Author Notes: See Part 1.
Feedback: Even more sure! Bring it on!
"I wonder what Buffy wants," Tara mused, taking a sip of her mocha. It was almost four o'clock. They had slept until three. Willow had roused herself first, taking a quick shower and then heading out for coffee and bagels while Tara finally dragged herself out of bed and prepared to face the day. Now they were sitting on Tara's bed, legs entangled while hands busied themselves with the matter of nourishment.
"Maybe she's thinking of switching teams," Willow suggested. "Maybe she's seen our True Love and Grand Passion and Epic Connection and she wants a little piece of the action. Er, not our action, that is," she hastily amended. "The girl-on-girl action."
"Yeah, that's probably it," Tara nodded. "And then maybe Anya will be next to fall victim to the Lesbian Vortex-that inescapable force that we create by virtue of our combined estrogen."
"And then Anya and Buffy can get together!" Willow finished excitedly. "And I think I need to stop this pretty much right now, or my head will blow clean off my shoulders and you'll be left dating the Headless Homo!"
"Ah, but if you were headless, you wouldn't have that mouth," Tara reminded her in a low voice, reaching out with one long, tapered finger to trace the outline of Willow's lips. "And without that mouth, there are so many things you wouldn't be able to do…" She trailed off, her eyes darkening in the late afternoon light.
"Such as…?" Willow managed to squeak.
"I think you know," came the soft reply, and suddenly bagels became superfluous, as did clothing.
They hadn't made love for a few days, in the confusion and distress of all that had happened with Tara's family. Family of origin, Willow reminded herself. Tara had been disoriented and agitated, and the touch that she had needed most had been of the comforting variety. Today, however, appeared to be a different story.
"You know we'll have to take another shower later," Willow murmured against the full lips.
"Mark it down in your Daily Planner," Tara replied, a smile quirking across her mouth. "Use a blue pen." So saying, she pulled Willow tight against her. Upon feeling Tara's breasts pressed into her own, Willow swallowed heavily.
"I've missed you," she admitted. "Missed this."
"I know," came the whispered voice, breath soft against Willow's face. "I have, too."
At the words, Willow felt the familiar twisting, low in her belly, that left her so gladly helpless. She was torn between a feeling that she should go slowly, and a desire to have her hands hot upon Tara's flesh without hesitation, without pause. Her dilemma was solved when, seconds later, she felt Tara's fingers sink into her hair and pull her back from their kiss. She gazed at Willow, heavy-lidded, for a long moment before softly uttering one word: "Please."
Then she lightly pressed Willow's head lower, arching her back at the same time, until Willow's lips hovered just above one taut nipple. With a groan, Willow sucked the tiny nub into her mouth, closing her eyes in abandon to the hunger that poured through her body. She reveled in Tara's response, moaned with the excitement of hearing Tara's breath catch in a series of small gasps.
The rest of my life. I get to touch her, kiss her for rest of my life. Unexpectedly, she felt tears prick her eyes, threatening to overflow the dam of her closed lids.
As if Tara were speaking within her own mind, she heard the low voice whisper urgently, "Touch me, Willow."
Barely trusting herself to speak, Willow pulled her lips from Tara's breast and murmured, "Like last night?"
"No," Tara replied, wrapping one long leg over Willow's. "No, touch me like you do. The way you know how." Lightly circling her fingers around Willow's wrist, she added, "I need you to touch me…here." And with the word, she pushed Willow's hand lower, from her breast down over belly and then lower still, until Willow's fingers brushed over soft curls.
Willow's head sank briefly, swimming with the sensation beneath her palm. Finally, she propped herself up on her other elbow to look Tara directly in the eyes. "Are-are you ready?"
She watched as Tara bit her lip, eyes narrowing, and then whispered, "Always."
Groaning, Willow sank her fingers into the wetness, pushing through the swollen flesh until she was buried deep within her lover.
She gives herself to me so easily. Does she know what that does to me? How she makes me more, somehow, every time I touch her?
Such coherent thoughts became difficult and then irrelevant as Willow watched Tara's legs fall open helplessly, her cry choked and needful. Tara held Willow's face in her hands as Willow slid easily into her, then curved her fingers and withdrew slowly, stroking the ridged flesh deeply.
"Do you know?" she breathed, watching Tara's eyes darken even more. "Do you know how I feel about you? How you can excite me just by looking at me in a roomful of people?"
"Willow…"
"I've never felt anything like this, Tara-how I feel when I touch you, when you touch me."
"Oh, goddess…"
"It's like my blood gets hot and my skin tingles and all you have to do is touch my face and I feel like I might explode."
"Willow-I'm so close…So-so good…"
"Show me, Tara. Show me how it feels to you."
"I can't hold back; can't stop. Willow, I'm-"
"Yeah, Baby. That's it. That's it. Show me, Tara. Give it to me."
"Willow-"
"Tara, come to me."
And then she watched, tears falling freely now, as Tara's back arched and her hands clutched at Willow's shoulders and she cried out the name of her beloved. Willow held her possessively as Tara's body shuddered and ripple after ripple rolled through her, each wave's origin and ending emanating from the spasming that clenched Willow's fingers hungrily within her.
Her…Always, only her.
*****
They did indeed eventually shower-again-in anticipation of Buffy's visit. Willow made sure, though, to leave a little Tara Essence on her fingers. One of her favorite naughty activities was catching Tara's eyes, after they had made love and then joined the others, as she raised her fingers casually to her face and inhaled deeply. It never failed to earn a blush.
"Thanks for seeing me, guys," Buffy said, shucking off her jacket as she sank into the papasan chair. Willow thought that she seemed uncharacteristically nervous.
"No thanks necessary," she reassured her best friend, wondering what had precipitated this seemingly-clandestine meeting. "Do you wanna order some Chinese?"
"Food," the Slayer nodded, as if hearing of the concept for the first time. "Yeah-food is good. Pepper steak with steamed rice is especially good. Yes-let us have food." She attempted a grin that wasn't terribly successful.
Forty minutes later, Chen's had delivered a buffet to their very door. The conversation in the interim had been pleasant, if somewhat awkward. Buffy had asked Tara how she was doing, and Tara had given her the Cliff Notes version of her emotional work-in-progress, but Willow suspected that each of them were thinking about the conversation to come. As they finally settled onto the floor, chopsticks in hand, Willow let her raging curiosity out to roam.
"What's up, Buffy? Why the urgent summit meeting with the conjuring queers?"
Buffy looked at her with a curious smile. "Is that the name of your new Wicca group? Kinda like gay AA meetings? Not to imply that being gay is some kind of problem or addiction or anything like that," she added quickly. "A-and not to imply that being alcoholic is some kind of moral lapse or anything to joke about-I'm not saying anything like that at all, I hope you know that. I mean, we know now that alcoholism is a disease, and not some sign of weakness, so if you thought that I was mocking that disease, well, I'd really hate that." She eventually stopped talking, but only, it appeared, to draw a breath.
Willow stared at her in amazement. "My God, Buffy-do I sound like that when I babble? 'Cuz it's a truly incredible spectacle."
Tara leaned forward and rested her hand on Buffy's knee. "Sweetie, whatever it is, it's pretty obviously making you crazy. I think maybe if you just…let it out, you know, get it out there, you'll feel better."
Buffy nodded. "You're right. I mean, it's not really some earth-shattering revelation or anything like that, because let's face it, Tara, you've had enough of those lately, right? I just need your advice about something; well, your advice, and a favor, too. Except the favor is more like a promise, and I don't want to put your two under any more pressure than you've already been under, so-"
"Praise be to Venus and spare me the penis, Buffy-what in Sappho's name is it?" Willow made a mental note to work on her own babbling, because at this moment, when faced with such a stunning display thereof, she had to fight the urge to bounce a wonton off of Buffy's head.
"OK," Buffy sighed, drawing a deep breath. "It's about Dawn. I need your advice about Dawn." She looked at them with troubled eyes. "Do I tell her about being the Key?"
Willow pulled back slightly in surprise. "Oh, God, Buffy-that's so hard to answer. I mean, there are so many things to consider. Can-can you keep her safe if she knows? Or would it be easier to protect her if she did know? And do you think she can handle it?" Questions tumbled out of her like the tiny squares of gum in a store vending machine.
Feeling strong fingers squeeze briefly over her own, she turned and saw Tara gazing at Buffy intently. "Buffy-why are you asking us this?"
Buffy shrugged, looking embarrassed. "I wanted your opinion. I don't expect you to tell me what to do, but-"
"No," Tara interrupted. "I mean, why are you asking us? As opposed to Giles? Don't get me wrong, Buffy-this doesn't feel like a burden, and I'm not saying that I wish you would ask him instead. It's just-isn't he who you usually seek out for advice?"
Buffy shifted slightly; it seemed to Willow that she felt distinctly uncomfortable. "I didn't go to him because…because I knew that as much as he tried, he wouldn't be able to take off his Watcher's hat when he was talking about it. And I get it; that's his job. But for this…for this I didn't want a Watcher. I wanted two people who would talk about it from a family standpoint." She looked from one of them to the other, anxiety creasing her brow. "Does that make any sense?"
Willow nodded slowly. "Yeah-I think it does." She looked over to see Tara smiling sadly at Buffy.
"You want so much to protect her, don't you?" Tara's voice was soft. "To keep her from having to see all of the worst parts of life, much less be involved in it."
When Buffy looked up, her eyes were filled with anguish. "Is that so bad? To want to protect my little sister? And she is my little sister, no matter where she came from." A single tear wended its way down her cheek.
"Buffy, it's not bad at all," Willow replied, her heart aching for her best friend.
"You don't want to tell her, do you?" came Tara's query.
After a long moment, Buffy shook her head fiercely. "No, I don't. I want her to wake up and go to sleep thinking that her worst problems involve her curfew and her crush on you, Tara. I don't want her to have to deal with this."
"Then…Then Buffy, why are you asking for our opinion?" Willow asked hesitantly, afraid that she would sound accusatory or judgmental.
Buffy uncrossed her legs, and stared at the floor for several moments before responding. "Because I don't know if I'm right. Just as I convince myself that I should listen to my instincts and not tell her, another voice pops into my head and says that maybe it isn't instinct at all-maybe it's fear, or selfishness, or cowardice." Raising a hand to forestall Willow's protests, she continued. "And so I decided that I needed to talk to people I trust; people who would be honest with me." She stated the last part almost as a plea.
The room was silent for several minutes. When Tara finally spoke, her voice was filled with compassion. "Buffy, I can't even imagine having to make a decision like that; I really can't. But you asked what we thought, and this is what I think: I think you should tell her." She reached out and took Buffy's hand, looking into the downcast eyes. "Buffy, I'm not saying that you'd be wrong to keep it from her, because I don't think there is a clear-cut right or wrong here. But…But I can't help thinking about how else she might find out, and what it would do to her to find out from someone else." Her voice grew thick. "Buffy, I just learned that my dad isn't my dad, and I just learned that my real dad-or my biological one-is dead. And the only reason I found out is because my brother was wanting to hurt me. Trust me, Sweetie, it wasn't the best way to learn the truth. And…And I may be way off here, but I think maybe you knew I would say something like that, which sorta takes the credibility out of your whole 'coward' assessment."
Is anybody in this room not crying? Willow doubted it.
"You're right," Buffy replied shakily. "I didn't know it until right now, but it's true. I knew somehow that you two would-keep me honest, I guess, or make me look at it from an angle I was trying to avoid on my own." Her laugh was brittle. "Is it just me, or do the choices we face keep getting harder and harder?"
"It's not you," Willow concurred, shaking her head sadly. "Apparently, it has something to do with growing up."
"Well, at the risk of sounding unbecomingly harsh, growing up sucks ass." Buffy sighed heavily.
Willow wanted to agree with her best friend, but realized that she couldn't. Her own life, and Tara's, too, had actually gotten immeasurably better with time. "You know that we'll back you, whatever you do, right?"
"I know," Buffy answered heavily. "But I also think I know what I have to do."
"What about your mom?" Willow asked, desperate for Buffy to have someone to share this struggle with.
"I need to tell her; I'm just not sure when. She's supposed to go in for more tests on Monday and I don't want her dealing with any more stress than she has to; and let's face it-finding out that your daughter is a ball of mystical energy, created by monks to prevent the flooding of dimensional portals by an amazingly powerful and sluttishly-dressed demon…that'll take it out of you." She dropped her head into her hands for a few moments, and then looked up with an expression of determination.
"I want to tell Dawn tomorrow night, before I come up with more reasons not to. Will you guys be around if she needs to talk? Or I do?" she added quickly.
"Of course, Sweetie," Tara replied, squeezing Buffy's hand once more. "You know that we'll always be there for both of you."
Buffy gave a wry smile. "Funny you should mention that…"
Willow looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"Well, we've arrived at the 'Promise' portion of tonight's program…" She trailed off, seemingly to gather her courage before pressing on. "It's just…See, here's the thing: if anything happens to me-fighting this Glory wench-I'd like you two to look after Dawn."
Willow was stunned; turning, she could see that Tara shared her reaction. "Buffy, what are you talking about? Nothing's going to happen to you!" Maybe if I say it loudly enough, it'll be true…
"I dunno, Will." The Slayer shook her head thoughtfully. "Everything we find out about this one says that she's strong, really strong."
"They're all really strong, Buffy," Tara argued. "Adam-he was unlike any demon you'd fought before, and you took him."
"We took him," Buffy amended quickly. "The four of us. But Glory feels different to me somehow. I haven't even met the fashion plate yet, and I have an incredibly bad feeling about her."
