Summary: This scene picks up at the end of Same Time, Same Place. Strife, fear and guilt yield to compassion and comfort and several seemingly incongruent things mesh.
Author's Notes: The quotes are by J. Michael Straczynski and Fred M. Rogers respectively.
Rating: FRAO: Adult Content: Sexual Situations and/ or Explicit Violence.
Word Count: 9,376.
Author: Valyssia.
Beta: Howard Russell.
Pairing: Buffy/ Willow.
Disclaimer: Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.
A Keyhole in the Sun
by Valyssia
Her hands rest in mine, warm and soft. I feel her. Not just her hands. Her. Perfectly relaxed, she sits cross-legged in front of me on my bed. She's all matchy—her heart rate, her respiration, they're synchronized, slow and steady—super-slow, so slow she might be asleep. She's not. She's just perfect. No surprise.
I'm not. No surprise there either. My mind wanders aimlessly. I can't focus. I'm supposed to. She's supposed to be helping me. That's why she's here.
But my tummy…
My skin's ouchy. What's left of it.
At least the pain's not sharp anymore. There's no clawing or pinching. It just nags and aches and throbs and…
I bear down, scrunching my eyes, my nose. I screw up my whole face.
…Suck-Swilly all the way to Shannon.
That funny, rumbly thing happens to my ears. I like that. It feels weird. A teardrop splashes my ankle, but my eyes were dry, so that was kind of the plan.
I remember the first time she gave me her hand to hold. It made me feel—
I pinch the tip of my tongue between my lips to moisten them. It made me feel a whole lot of things, some of them wrong.
Umm…
Okay, so…lying to myself is just lame. Most of them were wrong. I should be used to being mostly wrong. I do it so well.
I was smitten. Even now it's hard to admit that. I couldn't admit it then. I wasn't even sure what it meant. I just followed her around like a—
She was my world.
Thank the Goddess there was Xander. I could blame all the awkwardness on him.
And that she never caught me sneaking peeks at her cleavage. Explaining would've been fun.
I wipe the stupid smirk off of my face and focus on her tiny, little hands…instead of what I should be.
It's not fair. I feel like I'm using her. She's the only reason I'm still upright. I'm so wrung out. If it were up to me…
I try to think happy thoughts. I want to. My mind just won't stay put. It wanders, stumbling, taking shaky yet exuberant steps like a toddler on a playground. Each colorful new thing…
The same colorful thing: my hand. That's what keeps distracting me. Not hers. Not her. She's not the problem.
I need to concentrate on myself, but with her here, I guess it's no surprise that this is where my pricklish conscience goes.
A drop of blood pooled on the back of my hand, just a single drop. It looked so insignificant at the time, sitting there just below my index finger. I thought I'd cleaned all the blood up. I wiped it away. The grass felt warm and tickly.
It's strange I remember that. I remember how it itched a little. I scratched my hand and went back to…
This was awful. The fawn lay dead in front of me. Poor little thing. The clay pot full of its blood rested against my thigh.
I had to do it. Moreover, I had to do it and I had to be convincing. They had to believe that I felt what I was doing was the right thing. I couldn't show a shred of doubt. No weakness. And that's all I felt. I wasn't sure of anything. I was so scared, but I had to act or it was over.
I had to act or admit that she was actually gone.
I had to bury the fawn. I'd dug a grave and consecrated the ground before I—uh…
Not so much 'consecrated' as 'cursed.' There's a teeny difference. I won't lie. Not to myself. Not again. I knew what I was doing.
There was another drop of blood on the back of my hand in same spot. I noticed it when I placed the carcass in the hole. I remember how confused I was. How my brow scrunched. That always feels so funny too. I was a bundle of nerves, yet it still felt funny.
As I finished up, I wiped my hand on the grass again. It couldn't have been the same blood drop, right? It had to be different.
There was no smear. It looked weird. The same. Weirdness and sameness aren't often the same. But this was weird because it was the same, so I touched it. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Smooth, like water and wax—or something between the two—and cold.
Cold, but it didn't feel cold against my hand. I couldn't feel it. I couldn't wipe it off either. I couldn't scratch it away, so I went on.
I had to finish. I had too much to do and I had to do it exactly the right way, in the right order, at the right time.
I had to be perfect, just like her.
Her, and her perfect little hands. Tiny little hands that aren't so tiny. They aren't that much smaller than mine. I didn't really start to think of them as tiny until I tried to put it all together and found that I couldn't. She killed things—monsters—big scary monsters—with her tiny little hands. That didn't make sense.
The blood drop was gone when I got back to the Magic Box. I vaguely recalled my hand feeling chilly. But that didn't seem right, so I chalked it up to stress. I was sure I'd imagined the whole thing. I put it out of my mind and did what had to be done.
I put it out of my mind and search for my center…control my breathing, take control, make myself focus…
This place scares me, but I make myself reach out. I have to be connected for this to work. It's not just about her and me, it's about the earth and Gaia and the Mother and all the goodness that's barely here, pushed away by—
I'm not even sure what. This place feels strange. I guess it always did, but when all you've known is strangeness…
I had to go away to get the strangeness.
The strangeness worries me now, so I avoid it and concentrate on the earth below us. What I find are worms. Not very helpful, but I like worms. Girls shouldn't like worms—or they say we shouldn't—but I do. They're like the foot soldiers of the Goddess, or gardeners, or maybe even custodians.
All the little insects have their place. They till the soil, eat away decaying stuff and leave behind all the green, leafy good stuff.
Well, some of them eat the green leafy good stuff, but there's balance so that's okay.
