---
part two
---
Tara was standing at the end of the punt, guiding the vessel through the rich, slow flowing water. Long, waving branches draped the bank, and a black swan landed nearby. The spray from its wings splashed Willow's face, and the droplets were ice cold on her cheek. Tara chuckled gently as she wiped the water away.
"You've gotten all wet," she said, smiling kindly as she guided them further down the river. Willow gestured towards the swan.
"Well, you know-- bird."
It was feeding, throwing itself headfirst beneath the surface.
"She's beautiful, isn't she? She's been waiting for you."
"I've been... away, So have you." Willow said, a nervous tremor entering her voice.
Tara knelt beside her, and reclined against the floor of the boat. The sound of the water continued, but somehow, the boat suddenly was their sleigh bed, and Tara was sadly playing with a strand of Willow's hair. Willow idly noted the box of sweaters she had packed where it rested on the new carpet..
"Shouldn't you-- shouldn't you be somewhere else? Somewhere new?" Willow asked. She didn't wonder how Tara came to be there or why. It just... was. And suddenly she could hear bizarre cries in the distance, plaintive and searching.
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Not yet."
"What are those sounds?" Willow asked, listening to the eerie cries.
"Those? Peacocks. Somewhere off shore," Tara said, gesturing towards the far wall and the windows. She didn't seem to see them, and trailed her hand against the edge of the bed as if it were the river.
The sound of glass shattering broke the moment. Willow started up in the bed, scattering the pile of clothes she had fallen asleep folding. She felt safe and rested for a moment, before reality settled on her again.
Dreams. At least this one had been more pleasant than the ones this summer. She shook her head clear, stood and looked around.
She saw where the new window was shattered-- just as it had on that day.
---
Buffy loosened the tightly compressed roots of the rose bush, shaking them free. The dirt covered her hands, staining them an earthy brown. She lowered it into the hole she had dug, and covered it with the appropriate soils and fertilizers. The row of bushes she had planted before this rested against the house's foundation.
Pulling out all the heavy growth that had accumulated around the foundations since her mother died took most of the afternoon, even with her greater strength. The uprooted vines and weeds rested in a pile on the newly mowed lawn.
She breathed in the stifling afternoon heat, and unconsciously wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a trailing stain there. The screen door opened, and she looked up. Willow was standing there.
"Hey Buffy," she said softly.
"Hey."
"Isn't it a little late for those to bloom this year?" Willow asked, gesturing to the roses.
"Maybe... but sometimes things can grow late... how are you doing up there?"
"Ok-- I'm ok..." Willows voice trailed off a moment.
"I... I uhm, well, this might seem weird, but-- well not that you don't understand weird-- not that I mean that you--"
"Wil, it's ok. What is it you need?"
"I was wondering if I could stay there. I mean, tonight."
"I... guess it's ok. Dawn might want some company while I'm out working. But are you sure it's a good idea? I'd think it'd be--"
"Uncomfortable."
"Yeah."
"I want to... I feel closer to her there. I remember what it was like before...."
Buffy's eyes trailed to the porch stairs.
"I understand," she said, wiping her hand off on her jeans before touching her friend's arm gently, "Maybe you'd like to help me finish planting these? It'll go faster together."
---
They met there again, as if by an unspoken pact-- by the statue of the angel, who outstretched her right arm, holding a laurel crown over the grave she guarded.
There were no vampires. The cemetery was quiet and empty. Spike felt quiet and empty, as he walked among the stones.
The soul had given him quiet, and silence, and introspection. All of which he had had before. Perhaps it just called his attention to them in greater measures. Or perhaps it wasn't the soul that did it at all. Perhaps it was just him, his brain devising a new trick to underline the ways things went wrong. He mused on it as he walked beside her.
He found it difficult to look at her anymore. For the first time, he wasn't sure what she was thinking when he looked in her eyes. He avoided her gaze, afraid she might read him more clearly now that he felt so confused.
Instead, they walked, looking forward into the night for any trace of movement among the stones. The names were familiar to him now, carved on their faces. They were like old companions, comfortable in their way, well known now from the countless times he'd walked among them.
"You see anything?"
"No," he said, lighting a cigarette, "S'quiet." He continued down the dirt path, but she suddenly stopped.
"What's it like?"
"What, love?"
"I mean... does it feel different? Now that you've-- now that you're changed?"
He looked down at the ground, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it only half-burnt.
"No."
He wasn't good at lying. It seemed ironic somehow, that he never had been. And now she turned to him swiftly, seized his shoulders, and stared into his eyes.