"OK, acknowledging that slaying is dangerous work now," Willow capitulated. "Admitting that this Big Bad may be more of both. But Buffy, we'll get through it. We'll get each other through it." Willow found herself reaching for her best friend's hand without conscious intention, and held onto it fiercely.
"That sounds great to me, Will," Buffy replied. "I'm just asking…If anything does happen, will you look out for her?"
Tara's gaze held confusion. "Sweetie, you know that we'll always be here for Dawn-and for you, too. But what about your mom? Are you worried that she can't handle it? Are you…" Tara's voice grew quiet. "Are you worried that there's something seriously wrong with her?"
Buffy shook her head decisively. "No. This stuff with Mom-it's confusing and scary, but I know she'll be OK. I may be the Slayer, but my mom is the strongest person I know. No, she'll be fine, I believe that." She hesitated, seeming to fumble for words. "The thing is, Dawn feels close to you guys. She can talk to you about anything; stuff that she might be afraid to tell Mom about it. And if something happens that I can't be there for her, it would help me to know that you guys were."
Willow fought to impose some kind of order on her thoughts and feelings. Nothing's going to happen to Buffy…even if she is the Slayer and faces the worst danger in the world on a near-nightly basis; even if she has cheated Death more times in five years than most people do in a lifetime. Nothing's going to happen to her.
But Buffy wasn't asking them to reassure her that she would be fine. She was asking them to keep her beloved sister close to them if she died; to take care of her and talk to her and enfold her into the family that the two of them had created.
She knew she couldn't speak yet, and so she only nodded. As if from a distance, she heard Tara finally say, "Of course. Of course we'll look after her, Buffy, if the need ever arises. Goddess willing, though, it never will."
When she trusted herself to speak without crying, Willow said simply, "Your sister is our sister, Buffy. She'll never be alone."
For the first time that night, Buffy seemed to relax. The shadows passed from her eyes, and she straightened her shoulders, drawing a deep breath. "I don't know how to thank you guys-for all of this." She looked helplessly from Tara to Willow.
"It's what we do," Willow replied, brushing away her tears. "It's what we all do."
Later, as Tara fell asleep in her arms, Willow let herself go back in her mind to her first understanding of family. There was a mommy, and a daddy, and a little girl.
And now?
There are two lesbian witches, and one straight girl who fights vampires and demons, and a British man who trains her, and an ex-demon who's over a thousand years old, and a mystical ball of energy parading around as a teenaged girl with a crush on my girlfriend, and a loyal if somewhat goofy straight boy.
She felt Tara move restlessly in her sleep, wrapping her arm more tightly around Willow's waist. She looked down at the soft features, barely illuminated by moonlight, and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Knowing that for tonight, at least, all was well within her family, she finally succumbed to her own exhaustion, and slipped off to dream of a girl who looked up at her and Tara and called them both "Mommy."
*****
"So how should we spend this lovely Sunday evening?" Willow asked, looking up from her organic chemistry text. She wasn't sure whether she was irritated or secretly reassured that academic obligations rolled on heedless of the epic battle against evil. She took at least some dim measure of comfort from the fact that algorithms would be waiting for her whether she acquitted herself against a T'Darek demon the night before or not.
Tara gave a long, slow stretch, yawning as she relieved the kinks in her muscles. "Maybe I'm getting old in my young age, but I sorta feel like staying in and watching a movie; something low-risk like that."
"Me too," Willow concurred, leaving her chair to sit behind Tara on the bed. Rubbing her hands together briskly to make sure they were warm, she began to massage Tara's neck gently. "We've had enough adventure lately."
"Oh, goddess, that feels good," Tara groaned, as small goose-bumps rose on her skin. "Have you noticed, though, that adventure never comes in measured doses? I mean, it's not like passing on seconds of mashed potatoes: 'That's enough for me, thanks.'" Willow just smiled and leaned forward to press her lips against Tara's soft shoulder.
"We could see what's on TV," she suggested, nuzzling the warm flesh.
"Sunday…Sunday…" Tara mused. "Well, I like 'Alias.' Jennifer Garner's a hottie, although I wish she'd eat a sandwich or five."
"Isn't there some fantasy-type show about a demon-hunter or a vampire or something like that? You know, all dark atmosphere and angst and total neurotic projection?" Willow furrowed her brow, trying to place the show.
"Oh yeah," Tara nodded. "I saw it once or twice. From what I could tell, it's by some melodramatic bone-head who apparently went to the 'Kill Anyone Who Seems Good or Happy' school of writing."
"Forget that," Willow grumbled. "What bullshit." Resting her cheek against Tara's back, she asked softly, "How you doing, Baby? Things settling down at all?" She had hesitated to broach the subject; on the other hand, she didn't want Tara to think that Willow herself was trying to avoid it. If Tara didn't want to talk about it, Willow trusted that she would let her know that.
Tara shifted until she was sitting sideways in Willow's arms, and leaned into the warmth of those arms. "Oh, Sweetie…" She sighed, and frowned as she seemed to gather her thoughts. "There's a part of me that still can't believe everything that happened. I mean, my mother and my uncle? Or the man that I always called my uncle? And they're both dead, Willow. I can't talk to either of them." Willow's throat tightened as she watched a tear spill silently down Tara's cheek. "Even after Mom died, I still felt her near me. It still felt as if she were close to me, somehow. But since Friday-I don't feel her, Willow. And it's like she died all over again."
Willow pulled her close, wishing yet again that she could say something that would make everything right. I can't use magic. I can't solve it like some complex scientific equation. I can't do anything. The impotence was excruciating.
"And I can't help wondering how everybody's doing back in Cold Springs; even Donnie," Tara continued. Willow bit her tongue to keep from protesting that Donnie could just damn well take care of himself. "I know he's a malicious prick," Tara added, as if reading Willow's mind, "but there's a part of me that feels like he was hurt just as badly as I was in some ways."
Willow made herself speak calmly. "But Tara, you never turned your hurt against someone else. You never tried to make yourself feel powerful by abusing another person."
"Maybe that's just because there wasn't anybody younger or less powerful than me," Tara mused sadly, playing with the buttons on Willow's shirt. "Maybe if there had been someone around who I could have picked on, I would have."
"I don't believe that for one damn second. Baby, I don't know why you went down one path and Donnie went down another, but I don't think it's about birth order or a shortage of targets. God, Tara, I can feel the kindness in you; sometimes it's so strong that it almost aches. It doesn't mean you're perfect or you never feel like being angry or selfish or just plain grouchy. It does mean you're likely to choose kindness over cruelty. I know it, Tara; I know it down to my bones."
She felt Tara smiling against her chest. "And such fine bones they are," she murmured, drying her eyes. Pulling back slightly, she shook her head wonderingly. "And Beth is my half-sister. Oh my goddess…"
"Gotta say, I don't see the resemblance," Willow muttered, picturing the pious sycophant who had apparently tried to take Tara's place in the Maclay household.
"That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Sweetie," Tara replied with a small grin. "It's just one more thing that makes me shake my head and wonder if this all really happened."
Willow ran her fingertips over Tara's cheeks and down to her jaw-line. "Baby, do you believe it? All of it?"
Tara looked out the window as if watching the events of the past few days unfold against the backdrop of the trees. Finally, she turned back to Willow. "Yeah…Yeah, Sweetie, I think I do."
Willow gathered Tara back to her fiercely. Kissing her soft hair, she murmured, "I just wish you could talk to your mom, or Quinn, or even your grandmother-ask her if the demon part is even true."
"I know," Tara replied, her voice muffled against Willow. "I keep thinking, 'What if the demon legacy is just a family myth? What if the whole reason behind Dad's behavior was never even true?' God, Willow-so much of what he did was a reaction to thinking he had demon in him, and that he was passing it along to his kids."
Willow tilted her head slightly. "What about your Aunt Beverly? She'd have to know something, wouldn't she?"
Tara edged back just a bit, enough to look Willow in the eye. "I hadn't even thought about her," she replied slowly, a dawning curiosity in her voice. "She and Dad had different fathers, but she'd still know at least something about him, not to mention her own mother."
"So maybe we give her a call," Willow suggested, energized by the thought of being able to take some kind of action.
"Let me think about it," Tara hedged, her voice cautious but intrigued.
"OK; that's a good idea. No need for speed," Willow demurred, as much to slow herself down as to agree with Tara. They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in her own world of possibilities and implications. Finally, Tara stretched back out on the bed, holding out a hand in invitation. Willow happily snuggled down into warmth and the scent of lavender.
"Speaking of family dramas, I wonder if Buffy's talked to Dawn yet," Tara murmured, tracing her fingertips over Willow's back.
"Oh God, poor Dawnie. I can't even imagine how she'll feel when she finds out. As if she doesn't have enough angst in her life right now," Willow added, remembering their conversation at the hotel.
"What angst? What are you talking about?" Tara leaned back and looked quizzically at Willow.
"Oh, you know," Willow back-pedaled quickly. "Just the usual teenage sturm und drang. I wouldn't go back to that age for all the cunnilingus on Lesbos." Catching Tara's skeptical gaze, she added, "Because if I were a teenager, the cunnilingus might be illegal and I'm so rarely naughty anyway that I wouldn't be able to enjoy it, what with the threat of legal action hovering over my head and all."
"Sweetie, listening to you talk is like taking the longest, most scenic route through the amusement park." Tara laughed softly, a rippling sound that always delighted Willow. She often found herself wanting to make Tara laugh, to make up for all those years when laughter had been such a rare commodity in her beloved's life.
Easing back into Tara's warmth, one arm flung possessively over the curve of her hips, Willow felt fatigue begin to wash over her mind like unhurried waves. Feeling safe and eminently content, she gave herself over completely to the lassitude of the moment and dropped off to sleep.
*****
Their very enjoyable nap was cut short by a sharp banging on the door. Willow started, ripped unceremoniously out of a dream in which Tara fed her plump strawberries dipped in chocolate while gesturing carelessly at the ponies that grazed nearby. "All they want to do is watch," Tara assured her.
While Willow tended to snap more or less quickly to wakefulness, Tara was of the "I'll get there when I'm there" variety, which meant that she was now blinking slowly as if unwilling to accept this new state of consciousness. Her mumbled "Who's there?" came out as "Whuzr?"
"It's me," came the impatient reply. Willow and Tara looked at each other, realization edging into their eyes. "Dawn," Willow whispered unnecessarily.
"Coming, Sweetie," Tara answered quickly, moving to the door while smoothing her hair. She opened the door to a red-faced teenager who now knew that she was ancient.
Dawn moved into the room, standing between them with her arms crossed. Her expression, Willow thought, was both pleading and hostile. And welcome to the reality that is Dawn.
"Did you know?" she asked without preamble. "That I'm the Key?"
"Dawnie, please-can we get you something to drink? Do you want to sit down? We can-"
"Yes, Sweetie. We knew it." Tara's voice was soft but unapologetic. "Buffy told us last week, right after she found out. She's been trying to decide how to tell you since then."
"And you didn't say anything? You knew and you didn't tell me?" Dawn asked accusingly.
"Dawn, it wasn't our place," Willow argued, even as she realized that if the situation were reversed, she too would probably feel betrayed to discover that everyone had known and kept the secret from her.
"Oh, right," came the bitter retort. "It wasn't your place, and you didn't want to get involved."
"That's not true," Tara replied quickly. "We are involved, Dawn; we'll always be involved in your life. But Buffy's your sister; she had to be the one to decide-"
"Buffy's not my sister," Dawn hissed, biting out each word. "Buffy's nothing. She's just some security guard who has to watch out for me."
Willow felt anger surge through her. She loved Dawn, certainly, but she also had a fierce protectiveness toward her best friend. "You don't know how much she's agonized over this, Dawnie. She loves you. You are her sister, whether you believe it or not."
"Don't call me Dawnie." The voice was barely a whisper. "That person doesn't even exist. I don't have a name. I'm just a thing."
Willow saw that both she and Tara had tears shimmering in their eyes, while Dawn seemed beyond crying.
"Sweetie, we're so sorry. I know we can't understand what you're feeling; nobody can." Tara's voice was almost pleading. "But we do love you. We worry about you when you're upset, and we're proud of your intelligence and your kindness and we hope and pray that you'll be happy in life-all the things that a family feels for each other."
Dawn turned to Tara, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Family? I'm your little sister? Sure-I guess it's easier to talk about me that way than as some freak who fell in love with you."
Willow watched helplessly as a rather large cat emerged from its bag and batted her lover up-side her head.
Tara struggled for words, a deep blush racing across her face. "Dawn, what do you m-mean? You have a c-crush on me?"
"I hate that word," Dawn spat. "It's so…juvenile. 'Oh, look-little Dawnie's got a crush. Isn't that just the cutest thing?'" She trembled for a moment, and then sank abruptly into the papasan chair, seemingly deflated. "It doesn't matter anyway. You're with Willow, I'm just a kid, and now it turns out that I'm not even a kid." She clutched a small pillow to her chest. "That time you took me to see 'Antonia's Line'? Never happened. Going to the library and then the Espresso Pump during the summer? We never did that. All those times when I just sat there being happy that you picked me to spend time with…you hadn't picked me at all." The tears were flowing once more.
Willow was struck with a sudden sense of voyeurism, a feeling that she was watching something intensely personal that didn't really involve her. Should she leave? Give them some time?
Her questioning was cut short as Tara reached out to squeeze her hand before moving over to sit on the floor beside Dawn, who refused to look at her. Willow followed, taking a seat on the bed to Dawn's left.