Before my eyes—in my mind's eye—all the little worms turn to maggots. The dirt goes away. There are bunches of them. Piles and piles. They writhe and wriggle. What's underneath them looks like dried leaves, so I let the maggots stay. Maggots aren't bad. They're gross, but not—
They swarm like squirmy grains of rice, thick in three holes, arranged like the finger holes in a bowling ball only bigger. At the sides brown stuff peeks through.
The pattern crystallizes. It's a face. My stomach lurches. Before I can determine whose face it is, I find something else. Anything else.
A flower.
I already know whose face that was. It was hers. The clumps of blonde hair poking up through—
Littering—
And back to my flower. Flowers are good. It's beautiful sunny day. The flower isn't a daisy, but it looks a lot like one only much smaller, with delicate white petals surrounding a cluster of orangey anther. I twirl the stem between my fingers, making the little flower spin. When I hold it to my nose, it's doesn't smell like anything. It's only pretty to look at.
I'm back where I started. I picked a flower that day. I shouldn't have. It wasn't part of the ritual, but I couldn't resist. It was so nice outside.
A drop of blood spatters my hand.
My debt is paid. Why do you keep bothering me? Charon has had his tribute, two fold. We're even-Steven, plus one.
Leave me alone!
I'm so rattled that I mix my mythologies. It doesn't matter. The old gods are all the same. Many faces, many names…all to the same end, like members of a club.
Club Death has hundreds of names, perhaps even thousands. No one could list them all. No one would want to.
Death is death.
She cups my sticky cheeks in her pretty little hands. "What's wrong?" she whispers.
I've been crying. I don't even know when I started. I think back. Silent weeping is all I remember. I've been crying for months. A year, two years…more.
My chest aches. Hollow and raw. It matches my stomach. The outside, not the inside.
I hear myself mutter, "Death." My voice sounds strange and choked.
She tries, but I don't let her lift my head. I can't face her.
I feel like a fool when she stammers, "What?"
Why'd I say that? I don't have the strength to answer her. I'm not sure I could explain if even I tried, so I bury my head in the sand.
She was the prettiest woman I'd ever seen. I always secretly thought Cordy was pretty. Bitch. She opened her mouth and made herself ugly.
Buffy just kept getting prettier. She opened her mouth and instead of saying ugly things that made her ugly, she said the sweet things, thoughtful things…
Occasionally dense things, but you can't have everything. The corner of my mouth twitches. Guess that's the closest thing to a smile I've got.
She says, "Will, stop it…please," as she strokes my cheeks with her thumbs. Wiping the tears away is pointless, but she tries. I just make more. She pleads, "You're worrying me." I make more and she passes her thumbs across the hollow beneath my eyes so careful, so gentle…
So slippery.
My nose is ookie. I snuffle and reach up to mop it with the back of my hand. It's gross, but it's that or drown.
I'd never killed anything before, nothing inside the natural order, not even a fly. Between the two of us, Xander was the big fly slayer. I picked flowers. That was the sum of my wrath. All I could muster. I felt bad for doing that. They were just so pretty I couldn't resist.
The flower I picked that day—I was so nervous I mangled its stem. I didn't mean to. I just picked and picked until it wasn't pretty anymore.
I clear my throat. Funny, I sound like a frog. I hate frogs. I croak, "You—" My voice breaks. It tickles the back of my throat. I cough. My belly burns. My eyes burn too, but not the same way. More tears roll down my cheeks. I swallow.
With the second 'uh-hum' and more feeble effort, I manage to mumble, "You don't make a deal with Death." I take a breath. It's all trembley. That's broken too. "Death makes a deal with you." They've got that all wrong. All of them. All those old fables are wrong.
I expect her to ask, but she doesn't pry. Instead, she kisses my forehead.
I couldn't let go. I will follow you into fire, into storm, into darkness…
It's a misquoted quote from an old science fiction show. I make the question an affirmation. It seems more appropriate that way.
And I leave off the end. I've had enough of death for one night.
I had such a crush on Mira Furlan.
But back then I thought puppy love was actually about puppies.
'Back then'? That sounds so funny. I know it's right, but it sounds weird. 'Back then.'
The face with its maggots and its skin like crumpled leaves occupies my thoughts. My mind's relaxed, so…
Her hair's brown this time. I want it to be red. Dingy fake auburn, like ruined copper reduced to dust by time.
That bullet wasn't meant for Tara. It should've been me. I should've—
But I didn't have to die for them to kill me.
I'm so afraid.
Buffy replies, "I know." Her voice is as gentle as her touch. She guides me to lie against my pillows.
I didn't mean to say that. I shut my eyes. I didn't mean to turn myself invisible either. My brain must be broken.
She gets up. The door shuts with a clack. She mumbled something, but I don't know what.
Guess I messed up.
That's nothing new.
Tears stream freely down my cheeks. I stare at my door through glassy eyes. I'm alone. The reality feels so stark. Every time I need her, she leaves. She can't handle it. She can't stand me.
I slump, slide, fall, curling into a ball. Someone draws a knife across my belly. There's no one here, just me, but it feels—
Every movement is excruciating.
And I don't care!
My pillows are wadded up behind me. They force my head into an unnatural angle. I lash out and send them flying.
I don't care!
One pillow remains rumpled against the crown of my head. I reach up to grab it, dragging it across my face, taking my hair with it. I spit strands from my mouth and curl around the pillow, clutching it to my chest.
My body racks. I draw in tremulous breaths, biting at the air. My mouth stretches open. Too far. So far it must be grotesque. Hiccoughing, shaking, sputtering…
The sounds I make are foreign to my ears.
