---
The Protecting Veil
---
--- Part Six: If I Didn't Care ---
For a full hour, the light poured out like hope into the sky. Bright little specks on the stone—bright, fairy-like. Like the Christmas lights, strewn with silvery tinsel, on the trailer windows when she was a girl.
But, just like Christmas lights, there came a time when they had to be turned off.
Tara sat in the fading, half-orange light, at her quiet, remote little desk. The lights cut out, section by section, across the building, and everyone had gone silent.
The desk reflected the remaining glow, as did the papers there, her notes. The carefully locked box, sitting silently on the surface. She looked at it a moment, and remembered the notebook inside. Writing it had been like a dream, a trance. Because it wasn't really her hand in control.
She didn't know what it meant, only that it was a key to something. A guide. A guide to a weapon. A powerful, world moving weapon that could be their best hope to turn around the decaying remains of civilization and bring it back to order. Draw a line against the demons.
Or she hoped it would be. She couldn't know. With the strange light that bound them together, kept them alive, the answers never seemed to be what one expected or was prepared for.
And looking at the amethyst ring, hanging on the hook there on the side of the paneled wall—the ring Willow had given her so long ago, she knew that that light demanded terrible sacrifice.
No, the answers were never what one thought they'd be.
It's why it touched her so much when she saw Buffy watching Spike. The way she looked at him, it hit something deep in Tara that had long been missing. Something she'd lost.
When Tara had offered them their rooms, Buffy had simply given hers up to stay with him. She hadn't so much as looked inside.
And when she asked Buffy, gently curious, about what he was to her, the battle-worn woman had looked away.
But after a moment, she looked up again. Her eyes were shining and she leaned forward as if she had been waiting for an ear to hear her.
"Sometimes... sometimes he gets to be too much for me, you know?" she said, voice faltering slightly, "There was this time—a few years after I found him again, we were cornered, no way out. It—we started then. And sometimes I think it's ok. But then, there's this other thing. And that's too much for me..."
"How do you mean?" Tara had asked, gently. Buffy leaned in and whispered as if telling a dark secret.
"We're never just two... there's always something else..."
"Dawn..."
"The Light..." Buffy corrected softly.
"He loves you, you know."
"It's complicated..." Buffy said, tilting her head nervously, suddenly awkward at having revealed so much. "I... I should see where he is now..."
And she'd darted out of the room then, like a flitting, lost bird.
—
Darkness bathed over Buffy like the blanket, as she curled up in the soft, narrow bed. A single window stared blackly on the wall, and the world was a mass of negative space, flowing all around her.
The mattress was soft on her back, and the gentle press of it kept her awake. Too soft. She was usually on the hard ground.
It was too much like floating—falling. She rarely dreamed, but when the dreams came, it was of crashing through free space to the devastating crush of the earth, hurtling towards her.
She heard a soft rustle from below. At the foot of the bed, Spike turned in restless sleep. Perhaps he was dreaming. Ever patient, guarding her bedside with a strange and quiet acceptance.
He wouldn't have been like this before. He'd chase and demand and question until he understood her answers and those answers were the ones he wanted to hear. Now he was quiet. He lay at her bedside, a shadow at her feet. And it struck her anew how much the Key-Light had changed him, moving into the corners and crevices, burning them out, and yet, somehow, leaving him the exact image of what had come before.
She turned on her side, sleep evading her as she stared out into the darkness, and wondered how she compared to what she had been, in the time when she still had a sister.
—
There wasn't much time left.
Tara pulled the cardboard-sleeved record from under her desk. The worn one, the one that she'd been saving. It had been hell to find it, but it was all worth it, in the end. And they'd turn off the power completely soon, and she needed to try this—she needed to hear this one thing before it went.
Dropping it on the turntable, she heard the dead singer's voice rise from a world that had long gone past.
—
Spike started awake at a sudden noise. Something was moving in the room. Muscles tight, prepared to spring, his eyes searched the darkness.
A pair of bare feet hovered against the night shadows. Above them, Buffy looked down at him, eyes grave. She sank onto the floorboards, running a hand across his bare arm a moment before turning on her side. He smiled at her then, running his fingers through her long hair as she settled down to sleep beside him.