"Dawn, I don't know what to say," Tara began slowly. "And it's not because I think you're not human, and it's not because I'm freaked out about your feelings. I don't think it's juvenile, or cute, or anything like that. It hurts like hell to love someone who-who isn't available." She stole a quick glance at Willow, who could see that she was remembering the early days of their friendship. Looking back at Dawn, she continued, "I'm just a little awkward with this particular bit because I'm not used to the idea of someone falling for me. But that's my deal, not yours, OK?" Tara reached out and placed a tentative hand over Dawn's. This time, she didn't withdraw. When she spoke, though, her voice was almost unbearably sad.
"It still doesn't matter," she replied softly. "None of it's real. I'm not real."
Willow broke in, unable to keep silent. "You are, Dawn. I know what I feel; I know that I love you. When you hurt, I hurt. When you won that poetry contest two months ago, I was so proud of you. And you did do that; there's no question about that memory." She felt as if she were desperately trying to persuade a skeptic that the earth was round. It seemed so patently obvious and yet the skeptic had some very good reasons for her disbelief.
Tara leaned forward suddenly, her eyes intense. "Dawn, just what do you think makes somebody human? What's the litmus test?"
Dawn looked at her in irritation. "Is this going to turn into some philosophical discussion on the nature of existence? 'Cause that's just lame."
"Like hell it is," Tara retorted, much to Willow's amazement. She watched Dawn's eyes widen with surprise. "This entire thing is about the nature of existence." She sat back and shrugged. "But if you're not up to it, that's OK."
Willow could see Dawn's eyes practically blaze with indignation. "What do you mean, if I'm not up to it? Like, if I'm not smart enough?"
"I didn't say that," Tara replied placatingly. "I just meant that if you couldn't talk about such a complex thing, you could tell me and I'd understand."
"That's just five name-brands of bullshit," Dawn said angrily. "I may be fifteen, but I've read more than lots of people twice my age, and everybody I hang out with is all with the existential questioning. Except Xander and Anya," she added, seemingly as an afterthought. "They just fuck."
Willow was starting to find all the profanity a little heady. She fought the urge to call out "Damn straight!" just to be a part of the moment.
"So if you have the smarts for it, then, answer the question. What makes somebody human?" Tara cocked her head and waited.
Dawn fidgeted in the chair. Willow suddenly realized that Tara might be the only person with enough leverage to make Dawn think about such things. With Buffy or her mother or anyone else, Dawn would probably hurl some accusation and flounce off. Tara, though, she was most definitely afraid of pushing too far.
"OK, if you wanna get all abstract reasoning, I think that being human means that you feel the typical human feelings and…and that your body goes through lots of changes." She paused. "It means you're born and then you die. Hopefully, with some time in between." She stopped, and looked at Tara defiantly. "I wasn't born. I was…made, by a bunch of monks somewhere."
"I'll give you that," Tara replied evenly. "But everything else? If you're cut, you bleed. You're finite; you know that, right?" Dawn nodded slowly. "And let's face it, Sweetie, you definitely feel 'the typical human feelings.' We've all seen that." Dawn blushed furiously. "The one thing you don't fit on is the birth experience. Are you going to let a womb dictate your feelings? And remember, that feeling bit is a fundamental part of humanity-you said so yourself."
"It's not that simple," Dawn said with frustration. "You can't just take this whole news flash and reduce it to a math equation."
Tara rubbed her hand gently. "I know, Dawn. God, I know. If it were mathematical in nature, you can bet I wouldn't be contributing to this conversation at all." She sighed heavily. "But right now you're so ready to throw out everything we all feel, and I know this must be crazy-making for you, Sweetie, but…" She trailed off, and drew a deep breath. "But I just don't want to lose you. It's rare, and precious, to have people in your life who you just know belong in your life. I'll be here for you, Dawnie, we both will. We'll help you any way we can and you can call us day or night to talk. Just-please don't take yourself away from us. Please don't act like you're not human just because of how you came into this world."
Dawn was sobbing now. Tara half-pulled her out of the chair and down to the floor, where she gathered her into her arms and rocked her slowly. After a moment's hesitation, Willow slid off of the bed and joined them, partially enfolding Dawn in her own arms such that she and Tara created a kind of cocoon for the girl who huddled crying between them.
They sat that way for a long time, it seemed, the three of them entwined on the dorm floor-two powerful witches and an ancient mystical entity, all very real and all very human. Finally Dawn sniffled and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to wipe her nose discreetly on her shirt sleeve. Willow and Tara pretended not to notice.
Sitting up slightly, Dawn muttered, "This is going to take a long time to get used to."
"I know, Sweetie," Tara nodded, brushing Dawn's hair back from her face. "But you know that we love you, right? That we'll do anything we can?"
"Yeah," came the soft reply.
"Listen, Dawn," Willow interjected suddenly. "Every teenager thinks she's special, right? That she's going through something so incredibly unique that no one else can relate; something that only she understands?"
"Right," Dawn answered slowly, a dim flicker of a smile crossing her lips.
"Well in your case, you're right!" Willow announced with gleeful certainty. "I mean, every girl in your class thinks she's something special. Every one of them thinks that no one can begin to grasp her complexity."
"Especially that bitch Christy," Dawn nodded grimly.
"Especially that skanked-up, cheap-ass, two-bit ho' Christy!" Willow exhorted, glad to be a part of the naughty talk, before catching Tara's alarmed look over Dawn's head. "Um, right, yes-especially that infinitely annoying person known as Christy. But Dawn," she continued, stroking the younger girl's hair and gazing steadfastly into her eyes, "Dawn, you are special. You are going through something that none of them can understand or compare to. You're millions of years old and six months old and even with all of that, you've managed to get yourself loved something silly by some of the more interesting people in this town. If I do say so myself," she added with a grin.
Looking once more at Tara, she saw the cobalt eyes shining with joy and…Pride. She's proud of me. No academic accomplishment had ever made Willow feel as proud as she did whenever she saw Tara looking at her with that expression.
"I guess that's true," Dawn said, a full-fledged grin now in place.
Willow could feel a twinge shooting down her back and knew that she should probably move to a more comfortable position, but years of experience on the Hell Mouth had taught her that truly sacred moments are incredibly rare, and not to be ended lightly. So she sat there, arms and legs entangled with two such beloved souls, and let herself concentrate on the late-day sun that warmed her back.
*****
Part 17
"Do we have time to get coffee?"
"We'll make time to get coffee." Tara's answer came swiftly and decisively. "That part's non-negotiable."
"Duly noted, Most Beautifully Caffeine-Addicted One. It just means we have to leave within ten minutes if we want to get there on time."
Tara's hands stopped on their ascent to clasp her necklace, as she looked at Willow with amusement. "Will, Sweetie, have you ever been late for anything, ever?"
"Have I ever been late?" Willow snorted. "Pshaw…I'm late all the time. I've gotten so laid back I'm practically horizontal."
"Name one time," Tara challenged, fastening the leather cord.
Willow furrowed her brow, searching her memory banks for the surprisingly elusive funds. "Well, um, I was late last month," she finally asserted defiantly.
"Late for what?" Tara asked in bewilderment.
"You know…late." When Tara only continued to stare at her, Willow added, her voice heavy with significance, "I was late-for my cycle. I was supposed to get my period on the 17th, and it didn't show up until the 20th. See? Late."
Tara fixed her with her most withering gaze. "Oh, yeah-we were so worried you might be pregnant. Each of us thought the other had taken care of the birth control." Seeing Willow's injured look, she smiled and pulled her girlfriend into her arms. "How do you manage to make neurotic idiosyncrasies so endearing?" she asked, rubbing her nose against Willow's, "when somebody like Martha Stewart just makes me want to push her in front of a snow blower?" At Willow's horrified expression, she added, "Metaphorically, that is."
Slightly mollified, Willow replied with a shrug, "I just wrap all the neurotic parts up in the most appealing package I can muster, and then I throw in really, really good sex, just to be sure."
"Works like a charm," Tara laughed, pulling her jacket off of the stand. "And now, fair maiden, let us away to Sir Giles' humble dwelling."
Pulling the door closed behind her, Willow added, "Whence we can learn of ever-more perplexing goings-on involving mystical balls of energy made flesh."
*****
Half an hour later, they met up with Xander and Anya, settling down onto Giles' over-stuffed couch with small plates of scones. In response to their unspoken question, Giles noted, "Buffy and Dawn will be here in just a few minutes. Buffy called earlier to say that she needed to go to the drug store first and pick up some new medication for her mother."
"Is Mrs. Summers still feeling bad?" Tara asked, concern evident in her voice.
"I'm afraid so," Giles replied slowly. Willow thought she saw his hand tremble just slightly as he poured himself more tea. "Her head-aches have gotten worse; they're talking about giving her another MRI, as well as two or three more intrusive procedures." He sighed. "I'm frankly surprised Buffy's holding up as well as she is, considering all the added responsibilities she now has at home."
"Including Dawn," Xander commented. "She sorta combines work and family, in that 'Damn it, doesn't this ever get easier?' kinda way. Now, with her mom sick, Buffy feels like she has to handle that on her own."
"I agree," Giles nodded. "And Buffy's mother has always been a source of great comfort and strength to her."
"Especially since she came out," Willow added. Giles plunked the lovely porcelain tea pot down with rather less grace than he might have wished.
"Excuse me-did I miss something?" His eyebrows had lodged near his hairline.
"I mean since she told her mom about being the Slayer," Willow explained, remembering Joyce's initial disbelief and attempts to persuade Buffy that she could change.
"Ah, yes-I can see the parallel," Giles concurred. "But instead of discovering whom her daughter loved, Joyce learned that Buffy would face unspeakable dangers almost every night." He paused, his eyes filling with admiration and sadness and something else that Willow suspected he didn't realize himself. "She handled such momentous news with more grace and courage than even I had believed possible."
He worships her. He totally adores her, and he doesn't even know it.
Willow suddenly felt desperately sad for all of the love that would never see the light of day under the constant threat of the Hell Mouth. Without conscious intention, she snuggled more closely to Tara, wanting to wrap herself around her beloved and keep her within her sight at all times, lest the heedless machinations of evil try to take her away.
Tara looked at her, a question in her eyes. Willow just gave her a tiny smile and rested her head on Tara's shoulder.
Silence held sway for a few moments, everyone lost in their own inner worlds of questions and fears and hopes. When Buffy's knock sounded on the door, there was a collective start within the room.
Dawn hadn't seen Giles, Xander or Anya since Buffy's disclosure. Now, she stood hesitantly just inside the door, looking from one person to another. Finally, she decided to focus on Willow and Tara, fixing them with a slight smile. Tara held out her hand, inviting Dawn to join them on the couch. Before she could reach them, however, Giles stepped forward tentatively.
"Dawn," he began, as she looked at him almost warily. "I just to say…I want you to know…" He shook his head as if angry at his fumbling. Willow noticed that Dawn's eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Finally, the Watcher reached out and rested one hand gently on her shoulder, looking at her steadily. "Dawn, I'm glad you're here."
He was offering her two gifts with his words, Willow realized, and she prayed that Dawn would let herself accept both of them. After a moment, she nodded briefly, and Giles took one step closer to the slender girl before him and wrapped her gently into his arms. Dawn froze for an instant, and then she was hugging him fiercely, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Thank you," she mumbled against his sweater vest.
Xander, as if reassured by this scene, came up to the two of them. As soon as they separated, he pulled Dawn close and said quietly, "Love you, Dawnster." They stood rocking for several moments. Anya seemed uncertain as to what she should do; probably, Willow surmised, because Anya really wanted to do this right. Finally, the ex-demon moved hesitantly to Xander's side. As Dawn pulled back from Xander, wiping her eyes, Anya began tentatively, "Um, Dawn…" Willow realized that everyone was watching this particular exchange with bated breath. "I just want to say that it totally weirded me out to go from being human to demon and then back to human again, and I've had over a millennium of practice. So if you ever want to talk about it or just bitch a little, I'm here. I'm especially good at bitching," she added, with greater confidence. Her eyes widened with surprise as Dawn first took her hand and then hugged her. A relieved smile worked its way across her face.
She's so glad she didn't mess it up. Stuff like this, she does worry about saying the wrong thing. Willow felt one of her increasingly frequent flashes of warmth for the person who had made her acquaintance by trying to cast Sunnydale back into a world of evil and darkness.
Buffy had watched all of this from several feet away. She seemed to be looking at Dawn with a mixture of protectiveness and fear. Willow caught her eye, and mouthed the words "It's OK." Buffy just smiled uncertainly and shrugged.
Dawn sank onto the end of the sofa, where she squeezed Willow's hand and murmured, "If I'm a key, maybe I really unlock people's inner warm fuzzies."
Willow grinned. "We're kinda sappy that way."
"So I noticed," Dawn replied, rolling her eyes, but her voice belied her relief and happiness at the outpouring of affection.
"So-as much as we would prefer not to, we should discuss Glory's plans for Dawn," Giles said reluctantly.
"Plans which will see the light of day over my dead body." Buffy spoke for the first time since her arrival, and her words evoked an anxiety so strong that none of them could speak of it. Dawn, Willow noticed, simply looked down at the rug as if wishing she could blend into the intricate fibers and emerge when the world made sense again.
Seeing the tension, Buffy added, "Glory doesn't get within a country mile of my sister; that's all there is to it."
Willow was startled to see the sullen expression that darted across Dawn's face. If she says Buffy's not her sister, I'll scream. But the diminutive brunette said nothing. Willow couldn't believe that Dawn would resent the very person who was sworn to protect her with her life.