It's so strange. As grief pours from me, its weight is too much to bear. I feel nothing, detached, empty inside. Outside myself. Senses amplified, but not.
Such a juxtaposition of self. I feel everything. I'm aware of everything.
Sweet, blessed numbness envelopes me. My stupid brain actually shuts up for once. All that's left is pressure…drowning pressure, a weight on my chest and pain in my gut.
My stomach convulses. The skin pulls and pinches. I tense to make it stop. A sharp twinge cuts through me.
Stop!
I need to relax. I focus, trying to calm. The spasms have to stop. I need to relax. It hurts so much. I need to relax. I have to relax.
Stop. Please, stop. I need to relax. I have to relax. I need to relax.
Ow.
The pain gradually eases. I lay flat on my back, though last I knew I was curled up on my side. I sob through gritted teeth.
I'm a mess. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Slippery, slimy, sloppy, icky, sodden, soaking, sopping…
I'm alone and I'm a mess. I hide my face with my hands. She left me alone. I need her so much.
Fretting, I squeak like a mouse. I'm pathetic, so naïve, so stupid… I expect too much.
She doesn't want me. She can't even stand to be around me. Not unless things are good. She only wants the good stuff. Not the bad. The bad means she might have to—
My little dramas are too insignificant for her to waste her time on. The world won't end because Willow aches.
She only wants me around when there's trouble. Then she needs me lots. That's why I'm here. She's in over her head again. She needs me to fix what she can't. And when she's done with me…
I should've never come back here. I should've said 'no.' I should've put myself first for once.
Soaked with salt and slime, the pillowcase sticks to my face. I'm all cried out. The hollowness is replaced by something else. My face feels hot. I grit my teeth. I burn.
I could rip—
I don't rip anything. I'd have to move for that. Burying my face under my sticky pillow is just better. A good sulk is infinitely more fun.
And productive.
Why couldn't she just leave me alone? I gave her everything I had. I gave her things that weren't mine to give.
It's all so unfair. Boohoo. Woe is me. Blah, blah, blah…
Ol' maggot face makes another appearance. Yeah, like you. It's good know my brain still works. I guilt, therefore I am.
I let out a pitiful, choked laugh that sounds more like a sob.
My god, I'm so dumb. Caskets are sealed. Flies have to lay eggs for there to be maggots.
The maggots disappear.
And if it'd just stopped there, I'd be fine, but I'm so far from fine, I may never know fine again. My big brain fills in all of the missing details. I know how the natural world works. I know it intimately and I see it in all its splendor. Pallid, puffy flesh stretches almost to bursting over a wad of rotten meat.
My stomach reels. I swallow. I know that if I sit up, I'll just—I won't even make it to the trashcan. I take a shallow breath and let it go slowly. And another…
As I force myself to calm, the door opens and closes. A hand touches my shoulder. It's Buffy. She came back.
I'm so stupid. So pathetic. All that fuss, all that grief—an outpouring of angst to rival the masters—or worse, a daytime drama—yet she comes back and my heart flutters. Like a fool, I'm so happy she's here, I punch my pillow down and reach for her hand, drawing it to my mouth to kiss.
She looks down at me. Tiny creases rumple the skin between her eyebrows.
She's right. I'm being weird again. I go for weirder, turning her hand over to kiss the palm. I feel the warmth and marvel. Her hand's beautiful. I inspect her palm through tear-filled eyes, tracing each little crease with my fingertip.
Her fingertips are slightly tougher than the skin around them. And there's a row of pink polka dotty pads on the insides of her knuckles.
I blink, raining teardrops into her upturned palm.
Weepy or not, she'd throttle me for that. She hates her calluses. I remember how much she complained. I know how she worked to keep them down. Considering what she does, her hands are amazing. She takes good care of them and it shows.
But—
Her skin should be thin, waxy and translucent, mottled with a web of inky veins and moist with rot. Or by now…desiccated, fallen away from the bone.
It boggles the mind.
I couldn't do that. I can't even imagine turning back decay like that. I try to fathom it and find myself wanting. The only answer I have is 'magic.' But no magic I understand. I just said the words. I went through the motions. I wasn't even sure how things would turn out. At first I was afraid she was brain damaged…or worse.
She's perfect in every way.
And she's indulging me. That won't last.
Perfect in every physical way. The rest of her is—
She's harder and—I don't know—darker maybe? She has this edge that's very un-Buffy.
She might even be a wee bit morbidly obsessed. The sarcasm threatens to make me grin. Just a smidge.
Maybe she's over that.
I can hope.
Her patience runs out. She holds a box of tissues in her other hand. Gently, she reclaims the hand I hold, so she can offer me one.
I take the box. As I mop my face, blow my nose and clean up the mess that is me, she cleans up the other mess, picking up the pillows and stacking them at the head of the bed.
"I didn't know what to do," she says. "You were so upset. I couldn't—I couldn't just come in." She wants my pillow. I give it up. "I went downstairs and put the kettle on for tea." She tucks another pillow behind my head. "Lame, I know, but that was the only thing I could think to do that might help."
I offer her the only thing I have in return, a weak smile…and icky tissues. I'd never offer her those, but she holds her hand out and I don't argue.
She throws them away and leaves again. For the first few moments she's gone I experience the closest thing to peace I've known since I left England. My mind is blank. Placid even.
The door's ajar so she can slip back in. I stare at it. Tara used to do that too. Me, I cheated. A little hocus pocus and closed doors aren't even an issue.