—
"If I didn't care more than words can say / If I didn't care would I feel this way? / If this isn't love then why do I thrill? / And what makes my head go 'round and 'round / While my heart stands still? "
The voice was soft and easy, and Tara let it move over her like a lover's hand. She folded her arms against her desk and rested her head down in a curtain of her hair, closing her eyes. Concentrating on the grainy, slow moving voice. And she could remember so much. How it had once played in the Sunnydale dorms on an old LP while they giggled over some careless takeout dinner, sprawled on the floor with the kitten tripping over their feet.
The rice was overdone, but that didn't matter so much when you were so new at things.
"If I didn't care would it be the same? / Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just your name? / And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare? / Would all this be true if I didn't care for you? "
A crash. Broken glass.
The sound of feet rapidly approaching.
Tara's head darted up, her hair flying back. Rows of bookshelves stood between her and the half-darkness beyond. She looked to the side, and through the window, she could see smoke billowing from the a gallery below. She threw herself against the window pane. How did she not hear it before? People. Crowds of people—their own people. Forcing their way in, flowing down from the village clusters of houses outside, and storming the walls.
Riots.
It was the lights. They hadn't understood the lights.
How could she have been so stupid?
In the distance a bookshelf fell with a shattering crash. And another. Some were already inside. Some were right here, in the library. There were no wards for this. No one had even sent up an alarm.
"It's a girl..." a voice called out from behind her. She gasped, spinning around on her heels.
A tall man. He had a spatter of blood running across one cheek.
Tara backed away into the darker corners, and broke into a run, twisting through the labyrinth corridors of heavy wooden shelves, and somewhere in the distance, the record player crooned.
"And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare? / Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?"
—
Dawn shifted to her side, long hair falling softly across her shoulder.
"Careful love, you'll smudge them," he said gently.
She smiled.
"Yeah like you'd notice. When'd you get that coat anyway, the Cretaceous period?"
He watched her as she quietly covered each small toenail with pastel, wet polish. It was a quiet, meditative motion. Slow, careful. The wet paint shimmered in dancing little sparkles of light. He felt like he could watch it forever.
A sea of stars hung over their heads, and a warm summer breeze washed past the Magic Box roof. She craned her neck, looking over the low Sunnydale skyline. Suburban houses glowed with the yellow lights inside, and they could hear the sounds of laughter from the open, practice-room windows below.
"I like it up here," she said, "It's away from things."
The smell of the nail polish filled the air. He furrowed his brow. Away... further away than just a rooftop. Something was wrong about it.
"Wait," he said, remembering, "This isn't real... did this ever happen?"
"Nah," she responded softly, smiling a tender, nearly regretful smile at him, "Just a dream."
"It's not though—they're not just dreams... there's something... you're giving me hints but no answers... why are you holding out on me?"
"Because you have to make your own choices."
And when he looked up from her face, the skyline was a shadow of itself. The walls were crumbling, and a grey mist hung over the fissures and canyons all around half collapsed buildings and dust-settled earth. Frost clung on the tarpaper at their feet. And there was silence save for the wind.
"Dawn—"
The little bell, hung over the shop door rang, and they were suddenly inside again. Giles' glasses still rested next to that ledger, but they were covered with heavy cobwebs and dust. The floor creaked weakly under his feet, and the sound of the wind was overpowering. Dawn stood before him, in that horrible purple dress, slashed all over and bleeding. She clutched that green notebook to her chest, and it overbrimmed and soaked through with blood.
"There's not much time, Spike. Make your choices."
"Dawn—"
An arm landed firmly on his. The blackness of the Saint Christopher's bedroom pushed in on all sides. He was awake.
Buffy's face hovered over his, the ends of her hair tickling his lips as she whispered.
"Did you hear that...?" she said. He sat up. There was running in the hallway. He stood.
"Something's happening."
—
She had to concentrate.
The sound of heavy feet trailed after Tara as she stalled for time, dodging behind bookshelves in the pattern she knew so well. She hardly ever left this room. It'd be hard to attack her in her own nest.
The voice on the player faded to an eerie echo, and she heard the breathing behind her.