"That would certainly be the best plan," Giles was saying, resuming his position at his desk. "Glory needs Dawn's energy for some reason. However, we don't know what that reason is just yet. Glory will try to learn the form and location of the Key; of that we can be most certain."
"OK, so this is all very confusing," Willow frowned. "The Key is essentially energy, right?"
"That basically captures it, yes," Giles nodded.
"And the monks, in order to hide it, made it human, right?"
"That's correct."
"And just to be doubly safe, they made the Key into the Slayer's sister, knowing she'd protect her with her life. Still right?"
"As always, Willow, you understand it as well as I do." Giles smiled at her affectionately.
"Well, I have to say-those were some stupid-ass monks," Willow huffed.
"Excuse me?" Giles started, as everyone stared.
"Oh come on-these guys have been protecting the Key for how many millennia now? Don't you think they could have come up with something a little more sophisticated?" Catching herself, she looked guiltily at Dawn. "I mean, most of all, I can't imagine Dawn not being with us. So in that sense, I don't want to seem all snotty or disapproving about their game plan. But from a logical perspective, why would they make it mortal in the first place? In the second place-and this is the part that really gets me-why would they send it here? Why would they plunk her right down on the Hell Mouth, where she'd be in the most danger? And they make her Buffy's sister…Buffy, who doesn't exactly lead a quiet life." She shook her head at the improbability of it all. "Why not make the Key a ball of lint in a dryer in Finland somewhere?" she asked in bewilderment.
"Finnish dryer lint?" Giles scoffed. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"Well, I'm not saying it should have been lint; I'm just saying that it could have been lint. And what do you have against Finland, anyway?" she demanded, even as a small voice in her head suggested that perhaps they were getting off the subject.
"Will, the monks said they knew Buffy would protect it with her life," Xander reminded her. "That's why they sent Dawn here."
"But if they'd sent her somewhere else, she wouldn't need to be protected by the Slayer. They could have sent her somewhere else, in some form that Glory would never discover." She looked once again at Dawn, knowing that her words were painful for the girl beside her. But she needed to know; she needed to understand. She had never been comfortable with the kind of "Hell if I know, let's just fight it" approach taken by Xander and even Buffy, to some degree. "Dawn, you know that I wouldn't trade you for anything, don't you?" she asked urgently. "I just wanna understand this as much as I can, in order to fight it." Dawn gave her a sad shrug by way of response. Aching, Willow gripped her hand.
"I agree there are parts of this that don't make a great deal of sense," Giles acknowledged, sipping his tea with his customary thoughtfulness. "On the other hand, your questions may be moot. The facts remain: the monks transformed the Key into human form, namely Dawn; they sent Dawn to Buffy-to all of us-in order that she might be most fiercely protected." He looked at Dawn and added quietly, "And so she shall be."
But Dawn merely gave an almost imperceptible nod, and continued staring at the rug. Willow started at the sound of Tara's voice next to her. "Dawn, you know we'll protect you, don't you?" From her proximity, Willow could see Dawn's jaw working furiously as she fought to choke back her emotions. After a moment, she turned to face Tara.
"I know you'll protect me, Tara-all of you, especially you, Buffy," she said, despair in her eyes as she looked at them all in turn. Finally her gaze rested on her sister. "But-it's so hard…Not just being the Key, although that pretty much out-sucks anything else I've been through." She paused, trying to collect her emotions. "It's like I go from being a burden because I'm the tag-along younger sister to being a really huge, scary, awful burden because if anything happens to me, for all we know the world ends." She swiped at her eyes with the hem of her sleeves. "Just once, I wish I'd walk into a room and know that everyone there was glad to see me." She fell utterly silent.
Willow drew a shaky breath and rested her hand tentatively on the younger girl's back. When Dawn didn't shrink from the touch, she rubbed gentle circles across the light blue fabric.
How can I get her to see that we've all felt that way, at least all of us besides Buffy? I'll bet even Giles was an outsider when he was younger, all tweedy and obsessed with vampires and demons. How many times had she walked into the cafeteria as a girl and sat down alone because it was too humiliating to stand there and hope somebody would wave to her? How many birthday parties had she attended where she could tell that the only reason she'd been invited was because the kid's mother had insisted on it?
But Dawn was beyond easy consolation right now; beyond any assurances that she wasn't as alone as she believed. She gazed helplessly at Tara, hoping that she would have some idea of what to do. Tara was looking at Dawn with sad, gentle eyes.
"Sweetie, even if I tell you that I am glad to see you, whenever I see you, you won't believe me. Right now it would just feel like empty words. But I am-even if you don't believe it, I know it's true." She faltered briefly. "I just hope-I hope you try to hang onto that, at least a little bit, until you start to feel it inside."
Dawn seemed to be spiraling into anger now, though; Willow could feel the bitterness start to roll off of her. "Maybe you feel that way, Tara, but that's only because you don't live with me." She threw a venomous look at Buffy. "My sister, though-it's pretty clear she wishes I weren't in the picture."
Buffy recoiled as if slapped. "How can you say that?" she asked, her voice equal parts shock and frustration.
"It's not hard to tell," Dawn retorted. "You walk around all upset and stressed out; you're always trying to figure out what to do about me. You never tell me what's going on. You get angry at me if I do the littlest thing." She crossed her arms and dropped sullenly back into the couch.
For a moment Willow thought that Buffy might actually hyperventilate. She'd never seen her best friend look so agitated. Finally, she crossed the room and came to stand in front of her younger sister.
"In the first place, I'm stressed out because I have this little gig where I fight vampires all the time. It gets me a little tense, I guess; maybe I should switch to decaf. In the second place, yes, I'm upset about you and I'm trying to figure out what to do about you because you're my sister and I love you and the thought of anything happening to you makes me so crazy I think I'll just explode. You want to know what's going on? Hell, I don't know what's going on half the time, Dawn. I'm making this up as I go along and I'm ashamed to admit it because I'm supposed to know. I'm supposed to have everything figured out when it comes to the scary stuff. But OK, I'd want in on the intell more myself if I were you, so I'll try to do a better job at it." She stopped, and closed her eyes for a moment before leaning forward to peer at the girl on the sofa in front of her. "And as far as getting mad at you for every little thing? That is because you're a fourteen-year-old girl who gets into my stuff and spills soda on my leather pants-which you are so not allowed to borrow-and you don't tell me about it so the pants get ruined. And I think, in the middle of all this chaos and mayhem and danger, is it really expecting too much that my favorite pants not get carbonated gunk all over them? Is it?" And with that final question, so obviously rhetorical in her mind, Buffy sat down on the coffee table in front of them, narrowly missing the dish of jam for the scones.
A heavy silence hung over them all, each wondering what words might come flying next. Willow tightened her grip on Tara's hand; turning, she saw that Tara was crying openly. My baby has seen too much family drama in the past few days.
Looking back at Buffy and Dawn, barely two feet apart and staring each other down like miniature bulls, Willow realized that she was holding her breath, not wanting any sound to disrupt the quiet before one of the sisters did.
After an interval that was far too long for Willow's comfort, Dawn tilted her head just slightly. Almost inaudibly, she muttered, "I tried to get the soda off your pants. I just didn't know how. I panicked."
Stealing a quick glance at her best friend, Willow saw a faint ripple of relief wash over her face, before she replied, "Well, one crazy idea might have been to ask Mom about it; or hey-you could have done something really extreme and taken them to a dry-cleaner."
"Spent all my allowance on clothes," Dawn shrugged, finally meeting Buffy's eyes.
"Of course you did," Buffy replied, rolling her eyes. "There's something totally unpredictable…to anyone who's had their brainstem filled with Slurpee mix."
So one apocalypse, of the emotional variety, has been averted. Let's see if we can go 2-for-2.
Dawn gave Buffy a small conciliatory grin. Buffy, in turn, proceeded to swing around and wiggle her way onto the couch, creating a space between Willow and Dawn. "Make room, ladies. We got one more on board."
The force of said wiggling left Willow, not reluctantly, half-sprawled over Tara's chest. "Hey, Buff," she said, in feigned chagrin, "watch the hips."
"Sorry," the Slayer said, cheerfully, draping one arm over Dawn's shoulder. "Slayer strength and all."
"More like Slayer ass," Willow grumbled, but was hardly in a mood to begrudge her friend's forcefulness, especially since it paid off so handsomely for her in the form of being practically pasted onto Tara's very receptive body. She looked up to see Tara smiling at her, the darkening of her eyes telling Willow that her girlfriend was thinking very naughty thoughts. Suddenly it seemed to her that they had been at Giles for quite long enough, even though they had generated no game plan.
Plan, shman-I wanna go home and heat up some Tara-Tots. This breast woman is hungry.
As Giles cleared his throat in a peremptory fashion, however, she realized that the meeting was far from adjourned. "Again, as much as I hate to say this, we really should talk more about Glory…what we know, what we suspect, and especially how we fight her."
Buffy looked up, tightening her grip on Dawn's shoulder. "Well, I can tell you that she's stronger than anybody I've ever fought, with the possible exception of Adam. When I went up against him at the end, I had three other people lending me their particular ass-kicking strengths. But at the warehouse, when I found the monk…nothing seemed to faze her, not even a little bit. The worst part is, I almost had the sense she was playing with me. I mean, I have this very unpleasant feeling that I was lucky to get out." Looking at Dawn, she added, "All of which just means that we have to look extra hard to find Waldo. She has a weakness; we just have to find it."
"Could there be more than one Key?" Anya spoke for the first time since greeting Dawn.
"I don't think so," Buffy replied slowly. "From what the monk said, the Key's pretty much a one-shot deal." Giving Dawn a sardonic smile, she added, "I've always said there could be only one Dawn Summers." Dawn smirked in return and kicked her.
"So, then, we know that Glory-" Giles was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. "Oh-excuse me just a moment." He answered softly, "Hello?"
He frowned suddenly in confusion. "Buffy Summers? May I ask who's calling?"
Willow watched, her blood growing colder with each second, as Giles' face grew pale. "Yes, yes-of course. Just a moment." Placing the receiver against his chest, he spoke with difficulty. "Buffy, it's the hospital. It's your mother."
******
Not again. I can't do this again.
The smells were unmistakable, inexorable. When you left, they clung to you, reminders of your own vulnerability. How many hours had she spent in a place like this? How many hours had she lost track of, one following the other with growing sameness until 3pm was indistinguishable from 8am? She could have easily told them where the vending machines were; where the bathrooms were; where to find the shaded little area outside where people went to pretend that they were just enjoying a breath of fresh air, like all the anonymous other people that they now envied.
She didn't say all of this, though. Instead, she sat quietly across from Joyce's daughters, holding Willow's hand. She could feel her girlfriend's agitation and fear; it radiated from her in periodic bursts of helpless energy.
When they had first left for the hospital, tumbling into two cars, they knew only that Joyce had collapsed and been taken to the hospital. She carried several different contact numbers for Buffy, Giles included. That was all they knew.
But now, watching the physician walking toward them, her white jacket almost glaring under the fluorescent lights, Tara knew more than the others. She knew more than she wanted to. She had seen that face before, on a different doctor, and though she didn't know the details, she did know that in a matter of seconds Buffy and Dawn would be thrust into a new reality.
"You're Mrs. Summers' daughters?" the doctor asked, her tone suggesting that she already knew the answer based on the two young women who had disentangled themselves from the others and now stood before her.
"Yeah-yes. I'm Buffy, and this is my sister Dawn."
She lives by protecting others, killing the things that go bump in the night. How will she endure this?
"I'm Dr. Santiago. I'm a neurosurgeon here. A neighbor who was supposed to have coffee with your mother got worried when she didn't answer the door. She looked in through the window and saw your mother laying on the floor. She called the ambulance."
Don't draw this out. Please. Let them know.
"It appears that your mother suffered a massive stroke. I suspect she had no warning, because there's no evidence that she was trying to reach the phone."
She could see from their expressions that they were still untold leagues away from grasping what they were being told. "Stroke" was bad, it was scary, but people survived. They hadn't let the "massive" make it through their filters, though. More than anything, this was their mother, which meant that she would be with them for many, many years. This was their reality, and she knew that children don't easily accept new truths about their parents.
"But she's going to be OK, right?" Dawn had crossed her arms, her tone practically daring the woman in front of her to contradict her.
"I'm so sorry, but your mother experienced extensive damage to her brain and her heart. She must have gone several minutes without breathing. We worked on her for a long time, trying to save her."
She saw that Buffy had gone stark white; even her lips looked pale. "What-what are you saying?"
The doctor's eyes, she could see now, were kind, and exhausted. She's had to do this so many times before, and she keeps thinking she should find a better way to do it.
"We did manage to establish a pulse, and we now have her on total life support, but I'm afraid that there's no way she could breathe on her own. Your mother is clinically brain dead."
And there was the D word; only this time it hid behind a qualifier, unwilling to collect its ransom openly. It lurked behind another word, and that partial obscuring would let hope linger for at least a few minutes more.
Giles, she noticed, had reached out to brace himself against a wall. He never told her. Did he know himself? Before this moment?
Tears were streaming down Willow's face, and she didn't bother to wipe them. She reached out one hand as if to touch Buffy's back, but then paused, hovering indecisively. Turning, she burrowed into Tara's arms and wept soundlessly.
Xander just stood mutely, shaking his head. Anya stared first at him, and then at the doctor, her gaze becoming sad and frightened.
And Buffy and Dawn just gripped each other's hands as if they could fuse their pulses into one and give it to their mother.
"But she is breathing?" Dawn asked, her voice almost insistent. "She's still alive?"
"Only in the most minimal, technical sense. Machines are breathing for her. They're pumping her blood. She has no brain activity of any kind."