She was right and I was so wrong. I used magic frivolously. I knew that whenever something is pushed, it displaces the air around it. If it knocks into something else, that 'something else' is affected too, and usually not in a good way. Point to counterpoint. For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.
There are laws. I broke them all. And I expected…
Buffy pushes the door open with her shoulder. A breeze wafts across the room. Point to counterpoint, a melody is formed.
Everything is connected.
She hooks the door with her foot and swings it closed. "Dawn's spending the night at Xander's," she says, striding up to the bedside. She places a cup on my nightstand and goes around to deposit the second cup on—I want to think 'hers,' but that's just too presumptuous. She'll stay until I fall asleep.
It's okay. That can be her nightstand, just for now.
She returns to the door. That seems strange. The whole thing. The door's shut. I don't get why she goes back to lock it.
Oh well. She locked the door. The door can be locked. That's fine.
Because things can't just be what they are—there has to be more—everything has to mean something—I'm so distracted that I miss her crossing the room. She's on the bed before I pay her any notice. She places her palm flat on the bed and shifts her weight so deftly I don't feel anything at all.
The bed used to wiggle when Tara did that.
I watch Buffy move, intent on her face, but watching other stuff too. Her breasts hang loose in her bra. There's a triangular gap open between them. I look down the front of her shirt until she gets too close.
I'm so bad. But I'm not so bad that I'd twist to get a better look. I'm sneaky and bad.
She lies down beside me, somehow without jiggling the bed. Her eyes never leave my face. I feel like she's dissecting me with those eyes, gray and blue with little flecks of green.
We lay shoulder-to-shoulder with our heads turned, just watching each other.
I take a breath. My body shudders. I fret, making a bunch of weird little hiccupy sounds like I'm still crying. I'm not. I'm—
The smile she gives me is full of sympathy.
I want to tell her I'm fine. Say it so she'll stop. She'd never believe me. I'm so far from fine.
But I'm fine. This is nice. We haven't done this since—I think back—yeah, that's fair, we were girls the last time we did this. Or at least, we were still in high school. I think that made us girls, not that we're all that grown up now.
That feels like such a long time ago, but it's only been a few years. I half expect Joyce to be in the next room reading. She always read before bed. I liked that about her.
I liked a lot of things about her.
Buffy reaches across herself to touch me as she rolls onto her side. She catches a few strands of hair with her fingertips, tucking them behind my ear, caressing my cheek, repeating the motion, stroking my hair again and again…
Really, she's just waiting for me to say something. Wish I knew where to start.
'Liked' isn't right. I loved Joyce. We all loved Joyce.
Strange. I didn't know her that well.
Death is just so unfair. It's horrible. Is it right to think 'loved' when you still feel like there's a hole in your life—this awful hole that—?
More tears. Dammit!
I rub my eyes with my fingertips, upsetting her and stopping the nice—
Buffy was stroking my hair. Now she's sitting up. She pulls her ponytail free, scruffles her scalp and sweeps her hair back, all in one long, fluid motion. Her hair falls between her shoulders as she drops the hair tie and reaches for her tea. She sips at it with her back to me.
It's been a year, almost exactly to the day. That feels like a revelation, but it isn't. It's just a reason.
She's so thin. I wonder if she's been eating.
That's none of my business.
I think back.
It's no wonder I'm falling apart. How much loss are we meant to endure?
Avoiding the obvious—the subject's too tender—it's been almost two years since Joyce died. That one loss was too much to bear. The second was—
And the third—
Buffy twists to put her cup down and just as quick turns to face me. Her movements are so fluid. Stretching out, she lies on her side, propping her head in hand. And again, all without jostling the bed.
I mumble, "It's been a year," as she returns her attention to my hair. I followed her into fire, into storm, into darkness, into death…
She's prettier than Mira Furlan.
I should've kept the snake. It might've eaten Amy.
I'm so bad.
Buffy ignores me. What I said at least. I listen to her breathe. A car comes and goes, passing the house as she pets my hair, waiting.
Waiting for me to explain myself. I can't even think straight. My thoughts are jumbley…all over the place.
I don't know what she expects me to say. What I expect her to say. What's left to say?
Her attention gets old fast. I'm in spotlight. I hate that. I turn away.
That's no better. It's a door. It's a locked door. Yay.
More silence.
And more.
And still more.
So much silence it makes me yearn for something to say. But what is there?
Small talk hardly seems appropriate when there's so much big talk we should do. I just don't know where to start. I sort of hoped she'd ask me what I meant or…well, something.
Something would be nice. Anything would be better than her staring and me avoiding.
Oh. I'm the one who's changed. She hasn't changed. We lay shoulder-to-shoulder how long ago? Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. It hasn't been that long. She watched me and I watched her. I was fine with that. But somehow her posture change changed everything.
I'm just being too sensitive.
And she's avoiding this as much as I am. How could she not know what it's been a year since? She's the one who—
I don't want to think about that, but she knows. How could she not know?
Anyway, we should talk about—
"Would you like a drink of tea?" she asks, "I mean, would you like some help?"
Hearing her voice throws me for a loop. She's fine. She sounds fine. She probably doesn't even get that I'm—
I'm the one who's coming unraveled.
Still.
Again.
"Yes," I reply. The last thing I want is to move, but maybe something—not me—will break if I just go along.
She rounds the bed and leans over me. "Put your arms around me," she says.
I feel silly. It's not like my stomach muscles were actually hurt, just my skin, but I do what she asks and she lifts me up. All the stress is on my arms, but my skin rolls, sending a twinge through my tummy. I wince. The silly little sucking sound I make stops her cold.