He tried to avoid the eye contact, as he had since he'd returned. She thought he would confide in her-- tell her everything-- but he seemed unable to make sense of it, unable to come up with a way to put it into a logical order. Perhaps simply that he walked with her, fought with her was confidence enough.
His eyes had that look-- the one she'd seen reflected in her mirror and in her friend's expressions that previous year. She felt that way because she had been revived... and now he stood before her, revived, and despairing.
He shook himself free and turned from her. He put a hand to his temple.
"We could keep going, make another sweep. Nothing this time 'round, then we should probably just head home." He headed down the path, toward the iron gates.
"Spike..." she said softly. Her tone sounded strange. She had said his name many times, but never before like this-- it was an exclamation of pure pity. She felt somewhat distant as she said it, but she wanted very much to understand.
"Look-- Buffy don't, I'm--"
A woman materialized from the darkness and kicked him in the jaw. He bowled over and the woman turned to Buffy, who tripped her as she attacked, and grabbed Spike's arm, pulling him up into a full run. Two others started pursuit. She could hear still more in the distance.
"Where did they come from?" Buffy muttered as they fled for better ground.
"I don't know-- vampires?"
"I think so...I'm not sure."
And an arrow chipped the stone of the mausoleum behind them. Another came at a different angle, but Spike and Buffy were sheltered behind a memorial bench.
"Right then. Can't stay here. I'll try to circle 'round and catch them from behind."
"You go right. I'll go left." And they went.
Buffy stalked low, trying to guess the locations from which the fire had come. She didn't have to travel far before she came upon several of the group. She attacked.
She knocked one of the women down against a headstone, and she sat against it stunned a moment. The other two attacked with daggers. She disarmed one with a kick and ducked to dodge the swing of the second. The woman kicked her to the ground, and as she was about to jump up for a second pass, they looked in each other's faces.
The woman was small and had light brown hair, tightly braided. She looked about thirty. A small gold cross hung around her neck, glistening in the moonlight. The strange, severely dressed woman squinted a moment in amazement as she looked at Buffy, made a gesture to her companions, and they ran away into the night. They vanished again as Spike ran up to her, calling out her name.
"You allright Slayer?" he asked, offering his hand to pull her up. She stood on her own, looking into the dark.
"They weren't vampires. She had a cross. And she just looked at me and they ran away."
"Strange..." he replied, scanning the distance beside her.
"Very."
---
Tara was standing at the end of the punt, guiding the vessel through the rich, slow flowing water. Long, waving branches draped the bank, and a black swan landed nearby. The spray from its wings splashed Willow's face, and the droplets were ice cold on her cheek. Tara chuckled gently as she wiped the water away.
"You've gotten all wet," she said, smiling kindly as she guided them further down the river. Willow gestured towards the swan.
"Well, you know-- bird."
It was feeding, throwing itself headfirst beneath the surface.
"She's beautiful, isn't she? She's been waiting for you."
"I've been... away, So have you." Willow said, a nervous tremor entering her voice.
Tara knelt beside her, and reclined against the floor of the boat. The sound of the water continued, but somehow, the boat suddenly was their sleigh bed, and Tara was sadly playing with a strand of Willow's hair. Willow idly noted the box of sweaters she had packed where it rested on the new carpet..
"Shouldn't you-- shouldn't you be somewhere else? Somewhere new?" Willow asked. She didn't wonder how Tara came to be there or why. It just... was. And suddenly she could hear bizarre cries in the distance, plaintive and searching.
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Not yet."
"What are those sounds?" Willow asked, listening to the eerie cries.
"Those? Peacocks. Somewhere off shore," Tara said, gesturing towards the far wall and the windows. She didn't seem to see them, and trailed her hand against the edge of the bed as if it were the river.
The sound of glass shattering broke the moment. Willow started up in the bed, scattering the pile of clothes she had fallen asleep folding. She felt safe and rested for a moment, before reality settled on her again.
Dreams. At least this one had been more pleasant than the ones this summer. She shook her head clear, stood and looked around.
She saw where the new window was shattered-- just as it had on that day.
---
Buffy loosened the tightly compressed roots of the rose bush, shaking them free. The dirt covered her hands, staining them an earthy brown. She lowered it into the hole she had dug, and covered it with the appropriate soils and fertilizers. The row of bushes she had planted before this rested against the house's foundation.
Pulling out all the heavy growth that had accumulated around the foundations since her mother died took most of the afternoon, even with her greater strength. The uprooted vines and weeds rested in a pile on the newly mowed lawn.
She breathed in the stifling afternoon heat, and unconsciously wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a trailing stain there. The screen door opened, and she looked up. Willow was standing there.
"Hey Buffy," she said softly.