"Are you-are you saying that our mother has no chance at recovery?" Buffy's voice, though it seemed to come from far away, was remarkably steady.
"I'm taught never to make absolute predictions about life and death," Dr. Santiago replied slowly, "but the chances of your mother awakening are virtually negligible. It would constitute a miracle, in my opinion."
"Then let's get another opinion," Dawn blurted desperately.
"You can certainly do that. I encourage it, in fact. Believe me, if another physician says that there's a better outlook for your mother, I would be so happy to be wrong."
But you're not wrong. You know you're not wrong.
"Doctor, if you're right…if our mother has no realistic chance of recovery, what-" Buffy stopped, closing her eyes. "What should we do?"
Dr. Santiago replied evenly, "The machines are keeping her alive at this point. It will be your decision whether to maintain that or to have us take her off of those machines."
"And if we do? Take her off the machines?" The words were practically a whisper.
"The overwhelming likelihood is that she would die within a short time; probably a matter of hours."
"No!" Dawn shouted. Several people turned to stare at her in voyeuristic curiosity. "No, we won't do it! We can't!" She grabbed her sister by the wrists. "We can't do that, Buffy!"
"Dawn, we'll get a second opinion. We'll-we'll talk about it and figure out what to do." She looked back at the doctor. "We…we have time, right?" Tara saw the compassion behind the doctor's quick nod; she suspected Buffy did as well. Time, they most certainly did have.
"Would you like me to suggest another physician you could talk to about this? I really do encourage you to seek another opinion."
"Yes…thank you," Buffy replied. The doctor quickly scribbled the information on a notepad that she produced from her jacket.
"Dr. Brunard has been in practice for over twenty years. He works at St. John's. He's a highly respected neurosurgeon, and he'll be honest and direct with you."
"Thank you," Buffy repeated automatically.
"And this is how you can reach me," Dr. Santiago continued, adding her own name and pager number to the sheet.
Thank you for not saying "Here's my card." Mom's oncologist did that and I wanted to choke the breath right out of him.
Buffy looked up suddenly. "Where is she? Can we see her?"
"Of course. I'll show you the way." She nodded toward the hallway from which she had first emerged.
Buffy turned to face them. "Dawn and I are going to see Mom," she said simply, and then turned back to follow the doctor.
*****
The rest of the day was a hazy, surreal combination of frenetic activity and waiting. The group left the hospital, minus Buffy and Dawn, a little over an hour after the doctor had delivered the news. Tara and Willow went to the store and bought lunch-meats and other sources of quick meals, using the key that Willow had been given years ago to enter the house and put the perishables in the refrigerator. They also made a lasagna that Buffy and Dawn could heat up for that evening. And they tried to call Hank Summers. After two failed attempts from the hospital pay phone, Buffy had asked them to continue trying to contact her father.
"What do you want us to tell him, exactly?" Willow asked anxiously.
"Tell him he's exactly the prick I've been thinking he is," Buffy muttered, looking over her shoulder to ensure that Dawn hadn't overheard them. But her sister was still gazing at their mother, silent and unmoving among the artificial creatures that did the work of living for her.
Then she shook her head. "Just tell him what happened. If he asks what he should do-and that would be a first-tell him to let me know when I can reach him and I'll go over everything with him." She looked back toward their mother's room. "I-I wanna get back in there with Mom and Dawn."
"Of course," they'd answered in unison. "Do you think you'll be home later?" Willow added.
"What? Oh, yeah. Hospital visiting hours are over at 8. We should be home a little after that." And then she had left to sit with her mother.
At a little past 8:30, Tara heard them come through the door. If they were talking to each other, it was inaudible to her. She listened to the staccato-burst of Dawn's footsteps as she pounded up the stairs to her room.
"Buffy? Dawn?" Willow called out, looking up from the homework that Tara knew she really wasn't seeing.
Buffy walked slowly into the kitchen, dropping her bag onto the floor as if it had become the final piece of a burden she could no longer carry. She sank onto a stool near the counter. Her eyes weren't red; they were vacant, and exhausted.
"How are you? How's your mom?" Willow's anxiety tumbled out of her in the form of her questions. Tara said nothing.
"Mom is…Mom is in a coma and I don't think she's going to wake up." And in saying the words, Tara saw, Buffy came to believe them and she watched the proud Slayer crumple before her, wrapping her arms around herself as if afraid to trust anyone else's grasp and weeping noiselessly into the abyss of her self-embrace.
Willow started forward as if to take Buffy into her arms, but then she hesitated, perhaps sensing, as Tara did, that Buffy needed them near her, but not touching her.
Some part of her is always alone. Is it right to try to break through that? Does it help her do what she has to do?
So they watched, pain etched across their own faces, as Buffy convulsed with sobs; throughout, she made no sound. When she stopped, she did so abruptly, as if deciding that it served no purpose to continue. She stood and walked mutely to the sink, lowering her face to splash cold water over it with methodical sweeps.
"What-what about the second opinion?" Willow asked hesitantly.
She wants to make it better. With everything she's seen, she doesn't really understand that people can die of ordinary things like strokes and cancer. She hasn't seen that kind of death yet.
Buffy just shook her head. "I reached Dr. Brunard. He's going to come by in the morning and check on her, and talk to Dr. Santiago. But when I explained what she'd said, he pretty much confirmed the outlook. He said that when the brain is deprived of oxygen for the amount of time that Mom probably was, there's rarely anything to be done. The body can be kept alive, but the person's mind is just…gone." The last word was uttered as if a pronouncement.
"Buffy, I'm so sorry," Willow whispered. "I wish…Oh God, I wish I could do something."
"You're a witch," Buffy replied, her voice expressionless. "Can you undo this?"
Oh sweet goddess, no…Don't-please don't ask those things of us. Don't ask them of anyone.
But then the Slayer gave a mirthless smile. "Aside from that, you're doing everything you can."
Thank you. Because if I wouldn't do it for my own mother, I wouldn't do it for yours.
"And Dawn?" Tara managed to say. "She must be a wreck."
"Right now she's angry. I think that's probably easier for her to handle than being sad."
"Angry?" Willow echoed, mystified. "About this happening?"
"Oh, I'm sure that's in there somewhere," Buffy replied, shaking her head. "Dawn's never too far from being pissed about something. Mostly, though, she's angry with me."
"For what?" From the tone in Willow's voice, Tara knew that her beloved was feeling protective of her best friend.
Buffy was silent for several moments. "She's angry because she knows that if there really isn't any chance for Mom to recover, I'll want to take her off the machines." She turned and looked at them evenly. "Does that make me a heartless, ungrateful daughter?"
"Oh God, no, Buffy!" Willow's reply was immediate, and forceful. "You're an incredible person; an incredible daughter. How can you think such a thing?"
Buffy didn't answer; instead, she gazed at Tara, her expression unreadable. "Tara, I notice you haven't voted on the subject."
Tara held her gaze. "Did your mother ever say what she wanted? Did she ever talk about something like this?"
Buffy nodded. "As a matter of fact, she did. Her cousin was in a car accident, about three years ago. I only met him twice, but they were pretty close growing up. He was on life-support for over a year. Mom visited him three or four times-if you can call them visits," she added bitterly. "She said he just wasted away. He had to be turned in bed to keep from getting bedsores...He just lay there, hour after hour. She said-she said that if anything like that ever happened to her, she didn't want to be kept alive like that. She said she didn't want to run up a gigantic hospital bill if she couldn't enjoy the fine cuisine." Buffy smiled sadly, even as a shudder rippled through her.
"Then I think you're being the daughter she needs you to be," Tara replied, feeling that she could now give an answer she believed in. "Does Dawn know about this?" she continued.
"I tried to explain on the way home, but she wouldn't listen. She refuses to even think about Mom not waking up. When I tried to talk about it, she just said I was giving up on Mom." She swallowed heavily. "I think that if I hadn't been driving, I would have slapped her. Which makes me glad I was driving," she added.
"Did your mom leave any kind of living will? Anything that would make her wishes clear?" Willow asked reluctantly.
"I don't think so," Buffy replied heavily. "I know she made her will, but I'm pretty sure she didn't include anything to cover something like this." She dropped her head again. "I can't even believe I'm having this conversation," she whispered.
After a moment, Tara ventured quietly, "Buffy, do you mind if I go up and talk to Dawn? Or just see if she wants to talk?"
Buffy didn't look up as she answered, "No, that's good. You're probably one of the few people she'd actually want to see at this moment. God knows I'm not."
Tara allowed her hand to slide quickly over Buffy's shoulder as she walked past her. As she made her way up the stairs, she could hear her beloved and the Slayer talking in low, disjointed tones.
She paused briefly in front of Dawn's door, considering the huge "Keep Out!" sign. It was just like Dawn, she realized-hoping to convey an air of guardedness even as its very presence practically begged you to take a closer look. She knocked lightly once, and then again.
"Go away," came the sullen reply.
"Dawn, it's me-Tara." She heard Dawn blow her nose, and then the door swung open. Dawn's face, she thought, was a whirling mosaic of anger, grief, shock, and fear.
"Can I come in?" she asked quietly, not wanting to take the door-opening as a tacit invitation.
"Yeah." Dawn stepped aside to let Tara in. Looking around quickly, Tara noticed a large Justin Timberlake poster tacked up inches away from an even larger "Xena" one.
"Dawnie, I'm so sorry about your mom; about her stroke," Tara began.
"She's going to get better," Dawn cut in, her tone suggesting that anyone who disagreed was simply mistaken.
"I hope so," Tara replied carefully. "But what if she doesn't?"
"She's going to!" Anger washed over the teenager like handfuls of hot water. "That other doctor is coming tomorrow and he'll be able to tell us stuff this one couldn't. He'll spot something she missed."
"I really hope so, Sweetie," Tara repeated. "That would be wonderful. But Dawn-what if he doesn't?"
Dawn glared at her, tears forming at the perceived betrayal. "I thought that you of all people would be on my side, Tara. You know what Buffy wants to do? If this doctor says the same thing, Buffy wants to let Mom die!"
Tara struggled to keep her voice even. "Dawn, do you really think that's what Buffy wants to do? Or is that what she knows she should do, based on what your mother told her?"
"I never heard that conversation," Dawn retorted.
Because you didn't exist at the time. But she only replied, "Do you think she's lying?"
Dawn just turned away, shrugging her shoulders.
"Do you think for one instant that Buffy wouldn't move heaven and earth to make your mom better?" she continued. "Because if you don't, you don't know your sister very well. And I think you actually know her better than pretty much anybody."
After a long silence, Dawn muttered through clenched teeth, "Maybe she just doesn't want the inconvenience of having to care for an invalid mother. It would get in the way of her slaying duties."
With that, patience give way to anger.
Enough, dammit! I've had enough!
She reached out and spun Dawn around to face her. "Listen, Dawn-you're not the only one hurting in this household. Your older sister is downstairs trying to hold it together because something awful has happened to your mother and your father is AWOL and she's terrified, Dawn-absolutely terrified. So if you're so hell-bent on everyone giving you a little more credit for your maturity, this would be a damn fine time to show it."
Dawn looked at her, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Are you telling me you would've let your mom die? That you would have pulled the plugs and just let her die?"
Pain ripped through her. Ah, goddess-will it always hurt like this?
She gripped Dawn's shoulders. "I did let my mother die! She went through so much chemotherapy, so much radiation that by the end there was practically nothing left of the woman I knew…nothing except her eyes and her smile and her mind, and she used that mind to decide she wanted to come home and die there. Do you think that's what I wanted? You think I wouldn't have walked to hell and back just to see her smile at me one more time? But she knew what she wanted, and she could decide for herself. Your mom doesn't have her mind, Dawn. Her mind is already gone. Except she told Buffy what she wanted, and now you have to grow up even more and face that fact."
She could feel Dawn trembling under her hands. Or was it her hands that were shaking, rippling through to the slender frame before her? It was a moot point, though, because Dawn had thrown her arms around Tara's back and buried her face in her shoulder. Sobs wracked her young frame; unlike her sister, though, Dawn's cries were fierce and unmistakable.
"I can't lose her," she finally managed. "I just can't."
But you will, Tara thought sadly, even as she murmured, "I know, Sweetie…I know…"
*****
Part 18
"I've made up my mind. I want to go home."
"But what about your treatment? What about seeing the doctors?"
"That time is over, Honey. It's been over for awhile now."
"Don't say that, Mom. Maybe you just need more chemo."
"What I need is to be in my own home, in my own bed. The doctors have already said that any more treatment would only add two or three weeks, if that."
"But that's better than nothing, Mom. That's better than…" She wouldn't say its name. She wouldn't acknowledge its victory.
But now her mother had tears in her own eyes. "No, Tara, it's not. I'm so tired, Honey, and I just can't go through the hell of chemo again, not just for an extra few days of being sick. I can't stand the smell of this place and I can't see the trees or the flowers and I just want to go home. Please, Tara-I need to go home."
And then she understood, or rather, she let herself understand, and in her mind, she took yet another step on her own journey of realizing that she would lose her mother. Not next year, or even next month, but very soon. As she took that step, she gathered strength to her heart and then gave it to her mother.
"OK, Mom. I understand. We'll take you home."
Her mother's smile defied its own exhaustion and reached out to drape itself around her beloved daughter, who was now saying that the honeysuckle was just about to bloom and she would make sure that there were always fresh cuttings in her room.
*****
When Buffy walked into the kitchen after her meeting with Dr. Brunard, Willow knew the outcome of the meeting by virtue of having known Buffy for five years. Tara knew the outcome by virtue of her ability to read other people's sadness, those emotions they tried so hard to keep tucked behind the more acceptable and convenient displays of lightness and optimism.