When I say, "It's alright," she keeps going, lifting me upright. I'm fine when I'm upright. I tell her so. It's getting there that hurts.
She reaches around me, collecting and stacking pillows. I try to ignore the fact that she's—
There's more of Buffy in my face than I'm used to. It's fine though. She finishes up and offers me a hand to steady myself with.
I lean back and accept my mug when she passes it to me. Cupping it my hands, I close my eyes and breathe in the steam. The tea smells citrusy. It's nice.
It'd be nicer if she'd just go back to her side of the bed. She's totally weirding me out. She hovers while I sip until I say, "It's okay. Really. I'll be fine."
How many times do I have to say that? It's like she's been possessed by the spirit of Barbara Billingsley or something. Totally creepy.
She returns to her side of the bed. I don't even watch her this time. The only way I know she's settled is when I feel her hand on my shoulder.
I suppress the urge to shrug away. I don't want to be touched. This is all too intense. I'm too intense. The back of my neck's prickly, like the muscles want to draw tight. And there's this annoying knot between my shoulders.
Well, sort of…it's not really a knot, just lots of tension. Every nerve ending feels raw.
I take a breath, trying to take the edges off. It sort of works. Setting my cup aside, I lace my fingers together and make myself say, "I'm sorry." That's the one thing I haven't said. Or I don't think I said it. I don't remember saying it. I thought I was right. I felt justified. Righteous even until—
She says, "Don't worry about it."
She thinks I'm talking about the little flub up today. How could she not know?
We need to talk. Or I could write her a letter like they do with those twelve-step programs. That'd work.
Yeah, that'd be so lame. I'd rather we just talk. We used to be able to talk. We used to talk about everything. I miss that.
'Kay, so… I'm done avoiding. We're gonna have the talk. Worst case, I'll make things worse. So, what's worse than completely miserable?
I want to start off with 'you can't imagine…' That's the idiom of choice in these situations. But the truth is she can. I know she can. She just hasn't. So I say, "You don't know what it was like." That's fair.
I think back to that night. None of us could even form a thought, let alone a word, but the sirens were closing in and we were running out of time. They were coming.
"The sun was coming up," I say. My voice sounds thin, hollow… "We couldn't just leave you like that."
I stare at my hands as I remember the procession. It was cold outside. Not really cold cold, but cold, like you're used to eighty degree days and suddenly it's fifty. That kind of cold. I was shivering. Tara held me close as we walked.
"Spike carried you," I whisper in my thin voice. "Giles wanted to, so did Xander, but they both conceded that if anyone could carry you and not show a sign—"
Her hand moves from my shoulder. I yield to the pressure she puts on my cheek, turn my head and she's right there. Again, I didn't feel her move.
She kisses me.
This is more than a little wigsome. I almost pull away, but she's so gentle and sweet. She caresses my bottom lip with hers and it's—
It's too short. It's over so quickly I barely get a chance to—
Was that a 'friend' thing? I know there are people who kiss their friends. I'm not one of them. But I think that might've been. Buffy's just not very cuddly. She's actually just the opposite, especially now, so it feels like this huge thing when it probably isn't.
I blink my eyes open and she's still right in front of me, watching, waiting…whispering, "It's alright, Will, I get it."
I don't think she does, so, as she settles into the crook of my shoulder, I mumble, "We picked the most direct route. There were still lots of shadows, so Spike was fine. But we ended up walking right past one of the fire trucks…all those men, people gathering to help. One of the paramedics even asked if we were alright."
Funny, faint pressure on my chest causes me to look. Buffy's focused on the top button of pajama top. She traces its edges with her index finger, going round and round as I say, "Giles answered with his usual, clipped, 'Yes, quite.' It was all too British. The man gave us a funny look. But Giles sounded pretty convincing."
I think she's just bored. That's okay. It's okay if she fiddles with my button. I'm rubbing her back. It's a mindless thing that I wasn't really aware of until I caught her fidgeting too.
"Spike was the better liar. I know that's hard to imagine," I say. "He said, 'Bit of a kip. That's all. Bird can't hold her liquor.' He sounded fine, amused even. I don't know how he did that."
But I don't understand him at all. One moment he was falling apart and the next—
It was like he put on a mask.
I should've just said that, but I think Buffy's already gotten the skinny on Spike.
"We got back to the Magic Box," I say, letting my eyes drift shut. "Next thing I knew he was gone." I'm exhausted and miserable. I wish I hadn't started this.
It's hard, but I make myself go on, "Giles took over the role of the rational one. After everything that had happened, he was actually able to consider the repercussions. He concluded that with Faith alive another slayer wouldn't be called. He said that we had a choice, we could either go on like nothing was wrong or—" There's a frog in my throat. It catches and I clear it away. "—the Council would take care of that 'troubling detail' for us."
I just let the words flow. "It all happened so quickly I barely had time to react. We pooled our money, bought a coffin and ordered a headstone." I should really think carefully about what I'm saying, but if I do, I probably won't say anything at all. "Xander and Anya scouted a location. Someplace out of the way that wouldn't be noticed. Before I knew it we were all taking turns with a shovel."
I'm finally there. "You hadn't been gone for two days before I was looking at your face again." This is the important part. "We needed the bot. All the bad guys—the demons and vamps—they had to believe that you were still alive. Our lives depended on it. It was my job to fix the bot and to keep her working. I was the only one who could."
I scrunch my eyes and tears seep out, dribbling down my cheeks. It's weird. I don't feel that upset. I don't know why I'm so weepy.
