamy jungle she felt the thrill that few people outside combat or extreme risk can ever know: that the next moment may be the last. Here, even where much of the battleground was artifice and illusion, she found the dark ecstasy returning like an old disreputable friend.
Now she felt a slight disappointment as the end of the “gag” came near. Tara, still pursued by fellow stuntmen in wool soldier suits, grabbed the drainpipe and swung around it, away from the roof and the “soldier” who precariously reached out, trying to grab her sleeve. Right on cue, a small squib, triggered by one of the effects crew, cut the supporting wire around the drainpipe. With Tara’s weight unbalancing it on one side, the pipe, slowly at first, started tilting toward the other wing of the hotel, accelerating faster the further over it tipped. As the top of the drainpipe hit the wall, Tara let go of the pipe, letting herself fall into the awning that, due to meticulous planning, was right below.
The awning suddenly parted beneath her. Faith said this thing would hold me! she thought frantically. Screaming now in genuine terror, Tara crashed through the skylight.
As she plunged through the glass, trying not to get cut to shreds in the process, Tara sensed rather than saw someone, or rather two someones, beneath her. She barely had time to feel mortified and fearful of injuring them when she impacted squarely on the bed that the two people had vacated a bare second ago. Her momentum bounced her off the bed, onto the floor with the couple who were…
Oh, hell no, Tara thought as she did a face-plant right between two ample breasts, just before another flesh-colored body impacted right on top of her. Were they doing it? Oh, gross, oh God, how can this get any worse? Her attempts to wriggle away from the couple were futile as the two of them, with Tara as the filling in a very sexy sandwich, rolled across the floor and through the double door of the room, right into…
…a scene right out of Dante-meets-Hugh-Hefner, as Tara was hoisted bodily away from the couple, into a large opulent parlor apparently filled with naked and semi-naked people. Most of those who still had some semblance of clothing appeared to be in (or rather, almost out of) uniform. One older soldier looked at Tara indignantly and cried out, as near as she could make out, “What, are you mad? Take a number like everyone else!”
Like a crowd-surfer at a Led Zeppelin concert, Tara sailed into the center of the room, as a multitude of hands tore the uniform from her body. Screaming, she tried to kick out with her legs or throw an elbow back into a face, but the press of bodies was too much for her. Several of the hands, not all of them male, seemed to be copping a feel, and somebody seemed intent on tearing her bra off. She struggled to maintain what little modesty she had left, the shouts of the crazed whoremongers seeming to drown out her very thoughts…
“CUT!” came the sharp command above all the other noise, and the mood in the parlor changed instantly. The hands that had been holding Tara down and fondling her now helped her up on her feet and patted her on the back. A robe was thrown over her shoulders; it took her a second to find the presence of mind to put her arms in the sleeves. The roaring of blood in her ears was starting to subside; she could hear herself gasping for breath. When she was finally able to raise her head, she saw Willow and a camera crew checking the equipment and finalizing the scene that had just been shot.
“Pretty smooth for a first-timer,” came an unexpected voice just to her left, just as one arm draped across her shoulders and a can of Coke was pressed into her hand. “What do you do for an encore?” Tara didn’t have to look at Faith to know that there was a sardonic grin on her face.
Chugging a healthy amount of soda, Tara felt the post-adrenaline shakes start to hit her. Glaring at Faith, she muttered, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the awning? I could’a been killed!”
“Aw, well, Willow likes to keep things spontaneous,” the stunt coordinator replied. “What are you worried about? You were in your mother’s arms from the time you hit that breakway skylight. The two of us could’ve gotten you out of anything.”
“What ‘two of us?’” Tara asked, confused…then realized with embarrassed horror as, having finally gotten her wits back, she realized that Faith was wearing a bathrobe – probably over nothing. “Ohhhh, my God – that was you? I-I mean, in the room, with the – Ohhhhhh.”
“Yeah, and just so ya know: next time, it’s dinner and a movie first.”
Willow, meanwhile, was kept occupied with the thousand technical details, while still keeping one eye on Tara. I knew she looked yummy, but man, what a body. Ah, work first. Spotting Xander, she waved him over. “So, whaddaya think?”
The brown-haired, brown-eyed screenwriter sighed heavily; seeing the customary signal starting The Willow and Xander Show, the crew turned a not-so-surreptitious collective ear to the conversation. “Willow, do you know that when I read the Madhouse Scene to my family, my father stood up and shook my hand for the first time in my life? So, how is it, that your filthy little whorehouse scene is so much more moving, so much more interesting, and just all around better?”
With a cheeky yet wise grin, Willow replied, “Because it shows us that Our Friend The Enemy is a horny slob, like yourself, hopping into the nearest bed. Isn’t that right, Magic?” Turning towards Tara, Willow put the still-shaken girl into the spotlight. “Tell me something: when Faith’s boob came up and hit you in the mouth, was it just any other boob or did it taste German?”
The crew laughed heartily and, to a neutral observer, not unkindly, but Tara was nowhere near neutral at that moment. Summoning up her intestinal fortitude, she smirked back at Willow. “Um, I don’t really know German boobs that well. Why don’t you try it, Willow? After all, you’re the expert on bad taste.” Turning on her heel, Tara stormed off the set.
An uncomfortable silence descended like killer fog. Willow, chagrined, met Faith’s eyes, silently imploring her to go after Tara. After a second or two of returning the gaze stonily, Faith walked in the direction Tara took off.
The crew by now had resumed their set-up procedure for the close-ups. Buffy, dressed in the tattered remains of a German uniform, stood at the sidelines. Willow caught her eye. “So? Did you see that? You like? What do you think?”
Buffy shook her head in amazement. “What can I tell ya? I’m a brave sonofabitch.”
*****
Tara slammed the door of her room, wondering whether she should change clothes, take a shower first, or just shoot herself. The blood pounded in her ears anew, so hard she didn’t hear Faith come in after her. When she realized she wasn’t alone, she glared at Faith. “Leave me alone,” she growled.
Faith fought to keep a smile off her face. “Boy, she really got to you, didn’t she? C’mon, Willow messes with everybody, don’t take it personally!” She stepped closer to Tara, staring hard into a reddened face, into eyes that swam with unshed tears. “You’re okay; whaddaya want?”
“I wanna feel like I’m not going crazy!” Tara blurted out, moisture leaking unbidden out of one eye. She wiped it absently with the sleeve of her robe.
Faith snorted. “You came to the wrong place for that. C’mon, something else is bugging you; I can tell.”
Taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, the apprentice stuntwoman muttered, “I keep feeling like I…wanna thank her, for falling on my ass. Stupid.”
Faith shrugged. “It’s just a crush.” She chuckled, then continued: “And y’know, sometimes we mess with Willow, too. We might just be able to get her back for this.”
Tara felt herself smile, even as she felt her insides loosen up several notches. “How might we do that?”
TBC
_________________ Love is an angel, disguised as lust Here in our bed until the morning comes -- Patti Smith, "Because The Night (Belongs to Lovers)"
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