Solace
By RavenWolf
"Is she okay?"
"What the hell kind of question is that? She is most definitely NOT okay. She's in shock. Or mourning. Or something. Think of it this way. Pretend Angel died and you went crazy and tried to end the world, and hurt a lot of your friends in the process, and are now forced to rely on them for everything. She is NOT okay at all."
"Okay, geez Xander. I get it. I understand that you're protective of her, but she's MY best friend too. I just meant physically, anyways. Having that much power for so long and then losing can't be good for her."
"I'll take care of her."
"I know you will, but..."
"Just forget it. Help me get her to my place."
"Fine."
Willow heard all this through a haze. She supposed she was in shock, like Xander said, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She just wanted to lie there and not move. Maybe die. She really didn't care. But then, she felt warm hands on her shoulders and her ankles, and though she refused to open her eyes, she knew it was Buffy and Xander. Moving her from....where was she?to Xander's apartment. The one that he bought with Anya. And somewhere, Willow felt guilty for taking Anya's place, knowing the demoness would be upset and quietly jealous, but her guilt was buried and lost in the haze.
She felt her body being jostled, and a sharp pain in her elbow. "Oh, damn. Sorry, Wills." Willow wondered if Buffy knew she was awake. Not that it mattered. Well, she really didn't want to have to deal with the questioning, and then realized why Buffy had been so antisocial when she'd first come back.
Willow felt slightly upset when she was laid in the back of a car seat, and someone sat down next to her. She recognized the scent of vanilla, and knew that Buffy would now continue to talk to her. She probably thought it was comforting, and to someone else, it might have been. But not Willow, not now, and Willow wished she had the energy to tell Buffy to just. Go. Away. And couldn't manage to care that it would hurt her best female friend's feelings. Buffy hadn't cared when she'd shut Willow out after being resurrected.
She felt the jolting of the car as it rolled down the road. So soothing, and yet she couldn't seem to sink back into sleep. Or unconsciousness. Or wherever she was before she woke up at the Magic Box.
Buffy began to stroke her hair absently, talking to her about...Spike? Why was Buffy talking about Spike? Willow focused hard on the words instead of drifting, and managed to hear and understand Buffy's words. "...Dawn's real worried about him, and I guess I am, too. God, why'd he have to leave?.." Ah. Making this about *her* again. Like everything's Buffy's problem and everyone should all stop what they were doing and rush to comfort her. Willow wanted to slap her, but couldn't even summon up the energy to open her eyes, and thus let the rage fade, as it was easier than entertaining it.
They reached Xander's, and again she felt herself being carried. And then laid on a bed. And then, yes, yes, left alone. Lights off. Blessed darkness and peace. She fell asleep with tears in her eyes, but was unable to remember why she was crying.
***
The days pass slowly, meaningless. Willow usually doesn't even know what day of what week of what month it is anymore. She really doesn't even care. She's dropped out of her classes at the college, and Xander is keeping her with him. He tries to hide behind friendship, but Willow knows. He's lonely, too, looking for a body to fill Anya's place, even if the body rarely speaks and happens to be gay.
Willow stares into her tea for hours sometimes, watching the steam rise slowly from the mug, lessening with time until it was no more. Giles always makes her a cup when he comes over. Willow really doesn't remember everytime he does, but as soon as he opens the door, she slips easily into the repressed pattern of meaningless banter, not even realizing she's talking sometimes, sometimes not speaking at all, just letting the silence talk.
Buffy practically lives at Xander's now. Of all the Scoobies, she understands the most. She comes in while Willow is pretending to be asleep, and she just sits. She doesn't talk, though she knows beyond a doubt that Willow is awake. Buffy knows what it's like to spend all your time wishing you were somewhere else, with someone else, but all the while making do with what you have because it's the best you can get, and you used to think it was pretty damn good.
But not anymore. Willow knows better now. So, while Xander cooks and talks and pretends that having her around is better than the ghost of Anya that she knows haunts the place, she stands up and tells him that she's going for a walk. And he offers to come with her, offers to ask Buffy to go. Is met with steadfast silence and blank stares that he interprets as pleading.