"What did he say?" Willow asked, even as she fought to keep her voice steady.
"What I thought he'd say," Buffy replied flatly. Her eyes told them that she had believed him, known what it meant.
"Does Dawn know?" Tara asked softly.
"Yeah. She came with me. I didn't want her to, but I couldn't see telling her she couldn't. She's her daughter too. I mean…" She trailed off, shaking her head.
"No, you're right," Willow said with surety. "Dawn is your mom's daughter. That's what you all feel. That's what's real."
"Reality-now there's a concept that's lost most of its meaning for me lately," Buffy laughed hollowly.
Tara and Willow just looked at each other. There really wasn't much that they could say to that.
After a moment, Buffy continued, "She had a melt-down in the car…Actually, I'm glad she's letting it out. It's scarier when she just locks her feelings away and closes herself off."
She has no idea how ironic those words are, coming from her. Tara just nodded.
"Buffy, I'm sorry, but we still haven't been able to reach your dad," Willow broke in, her voice filled with regret and barely-disguised anger. "We've left a ton of messages, and each time we make it more explicit, but we can't seem to find an actual person to talk to. It's always his voice mail."
"Why should you be sorry?" Buffy replied, her own anger not disguised in the least. "And you know, I think I'm just about through using the term 'Dad' to refer to that bastard. He doesn't deserve it." She grimaced bitterly, pushing her scarcely-touched glass of juice away from her. "I can't remember the last thing he did right."
"It was probably a little over twenty years ago," Willow commented softly, drawing a small, grateful smile from her best friend.
"Sweetie, is there anything we can do?" Tara asked gently. "Is there anything you need? Errands, or details?"
Buffy just shook her head, finally looking up at them with eyes that seemed to have grown older in the space of a day. "Can you tell me this isn't happening and not lie?"
Tara's heart squeezed until she almost winced. "Maybe just a little more chemo, Mom…Maybe one more round would do it."
Finally Buffy stood up, squaring her shoulders in what Tara realized was becoming a habit with the Slayer. "I'm going to go talk to Dawn. I have to-we have to make a decision." As she reached the kitchen doorway, she turned, not quite facing them directly. "What you're doing, for us…" Tara saw her fingers grip reflexively against the door post. "Mom would appreciate it more than she could say. I appreciate it more than I can say." And then she was striding down the hallway toward the stairs.
Tara realized that she was squeezing Willow's hand so tightly that her partner's fingers were reddening. "Sorry," she whispered, as Willow turned and enfolded her in an embrace of surpassing gentleness and sorrow.
*****
Over an hour later, Buffy emerged from Dawn's bedroom and found Willow and Tara reading-or pretending to read-on the couch, propped up against opposite ends with their feet rubbing against one another in an unconscious habit. They looked up as she entered the room.
"Buffy?" Willow said softly. "Are you OK? Oh God, I'm sorry-what a stupid question…I mean, are you as OK as you can be?" Tara watched her lover's face crease with sadness and anxiety, and her heart ached for the sincerity with which Willow so wanted to do the right thing for those she loved.
For a moment, Tara thought that Buffy hadn't heard her. But then she shook her head, as if forcing her thoughts into some kind of order, and looked at them. "You know, I don't think I could answer that question if you held a gun to my head-which I almost wish someone would, just to make this all go away." She walked slowly to the couch and stood above them, looking at Tara.
"She wants to talk to you," she said simply. Tara gave a small start of surprise, and she felt a momentary ripple of guilt as she saw the quick look of hurt that crossed Willow's face before she could stop herself. Oh, Sweetie-this isn't the kind of credibility you want to have.
She disentangled herself from Willow's legs and rose from the couch. Within seconds, she was knocking on Dawn's door. "Dawnie? It's me."
Her first thought, upon entering the room, was that Dawn had shrunk somehow; that grief and rage had conspired to bend her little body further in on itself. Stepping closer, though, she could see that Dawn had huddled into a tiny ball, knees drawn tightly up to her chest, arms wrapped fiercely about her legs. As if she can make herself so small that reality doesn't notice her.
She sat down gently on the bed, reaching out one hand tentatively to rest on Dawn's arm. When the younger girl looked up, Tara was surprised to see that her eyes, though red, were now dry.
"You heard?" she asked quietly, gazing at Tara.
"Yeah, Sweetie. Buffy told us. I'm so sorry." How many times had she said that lately? To Dawn; to Buffy; to Donnie. The phrase seemed a fixture now, a staple of the language she used to make contact with others. Before her, Dawn stared almost vacantly.
"I don't know what to do," she finally whispered. "I heard what that doctor said, and what the other one said, and I know they wouldn't lie to us. But I still can't believe it."
Precious one, if disbelief made any difference, my mother would visit Willow and me all the time, and she would teach our children how to make bread and grow herbs. But these were words that you simply didn't say.
Instead, she asked, "You can't believe it? Or you're trying not to?"
But Dawn didn't answer. "We went back to the hospital to see Mom after we talked to the second doctor. I kept thinking I was seeing her eyelids opening. I kept staring and staring, thinking, 'Any minute now. She'll wake up and she'll be sorta groggy at first but then things will clear up and she'll have to stay in the hospital for another day, just for some tests, but they'll all come back OK and on the way home we'll talk about Thanksgiving dinner. Any minute now.' But she didn't, and finally I had to stop looking because my eyes hurt. Then I felt guilty because I looked away and maybe that was the one moment when she could have opened her eyes, if I'd just been looking at her." Dawn was rocking slightly now, an almost imperceptible to-and-fro to some inner rhythm.
Tara just listened, and remembered standing at her mother's casket at the visitation, watching her chest for any sign of movement. Several times, she was certain that she had detected a slight rising, but a prolonged gaze proved her false. She knew, though, that it was imperative that she keep looking because if her mother did gain breath once again, she would need Tara to see it and save her; prove all of this to be blasphemy. But the breathing never came, and Tara finally had to leave the funeral parlor with her father and brother. The next day, at the funeral, she did the same thing until they finally wheeled her mother's casket to the back of the tiny church and sealed the coffin. The funeral director gave one of the keys to Donnie, and the other to her. She kept it in a velvet-lined box that was opened with a tiny hidden spring-latch.
Tara gently rubbed Dawn's arm. "It's so wrong, isn't it? You know this shouldn't be happening, but it is. Feeling helpless when someone you love is hurting-it has to be one of the worst things in the world."
When Dawn looked back at her this time, Tara could see that the tears were edging closer. "When your mom decided not to keep doing the chemo…Did you try to talk her out of it?"
The wrenching grief surged through her once more. When she trusted herself to speak, she answered slowly, "Yeah, Dawnie-I did. At first, anyway. I thought that if more treatment could give her more time, then of course she should do it." She drew a deep, shuddering breath and took both of Dawn's hands in her own. "I've never told anyone this, Sweetie-I don't like to think about it. But part of me was angry with her. Like, she had the chance to live longer and she decided not to. It felt like…like she had the chance to stay with me longer, and she decided not to. And I know that's not how it was; I knew it intellectually even then. But I just wanted my mother to stay with me as long as she could and it was so hard not to feel like that wasn't as important to her. Oh goddess," she whispered, sobs choking her voice, "it still hurts to remember that." She tried to gather herself together, remembering the aching girl who sat before her. She became dimly aware that Dawn was now rubbing her arms.
I'm supposed to be comforting her, she told herself desperately, fighting to still her own sobs.
But Dawn, she would later realize, was making one of those quiet leaps into her own looming adulthood. Maturity didn't proceed in an orderly, uniform fashion. It crept and raced in turns. Dawn was older now than when she had first folded into herself on her bed two hours ago.
"I have to let her go, don't I?" The words were so quiet that Tara first wondered if she had imagined them. Looking through her own blurred vision, she saw Dawn gazing at her with tears sliding heedlessly down her cheeks.
"If Mom can't ever get better, I have to let her go. Don't I?" She was looking at Tara so intently that the very air seemed to hang suspended, waiting.
Oh dear goddess…Does it fall to me to answer that; to confirm what she already knows? Do I have to be the verdict's voice?
"Dawn, Sweetie…" She struggled to find words, to find her voice. "Dawn, you don't have to do anything. That's what makes this so hard, I think-when we have a choice, instead of having the hardest choices made for us." She bit her lip, and then took Dawn's face in her hands. She's so tiny… "But I think you know what your mother would ask you to do. And...and I think you have the courage to do it."
With the words, Dawn's sobs wrenched out of her from some deep place that Tara recognized; and because she recognized it, she knew that the time of words was now over and so she pulled Dawn closer as love and grief washed through her and spilled out onto and all around the slight form within her arms.
*****
The next twenty-four hours passed with the blithe indifference of Death moving freely among them all.
Buffy and Dawn had talked until early evening. At their request, Giles, Xander, and Anya came over to the house a little after 8. Tara and Willow had already agreed to stay for at least two or three more days. Willow had tried Hank Summers once more, this time leaving the message that the mother of his children was dying and that she hoped his secretary was doing well.
"Very bitter," Tara commented, her tone holding no reproach at all.
"Very satisfying," Willow replied simply.
Anya sat in Xander's lap, but there was nothing sexual in the act. To Tara, it appeared that she was clinging to her boyfriend as if needing constant proof that the anchor of her own life still breathed. Giles, she realized, had probably not slept at all the night before. He had also cut himself, more than once, while shaving. She had never seen him look so nakedly vulnerable before, and her heart ached for him.
Every day. I will tell Willow how much I love her every single day that I get to walk through life with her.
The two sisters sat together on the couch, holding hands. Though Buffy did most of the speaking, Tara noticed gratefully that she looked frequently to Dawn for support and verification.
"Dawn and I have been talking pretty much all day," she began. "From everything the doctors have said, there's really no chance that Mom will come out of her coma. Right now, the machines are breathing for her and keeping her heart beating." She paused; Tara could see her hand shaking within Dawn's grip. "Dawn and I both agree that Mom wouldn't want to be kept alive like that."
Tara saw Giles start at the words. "What-what are you saying?" he asked hoarsely.
Buffy opened her mouth to speak, and couldn't. Finally, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, "We've decided to take Mom off of the machines." Over the quick ripple of gasps and sighs, she continued, "The doctors say that she'll probably die fairly soon after that." Tara saw her wince at the word, swallowing heavily. "But…but Dawn and I feel that her soul, her spirit are already gone. We believe this is what she would want." Then she sank back into the couch as if she had exhausted her last reserve of strength.
"But-are you sure?" Giles demanded, his eyes belying his desperation. "I mean, it's been hardly a day. Perhaps you should give it more time."
"But maybe the chemo will work if you try it again, Mom. You should give it more time."
Buffy looked at her Watcher, sorrow dancing haltingly with anger in her expression. "Giles, do you think we haven't thought this through completely? You think we didn't talk that over with the doctors, down to every last possible scenario?" Dawn, Tara noticed, had lowered her head as if trying to drown out a Siren's song, pleading with her to do what she most wanted to.
You forfeited the right to have a role in this decision by not saying anything. You know that now, and it's killing you.
After a moment, he sagged against the back of his chair. "Yes-yes, of course. I'm sorry for questioning your decision." An uneasy silence sank over the group.
Finally, Xander asked, "What do you need from us, Buffy?" Seeing her quick glance at Dawn, he added, "And you, Dawn? Anything, either of you…" He trailed off, looking helplessly from one sister to another.
When Buffy spoke again, her voice was stronger. Because now it's about doing something. Right now, it's not about feelings.
"We're going to do it tomorrow. She loved early evening; it was her favorite time of day. Years ago she used to say that that was when the flowers smelled sweetest. Over the last few years, she said it was the last time of the day that she could be outside and not look over her shoulder and wonder if she'd brought enough holy water." Buffy smiled, just for a moment, and then rocked forward slightly as if in pain. The motion, Tara knew, would become a habit before it finally waned and left. She watched as Dawn squeezed her sister's hand, and then spoke up herself.
"So…we're going to spend tomorrow with her, and then take the machines away as sunset begins." She said the words quickly, as if afraid that she wouldn't be able to finish the sentence if she let herself hear what she was saying.
The silence returned, until Anya blurted, "I'm sorry Joyce can't wake up." Buffy looked up at her as if registering her presence for the first time. Tara could see that Anya was terrified of having said the wrong thing.
Finally, Buffy gave her a gentle smile. "Me too, Anya. Thank you." Tara thought she could see tears forming in the ex-demon's eyes.
The evening ended shortly after that. Hugs, more tears, condolences, promises…Words and gestures were offered, taken, acknowledged. And everyone was exquisitely aware that all of these words and gestures, while true and sacred in their own right, would not change reality. They would not make Joyce wake up.
A short time later, Tara offered herself up to Willow's arms and loosed the sobs that had been pounding within her since she had talked to Dawn. She told Willow of her anger at her mother, and her rage at Death for taking so many of the very best, and her fear that she would never find peace with her mother's life now, much less her death. Tears coursed down her cheeks, splashing onto Willow's breasts as her beloved held her and without speaking, reminded her of the beauty that still graced her life.
*****
At 7:38 the next evening, when the sun offered its last shimmering reminder, Buffy nodded to Dr. Santiago, who quietly stilled the machines that had frustrated both Death and Life.
In the waiting room, Willow and Tara waited with the others, watching the final piercing splash of red and orange as the sun took its leave of them.
She could only guess what the others were feeling, but as she rested her head on Willow's shoulder, Tara remembered great bunches of honeysuckle, gathered every day and placed in vases and glasses and Mason jars throughout her mother's room.