"Hey."
"Isn't it a little late for those to bloom this year?" Willow asked, gesturing to the roses.
"Maybe... but sometimes things can grow late... how are you doing up there?"
"Ok-- I'm ok..." Willows voice trailed off a moment.
"I... I uhm, well, this might seem weird, but-- well not that you don't understand weird-- not that I mean that you--"
"Wil, it's ok. What is it you need?"
"I was wondering if I could stay there. I mean, tonight."
"I... guess it's ok. Dawn might want some company while I'm out working. But are you sure it's a good idea? I'd think it'd be--"
"Uncomfortable."
"Yeah."
"I want to... I feel closer to her there. I remember what it was like before...."
Buffy's eyes trailed to the porch stairs.
"I understand," she said, wiping her hand off on her jeans before touching her friend's arm gently, "Maybe you'd like to help me finish planting these? It'll go faster together."
---
They met there again, as if by an unspoken pact-- by the statue of the angel, who outstretched her right arm, holding a laurel crown over the grave she guarded.
There were no vampires. The cemetery was quiet and empty. Spike felt quiet and empty, as he walked among the stones.
The soul had given him quiet, and silence, and introspection. All of which he had had before. Perhaps it just called his attention to them in greater measures. Or perhaps it wasn't the soul that did it at all. Perhaps it was just him, his brain devising a new trick to underline the ways things went wrong. He mused on it as he walked beside her.
He found it difficult to look at her anymore. For the first time, he wasn't sure what she was thinking when he looked in her eyes. He avoided her gaze, afraid she might read him more clearly now that he felt so confused.
Instead, they walked, looking forward into the night for any trace of movement among the stones. The names were familiar to him now, carved on their faces. They were like old companions, comfortable in their way, well known now from the countless times he'd walked among them.
"You see anything?"
"No," he said, lighting a cigarette, "S'quiet." He continued down the dirt path, but she suddenly stopped.
"What's it like?"
"What, love?"
"I mean... does it feel different? Now that you've-- now that you're changed?"
He looked down at the ground, dropping his cigarette and stepping on it only half-burnt.
"No."
He wasn't good at lying. It seemed ironic somehow, that he never had been. And now she turned to him swiftly, seized his shoulders, and stared into his eyes.
He tried to avoid the eye contact, as he had since he'd returned. She thought he would confide in her-- tell her everything-- but he seemed unable to make sense of it, unable to come up with a way to put it into a logical order. Perhaps simply that he walked with her, fought with her was confidence enough.
His eyes had that look-- the one she'd seen reflected in her mirror and in her friend's expressions that previous year. She felt that way because she had been revived... and now he stood before her, revived, and despairing.
He shook himself free and turned from her. He put a hand to his temple.
"We could keep going, make another sweep. Nothing this time 'round, then we should probably just head home." He headed down the path, toward the iron gates.
"Spike..." she said softly. Her tone sounded strange. She had said his name many times, but never before like this-- it was an exclamation of pure pity. She felt somewhat distant as she said it, but she wanted very much to understand.
"Look-- Buffy don't, I'm--"
A woman materialized from the darkness and kicked him in the jaw. He bowled over and the woman turned to Buffy, who tripped her as she attacked, and grabbed Spike's arm, pulling him up into a full run. Two others started pursuit. She could hear still more in the distance.
"Where did they come from?" Buffy muttered as they fled for better ground.
"I don't know-- vampires?"
"I think so...I'm not sure."
And an arrow chipped the stone of the mausoleum behind them. Another came at a different angle, but Spike and Buffy were sheltered behind a memorial bench.
"Right then. Can't stay here. I'll try to circle 'round and catch them from behind."
"You go right. I'll go left." And they went.
Buffy stalked low, trying to guess the locations from which the fire had come. She didn't have to travel far before she came upon several of the group. She attacked.
She knocked one of the women down against a headstone, and she sat against it stunned a moment. The other two attacked with daggers. She disarmed one with a kick and ducked to dodge the swing of the second. The woman kicked her to the ground, and as she was about to jump up for a second pass, they looked in each other's faces.
The woman was small and had light brown hair, tightly braided. She looked about thirty. A small gold cross hung around her neck, glistening in the moonlight. The strange, severely dressed woman squinted a moment in amazement as she looked at Buffy, made a gesture to her companions, and they ran away into the night. They vanished again as Spike ran up to her, calling out her name.
"You allright Slayer?" he asked, offering his hand to pull her up. She stood on her own, looking into the dark.
"They weren't vampires. She had a cross. And she just looked at me and they ran away."
"Strange..." he replied, scanning the distance beside her.
"Very."
---