And, finally realizing that this is a witch that has resurrected the dead, defeatedly gives her a cross and tells her to be careful. Even though he knows that she isn't safe, not because of the creatures of the night, but because of herself. He knows that she won't protect herself against a vampire, and yet lets her go, because at this point, he wonders guiltily if she might be happier dead. And then he denies it to himself and reminds himself that she is powerful, that she wants to live, that she is reasonable, all these empty promises and made-up traits that makes it easier for him to let her go from his meager protection.
But he knows he can't stop her, and he watches her leave with a foreboding to equal his guilty pleasure.
On some level, Willow knows where she'll go. On all levels, actually. There really only is one place that holds meaning for her now. She doesn't talk as she stands staring at the grave, the one right next to Buffy's old one. The grass has grown over the place where the tombstone used to rest, but there is still a shallow trench in the dirt, letting everyone know that a mistake has been made. Buffy had been brought back when she wasn't supposed to be, and the thing that scares Willow the most is that she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to meet her there again. She doesn't know if she could ever do enough good to outdo the sins she's racked up. That she will end up peacefully in Heaven with Tara.
TARA MACCLAY
1980-2002
MORE THAN JUST A SIDEKICK
Willow can't remember the funeral. Can't remember any of it, actually, not even the blood and gore from the shooting. She knows if she tries hard enough, she will, but who really wants those kinds of memories? Your lover dying, your violent and vicious rampage that everyone worked so hard not to hold against you, even though you can still see the fear and pain behind your best friend's eyes when he came in to check on you. Still see the scars that you had given him on his stomach and arm and face. And how you. Just. Didn't. Care.
Willow doesn't even look up when Drusilla comes to sit beside her. Wonders briefly if she would be killed, and then decides it doesn't matter. Silence stretches endlessly, Willow hoping that if she pretends hard enough and isn't here, then she won't have to see the hard proof of Tara's demise.
"People think I'm crazy, you know." Dru speaks. Her tone is lucid, and Willow feels a slight pinprick of interest. Is Dru always off and on like this?
"You are." Willow doesn't look at her, just sits cross-legged and stares at the cold, hard granite.
"I know." And Willow looks at her, and touches the wetness on the other woman's cheek. Dru is crying. "I miss my Spike." And to Willow's surprise, she isn't whining, just sad. Like her. Two peas in a pod, if what Willow is feeling even qualifies as sad. "They all go away. My daddy left me. He doesn't love me. Spike...Spike went away to dance under the stars with the Slayer. Bitch. She sticks her tongue out at me, even now." Drusilla sounds like a five-year-old who's lost their parents and all they held dear. "Grandmummy broke Miss Edith, you know. Broke her into a million shining pieces before she flew away. I miss Grandmummy."
"Why haven't you killed me yet, Drusilla?"
"Don't wanna. I feel your pain, too, duckling. You're like me. Maybe you could be Miss Edith." Dru holds up her hands to look at them. They're shaking. "No. No. You're my pretty little redbird. Can you fly?"
"Sometimes." Dru doesn't respond, and another silence falls. Willow is surprised when she breaks it with a sob. "I don't want to be alone, Dru."
"Hush, now, darling. Mummy's here." Dru doesn't seem to realize that she is in demon face when she pulls Willow flush against her cold body. Willow is struck with the bizarre idea that Dru should be warmed up. She doesn't deserve to be alone and cold, either.
Drusilla begins a strange purring sound that vibrates against Willow, all the way through her core. And Willow senses in Dru not so much a kindred spirit, but another lost person that she can cling to. And she somehow senses that it's safe to cry here.
She realizes that Dru's crying again, too, and draws back to see the cold tears run down the china doll face. Her brown hair falls in front of her face, two little strands on either side, and without thinking, Willow pushes one aside to see unobscured the yellow eyes and deformed brow. And can't help tracing a finger along her face, feeling the uneveness. Down to the well sculpted lip, and Dru opens her mouth slightly, welcoming the exploration and presenting her fangs for inspection.
Willow, hardly breathing, runs a finger along one sharp canine, hard enough to draw blood. Drusilla's golden yellow eyes roll up a bit, and her tongue flicks out to taste the crimson fluid. Willow lets her. "Can Mummy have a taste?" Willow says nothing, just leaves her finger on Dru's lip, and Dru sucks it into her mouth, not worrying that she's cutting further with her fangs. Little pinpricks on either sides of Willow's finger and there's more blood flowing. Dru's gold eyes fixate on the witch, and Willow suddenly realizes the eroticism of the act with a throb of pleasure between her legs. And she doesn't fight it, because *she doesn't want to be alone.*
And Dru swirls her tongue around the finger, tasting the sweet ambrosia, feeling the natural power that was rampant in the blood, and her eyes are closed in ecstasy. "More," she whispers. Before Willow knows it, she's flipped her short shock of red hair behind her shoulder, exposing her neck to Dru. Her skin's almost as pale as the vampire's she thinks as Dru lets her finger go and traces a small vein on her neck.