And though they had all been prepared to stand vigil for hours and perhaps days, Joyce Summers, beloved daughter of Jack and Sharon McNamara, beloved mother of Buffy and Dawn Summers, seemed to know that she was being called elsewhere, and so she did not breathe and did not linger, but rather left as she had lived-quietly, with dignity and immense grace.
*****
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.
*****
Part 19
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 last caller 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.
*****
"Do you think they've learned anything new?" Willow asked, tugging a light sweater over her head.
"I don't know," Tara replied, glancing at Willow in the mirror. "Xander just said we were supposed to be over at Giles' at eight. I wonder how he's doing."
"Xander? Why, did he sound weird on the phone?" Willow paused in the middle of tying her shoes.
"Actually, I meant Giles. He's taking Mrs. Summers' death pretty hard."
"You noticed that too, huh? Yeah, it pretty much broke my heart to watch him. I think he's probably been in love with her for a long time."
Tara's eyes clouded with sadness. "At the funeral, he looked as if he hadn't slept at all. And then later, he left the house almost as soon as he got there. I don't think he said ten words the whole day." She moved over beside the bed and sat down behind Willow, wrapping her arms around her and resting her head against her back. "Do you think Mrs. Summers felt the same way?"
Willow leaned back against Tara's warmth. "I don't know…You know, in a lot of ways, they were really Buffy's parents, when you get right down to it. Good ol' Hank's been pretty much MIA, with the aforementioned 'Action' primarily involving his secretary. Joyce and Giles have been the two adult constants in Buffy's life. I think they were unofficially a twosome, at least in that regard. Plus, there was that whole Band candy episode, in which Giles got in touch with both his inner adolescent and Joyce's outer breasts. Right there on a police car," she added.
"Wasn't that during the time when you and Xander…?"
"If you love me, you won't finish that sentence, OK? The point is, those two definitely had sparkage, not to mention a strong parental connection about Buffy. But apparently he never talked about it, and neither did she."
Tara pulled Willow more tightly against her. "I think that's what makes me sadder than anything. To have so much to say to someone, and never say a word."
They sat there in silence for a few minutes, each thanking the goddess for the words they themselves had found the courage to say, all those months ago.
*****
The only sound was the sound of water splashing out of the hose and into the heavy trough. He and his daddy didn't talk much these days, though they certainly had a lot they could say to each other. He figured it was his daddy's place to start that conversation; after all, he was the one who'd dropped the bombshells on everybody last week. About his mom's cheating; about Uncle Quinn being Tara's father. If anyone should start talking about what everyone was thinking, it should be his dad.
But Nathan wasn't saying much of anything. Nathan pretty much did his work and then looked for more work to do, which was always within eyesight when you lived on a farm. He and Donnie talked about the winter wheat and fixing machinery and the latest milk prices. They didn't talk about Donnie's mother taking him along for her meetings with her husband's brother, or Nathan beating him throughout his entire childhood, or Tara being a half-sister to both him and Beth.
And poor Beth…She just kind of flitted around the house like a bird that kept banging up against the walls and didn't know it could just fly out the open window if it wanted to. She never talked about going home. The only thing she talked about was the weather, and how the crops were coming along, and whether they might prefer peach cobbler or cream pie for dessert.
They watched each other, that much was clear. Him and his daddy circling each other, always knowing where the other was but pretending not to notice; and then the three of them in the evenings, wobbling like a chair with one leg missing-unsteady, but trying to hold up.
And they never said a word about any of it.
*****
Willow and Tara arrived at Giles' house to find it cluttered with old newspapers and unwashed glasses. A container of take-out Chinese had been hastily tossed in the garbage. One of the chop-sticks had fallen to the floor; it had never been picked up.
Giles muttered his apologies as he cleared off chairs for them to sit. They had been the last to arrive. Buffy and Dawn were on the couch, while Xander and Anya occupied the bar stools against the counter. As they settled into their chairs, they automatically brought them closer together. Glancing around, Willow noticed that everyone seemed to be touching someone else. Xander had his arm over Anya's shoulders, while Buffy kept running her hand over Dawn's hair and down her back. Willow found herself wishing that she'd passed up the chair and just nestled on Tara's lap; she settled for clasping Tara's hand tightly in her own.
We all need to comfort, and be comforted. We need to feel the person we're closest to in order to believe we're still here. And Giles has no one. She lowered her head and brushed away the tears that had gathered so quickly in her eyes.
"Thank you for coming," the Watcher began, rubbing his forehead as he spoke. "Buffy, Dawn-I know how hard things are right now. I…I wish I could spare you all of this; somehow make all of this just go away." He sighed, and Willow saw now that his eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion, or perhaps something else.
"I know," Buffy answered quietly. "But there's no bereavement leave for Slayers, is there? We don't get time off to mourn."
But you wouldn't take it even if there were, Willow found herself thinking. You need to be doing something. You couldn't handle sitting quietly in the house right now.
"It's OK," Dawn added in a small voice. "We have to know what's going on."
Willow remembered her conversation with the Key at the hotel that night, before Dawn had known who she really was; when the biggest difficulty in her life was a crush on someone older than her who was totally unavailable. Hadn't that been another lifetime ago? Surely it had been, for the slight teenager in front of her.
"It's just-well, I've received news that I thought you should all know about." Giles took his glasses off slowly, looking at the floor. "I only wish it were good news."
"And so much for the ambiguous foreshadowing," Xander commented, shaking his head. "Can anyone remember the last time we did hear good news?"
"It was ten days ago," Anya promptly answered. "I took that EPT thing and urinated on the little stick, remember? And then we waited for what seemed like an eternity, and you kept pacing back and forth-"
"Right. Of course. How could I forget?" Xander grinned weakly.
"And now, none of us will ever forget it, either," Tara smiled, looking at Willow and arching her eyebrows just the tiniest bit.
If those two ever reproduce, we might all rethink our positions on genetic engineering. But she said nothing.
"Giles, you were saying…?" Xander prompted, clearly preferring the impending bad news to a detailed account of his recent reprieve.
"A few days ago, I contacted the Watcher's Council, to see if they had any information on Glory." As he might well have expected, a chorus of alarm welled up around him. Buffy's voice emerged as the strongest.
"Giles, if those sanctimonious bastards know that Dawn's the Key, they'll be over here before you can say 'Tower of London.' What were you thinking?"
"Buffy, you can't possibly think I told them anything about Dawn," Giles protested. "I would never entrust them with such information. You have to know that I would never put Dawn in jeopardy like that."
Buffy held his gaze for a moment, and then dropped her eyes to her sister. "I'm sorry…It's just that I've just had nothing but bad experiences with Quentin Travers and that five-alarm freak show he heads up. First they put me through that insane 'test' and then they go all wet-works on me when they thought I was Faith. It doesn't exactly build up your trust and good-will."
"I'm with Buffy," Willow chimed in. "That much tweed in one place must surely tempt the forces of darkness."
Giles shook his head patiently. "Yes, well, I understand; at its worst, the Council is an archaic lynch mob, using the most reprehensible of tactics under the guise of working to eradicate evil."
"And at its best?" Tara asked doubtfully.
"Officious pricks with deplorable fashion sense," the Watcher replied evenly.
"So we're all in agreement," Xander said emphatically. "The Council of Watchers is hereby on the 'Do Not Invite' list for all major celebrations and any gatherings where you don't want skullduggery to abound. Just say no to COW."
"And to MOO-Mothers Opposed to the Occult," Willow added, recalling her own experience as witch hunt prey. She shook her head wonderingly. "Who'd ever have thought that dairy could be so ominous?"
"Certainly, having been unceremoniously fired two years ago, I hardly consider them close, personal friends," Giles asserted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I would have been guilty of putting vanity before duty, however, had I not considered the possibility that they might have useful information on our current antagonist. So yes, I called them, and I appealed to their sense of self-importance in asking for their assistance. I spoke in the most abject of ways about my own limitations, in both resource and perspicacity, and asked for their learned input."
"And he just said what?" Xander asked, looking at Willow in confusion.
"Giles kissed some COW ass," she answered, nodding approvingly at the Watcher
"And the tweedy little milquetoasts spilled the beans," Giles finished, giving her a slight smile.
"And just what did said milquetoasts have to contribute to the knowledge fund?" Willow asked.
The smile faded quickly from Giles' face. "As I said, the news is hardly good."
"So enough with the foreplay," Buffy said in exasperation. At the uncomfortable glances and raised eyebrows that greeted her, she added, "Or foreshadowing. Or forehead. Or for which we stand." Turning back to Giles, she fixed him with a hard stare. "What is it, Giles? What kind of demon are we looking at?"
Her Watcher sighed. "Glory's not a demon." He reached out to rest his hand on her shoulder. "She's a god."
*****
Part 20
A few hours later, Tara unlocked her door and they more or less stumbled across the floor and into bed, collapsing in an exhausted heap.
"Do things ever calm down?" Tara asked, her tone suggesting that the question was largely rhetorical. Willow, though, answered her.
"About once a year; for about seven or eight hours. We usually use that time to catch up on our correspondence, maybe take in a movie."
"How do you fight a god?" This time, the question wasn't rhetorical; Willow, though, had no idea how to answer her.
Finally Tara spoke again. "I guess…I guess we find out everything we can about her and we try to find her weak spots."
"Yeah, that seemed to be the general game plan that emerged tonight," Willow concurred. "The only thing is, in SAT terms, 'god' is to 'weak spot' as 'Michael Jackson' is to 'mental health.' I mean, isn't the whole idea of a god that she's pretty much invincible? Not to mention that whole brain-sucking thing, a fact without which I could so easily have lived." She shuddered briefly. "Let's face it, Tara-the hell-god got game."
Tara shook her head. "I can't let myself get too stunned and amazed about her, Will. I have to believe that there's some way we can take her down. Otherwise… Otherwise, we just give up and hope that somebody else will take care of her." She turned on her side to look at Willow. "And that's not really how the Scooby gang works, is it?"
Reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind Tara's ear, Willow replied softly, "No ma'am, it isn't. The Scooby motto is, and I quote, 'The few; the proud; the profoundly outnumbered."
"I'll take quality over quantity any day," Tara assured her, nuzzling into the warmth of the arms that reached out for her.
They lay quietly for several minutes. Willow was so exhausted that she could have fallen asleep right there on top of the covers, sneakers and all, and she suspected Tara felt the same. Bedtime without brushing, though, had serious implications for morning breath, and so she forced herself to sit upright.
"C'mon, Baby-let's get out of these clothes and get ready for bed."
Tara grumbled but complied. "Doesn't it seem just a bit surreal? Coming back home, washing our faces, brushing our teeth…right after learning that this year's Big Bad is an honest-to-God, well, god?"
"Gotta admit, it's hard to find the bright side with this one," Willow acknowledged, walking toward the door. Passing Tara's desk, she noticed the small packet of mail that Tara had retrieved but not opened earlier that day. "You might wanna check your mail, Baby. You may have already won ten million dollars!"
"Thank you, Ed McMagic. I'll just make sure there's nothing too pressing, like a chance to receive TV Guide at a fraction of the news stand price, and then I'm right behind you." Willow nodded and headed down the hall toward the bathroom.
Several minutes later, as Willow peered at her soapy reflection in the mirror, she wondered where Tara was. Maybe she really did win ten million dollars…And maybe she's spending it all on TV Guide subscriptions. She realized that exhaustion was starting to make her incoherent.
She also realized, immediately after that epiphany, that life on the Hell Mouth should have taught her by now that innocuous things often weren't, which was why she now quickly splashed water over her face and ran back to Tara's room. Throwing the door open, she felt relief wash over her as she saw Tara sitting quietly on the bed, peering at something she held in her hand.
"Tara? Baby? What is it?" Relief gave way to uneasiness as Tara looked up at her. Her blue eyes were filled with pain. In reply, she simply held out the single sheet of paper.
Willow searched her lover's face questioningly, and then looked down at the words before her.
Dear Tara,
I don't know whether you really want to hear from me or not, but I decided to go ahead and write and just hope that you'll listen to what I have to say. I know that the trip must have hard for you, finding out what you did. I'm sorry that you went through so much growing up. I should have been a better father. You weren't responsible for your mother's behavior, but I know that part of me blamed you even though another part of me said I shouldn't.
Your visit wasn't easy for me, either. It was hard to relive everything and talk about it after keeping my silence for so many years. In the middle of all of our family secrets, the news that you think you're a homosexual almost got lost. Tara, I know that the men in your life so far haven't been very good examples of manhood. Your real father drank himself to death, I was angry most of the time, and your brother beat you up. I'm sure that women must seem must safer and easier to trust right now. But please, Tara, don't give up on men just because of how you grew up. You're a fine young woman, and I'm sure there's a good man out there who could make you very happy.
Your brother hasn't said anything about all of this. I'm not sure what he thinks. Beth is still here, though I've told her that if her mother needs her, we'll find a way to make do.
I just wanted to you to know that I'm sorry for the way I acted when you were younger. I know that the news about your mother upset you, but she did love you, Tara, very much. I wish you could talk to her, and to your real father, but that's not possible. However, I thought you might want to talk to your Aunt Beverly. She and Quinn were full brother-and-sister, and she also knew your mother fairly well. In fact, the two of them were pretty close. She and I don't talk very often, but I'm sure she'd be glad to hear from you. I think she probably liked you more than Beth, quite frankly. Anyway, if you want to get hold of her, her number in Dallas is (214) 555-0124.
Take care,
Nathan, Your father
Willow re-read the entire letter, trying to assimilate both its contents and its tone into her already-overloaded brain circuitry. What must be going on in Tara's mind?
