Freakazoid
by
Disclaimer: Here we go again. Don’t own ‘em. Won’t ever own ‘em. Just playin’.
Spoiler Alert: For everything broadcast so far in the Buffyverse.
Sequel Alert: Mild references to White Flower contained herein.
Yet One More Nail: Yes, yes... I know she’s not Tara. If that’s your flavor, I’d suggest another story. Otherwise, enjoy.
Comments are always welcome. Razz the writer: shaych3@yahoo.com.
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“You freak!”
The words echoed down memory lanes easily, unfettered by the distance of time or place.
I am a freak.
Kennedy decided sadly, as she looked into the mirror. Freak, freak,
freak, freak. Freakity
freak. That’s me.
“Freakishly freaky, even,” she said aloud, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Could I be anymore lame brained? A glance behind her told her that, yes, Willow had still not magically appeared in her bed.
Magic. She shivered uncontrollably. Good golly Miss Molly, but how she hated that mojo last night. Yes, the world was in the grip of a major apocalyptic event. Yes, she, Kennedy, was a Potential Slayer, with all the Potential Power in the universe.
Shudder. Shiver. Shudder. Nausea.
Yep, there it was again. That sick, creeping feeling of disgust that had first made its appearance the day that her Watcher – a man she had always assumed was one of the many “cousins” that lingered around the family estate – had told her Magic was Real.
Magic was real, and so were the things that used, abused, and generally made fairy tales freakier than her siblings accused her of being.
She had dealt with those revelations. There hadn’t been much choice in the matter. Seeing her Watcher get eviscer– No, no, no! Do not go there, Kennedy. You do not want to throw up tonight. Quickly, she began to hum the most idiotic thing she could think of – “Wake me up, before you go-go...” Bless Tommy and his obsession with George Michael’s ass.
So, okay. No more icky memories. The bed - sadly, was still empty.
I’ll take care of her.
Right. How was she supposed to take care of Willow – who, it appeared, was quite capable of handling herself when the foo hit the shan – when she couldn’t even deal with a little power sharing? More like, suck me dry and leave me feeling like I’d been green-scrubbied from the inside out, sharing.
Therein, of course, lies the rub-a-dub-dub. No, Kennedy didn’t suffer from that horrific of all maladies – only child syndrome, but, she had been the baby. Everyone from Great Grandpa Mayfield to old Auntie Grace had treated her like she was made of spun glass and rare diamonds. She had never, ever, had to share a single thing – much less something so incredibly personal as a piece of her soul.
Where did that leave her now? Giles, Buffy, heck, even Dawn had waxed loquaciously eloquent on how strong Slayers were. There was even an intimation that although a Potential wasn’t a true Slayer, she still had a grain of power.
Willow’s dimensional portal spell had more than proved that hypothesis, and had done so in the most frightening, most achingly real way possible. Which had brought her to here, to this point, and to this moment. Sleeping – without Willow. Kennedy bit her lip.
“Damn.”
How did such a little ripple become a tidal wave? Two weeks ago, she had slept alone. Then, she kissed her. Kissed. Her.
Memory, shaded in rose, fluttered by, trailing the scent of mai tai and sandalwood. What was it that she had said? Was it important? Not really, because right after the words flew out, Willow was kissing her, or she was kissing Willow, or- Well, it didn’t really matter, did it?
Because they had kissed – and then there was the whole weird Warren thing. Step in, kiss a girl, pull away, kissing a guy. It kind of sounded like some strange transvestite story told by drunk rednecks, but it was real, and there was no punchline.
Real enough that most of a night and part of the next day was spent chasing Willow/Warren around Sunnydale, looking for a cure. That the remedy was more kissing – magickal kissing, at that – well, that didn’t bother the eldest of the Potentials in the least.
That was magic she could get. Romantic, save the princess with a smooch and then there’s a parade, magic, was just exactly what she had hoped-dreamed-prayed that it was.
That kind of magic was not uncontrolled, wild, or most especially, painful. That was magic, not magic-K with the hard k sound that she could almost feel buzzing at the roots of her teeth whenever she said it.
Magick was pain, and pain hurt. Not that Kennedy considered herself a baby, but this was a kind of pain that she couldn’t just grit and bear. This was the type of pain that lit every nerve on fire and left her whimpering and crawling on the floor, praying she would not scream her throat raw.
This was pain caused by someone who had never done anything to hurt her. Willow, the gentle, sweet, sometimes bumbling and always adorably shy, older witch. The woman who, until just minutes ago, had shared her bed every night for the past two weeks.
She already missed her.