Willow shivers and repeats Drusilla's plea. "More," she says softly, and this time Dru answers.
"Yes." The fangs slide easily into her neck. There's a stunning dose of pain, along with a jolt of fear, but both quickly subside as the pleasure kicks in. Drusilla begins to suck at the wound, the slight pressure coming in pulses at the jucture of Willow's neck and shoulder. And it feels good, and Willow gasps because she understands what Riley was talking about now. The feel of being *needed*, even for something as primal as food.
After too short a time, Drusilla withdraws and licks the twin puncture wounds fondly, almost tenderly. Add in the purring, and she's beginning to remind Willow of Miss Kitty Fantastico, who was put up for adoption when she and Tara moved into Buffy's. Willow has the presence of mind to wonder why she isn't dead, but all thoughts flee as Dru's hand creeps across her belly and to the hem of her pants, pausing before dipping below the waistline. Willow feels her hand tangle in the nest of curls as red as the hair on her head, and doesn't even wonder why.
Dru smiles, drops of Willow-blood staining her alabaster skin, and dips further. Willow sighs softly, and closes her eyes, smiling the entire time as Dru skillfully brings her off.
When the bliss fades, and Willow opens her eyes, Dru is still staring. She's laying on her back now, directly over Tara's grave, with her feet facing towards Dru. She sits up and kisses Drusilla, tasting the soft metallic quality of her own blood. And the taste is akin to sucking on a penny, but it tastes *good*, because it's mixed with something dark and *old*. Something romantic that always turns out far more dangerous than it's portrayed in movies and books, and she wants *more*, because it's the polar opposite of Tara's sunny sweetness, and there's nothing here to bring back her old ghosts at all.
***
The next night, Willow brings a doll that she's bought at the store for her. She's not sure that Dru will show, because they didn't plan it or anything, but at the same time she *knows* without a doubt that she'll show. Because it's in her nature, it's in both their natures. It's the one place where they have common ground, a place that's as new to Willow as it is old, because she'd seeing it from the other side now. She's not all the way there, but she wonders what she'll think about the cemetery when she's buried six feet under the surface of it. If it'll seem like home then.
She sits at Tara's grave, and again Drusilla appears. Willow gives her the doll, which causes her to squeal with delight. She names it Miss Kitty, and Willow wonders where that came from. Not to mention why she bought the doll, besides the symbolic meaning, which was that she had her own doll, Xander, to keep her company. Dru deserved hers.
She feels no love for the vampiress, not even much caring, but can't help being drawn to her all the same. Is too far gone to wonder why.
The morning after, Xander is startled by a short, humorless bark of laughter coming from Willow's room, aka his room. He's been sleeping on the couch, letting her have the single bedroom. He doesn't even entertain the thought that she's getting better, because he knows she's not, and is beginning to realize that she probably won't ever. And the worst part is that he can't think of a single thing that's made her smile, given her reason to show interest at all in these past few months. Buffy's stopped coming by so often, but still calls all the time, and every time they speak, she asks him to let Willow stay in her old room, with her. And every time, Xander declines vehemently, saying that Willow doesn't need to be reminded of Tara's gruesome death everytime she went to bed. He always recognizes that she remembers and thinks about it all the time anyways, but he still protests, regular as clockwork.
Willow's laughing because she's remembered Buffy's affair with Spike, and Xander's utter revulsion. She wonders what he would think if he knew that she was sleeping with Drusilla. He'd probably kick her out on the streets. At least Spike had a chip. And was a guy. She couldn't help but think about the way Xander occasionally still wigged when she pointed out a hot girl and he agreed. He was nothing if not open-minded about it, but it was the normal way of things, and though he should expect it after licing on the hellmouth, she knows it's still hard for him. Still irks him at the edge of his consciousness.