"I didn't care honey child, mo' than words can say, / If I didn't care baby, would I feel this way? "
Her mind raced. And she caught on what she could do. She reached the end of a path, and let him see the whisp of her skirt as she darted left. And she began, under her breath, to chant a quiet invocation.
—
Buffy grabbed her weapons bag, and threw Spike his own.
"Best to bring it all, we don't know what's happening."
As they turned to leave. The door slammed open. The little girl, Mei, rushed in. She was flushed with anger. "It's a riot," she said, voice short, incredulous, and exasperated, "They're being attacked by their own fucking people."
—
Tara slipped into a dead end. She'd be cornered, but she had to let it happen for the plan to work. She waited.
The man turned into the little square of bookshelves, shadowed and distant in the dark. He looked her up and down a moment, and stepped forward.
She stepped back.
When she stepped back again, she hit the edge of the wall.
And that's when he lunged for her.
—
They pushed out into the hallways. When they reached the stairwell, they could smell smoke.
The hall divided into two wings, and they saw a cluster of people throwing crates of glass bulbs out over the stairwell railing, crashing onto the floors below. A bulb flew by Spike's head and he ducked. It shattered on the stones behind him in an explosion of glass.
"We've got to get to Tara," Buffy said, turning to Mei, "Where is she?"
"Library," Mei responded, gesturing for them to go to her left. Then she turned and headed away to her right.
"Wait," Spike said, "You can't just go off by yourself."
She continued away from him, back turned.
"I need to organize the others. They didn't have wards for this. They don't know what the hell they're doing."
"It's not safe—"
He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, she turned back, her eyes stained wholly black. Her whole body crackled with power. She spoke through clenched teeth.
"I can take care of myself."
—
Tara held her breath. Turned her head to the side and bit her lip. He grabbed her shoulders hard, pushing her against the wall with bruising intensity. And it was the contact she needed to read him.
"Darlin' if this isn't love, then why do I thrill so much? "
She turned, looked into his eyes and behind them saw the mind open up like a swirling, woven map, tinted red with rage. She grabbed onto that weaving mass, and searched through it for a loose thread to pull with frantic speed.
"What is it that makes my head go 'round and 'round / While my heart just stands still so much?"
—
Buffy ducked the strike of a teenage boy, and spun lightly on her foot to the side, grabbing his wrist and spinning him against the wall. He crumpled unconscious and she turned to face the stairwell.
Two others leapt up to defend him, in a headlong rush. She swept the feet out from under one and the other rushed past her, grappling a woodcutting axe firm in his grip.
"Spike!" she called out, suddenly cold with concern. These were humans, and he couldn't hurt them. He was completely vulnerable.
But Spike undercut the blow, dropping fast to his ankles and striking a punch hard to the stomach. As the man before him lost his balance, he seized the arm and spun him to the edge of the stairs, where he tumbled down in a spinning heap. Spike grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him as she stared in alarm. He didn't seem to notice.
"It's this way, pet."
—
"If I didn't care would it be the same? / Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just your name?"
She could feel his breath on her neck. It smelled like the cheap beer that they brewed in the cellars.
She couldn't find the piece. Snatches—memories. He liked horses when he was a kid, but that wasn't enough. But it was something about them...
"What, don't you like me?" he asked heavily.
Horses. He liked horses. Because... the trail moved along in her mind and she could see through his thoughts, turned their corners. And she found the chink in the armor and slid carefully through to the unconscious.
Because of the girl. Because she had found him a colt. They'd raised it.
And Tara had it, grabbed the memories in her hand and pulled all the pieces together, emphasizing the ones she wanted and pushing back the ones she didn't. She moved them into line like dominos.
Suddenly he pushed forward, about to bite her or lick her or something horrible she didn't want to know. So she forced him back with the heels of her palms and they were eye to eye. And she whispered, softly, the killing phrase.
"Don't I remind you of your sister?"
And the dominos toppled down. She was very good at her craft.
"And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare? / Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?"
—
When they found her, Tara was standing quietly beside a man, crumpled on the floor. He was sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into his knees, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
She looked at him steadily.
"Shhh..." she whispered.
