Buffy hit the ground and used her momentum to spring into a forward somersault. It didn't completely offset the impact from the fall; however, she was able to walk away from Wolf House with only twinge in her ankle and a large bruise on her pride.
The bright and sunny day had turned cold for Buffy. She shivered, despite the actual warmth of the day. Head bent and shoulders hunched, she counted her past and recent relationship failures with each step. Right foot, Tara. Left foot, Angel. Faith Willow. The list started over. Tara.
This time, though, she didn't move on.
Instead, images of Tara marched along with her. Tara, her blue eyes wide and filled with tears during the LA mall fiasco. Tara, sitting on the bed in their dorm room, so scared of Buffy that she stuttered on nearly every word.
Buffy's stride slowed…then immediately picked up. Slamming her feet onto the sidewalk, she glowered. She wasn't the same person. She wasn't.
Not even the forceful strides beat the memories of Tara away, though. They hung there, right in front of her eyes, clouding her view of the present. She wasn't that person, she repeated to herself. She couldn't still be…
Her footfalls softened again. Maybe she was still that person. Buffy moodily considered that. Angel. She'd loved him. Or thought she had. Now she wasn't so sure. He'd been different and forbidden. A Slayer and a vampire.
Her lips twisted into a bitter arc.
They'd been a modern version of Romeo and Juliet. Except Buffy hadn't loved him enough to join him in death. She'd used him to get what she wanted in the end. Sure, she'd saved the world. That didn't excuse her whispered "I love you," and the Judas kiss right before she shoved her sword into Angel's stomach.
A single tear streaked her face. It was joined with a horde of friends as the next name slipped out, "Willow."
With a low growl, Faith raised her hands with her fingers bent into claws. "Take it back, Blondie."
Giggling, Tara did the one thing guaranteed to keep her safe – she grabbed Faith's plate and held it threateningly high over her head.
Faith froze immediately. "Fuck it all, T, that ain't fair. Put the plate down. Carefully." The clawed hands were gone, replaced by opened palms. "See? You're safe." Her eyes were glued to the eggs that seemed to tremble on the edge of the plate.
"Big, bad Faith. Brought down b-by one little wi-witch and some food." Having proved her point, Tara returned Faith's breakfast to the counter.
Faith grumbled – but Tara saw her dimples peeking out. "Next time, witch. I'll be ready for you next time." She dropped onto a stool and picked up her fork. "Eat up, T. If you're too slow, I might be tempted to eat mine and yours. Red says I ain't got any manners when it comes to food."
Nibbling at a piece of bacon, Tara said softly, "Let me s-see if I have this straight. You c-can't live in the dorms or be around other p-people, and you steal food."
Mouth full of food, Faith simply nodded her agreement.
"And Wi-Willow tr-trusts you to be here with me?" The crunch of Tara's bacon was loud in the small room.
"Fuck, no." Faith seemed very sure of that. "She trusts you to kick my ass if I get outta line. Red's real impressed with you being a witch and all." The last part was partially garbled as she stuffed a forkful of eggs into her mouth.
Tara had just finished washing her breakfast plate when a sharp knock sounded from the front door.
"I got it," Faith told her. She hopped off the stool and trotted into the living room. "Red musta still been pretty out of it when she went to class this morning. She ain't forgot her key since we first moved in."
Tara heard her turn the lock and then the door handle.
"Hey, Red, I'm gonna…" Faith's voice cut off abruptly.
Alerted by the sudden silence in the other room, Tara hurriedly dried her hands on a tea towel and went to see what had happened.
Faith and another woman stood statue-still on either side of the apartment threshold.
"F-Faith? Is some-something wr-wrong?" The tension was so thick, Tara's stutter worsened in response.
Remaining frozen, Faith didn't answer. The older woman, however, seemed to snap out of her trance. Gently moving Faith out of the way, she stepped into the apartment. "Not wrong, exactly. You must be Tara. I've heard quite a bit about you."
Not sure how to respond to that, Tara ducked her head, feeling her cheeks heat with a blush. "Ho-how did you h-hear…" she stuttered.
Before she could finish, though, the woman turned to Faith. "I was hoping to talk with you and Willow."