***
A month later, she's still going to Dru. She brings a doll with her every night, and imagines that Dru has quite a collection somewhere, wherever she spends the day. Xander is getting suspicious though, wondering where all those dolls she brings home go. She figures she'll tell him that she gives them away to homeless children or something sufficiently selfless and sugary that he'll accept it and give her praise. She could never tell him that she gave them to her vampire lover.
Tonight something's different, though. She senses a presence that isn't Dru behind her shoulder as she sits, and turns to see Buffy. And Dawn. And oh, Goddess help her, Drusilla will be there any minute, and Buffy will kill her, or she'll kill them, and then the visits will stop and Willow will be alone, truly alone in all her misery.
"Hey, Wills," Buffy doesn't seem surprised to see her there, and Willow surmises that she followerd her here after seeing her on patrol with Dawn. And oh, Willow doesn't want Dawn to see this. Doesn't want her to know this side of her, this darkness that has eclipsed her almost completely.
"Hi, Buffy." Her tone lacks emotion, as usual. She can't find a good way to articulate her feelings, and rapidly becomes frustrated when Buffy doesn't leave. And worried, because despite her annoying tendencies, and her constant dropping by, Buffy is still one of her best friends in the world, and Willow doesn't want her to get hurt. Nor Dawn.
Buffy and Dawn sit on either side of her. Buffy starts talking, and Willow really wishes she wouldn't. This is a place for silence, and Buffy is ruining it. Desecrating this holy place with her words. "So this is where you've been going every night. Xander told me you were going for walks, but he didn't know where you went. You sit out here all night?" Buffy's speech is cut short by a rustle in the bushes. Willow wonders belatedly if Drusilla feels betrayed by her bringing of company. Of Buffy. She must think that Willow wants her dead, and Willow wonders when exactly she started caring about the vampiress. She never meant to, and while it was a far cry from love, it wasn't hate. It was more of a camaderie formed through lonliness and misery.
Drusilla steps forward, and Buffy immediately leaps up with a stake in her hand. Dru's carrying a red rose with her. Strangely romantic, though Willow thinks that maybe the thorns would be fun, too. Being with Dru's turned her on to bloodplay.
Buffy raises her stake and Dawn is backing her with a wicked looking sword. And they fight, and Willow can *feel* her world crashing down around her as Dru dodges the blade and doles out three vicious scratches along Dawn's cheek.
And Willow just wants them to go away. Oh, why can't they, why *won't* they just stop, stop, STOP!
Everything freezes and Willow realizes that she's spoken out loud. At least it worked. She turns to Buffy, and she vaguely recognizes the feel of the resolve face she's known for. "Buffy. Dawn. Please. Just go."
"My little redbird's angry." Drusilla states softly, stroking the stem of the rose, even though it's making her bleed.
Buffy shoots Willow an angry, accusing look, and Dawn's just plain *glaring*, and Willow's. Had. Enough. "Buffy. I'm telling you for the last time, just go. Now." She feels the crackle of energy and the surge of the long-dormant magicks within her beginning to rise. Apparently, Buffy gets the picture, because she takes Dawn by the hand after confiscating her sword, and backs away slowly.
"Wills," she says, almost as if it's a warning. Willow's not stupid. She knows that Dru's dangerous. She just doesn't *understand*. The way Dru does. And finally, the last pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place.
Willow waits until Buffy and Dawn are gone and out of sight before turning back to Dru. She's still petulantly stroking the rose with her shredded hands, not seeming to realize that her delicate hands are now drenched in her own blood.
Willow distractedly hands her the doll, giving her something else to fondle. "Dru," she says, her voice husky with fear and anticipation. "I want you to change me. Make me like you, a vampire. Would you do that? Then we'd never be alone again."
Dru twirls a strand of her hair around abstractly, her eyes not focusing on anything. "Could we kill?"
"Yes." Willow's voice has dropped an octave.
She cocks her head, thinks for a moment, and then turns back. "Okay then." She says cheerily, and grins, giving Willow an upclose and personal view of her teeth as they change into fangs.
As they sink again into Willow's neck, the same place every time, she feels the long-awaited peace finally coming. It's not Tara. It'll never be Tara, but at least she'll never be alone again. As long as she's careful, she'll never have to worry about Heaven or Hell, just right here, right now. And there's no way she'd ever love Drusilla, but they'll stay together, just because they're both terrified of the inevitable. Of being alone.