That's stupid too. I know exactly why. I mutter, "Stupid bot with its stupid fake smile. I couldn't even bring myself to touch it at first. I just stared at its face—its stupid, frozen face…your face, but not."
My shirt falls open. Buffy's been playing with my buttons. I missed that. Her hand trails down my chest between my breasts. Sort of missed it…I remember her playing with my buttons. I just don't know when she unbuttoned my buttons.
I open my eyes. The two halves of my shirt lay draped over my breasts. Her head's turned. She looks at the bandage that covers my tummy. Maybe that's what—
Umm…
She turns to me and I forget all about my bandages and the blood she might or might not've been looking at. It's apparent that she was listening. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. She blinks and they fall.
Leaning in, she kisses me. There's no mistaking her intentions this time. Her tongue parts my lips. It's soft and wet and slippery, yet stiff and hard and rough the way tongues are.
Tongues are strange, but they feel so nice. And they're good for talking. And eating ice cream…
I'm not sure how I should feel, but I guess I must be kind of, sort of, maybe okay with this because I don't pull away, not even reflexively. Instead, I play catch-up and pantomime both at the same time. It's nice. She's so sweet. Her lips play at mine, like teasing, but in a good way. Rubbing, nibbling, caressing…
I still don't know how I feel when it's over, other than sad. I'm sad when her lips go.
The tip of her nose touches mine. "Is this okay?" she asks. Her breath chills my moist lips, yet it feels warm against my cheeks.
"Yes," rolls off of my tongue and past my lips before I even think. I just want her to kiss me again and she does.
She does and it's just as wonderful the second time. Or the third. This is the third time she's kissed me.
The third time is a bunch of times. Tender little smooches. Three, four, five…
I await the sixth, but there's no sixth smoochie. She moves away.
When I open my eyes, she's peeling her shirt over her head. She reaches around and unfastens her bra. It falls.
She's nothing like the bot.
I feel so stupid for thinking that. Of course she isn't.
I've always thought that it was the sum of all those little imperfections that made a person beautiful. A freckle here, a mole there…
I could live without the dimple on her chest above her left breast. A scar from the gunshot wound. Her tummy's scarred too from that vamp—the one that stabbed her with a stake.
It was the last thing I wanted, but I had to. There was a lot I had to do that I didn't want to do. I sure saw more of the bot than I wanted to. She wasn't shy. She was the product of a really smart, really pervy boy's twisted imagination. He wasn't very imaginative. Her body was like something out of Playboy magazine. She was too perfect.
Buffy isn't.
I like that better. The bot was a pretty toy, airbrushed to perfection. Buffy's beautiful.
This time the bed moves. Not much, just a little as she wiggles out of her sweats. She drops them over the edge and settles back into the curve of my shoulder. That's not—
Expectations are funny things. It usually helps if you're not stunned. But whatever this is, it's perfect.
My hand rests on her back. That's just what naturally happened. The way we fit together. I feel the curve of her body. She's so tiny. My thumb rests against her spine. My fingers wrap around her side. She's soft and hard, dense muscle, wrapped in smooth, warm skin. It's that thing again—the contradictions.
We're full of those tonight. This feels like after…like we've already had sex and somehow I missed it. The passion's waning and what's left is tenderness.
As my hand moves down to rest at the top of her hip, she brushes my pajama top out of the way and touches my chest above my breast. She traces lazy patterns on my skin with her fingertips. It's more soothing than sexy. All of this is soothing.
And that's another contradiction.
I could barely stand to touch the bot. That sounds so bad, but even holding her wrist was weird. She looked good at a distance, but her skin had this strange plasticy texture. It wasn't bad, but it just wasn't right.
The differences were subtle, but I was too repulsed to be impressed. I guess I should've been. I should've wondered more about the 'how.' Maybe I should've even marveled. But I was too hung up on how I could feel a wire here or there that was too close to the surface, how parts that should've felt solid were squishy and other parts that should've been soft were hard.
Now, when I have the real thing curled up in my arms, her breasts crushed against the side of my chest, why am I thinking about—?
I may be confused, but I'm not completely hopeless. The contradictions lessen with contact. The way her body feels in my hand stirs all of the right things inside me.
Her hand trails down between my breasts. Just the tips of her pinky and ring finger brush my skin. She lifts her hand when she reaches the bandage.
I should be watching her instead of the ceiling. That might be a good. But when I look all I see is the crown of her head. That, and her hand. She toys with the bow I tied in the drawstring of my pajama pants.
She tilts her head up, meeting my eyes as the bow pulls free. I guess she expects me to say 'no.' I have no desire to stop her.
Her hand slips beneath the waistband of my pajamas, threading under my panties.
I mumble, "It was all just so…" The thought slips away as her fingers comb through my pubic hair.
There's always a certain amount of fumbling to start. That's no different with Buffy. Her hand doesn't dip as low as I expect. She parts my folds and focuses on…
Once her hand's settled, she does the same thing she was doing to my button. I have trouble with the fact that that gesture didn't seem erotic at the time. I missed that. It was—
But Buffy's always been sexy. I guess I just learned to filter.
I rest my head back on my pillows and close my eyes. I'm torn. Part of me wants to roll over and accost her. The other part thinks this feels too good. If I move…
That's not gonna happen. I keep expecting more…more pressure, more motion, but her fingers move in tight, languid circles. All the right chemicals are released. They swish around making me feel—I feel better than I have in—
I don't even remember. And think that's the point. She's in no hurry. I thought she was trying to distracting me. I was sure that she'd—
I lick my lips. They're dry from—well, breathing…lots and lots of breathing.