"Tara!" Buffy called, rushing forward, taking her arm.
Tara's heartbeat slowed as calm settled over her again. She touched a hand to her forehead.
"Don't worry—don't worry, I'm allright."
"Tara," Spike said, nodding to her from behind Buffy's shoulder, "Good that you're in one piece-- hey what'd you do to that one?"
She looked at the sobbing man.
"I didn't want to hurt him."
Spike followed her gaze.
"Looks to me you hurt him good and proper."
Buffy turned to look at him with a strange, intent stare. She had a smear of soot on her cheek.
"Look—what matters now is that we shouldn't stay in here," Buffy said, "They've been throwing the shelves through the windows. It's dangerous for you."
"Right," Spike said, "How's best to get you out, Tara?"
"Wait—" Tara said, eyes widening, "They're throwing things out—moving things?"
Before they could answer, she rushed forward and away from them.
Buffy turned to Spike.
"The notebook."
They ran.
—
"No..." Tara whispered. The desk was overturned, papers floating about her ankles in the wind from the broken window. A book with a broken spine fell haphazardly from a twisted shelf. The hook that had held her ring was empty. But she wasn't looking at that. She was looking at the ground.
The locked safe. The box was gone.
Her voice was ragged and uneven. She dropped to her knees and began pushing through the papers there. But it was gone.
"No..."
"Tara, we should go. We can come back to look later," Buffy said gently.
"No." Tara said, her voice snapping back to form. She stood, eyes intent on Spike.
"No. You have to find it. Go. Do anything you have to. Just bring it back safe."
"What?" Buffy said, "Wait Tara, you're in danger—why?"
"It's the key to everything, Buffy. Go now."
Spike was wordless, silent. He closed his eyes, intent. His nostrils flared. Buffy stepped forward.
"But Tara—"
"Go! Run!" Tara shouted, all of her characteristic gentleness momentarily gone.
Spike opened his eyes again, darted off into a full sprint on the trail of the scent.
Buffy looked a moment to the woman beside her, and followed after him.
—
["If I Didn't Care," composed by Jack Lawrence, recorded by The Inkspots (1939)]
--- Part Six: If I Didn't Care ---
For a full hour, the light poured out like hope into the sky. Bright little specks on the stone—bright, fairy-like. Like the Christmas lights, strewn with silvery tinsel, on the trailer windows when she was a girl.
But, just like Christmas lights, there came a time when they had to be turned off.
Tara sat in the fading, half-orange light, at her quiet, remote little desk. The lights cut out, section by section, across the building, and everyone had gone silent.
The desk reflected the remaining glow, as did the papers there, her notes. The carefully locked box, sitting silently on the surface. She looked at it a moment, and remembered the notebook inside. Writing it had been like a dream, a trance. Because it wasn't really her hand in control.
She didn't know what it meant, only that it was a key to something. A guide. A guide to a weapon. A powerful, world moving weapon that could be their best hope to turn around the decaying remains of civilization and bring it back to order. Draw a line against the demons.
Or she hoped it would be. She couldn't know. With the strange light that bound them together, kept them alive, the answers never seemed to be what one expected or was prepared for.
And looking at the amethyst ring, hanging on the hook there on the side of the paneled wall—the ring Willow had given her so long ago, she knew that that light demanded terrible sacrifice.
No, the answers were never what one thought they'd be.
It's why it touched her so much when she saw Buffy watching Spike. The way she looked at him, it hit something deep in Tara that had long been missing. Something she'd lost.
When Tara had offered them their rooms, Buffy had simply given hers up to stay with him. She hadn't so much as looked inside.
And when she asked Buffy, gently curious, about what he was to her, the battle-worn woman had looked away.
But after a moment, she looked up again. Her eyes were shining and she leaned forward as if she had been waiting for an ear to hear her.
"Sometimes... sometimes he gets to be too much for me, you know?" she said, voice faltering slightly, "There was this time—a few years after I found him again, we were cornered, no way out. It—we started then. And sometimes I think it's ok. But then, there's this other thing. And that's too much for me..."
"How do you mean?" Tara had asked, gently. Buffy leaned in and whispered as if telling a dark secret.
"We're never just two... there's always something else..."