By RavenWolf
"Is she okay?"
"What the hell kind of question is that? She is most definitely NOT okay. She's in shock. Or mourning. Or something. Think of it this way. Pretend Angel died and you went crazy and tried to end the world, and hurt a lot of your friends in the process, and are now forced to rely on them for everything. She is NOT okay at all."
"Okay, geez Xander. I get it. I understand that you're protective of her, but she's MY best friend too. I just meant physically, anyways. Having that much power for so long and then losing can't be good for her."
"I'll take care of her."
"I know you will, but..."
"Just forget it. Help me get her to my place."
"Fine."
Willow heard all this through a haze. She supposed she was in shock, like Xander said, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She just wanted to lie there and not move. Maybe die. She really didn't care. But then, she felt warm hands on her shoulders and her ankles, and though she refused to open her eyes, she knew it was Buffy and Xander. Moving her from....where was she?to Xander's apartment. The one that he bought with Anya. And somewhere, Willow felt guilty for taking Anya's place, knowing the demoness would be upset and quietly jealous, but her guilt was buried and lost in the haze.
She felt her body being jostled, and a sharp pain in her elbow. "Oh, damn. Sorry, Wills." Willow wondered if Buffy knew she was awake. Not that it mattered. Well, she really didn't want to have to deal with the questioning, and then realized why Buffy had been so antisocial when she'd first come back.
Willow felt slightly upset when she was laid in the back of a car seat, and someone sat down next to her. She recognized the scent of vanilla, and knew that Buffy would now continue to talk to her. She probably thought it was comforting, and to someone else, it might have been. But not Willow, not now, and Willow wished she had the energy to tell Buffy to just. Go. Away. And couldn't manage to care that it would hurt her best female friend's feelings. Buffy hadn't cared when she'd shut Willow out after being resurrected.
She felt the jolting of the car as it rolled down the road. So soothing, and yet she couldn't seem to sink back into sleep. Or unconsciousness. Or wherever she was before she woke up at the Magic Box.
Buffy began to stroke her hair absently, talking to her about...Spike? Why was Buffy talking about Spike? Willow focused hard on the words instead of drifting, and managed to hear and understand Buffy's words. "...Dawn's real worried about him, and I guess I am, too. God, why'd he have to leave?.." Ah. Making this about *her* again. Like everything's Buffy's problem and everyone should all stop what they were doing and rush to comfort her. Willow wanted to slap her, but couldn't even summon up the energy to open her eyes, and thus let the rage fade, as it was easier than entertaining it.
They reached Xander's, and again she felt herself being carried. And then laid on a bed. And then, yes, yes, left alone. Lights off. Blessed darkness and peace. She fell asleep with tears in her eyes, but was unable to remember why she was crying.
***
The days pass slowly, meaningless. Willow usually doesn't even know what day of what week of what month it is anymore. She really doesn't even care. She's dropped out of her classes at the college, and Xander is keeping her with him. He tries to hide behind friendship, but Willow knows. He's lonely, too, looking for a body to fill Anya's place, even if the body rarely speaks and happens to be gay.
Willow stares into her tea for hours sometimes, watching the steam rise slowly from the mug, lessening with time until it was no more. Giles always makes her a cup when he comes over. Willow really doesn't remember everytime he does, but as soon as he opens the door, she slips easily into the repressed pattern of meaningless banter, not even realizing she's talking sometimes, sometimes not speaking at all, just letting the silence talk.
Buffy practically lives at Xander's now. Of all the Scoobies, she understands the most. She comes in while Willow is pretending to be asleep, and she just sits. She doesn't talk, though she knows beyond a doubt that Willow is awake. Buffy knows what it's like to spend all your time wishing you were somewhere else, with someone else, but all the while making do with what you have because it's the best you can get, and you used to think it was pretty damn good.
But not anymore. Willow knows better now. So, while Xander cooks and talks and pretends that having her around is better than the ghost of Anya that she knows haunts the place, she stands up and tells him that she's going for a walk. And he offers to come with her, offers to ask Buffy to go. Is met with steadfast silence and blank stares that he interprets as pleading.