"She ain't home yet, Mrs. S." Faith had turned and was watching the older woman closely. "Her last class don't get out 'til one."
Tara tuned out the rest of her words. Mrs. S? Staring hard at the woman in front of her, she considered the blonde hair, hazel eyes, and Faith's normal pattern for nicknames. "M-Mrs. S-Summers?" she croaked out. Dear Goddess. It couldn't be Buffy's mother.
With a wry smile, Mrs. Summers nodded. "I'm so sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier."
No. She definitely shouldn't have. In fact, Tara really wished she didn't know now. Backing away slowly, she mumbled, "I n-need to fin-finish c-cleaning the k-kitchen."
Mrs. Summers' sigh filled the room. "Of course, honey, if it's that important." Her hazel eyes darkened as she peered at Tara. "But please come back. I'd like to talk to you, too, please."
Biting back an instinctive refusal, Tara nodded once before fleeing for the safety of the kitchen.
"What happened last night, Faith? Buffy came home in tears, and she…" Tara cut off the rest of Mrs. Summers' words by turning on the water in the kitchen sink.
Hands shaking, she squirted more dish soap into the murky, bubble-free water she'd left and watched new foam build. Buffy's mother. Tara closed her eyes against sudden tears. The look in Mrs. Summers' eyes… Her own mother had looked like that each and every time she'd been about to apologize.
What did Mrs. Summers have to apologize for? She hadn't been the one to make Tara's life miserable. That had been Buffy.
Tara forced her thoughts back to the dishes and utensils. Even scrubbing each one slowly and carefully and examining them for any leftover crumb or food stain failed to make the task last long enough. Biting her lip, Tara drained the water from the sink. Without the clatter of plates and running water, snippets of conversation drifted in from the living room.
"…didn't see Buffy," Willow's voice said. She must have come home while Tara had been hiding in the kitchen. Sounding defensive, Willow continued. "Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't talk to her because she wasn't in class."
Ignoring the shame coiling in her stomach, Tara crept closer to the kitchen doorway and listened intently.
"Willow, honey, calm down." Tara froze as Mrs. Summers spoke. "I'm not accusing you of kidnapping her or blaming you for anything." There was a hint of irritation in her voice. "I merely thought you might have realized how badly you may have…overreacted last night and had gone to talk to Buffy."
When she finally ran out of bad relationships and choices to mull over, Buffy stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and blearily peered around. Nothing looked familiar at first.
She spun slowly and looked again.
A dry cleaners. The Sunnydale Credit Union…Buffy snorted. All the inner peps talks and the laundry list of personal failures and she'd only made it to the outskirts of campus – just a few steps from the main co-ed drinking spot. With a sense of the inevitable, Buffy continued walking until Jack's came into view. Maybe Xander was working and would spot her a drink. She could use one…or a dozen.
Her hopes for drunken forgetfulness were dashed. Xander wasn't polishing the bar or stacking glasses. The owner was. He waved at her and leaned against the gleaming wood surface. "Your friend isn't here."
"That's OK," Buffy answered. And it was. Maybe it was actually a good thing that Xander had the night off. Willow had probably told him what had happened. And she didn't think she could take the disappointment in the eyes of her other good friend. Slumping onto a barstool, she mumbled without much hope, "How about a beer?"
That earned her a long look. Then, with a snort, Jack turned and placed his hand on the tap. "I've got a brand new brew. First one's on the house if you tell me what you think. I got a hell of a deal on this, and I'm thinking of making it the house beer."
Great. With a wry twist to her lips, Buffy nodded. Why not? From a fuck for points to a barroom guinea pig. "Line 'em up."
Jack slid the first chilled mug down the bar. "One at a time," he warned. "You get too outta hand, I'll cut you off." Glaring at a group of college-aged young men in the back, Jack went on. "I've already replaced too many tables and chairs since the start of the semester."
Holding back a comment on his policy of serving anyone – even her – a drink, Buffy picked up the cold, condensation-streaked mug by the handle and raised it to her lips. She was a Slayer. Alcohol wouldn't affect her, no matter how much she drank.