"Dawn..."
"The Light..." Buffy corrected softly.
"He loves you, you know."
"It's complicated..." Buffy said, tilting her head nervously, suddenly awkward at having revealed so much. "I... I should see where he is now..."
And she'd darted out of the room then, like a flitting, lost bird.
—
Darkness bathed over Buffy like the blanket, as she curled up in the soft, narrow bed. A single window stared blackly on the wall, and the world was a mass of negative space, flowing all around her.
The mattress was soft on her back, and the gentle press of it kept her awake. Too soft. She was usually on the hard ground.
It was too much like floating—falling. She rarely dreamed, but when the dreams came, it was of crashing through free space to the devastating crush of the earth, hurtling towards her.
She heard a soft rustle from below. At the foot of the bed, Spike turned in restless sleep. Perhaps he was dreaming. Ever patient, guarding her bedside with a strange and quiet acceptance.
He wouldn't have been like this before. He'd chase and demand and question until he understood her answers and those answers were the ones he wanted to hear. Now he was quiet. He lay at her bedside, a shadow at her feet. And it struck her anew how much the Key-Light had changed him, moving into the corners and crevices, burning them out, and yet, somehow, leaving him the exact image of what had come before.
She turned on her side, sleep evading her as she stared out into the darkness, and wondered how she compared to what she had been, in the time when she still had a sister.
—
There wasn't much time left.
Tara pulled the cardboard-sleeved record from under her desk. The worn one, the one that she'd been saving. It had been hell to find it, but it was all worth it, in the end. And they'd turn off the power completely soon, and she needed to try this—she needed to hear this one thing before it went.
Dropping it on the turntable, she heard the dead singer's voice rise from a world that had long gone past.
—
Spike started awake at a sudden noise. Something was moving in the room. Muscles tight, prepared to spring, his eyes searched the darkness.
A pair of bare feet hovered against the night shadows. Above them, Buffy looked down at him, eyes grave. She sank onto the floorboards, running a hand across his bare arm a moment before turning on her side. He smiled at her then, running his fingers through her long hair as she settled down to sleep beside him.
—
"If I didn't care more than words can say / If I didn't care would I feel this way? / If this isn't love then why do I thrill? / And what makes my head go 'round and 'round / While my heart stands still? "
The voice was soft and easy, and Tara let it move over her like a lover's hand. She folded her arms against her desk and rested her head down in a curtain of her hair, closing her eyes. Concentrating on the grainy, slow moving voice. And she could remember so much. How it had once played in the Sunnydale dorms on an old LP while they giggled over some careless takeout dinner, sprawled on the floor with the kitten tripping over their feet.
The rice was overdone, but that didn't matter so much when you were so new at things.
"If I didn't care would it be the same? / Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just your name? / And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare? / Would all this be true if I didn't care for you? "
A crash. Broken glass.
The sound of feet rapidly approaching.
Tara's head darted up, her hair flying back. Rows of bookshelves stood between her and the half-darkness beyond. She looked to the side, and through the window, she could see smoke billowing from the a gallery below. She threw herself against the window pane. How did she not hear it before? People. Crowds of people—their own people. Forcing their way in, flowing down from the village clusters of houses outside, and storming the walls.
Riots.
It was the lights. They hadn't understood the lights.
How could she have been so stupid?
In the distance a bookshelf fell with a shattering crash. And another. Some were already inside. Some were right here, in the library. There were no wards for this. No one had even sent up an alarm.
"It's a girl..." a voice called out from behind her. She gasped, spinning around on her heels.
A tall man. He had a spatter of blood running across one cheek.
Tara backed away into the darker corners, and broke into a run, twisting through the labyrinth corridors of heavy wooden shelves, and somewhere in the distance, the record player crooned.
"And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare? / Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?"
—
Dawn shifted to her side, long hair falling softly across her shoulder.
"Careful love, you'll smudge them," he said gently.
She smiled.
"Yeah like you'd notice. When'd you get that coat anyway, the Cretaceous period?"
He watched her as she quietly covered each small toenail with pastel, wet polish. It was a quiet, meditative motion. Slow, careful. The wet paint shimmered in dancing little sparkles of light. He felt like he could watch it forever.