And, finally realizing that this is a witch that has resurrected the dead, defeatedly gives her a cross and tells her to be careful. Even though he knows that she isn't safe, not because of the creatures of the night, but because of herself. He knows that she won't protect herself against a vampire, and yet lets her go, because at this point, he wonders guiltily if she might be happier dead. And then he denies it to himself and reminds himself that she is powerful, that she wants to live, that she is reasonable, all these empty promises and made-up traits that makes it easier for him to let her go from his meager protection.
But he knows he can't stop her, and he watches her leave with a foreboding to equal his guilty pleasure.
On some level, Willow knows where she'll go. On all levels, actually. There really only is one place that holds meaning for her now. She doesn't talk as she stands staring at the grave, the one right next to Buffy's old one. The grass has grown over the place where the tombstone used to rest, but there is still a shallow trench in the dirt, letting everyone know that a mistake has been made. Buffy had been brought back when she wasn't supposed to be, and the thing that scares Willow the most is that she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to meet her there again. She doesn't know if she could ever do enough good to outdo the sins she's racked up. That she will end up peacefully in Heaven with Tara.
TARA MACCLAY
1980-2002
MORE THAN JUST A SIDEKICK
Willow can't remember the funeral. Can't remember any of it, actually, not even the blood and gore from the shooting. She knows if she tries hard enough, she will, but who really wants those kinds of memories? Your lover dying, your violent and vicious rampage that everyone worked so hard not to hold against you, even though you can still see the fear and pain behind your best friend's eyes when he came in to check on you. Still see the scars that you had given him on his stomach and arm and face. And how you. Just. Didn't. Care.
Willow doesn't even look up when Drusilla comes to sit beside her. Wonders briefly if she would be killed, and then decides it doesn't matter. Silence stretches endlessly, Willow hoping that if she pretends hard enough and isn't here, then she won't have to see the hard proof of Tara's demise.
"People think I'm crazy, you know." Dru speaks. Her tone is lucid, and Willow feels a slight pinprick of interest. Is Dru always off and on like this?
"You are." Willow doesn't look at her, just sits cross-legged and stares at the cold, hard granite.
"I know." And Willow looks at her, and touches the wetness on the other woman's cheek. Dru is crying. "I miss my Spike." And to Willow's surprise, she isn't whining, just sad. Like her. Two peas in a pod, if what Willow is feeling even qualifies as sad. "They all go away. My daddy left me. He doesn't love me. Spike...Spike went away to dance under the stars with the Slayer. Bitch. She sticks her tongue out at me, even now." Drusilla sounds like a five-year-old who's lost their parents and all they held dear. "Grandmummy broke Miss Edith, you know. Broke her into a million shining pieces before she flew away. I miss Grandmummy."
"Why haven't you killed me yet, Drusilla?"
"Don't wanna. I feel your pain, too, duckling. You're like me. Maybe you could be Miss Edith." Dru holds up her hands to look at them. They're shaking. "No. No. You're my pretty little redbird. Can you fly?"
"Sometimes." Dru doesn't respond, and another silence falls. Willow is surprised when she breaks it with a sob. "I don't want to be alone, Dru."
"Hush, now, darling. Mummy's here." Dru doesn't seem to realize that she is in demon face when she pulls Willow flush against her cold body. Willow is struck with the bizarre idea that Dru should be warmed up. She doesn't deserve to be alone and cold, either.
Drusilla begins a strange purring sound that vibrates against Willow, all the way through her core. And Willow senses in Dru not so much a kindred spirit, but another lost person that she can cling to. And she somehow senses that it's safe to cry here.
She realizes that Dru's crying again, too, and draws back to see the cold tears run down the china doll face. Her brown hair falls in front of her face, two little strands on either side, and without thinking, Willow pushes one aside to see unobscured the yellow eyes and deformed brow. And can't help tracing a finger along her face, feeling the uneveness. Down to the well sculpted lip, and Dru opens her mouth slightly, welcoming the exploration and presenting her fangs for inspection.
Willow, hardly breathing, runs a finger along one sharp canine, hard enough to draw blood. Drusilla's golden yellow eyes roll up a bit, and her tongue flicks out to taste the crimson fluid. Willow lets her. "Can Mummy have a taste?" Willow says nothing, just leaves her finger on Dru's lip, and Dru sucks it into her mouth, not worrying that she's cutting further with her fangs. Little pinpricks on either sides of Willow's finger and there's more blood flowing. Dru's gold eyes fixate on the witch, and Willow suddenly realizes the eroticism of the act with a throb of pleasure between her legs. And she doesn't fight it, because *she doesn't want to be alone.*
And Dru swirls her tongue around the finger, tasting the sweet ambrosia, feeling the natural power that was rampant in the blood, and her eyes are closed in ecstasy. "More," she whispers. Before Willow knows it, she's flipped her short shock of red hair behind her shoulder, exposing her neck to Dru. Her skin's almost as pale as the vampire's she thinks as Dru lets her finger go and traces a small vein on her neck.