It's weird. I feel like I should say something. Try to finish. I was telling her about the first few days, the first month…the next month and all the months after until—
That seemed so important at the time.
It's still important. She's turning me into a puddle, but—
I whisper the first thing that comes to mind, "The bot didn't understand why our eyes leaked all the time. She couldn't cry. She couldn't even relate to crying. She thought we were broken. I told her we were, but it wasn't the kind of 'broken' you could just fix."
Buffy shifts positions. Her chin digs into my shoulder.
I open my eyes. She has this—there's a smile on her face, or half of one, just a grin. I'm not even sure—
She looks amused, but her eyes tell a different story.
I feel immediately silly and small. Unbidden, anger flares up inside me, hot and niggling. I don't know how many times I've seen that look in her eyes and wished it was for me. Now that it is—
She says, "I know what you mean." Her smile brightens and turns mischievous. "I'm not a violent person."
Seriously? I cock an eyebrow.
The anger drains away as she insists, "I'm not."
I can't help it. She makes me grin. I'm glad. The last thing I want is to be grumpy.
She tilts her head. Her cheek nestles against my shoulder as her palm presses. Groping fingers inch lower. My stupid pajamas are in the way.
Buffy's nothing if not persistent. She dips into my puddle. My grin turns to a gasp, a sigh…a breath, lots and lots of heavy breathing.
She talks over me, "The bot was creepy, ridiculous, exasperating, embarrassing…"
This won't do. Moving's still ouchy, but I sit up. Or I make feeble attempt and move enough to jostle her. "Off, please?" I ask, tugging at the waist band of my jammies.
My current version of 'asking' is more 'demanding.' I'm a mess. A sheepish grin curls my lips, but she doesn't notice.
Her hand slips free. I mourn the loss as she concludes, "But mostly it was just gross."
The loss gets easier cope with when she moves. I watch, engrossed.
As I reach for the headboard to steady myself, she picks up her thought, "I've never wanted to just break anything…" she pulls "…as much I wanted to break that…" I cling, but not too tight. I want her to pull me down a little. "I could've just snapped its—" She peels me like a banana and drops my wadded clothes on the floor. "But in a weird way it was also kind of flattering. Know what I mean?"
I'm supposed to say something. Naked Buffy and mostly naked me and, uh…
She curls up between my legs.
Nervous me.
Nervous me fumbles around for an answer and comes up with something really lame. "Yeah, I guess." No surprise…and no clue what she's—
Some of the fog lifts from my brain as I pull a couple of the pillows from behind me. My naggy, grumpy, ouchy belly actually helps. I have a coherent thought.
I voice it before it goes away, "She just didn't understand."
She pushes my thighs up. My hips tilt back, exposing me. All of me. I'm—
Bu-bye coherent thoughts.
It's obvious she's playing when she trails her index finger from the hood of my clitoris all the way down. It's not long trip.
"It was actually a lot like dealing with a child." It feels strange to admit that now. My timing could be better.
Moving up, Buffy takes the two wrinkled folds of flesh and parts them.
I offer another coherent thought while I can, "A hyperactive, naughty child who was overly eager to please. She didn't really know she was being naughty."
She looks up, meeting my eyes. For a moment, I feel like I said something wrong. Like she might think—
I didn't. I wouldn't. She shouldn't—
I was with Tara. Besides, eww…
A smile brightens Buffy's face. My anxiety gives way to more of her mischief.
She does two things at once. With one hand she reaches behind her head, gathers her hair and twists it into a makeshift ponytail as she dips her head. Her tongue pushes inside me.
I grab for the headboard as she lingers. Her tongue wiggles and I—I make this sound—this incoherent whimper that wants to grow up to be a wail.
Just as fast, she pulls her tongue out, turns a circle with it and pulls all of my folds into her mouth.
I moan. In one deft movement she reduces me to two. My new I.Q. is two. I think I could count to two.
Her touch grows gentle. She massages the skin with her lips, drawing more circles…tiny little circles with her tongue.
I—
My lips slip from hers.
I had a coherent thought. I swear.
She touches me again, tracing a line up and down with two of her fingers. She turns them as they slide up and down again. They slip inside me.
Her mouth closes over me…all those tender bits. She uses her tongue to swirl and swipe the extra flesh away. Drawing one tiny little nibblet tight between her lips, she suckles it. She gives me just enough to make me want more, applying just enough pressure to make me woozy, needy, hopelessly…
There are a lot of 'ees' in my world. It feels wonderful, but it's like she's waiting again. Maybe she's worried that she'll touch me too hard or…?
So instead she's touching me too hardly.
I snicker. Or try. It comes out as kind of grunt, getting lost in all the other sniffles, sighs and groans…all those funny little sounds I'm making, bridged together by frantic panting.
I remember how that was. I was so nervous. I need to give her a couple more minutes to play.
Or try. Though, chewing up my pillow seems like a reasonable option.
My body twitches, trembles, shudders. And I can't feel my toes. My extremities are gone. I have to concentrate to find them. They're still there, but they're being shy.
I'm a mess. A slippery, sloppy, sodden, soaking, sopping mess.
The similarities seem so strange. Intense outpourings of emotion. I'm fretting. The ache in my chest is gone, replaced by an airy swelling, but my head feels the same, like a shaken soda set out in the sun. The pressure makes it numb, frothy, fuzzy, muzzy…
My fuzzy wuzzy brain with its new I.Q. of two wants to draw parallels.
'Let's think of something to do while we're waiting, while we're waiting for something new to do.'