A sea of stars hung over their heads, and a warm summer breeze washed past the Magic Box roof. She craned her neck, looking over the low Sunnydale skyline. Suburban houses glowed with the yellow lights inside, and they could hear the sounds of laughter from the open, practice-room windows below.
"I like it up here," she said, "It's away from things."
The smell of the nail polish filled the air. He furrowed his brow. Away... further away than just a rooftop. Something was wrong about it.
"Wait," he said, remembering, "This isn't real... did this ever happen?"
"Nah," she responded softly, smiling a tender, nearly regretful smile at him, "Just a dream."
"It's not though—they're not just dreams... there's something... you're giving me hints but no answers... why are you holding out on me?"
"Because you have to make your own choices."
And when he looked up from her face, the skyline was a shadow of itself. The walls were crumbling, and a grey mist hung over the fissures and canyons all around half collapsed buildings and dust-settled earth. Frost clung on the tarpaper at their feet. And there was silence save for the wind.
"Dawn—"
The little bell, hung over the shop door rang, and they were suddenly inside again. Giles' glasses still rested next to that ledger, but they were covered with heavy cobwebs and dust. The floor creaked weakly under his feet, and the sound of the wind was overpowering. Dawn stood before him, in that horrible purple dress, slashed all over and bleeding. She clutched that green notebook to her chest, and it overbrimmed and soaked through with blood.
"There's not much time, Spike. Make your choices."
"Dawn—"
An arm landed firmly on his. The blackness of the Saint Christopher's bedroom pushed in on all sides. He was awake.
Buffy's face hovered over his, the ends of her hair tickling his lips as she whispered.
"Did you hear that...?" she said. He sat up. There was running in the hallway. He stood.
"Something's happening."
—
She had to concentrate.
The sound of heavy feet trailed after Tara as she stalled for time, dodging behind bookshelves in the pattern she knew so well. She hardly ever left this room. It'd be hard to attack her in her own nest.
The voice on the player faded to an eerie echo, and she heard the breathing behind her.
"I didn't care honey child, mo' than words can say, / If I didn't care baby, would I feel this way? "
Her mind raced. And she caught on what she could do. She reached the end of a path, and let him see the whisp of her skirt as she darted left. And she began, under her breath, to chant a quiet invocation.
—
Buffy grabbed her weapons bag, and threw Spike his own.
"Best to bring it all, we don't know what's happening."
As they turned to leave. The door slammed open. The little girl, Mei, rushed in. She was flushed with anger. "It's a riot," she said, voice short, incredulous, and exasperated, "They're being attacked by their own fucking people."
—
Tara slipped into a dead end. She'd be cornered, but she had to let it happen for the plan to work. She waited.
The man turned into the little square of bookshelves, shadowed and distant in the dark. He looked her up and down a moment, and stepped forward.
She stepped back.
When she stepped back again, she hit the edge of the wall.
And that's when he lunged for her.
—
They pushed out into the hallways. When they reached the stairwell, they could smell smoke.
The hall divided into two wings, and they saw a cluster of people throwing crates of glass bulbs out over the stairwell railing, crashing onto the floors below. A bulb flew by Spike's head and he ducked. It shattered on the stones behind him in an explosion of glass.
"We've got to get to Tara," Buffy said, turning to Mei, "Where is she?"
"Library," Mei responded, gesturing for them to go to her left. Then she turned and headed away to her right.
"Wait," Spike said, "You can't just go off by yourself."
She continued away from him, back turned.
"I need to organize the others. They didn't have wards for this. They don't know what the hell they're doing."
"It's not safe—"
He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, she turned back, her eyes stained wholly black. Her whole body crackled with power. She spoke through clenched teeth.
"I can take care of myself."
—
Tara held her breath. Turned her head to the side and bit her lip. He grabbed her shoulders hard, pushing her against the wall with bruising intensity. And it was the contact she needed to read him.
"Darlin' if this isn't love, then why do I thrill so much? "
She turned, looked into his eyes and behind them saw the mind open up like a swirling, woven map, tinted red with rage. She grabbed onto that weaving mass, and searched through it for a loose thread to pull with frantic speed.