Willow shivers and repeats Drusilla's plea. "More," she says softly, and this time Dru answers.
"Yes." The fangs slide easily into her neck. There's a stunning dose of pain, along with a jolt of fear, but both quickly subside as the pleasure kicks in. Drusilla begins to suck at the wound, the slight pressure coming in pulses at the jucture of Willow's neck and shoulder. And it feels good, and Willow gasps because she understands what Riley was talking about now. The feel of being *needed*, even for something as primal as food.
After too short a time, Drusilla withdraws and licks the twin puncture wounds fondly, almost tenderly. Add in the purring, and she's beginning to remind Willow of Miss Kitty Fantastico, who was put up for adoption when she and Tara moved into Buffy's. Willow has the presence of mind to wonder why she isn't dead, but all thoughts flee as Dru's hand creeps across her belly and to the hem of her pants, pausing before dipping below the waistline. Willow feels her hand tangle in the nest of curls as red as the hair on her head, and doesn't even wonder why.
Dru smiles, drops of Willow-blood staining her alabaster skin, and dips further. Willow sighs softly, and closes her eyes, smiling the entire time as Dru skillfully brings her off.
When the bliss fades, and Willow opens her eyes, Dru is still staring. She's laying on her back now, directly over Tara's grave, with her feet facing towards Dru. She sits up and kisses Drusilla, tasting the soft metallic quality of her own blood. And the taste is akin to sucking on a penny, but it tastes *good*, because it's mixed with something dark and *old*. Something romantic that always turns out far more dangerous than it's portrayed in movies and books, and she wants *more*, because it's the polar opposite of Tara's sunny sweetness, and there's nothing here to bring back her old ghosts at all.
***
The next night, Willow brings a doll that she's bought at the store for her. She's not sure that Dru will show, because they didn't plan it or anything, but at the same time she *knows* without a doubt that she'll show. Because it's in her nature, it's in both their natures. It's the one place where they have common ground, a place that's as new to Willow as it is old, because she'd seeing it from the other side now. She's not all the way there, but she wonders what she'll think about the cemetery when she's buried six feet under the surface of it. If it'll seem like home then.
She sits at Tara's grave, and again Drusilla appears. Willow gives her the doll, which causes her to squeal with delight. She names it Miss Kitty, and Willow wonders where that came from. Not to mention why she bought the doll, besides the symbolic meaning, which was that she had her own doll, Xander, to keep her company. Dru deserved hers.
She feels no love for the vampiress, not even much caring, but can't help being drawn to her all the same. Is too far gone to wonder why.
The morning after, Xander is startled by a short, humorless bark of laughter coming from Willow's room, aka his room. He's been sleeping on the couch, letting her have the single bedroom. He doesn't even entertain the thought that she's getting better, because he knows she's not, and is beginning to realize that she probably won't ever. And the worst part is that he can't think of a single thing that's made her smile, given her reason to show interest at all in these past few months. Buffy's stopped coming by so often, but still calls all the time, and every time they speak, she asks him to let Willow stay in her old room, with her. And every time, Xander declines vehemently, saying that Willow doesn't need to be reminded of Tara's gruesome death everytime she went to bed. He always recognizes that she remembers and thinks about it all the time anyways, but he still protests, regular as clockwork.
Willow's laughing because she's remembered Buffy's affair with Spike, and Xander's utter revulsion. She wonders what he would think if he knew that she was sleeping with Drusilla. He'd probably kick her out on the streets. At least Spike had a chip. And was a guy. She couldn't help but think about the way Xander occasionally still wigged when she pointed out a hot girl and he agreed. He was nothing if not open-minded about it, but it was the normal way of things, and though he should expect it after licing on the hellmouth, she knows it's still hard for him. Still irks him at the edge of his consciousness.