The back of my head digs into the mattress. My pillow's wadded up above it. I bat the silly thing away.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Drawing rivulets down my temples, they trickle toward my ears.
One hard pinch and a thump and this'd be over. The soda would explode. But she's not gonna do that—not now—and my pillow's looking yummier by the second.
I reach down to touch her shoulder. When she doesn't respond, I take hold.
She looks up and I pull, urging her to join me. She wears that expression…that pitiful, depressing, 'was I doing something wrong' pout. Combined with the glint of wetness, it's—umm, well…it's kinda hot, but—
I need to fix this and quickly. Buffy and crestfallen are about as meshy as Bush and President. Both carry a high potential for disastrous results.
Drink first. I twist as she moves and reach for my tea. Her hand slips free. She rests propped on her left arm beside me and lets me have a drink. My tea's warm now, not hot, so I down half the cup in a few quick gulps. Honey and tart, citrusy goodness flow past my parched lips. It's nice. I may have a voice. I may even be able to find it.
Setting the cup aside, I take her right hand in mine. It's sticky, like her face. I say, "You have beautiful little hands, sweetie." I hope that she gets that the operative word is 'little.' That's about as tactful as I can be.
As I pull the rings from her fingers, she says, "Sorry." She must think she hurt me.
"No, don't be," I reply. "You're fine." I place her rings on the nightstand and kiss her sticky little fingers.
She seems to like it when draw them into my mouth. But who doesn't? I drag my teeth over her fingertips, lingering to enjoy the sounds she makes. I could just keep going. Explore all of those delectable little Buffy bits. I want her so badly I ache.
I curl her thumb and pinky together and say, "We're good Girl Scouts here." I grin. "Well, I'm not. My mom wouldn't let me, Jewish and all. I got the full spiel about how I didn't want to be a part of such a sexist organization."
She smiles.
When I release her hand, she tries to wipe her chin, but I stop her.
"Kiss me," I whisper. I want her to understand that there's nothing about this I don't enjoy. I guide her on top of me. She rests her arm between us. As our lips meet, her fingers push inside me. My back arches. I grab on to the first thing…her poor little tushy takes the brunt of—
My body malfunctions. It bucks and jerks and shakes. Most of that just buries her fingers. It's like my body's version of 'more.'
It feels wonderful, but convulsions and kisses don't really mix. I lose something. I fix that.
Her lips are slippery and wet, sweet and salty. The sweetness is probably her. Or me. I did have honey in my tea. I linger, just enjoying how her lips feel before moving to kiss her chin. She inclines her head. The sweetness fades, turning salty as I lick and kiss and suck my way down her left jaw line.
The pace she sets is firmer, but still slow. It feels good, but when she tilts her chin to reclaim my lips, I murmur, "Show me what you like." I want to come off all smooth and sexy. I should know better. My voice cracks and 'poof' I'm a thirteen-year-old boy. Or I sound like one.
She stammers, "I, umm…" and falls short. Maybe she's befuddled by my impression?
"It's okay," I reply. I get it. This is one of the things that always intrigued me about her, even without the status reports from her various beaus.
She's still reluctant, so I encourage her, using her bottom to guide her.
I love the way her body feels against mine.
Her kiss is harder this time. She pushes her tongue into my mouth.
My muscles tense, strain, quiver…
Each stroke is a little sharper than the last. As it builds, I fall apart and she moves away.
That's good in a bad sort of way. I was suffocating, but—
Lifting up, moving down…she kisses my throat, my chest. When she reaches my breasts, I go for the headboard.
Her mouth closes over my nipple. She ticks a rhythm with her tongue, counter to the rhythm of her hand. Tick, tock, tick, tock…
I cling.
My I.Q. plummets, reaching dangerously low levels. The proterozoic life forms that first wriggled out of the primordial ooze were probably brighter than I am right now.
Fighting for breath like I'm drowning, I murmur stupid things like, "Harder." The angle of her hand changed when she moved. More leverage. More thrust. She's not exactly being gentle, but stupid me, I want, "More."
No clue what that's about. Between her knuckles and her nails, this is a little too intense already.
She answers by adding another finger. Where she finds it is anyone's guess. I always lose my pinky, just like I've lost my toes.
No, they're still there, curled tight in a ball. I stretch them to avoid potential badness.
She settles in, finds a rhythm and figures out that thing with the edge of her thumb. That thing with the edge of her thumb is—
I'd be impressed, but I'm a little too busy with being systematically reduced to—
Uh…
I'm not even sure what.
I shift my hips, playing, trying to find just the right—and when I do—
Poofy lights and fluffy clouds fill my head. I warble something nonsensical that I immediately forget—I hope it wasn't too silly—and yeses, lots and lots of yeses.
My body does all sorts of funny twitchy, tensey stuff that by all rights should hurt, at least because of my tummy. Hurt is the last thing I feel.
Buffy's head lies between my breasts. She clings to me, holds me down, keeps me from floating away…
Jeez…us, oh…Anu, Nanna, Tefnut, Gurnenthar, Andhrímnir, Óttar, Madison, Rán…
I'm an equal opportunity blasphemer.
Stillness comes.
Sometimes I wonder why this is so addictive. It's a bit like being concussed without the splitting headache after.
But it feels so good.
Her pretty little hand flops onto the bed above her head as she rolls onto her back beside me. I miss it already.
She's winded too. I'm truly impressed now.
I turn my head to meet her eyes. She looks peaceful, contented, relaxed…
These moments are a gift.
Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: .../s/8156788/6/The_Rivers_Daughter