"What is it that makes my head go 'round and 'round / While my heart just stands still so much?"
—
Buffy ducked the strike of a teenage boy, and spun lightly on her foot to the side, grabbing his wrist and spinning him against the wall. He crumpled unconscious and she turned to face the stairwell.
Two others leapt up to defend him, in a headlong rush. She swept the feet out from under one and the other rushed past her, grappling a woodcutting axe firm in his grip.
"Spike!" she called out, suddenly cold with concern. These were humans, and he couldn't hurt them. He was completely vulnerable.
But Spike undercut the blow, dropping fast to his ankles and striking a punch hard to the stomach. As the man before him lost his balance, he seized the arm and spun him to the edge of the stairs, where he tumbled down in a spinning heap. Spike grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him as she stared in alarm. He didn't seem to notice.
"It's this way, pet."
—
"If I didn't care would it be the same? / Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just your name?"
She could feel his breath on her neck. It smelled like the cheap beer that they brewed in the cellars.
She couldn't find the piece. Snatches—memories. He liked horses when he was a kid, but that wasn't enough. But it was something about them...
"What, don't you like me?" he asked heavily.
Horses. He liked horses. Because... the trail moved along in her mind and she could see through his thoughts, turned their corners. And she found the chink in the armor and slid carefully through to the unconscious.
Because of the girl. Because she had found him a colt. They'd raised it.
And Tara had it, grabbed the memories in her hand and pulled all the pieces together, emphasizing the ones she wanted and pushing back the ones she didn't. She moved them into line like dominos.
Suddenly he pushed forward, about to bite her or lick her or something horrible she didn't want to know. So she forced him back with the heels of her palms and they were eye to eye. And she whispered, softly, the killing phrase.
"Don't I remind you of your sister?"
And the dominos toppled down. She was very good at her craft.
"And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare? / Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?"
—
When they found her, Tara was standing quietly beside a man, crumpled on the floor. He was sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into his knees, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
She looked at him steadily.
"Shhh..." she whispered.
"Tara!" Buffy called, rushing forward, taking her arm.
Tara's heartbeat slowed as calm settled over her again. She touched a hand to her forehead.
"Don't worry—don't worry, I'm allright."
"Tara," Spike said, nodding to her from behind Buffy's shoulder, "Good that you're in one piece-- hey what'd you do to that one?"
She looked at the sobbing man.
"I didn't want to hurt him."
Spike followed her gaze.
"Looks to me you hurt him good and proper."
Buffy turned to look at him with a strange, intent stare. She had a smear of soot on her cheek.
"Look—what matters now is that we shouldn't stay in here," Buffy said, "They've been throwing the shelves through the windows. It's dangerous for you."
"Right," Spike said, "How's best to get you out, Tara?"
"Wait—" Tara said, eyes widening, "They're throwing things out—moving things?"
Before they could answer, she rushed forward and away from them.
Buffy turned to Spike.
"The notebook."
They ran.
—
"No..." Tara whispered. The desk was overturned, papers floating about her ankles in the wind from the broken window. A book with a broken spine fell haphazardly from a twisted shelf. The hook that had held her ring was empty. But she wasn't looking at that. She was looking at the ground.
The locked safe. The box was gone.
Her voice was ragged and uneven. She dropped to her knees and began pushing through the papers there. But it was gone.
"No..."
"Tara, we should go. We can come back to look later," Buffy said gently.
"No." Tara said, her voice snapping back to form. She stood, eyes intent on Spike.
"No. You have to find it. Go. Do anything you have to. Just bring it back safe."
"What?" Buffy said, "Wait Tara, you're in danger—why?"
"It's the key to everything, Buffy. Go now."
Spike was wordless, silent. He closed his eyes, intent. His nostrils flared. Buffy stepped forward.
"But Tara—"
"Go! Run!" Tara shouted, all of her characteristic gentleness momentarily gone.
Spike opened his eyes again, darted off into a full sprint on the trail of the scent.
Buffy looked a moment to the woman beside her, and followed after him.
—
["If I Didn't Care," composed by Jack Lawrence, recorded by The Inkspots (1939)]