“Freak. I am the biggest, most classically idiotic, freak.” There, she’d said it. Did she feel better? No, of course not. Because the bed behind her had not suddenly manifested a cutely pajama-clad Willow, all ready for another night of intense snugglies.
Kennedy sighed, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Somewhere, she was sure, there was a very unhappy spirit. A spirit who would be well within its rights to smack her silly. She would even stand still and take it like the butchy woman she pretended to be, because she was a freak.
I’ll take care of her.
“How can I do that when what she is – what she can do – scares me shitless?” she whispered softly.
You have to think outside the box.
She didn’t know where that came from – maybe something her father had said to one of her brothers? Whatever. It was true. Go outside the little box of fear that she was building around herself, or she would break a promise.
She never broke her promises.
“Stop being such a freakazoid, Kennedy. Get out there and talk to her, before she thinks you hate her.”
Yeah. That sounded right, right? Right. Talking couldn’t hurt, could it? It was just words, shared, explored and spoken. Right. Let’s try this talking thing.
Kennedy took a deep breath, cracked her neck, settled her shoulders into a determined posture, and turned to face the bedroom door.
One step, then two, and then finally, a third, and her hand was on the doorknob. The metal was smoothly cool, and turning under hand.
Turning under her hand? What the-
“Kennedy?” Willow’s voice was very low, yet roughened. “Are you awake? Can we-“
“Talk? Yes,” Kennedy said eagerly, pulling the door open and stepping aside.
Willow, dressed in her cute yellow ducky-covered footies, stood outside the doorway, with both of her hands clasped together. Her face was a study in antacid use and abuse, as her eyes were wide with fearful worry and the normally cheerful smile was absent, replaced by a drawn, careworn frown.
For a moment, both women gazed at each other, silently. Then, Willow’s lips curved into a tentative smile. She sighed, and ran a hand through her burnished copper hair, stopping at the base of her neck and resting her hand there. Shrugging, she said, “I just... I wanted...”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words tumbled out, causing both women to stare, and then laugh nervously. Willow’s arm dropped back to her side and hung there, forgotten. Kennedy counted the beats of the witch’s heart by watching the pulse point of her neck.
Silence.
Tipping her head to the side, then biting her lip shyly, Kennedy looked at the floor, then at Willow. “So... come here very often?” she asked, raising one eyebrow curiously.
The smile that lit Willow’s face could have powered a small town for a week.
“No, but, I think I’d like to make a habit of it.” She stepped into the room. “If you don’t mind?” The door swung shut with soft click.
“I could get used to it. I should warn you – I get a little freaky sometimes. It’s a thing.” Kennedy backed toward the bed, sitting down when her legs brushed against the fabric of the quilt.
Laughing weakly, Willow sat beside Kennedy. “Who doesn’t? I – ah – I’ve been known to be a little freaky sometimes, too. Okay?” She bestowed a hopeful look on the other woman.
Kennedy nodded slowly. “Okay. If you can handle my freakishness, then I guess I can handle yours.”
“Good. Can, uh, we sleep now? I don’t handle the quarrel thing well – I always feel like a wet noodle afterwards,” Willow said around a huge yawn.
Kennedy pretended to consider Willow’s request. “Mm...okay. But...” She leaned in toward the redhead. “Since we fought, we have to make up – that’s the key to any successful argument, you know.”
“Really?” Willow asked breathlessly as she tipped her head down.
“Really,” Kennedy assured her, then captured her lips in a tender kiss.
Soft. Always so soft, gentle and slow. That was how Kennedy would remember Willow’s kisses. Oh, they could burn with passion, but these were what she loved best. These were the kisses that made her whole body vibrate, and her heartbeat slow to an aching thud that drummed inside her chest like a bassed-out ghetto car.
Willow’s hands came up and cupped Kennedy’s face and Kennedy returned the caress, slipping her fingers into the witch’s hair, delighting at the silkiness of the crimson strands.
There, that’s not so freaky, is it? No, it wasn’t. Magick was freaky, but Willow was not. Willow used magick – or more honestly, the magick used her – but that was no reason to run away from something that felt so right.
Feels so... oh... Kennedy lost the power of coherent thought when Willow’s tongue brushed her lips gently. She gasped, and opened her mouth, moaning softly when the witch nibbled on her lower lip.
Reaching out, Kennedy pulled the blankets away and coaxed Willow to crawl into the bed with her. There would be no more running, and no more freaking.
Just –
“Hey, these sheets are cold!”
“So let’s warm them up.”
“Oo... good idea.”
fin
03/17/03