"Baby? Are you OK?" She rubbed Tara's back gently, feeling her heart break once again at the pain in those cobalt eyes.
"Willow…Goddess, where do I even start? I mean, I can hardly believe he wrote in the first place. And then he apologizes, which he has never, ever done. And he tells me how to contact my aunt, because he thinks it might help to talk to her. But he also doesn't believe I'm really gay, because the men around me when I was growing up were such losers. Oh, and my 'real father drank himself to death,' let's not forget that." Her laugh was dry and brittle.
Willow looked at her helplessly. Finally, she turned and slid her right leg behind Tara and then gathered her beloved close, feeling the soft hair tickle her cheek. She felt Tara's quick, convulsive sob, and then tears were trickling down her neck.
"Tara, Baby, I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry you've had all of this dumped in your lap, and you can't even talk to your mother, because I know that's what you want, more than anything else." She felt tears stinging her eyes, and dimly wondered if she would ever simply cry herself out; if she would just reach the end of her lifetime supply of tears because she lived where she lived and did what she did.
When Tara had finally stopped sobbing, Willow extricated herself from Tara's limbs and then gently pushed Tara back until she was prone on the bed. She slowly untied Tara's shoes and then slid her socks off. Tara struggled to sit up.
"I need to wash my face and brush my teeth," she protested. "After everything we've been through, I don't want you to wake up and have to deal with my morning breath."
Willow took the opportunity to pull Tara's shirt up over her head. "I brushed my teeth twice, so we're covered."
"What kind of logic is that?" Tara asked, but let herself be relieved of her bra and then lowered once more to the bed.
"It's my logic, and I'm extraordinarily smart, so you probably don't want to question it," Willow replied, tugging Tara's jeans and then her panties down over her hips and discarding them on the floor beside the bed. "Besides, you never have bad breath-even when you're sick, even when you first wake up."
"There's always a first time for everything," Tara argued, but Willow could see that fatigue of both the emotional and physical varieties was winning out.
"Baby, if the hardest thing I have to face tomorrow is that I wake up next to you and your breath isn't minty fresh, I gotta think I've come out ahead."
Quickly shucking her own clothes, Willow crawled under the blankets and pressed herself close to Tara, who was almost asleep. Before she went under, though, Tara mumbled something in Willow's ear.
"What, Baby? I couldn't hear you."
"I said, did I tell you today how much I love you?"
Willow draped her arm over Tara's chest and tried to pull her even nearer. "Yeah, you did. First, this morning; and then late this afternoon when we were on our way over to Giles'."
This confirmation was apparently the last thing that stood between Tara and a profoundly deep sleep, and watching her in the moonlight gave Willow the comfort she needed to do likewise.
*****
How long did it take for someone to answer their phone?
Really?
Tara had lifted the phone from its cradle three times, only to replace it again. Four times, she had dialed all of the numbers and then hung up. Now, having actually punched in the numbers and hung around to see what happened, she was wildly impatient, as if the person at the other end should have known to show some mercy on her after all of the stress of simply making the call.
As she deliberated whether she would have the courage to call back if she didn't get an answer this time, she heard a click and then a familiar voice said, "Hello?" She sat there mutely.
This would be a good time to speak, Tara.
"Um, h-hi-Aunt Beverly?"
"Tara, is that you?" Her aunt sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her. "Oh my God, it's so good to hear your voice!"
"Thanks, Aunt Bev. It's r-really good to hear yours, too. It's been t-too long."
"It really has been, Tara. We haven't talked in over a year, I'll bet. And I haven't seen you since…"
"Since Mom's funeral. I know." You can do this, Tara. You can.
"So how are you, Sweetie? How's college? Are you still majoring in English?"
The dichotomy-the absolute chasm-between something as prosaic as her college major and the total upheaval of her life over these past few weeks struck Tara as so surreal to be almost ludicrous. Yes, she actually did major in English, didn't she?
"Yeah.. although if I'm studying it, I should probably pronounce it correctly, so-yes. I'm still majoring in English."
"That's great, Tara. Are you thinking about teaching? Not that I'm biased or anything…"
Actually, I'm thinking about my mother and her infidelity and my dead biological father and my abusive brother and my lesbian lover and…what else…oh, yeah-the arrival of a Hell God who wants to open the portals between dimensions using a Key who happens to be in the human form of my lover's best friend's sister-a young girl I love dearly, who has a huge crush on me.
"Well, teaching is a definite possibility," she replied.
Her aunt laughed deeply; Tara liked the sound. "Isn't that phrase almost an oxymoron? 'A definite possibility'? I mean, isn't the nature of a possibility that it isn't definite?"
So that's where I get my verbal obsessiveness. Cool... "You're right-it seems sort of like saying that someone's decidedly ambivalent."
"Exactly. You and I always thought alike, you know."
And what else do we do alike? But this wasn't the time for that conversation. Her mental digression, though, was interrupted by her aunt's gentle voice.
"What's going on, Tara? I mean, I'm thrilled to hear from you, but I know you're not crazy about talking over the phone just to be doing something, so I'm guessing something's on your mind."
Her aunt had remembered Tara telling her that? Maybe someone had been paying more attention to her than she realized, and suddenly she felt a pang for the chance to have been closer to her father's half-sister.
"Good call, Aunt Bev-no pun intended," she added, enjoying her aunt's quick laugh. Maybe that was where she'd gotten her odd sense of humor, too.
"So what's up, Sweetie? Heartache? Family problems? Existential angst?"
"Um…that would be 'No,' 'Yes,' and 'Often, but not right now,' in order of appearance."
"Ah, family," Beverly replied knowingly. "Can't live with 'em, can't institutionalize 'em against their will unless you have really powerful lawyers…So who's doing what?"
Now that the moment had arrived, and it was abundantly clear that her aunt was genuinely interested in helping her, Tara felt her head start to ring. She wondered if she would be able to speak.
"OK, so it must be something pretty major," her aunt noted after several seconds had passed. "I can hear you breathing, so I know we're still connected."
"Pretty major," Tara echoed, with a dry laugh. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Well, I could, but I suspect that it would be more helpful for you to say that. Are you afraid of something, Tara? Is that what's making it hard to talk about it?"
Afraid? Yes…afraid of learning nothing; afraid of learning something I won't be able to live with; afraid of losing the one parent I trusted all over again. Aloud, though, she simply replied, "Sort of…It's just-it's hard to get into over the phone, but I have to because you're in Dallas and I'm in California and thank heavens telephones even exist and so I'm trying to figure out where to start."
I have become my lover.
"It's about your mother, isn't it?" Beverly's voice was so gentle that Tara felt her eyes welling with tears, in spite of her determination not to cry.
"How'd you know?" Tara asked softly.
"I didn't; I just guessed. But I know what your mother meant to you, and what you meant to her, so it seemed a pretty good bet."
"You should come to Vegas," Tara commented, knowing that her aunt could hear the tremble in her voice.
"Tara, sweetie, is there any way you could come here? I know money's tight when you're in school, but I'd be glad to get you a ticket. Besides, I'd love to see you again."
At the offer, Tara was gripped with a longing that threatened to paralyze her. The warmth in her aunt's voice made her ache for a home that now existed almost entirely in her mind, one in which she was close to the people she was related to. The fact that her aunt had known her mother, had been friends with her, only heightened her loneliness.
She struggled to find her voice again. "Aunt Beverly, you don't know how much that means to me. I'm serious-thank you." She paused, thinking of Willow and her family here. "But I can't. Part of it's school, and part of it's about other stuff going on here."
"You can't tear yourself away, even for a long weekend?"
"No, Aunt Beverly, because I'm needed to help save the world."
"I really wish I could, but I can't. But thank you for caring so much. It really does mean a lot to me; more than I can really say."
"OK," her aunt replied with obvious disappointment. "But promise me you'll think about it, for the future-even if things aren't so urgent. I'd love the chance to just sit down and catch up with you. You know I've always had a soft spot in my heart for you."
Recognition, perhaps?
"Me too you, Aunt Bev." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "See, a lot of stuff has happened lately at home."
"Is everyone OK?" came her aunt's worried question.
Tara laughed; the noise sounded brittle to her own ears. "Well, that depends on how you define 'OK,'" she replied. "No one's been hurt or anything like that."
"So we're talking 'stuff' of the psychological variety, huh?"
"Pretty much…I guess-I guess what I need, Aunt Beverly, is to know more about my mother-what she was like; what you thought of her; things like that."
"OK, that's a pretty broad subject, but let me see what I can do…Are you thinking of anything in particular?"
Oh, just whether you ever noticed her and your brother making eyes at each other over the punch bowl at Christmas.
"No, not really…I guess I just want to talk to the people who knew her; who knew her long before I did."
"I can understand that," Beverly replied slowly. "Well, I don't know how much new material I can provide, but I'll do my best. Let's see…Well, Nathan was pretty much gaga about her from the minute he saw her, I know that. She was all he talked about after that. He said he was going to marry her, and I'd never seen him so definite about anything before in my whole life. Sure enough, he wooed her like crazy and the next thing you know, we're all gathered at the Cold Springs Baptist Church watching them say 'I do.' I don't think I've ever seen your father look happier."
You mean my father Nathan, right? Not my biological father; he hadn't really entered the drama yet, had he? Aloud, she could only manage, "Yeah-I know he loved Mom."
"That's an understatement, Sweetie," her aunt chuckled. "I think he must have gotten to the church before your mother even did, and all he had to do was put on his tuxedo and make sure his pants were zipped. No way was he going to be late."
"Who was his best man?" Tara asked, realizing she had never seen a picture of her parents' wedding, even as she knew at that same moment why.
"Oh, that was your Uncle Quinn," Beverly replied, confirming what Tara had already surmised.
Tara fought past a sudden wave of nausea. After a moment, she asked, "What was Mom like? When she was younger?"
Now Beverly paused, and when she spoke, Tara knew that her aunt had been as captivated by her mother as everyone else had been.
"Julia was one of the finest people I've ever known, Tara," she said simply, when she finally replied. "I'm not saying that because she's dead, or to make you feel better. She was just a truly warm, loving woman who could charm the fuzz off a peach-not because she was trying to put one over on you, but because that's just how she was. She looked like an angel, with that blond hair and those blue eyes and that innocent face, but she also knew some jokes that would make a sailor blush. She used to put me in stitches, just listening to one of her stories. She was a born story-teller, Tara."
"Then what happened to Goldilocks, Mama?"
"Well, Bright Eyes, the Three Bears came home and of course the soup was all gone, and she had rearranged the living room furniture, and just made herself at home in Baby Bear's bed, so they really didn't have much choice but to have her arrested for unlawful entry."
"She got arrested?"
"Oh yeah-but she came from a lot of money so her daddy hired her one of the lawyers that works for the Ewing family over on 'Dallas,' and he argued diminished capacity because most folks around those parts knew that Goldilocks wasn't exactly the sharpest plow in the barn, so she got off with making the Bears another pot of soup, only they didn't like it because she put too much paprika in it."
"You're teasing me, Mama!"
"Maybe just a little bit."
"Yeah, I remember," she said, and her voice seemed to come from far away.
"Tara, Sweetie, are you OK? I don't want to pry, but it seems like this is pretty painful."
"Yeah…I mean, yes, it's painful, but it's also good to hear about. It really does help."
"OK…Well, your mother loved you like crazy. When you were born, all people could talk about was how much you looked like her, and you did, Tara. You were the spitting image of Julia, except for your hands. Julia and Nathan both had short, square hands, and you had these long, tapered fingers that looked like they were just made to play piano. No one knew where you got those hands."
Oh yes they did; some people knew…
"What about Donnie? Did Mom love him, too?"
For the first time, her aunt's voice became cautious. "Well of course she did, Tara. I didn't mean to imply that she didn't. It's just-well, you and your mom seemed like two peas in a pod, and Donnie was often out with Nathan, so I think the four of you sort of formed two teams, if that makes any sense."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Tara replied, feeling her throat tighten.
"But I know she loved him." She hesitated for a moment, and then continued, "See, the other thing was that you and Donnie had such different temperaments. You were so sweet and easy to take care of, Tara. You didn't really fuss much unless you were hungry or tired or needed your diaper changed. But as soon as you were fed or rested or dry, you were back in good spirits. Donnie, though-he was colicky a lot as a baby, and his temper showed up pretty early on. He wasn't the easiest baby in the world. But Julia certainly loved him," she added for a final time.
Tara felt a sudden ache in her fingers, and realized that she had been squeezing the phone so tightly that her knuckles were white. There was so much more to ask, and she wasn't even sure how she could bring up the subject of Quinn without arousing her aunt's suspicions. For right now, she wasn't ready to go into all of that. Suddenly she felt almost unimaginably exhausted.
I need some time to digest this. Aloud, she said, "Aunt Beverly, this is helpful; it really is. I'm just-I'm trying to learn more about my mom, from the folks who knew her, and I really appreciate you talking to me about her."
"Why do I have the feeling you're about to get off the phone?" her aunt asked, but her tone was gentle.
"Because you're a smart woman," Tara replied, feeling something akin to genuine amusement. "But I'd like to call back again-soon-if you wouldn't mind."
"Of course I wouldn't mind, Tara. It's good to talk to you, whatever the reason. I don't want to lose contact with you."
"Me either with you, Aunt Bev. I'll talk to you soon, OK?"
"OK, Sweetie. And remember-if you want to visit, any time, I'd love to see you."
Moments later, Tara had set the phone back in its cradle. She was in her bed and asleep within ten minutes.
*****