***
A month later, she's still going to Dru. She brings a doll with her every night, and imagines that Dru has quite a collection somewhere, wherever she spends the day. Xander is getting suspicious though, wondering where all those dolls she brings home go. She figures she'll tell him that she gives them away to homeless children or something sufficiently selfless and sugary that he'll accept it and give her praise. She could never tell him that she gave them to her vampire lover.
Tonight something's different, though. She senses a presence that isn't Dru behind her shoulder as she sits, and turns to see Buffy. And Dawn. And oh, Goddess help her, Drusilla will be there any minute, and Buffy will kill her, or she'll kill them, and then the visits will stop and Willow will be alone, truly alone in all her misery.
"Hey, Wills," Buffy doesn't seem surprised to see her there, and Willow surmises that she followerd her here after seeing her on patrol with Dawn. And oh, Willow doesn't want Dawn to see this. Doesn't want her to know this side of her, this darkness that has eclipsed her almost completely.
"Hi, Buffy." Her tone lacks emotion, as usual. She can't find a good way to articulate her feelings, and rapidly becomes frustrated when Buffy doesn't leave. And worried, because despite her annoying tendencies, and her constant dropping by, Buffy is still one of her best friends in the world, and Willow doesn't want her to get hurt. Nor Dawn.
Buffy and Dawn sit on either side of her. Buffy starts talking, and Willow really wishes she wouldn't. This is a place for silence, and Buffy is ruining it. Desecrating this holy place with her words. "So this is where you've been going every night. Xander told me you were going for walks, but he didn't know where you went. You sit out here all night?" Buffy's speech is cut short by a rustle in the bushes. Willow wonders belatedly if Drusilla feels betrayed by her bringing of company. Of Buffy. She must think that Willow wants her dead, and Willow wonders when exactly she started caring about the vampiress. She never meant to, and while it was a far cry from love, it wasn't hate. It was more of a camaderie formed through lonliness and misery.
Drusilla steps forward, and Buffy immediately leaps up with a stake in her hand. Dru's carrying a red rose with her. Strangely romantic, though Willow thinks that maybe the thorns would be fun, too. Being with Dru's turned her on to bloodplay.
Buffy raises her stake and Dawn is backing her with a wicked looking sword. And they fight, and Willow can *feel* her world crashing down around her as Dru dodges the blade and doles out three vicious scratches along Dawn's cheek.
And Willow just wants them to go away. Oh, why can't they, why *won't* they just stop, stop, STOP!
Everything freezes and Willow realizes that she's spoken out loud. At least it worked. She turns to Buffy, and she vaguely recognizes the feel of the resolve face she's known for. "Buffy. Dawn. Please. Just go."
"My little redbird's angry." Drusilla states softly, stroking the stem of the rose, even though it's making her bleed.
Buffy shoots Willow an angry, accusing look, and Dawn's just plain *glaring*, and Willow's. Had. Enough. "Buffy. I'm telling you for the last time, just go. Now." She feels the crackle of energy and the surge of the long-dormant magicks within her beginning to rise. Apparently, Buffy gets the picture, because she takes Dawn by the hand after confiscating her sword, and backs away slowly.
"Wills," she says, almost as if it's a warning. Willow's not stupid. She knows that Dru's dangerous. She just doesn't *understand*. The way Dru does. And finally, the last pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place.
Willow waits until Buffy and Dawn are gone and out of sight before turning back to Dru. She's still petulantly stroking the rose with her shredded hands, not seeming to realize that her delicate hands are now drenched in her own blood.
Willow distractedly hands her the doll, giving her something else to fondle. "Dru," she says, her voice husky with fear and anticipation. "I want you to change me. Make me like you, a vampire. Would you do that? Then we'd never be alone again."
Dru twirls a strand of her hair around abstractly, her eyes not focusing on anything. "Could we kill?"
"Yes." Willow's voice has dropped an octave.
She cocks her head, thinks for a moment, and then turns back. "Okay then." She says cheerily, and grins, giving Willow an upclose and personal view of her teeth as they change into fangs.
As they sink again into Willow's neck, the same place every time, she feels the long-awaited peace finally coming. It's not Tara. It'll never be Tara, but at least she'll never be alone again. As long as she's careful, she'll never have to worry about Heaven or Hell, just right here, right now. And there's no way she'd ever love Drusilla, but they'll stay together, just because they're both terrified of the inevitable. Of being alone.