"Hello?" Xander asked as they walked. "Earth to the Buffster. You there?"
Realizing that someone was talking to her, a sudden "Huh?" blurted out of her mouth.
"Well that was enigmatic. Maybe a little overacted, but with just a bit more 'oomph', I think you've got some definite Oscar material there."
"Sorry Xander," she apologized, "I guess I zonked out again?"
"Yeah sure. Either that or excitement is just pouring out your ears in all new fun ways. Everything alright in there?"
They turned the corner and the tail end of town and started up the long sloping hill. Kids blurred by on roller blades and bicycles as they walked, the sunshine warming their backs like a slow, cozy winter fire.
Picking at the loud, crinkling plastic wrapping in her hands, Buffy shuffled on, noticing the grass peeking through the cracks in the sidewalk; stubborn little weeds. "Yeah, I was just out a little later than usual last night, checking things out. You know, no biggie."
Xander recognized that tinge of the sluggish self-hatred Buffy carried. He knew it because he was just as stuck in the quicksand of regret as her.
There was nothing that haunted him more in his life – not seeing his best friend ashen and unconscious laying bruised and battered on a hospital bed, not staring at the pavement alone and benumbed on Christmas eves, and not even the stricken realization of betrayal in Anya's brimming eyes as she stood emptily on the altar – than the moment Xander Harris, champion of Scooby blind daring and action, stood motionless in that sunny backyard on the worst day of his life.
But what could he possibly say? No words would make his sticky feet move those months ago, and nothing he could say now would distill the hanging cloud that smoldered above them. It was a deeply ingrained Scooby habit to save the heavy emotional drain for apocalypses and demons rather than on communication and conversation. It took precious resources to keep up fighting the forces of darkness, let alone the effort of trying to live in the light.
Squinting against the sun, he swept the unspoken conversation away with a silent agreement, "Yeah, no big."
Buffy was grateful for Xander's willingness to sacrifice the topic. She just didn't feel like getting into it. Not today.
They kept walking, stuck in a comfortable silence, each wrapped in their own tiny pockets of grief. The sign for the cemetery snuck up on them as it always did, taciturn and massive.
Buffy hated the sunlight that day. It mocked her relentlessly as her friend lay cold in the ground. Buffy hunted the dark and the evil, but she could do nothing to chase away the shadows that hung under Dawn's eyes or the scars that lingered on Xander's face; more potent and obvious in the sunshine than they had been the night before.
Buffy squeezed her sister closer to her.
She glanced over at Willow, who had mutely insisted she dress herself that morning, as she sat in the only chair with her hands clasped tight, knuckles shining whitely and trembling in her lap. A constant stream of tears trickled down Willow's face as she looked ahead blankly, lost and irretrievable. Buffy wondered if she'd ever see her best friend again.
It wasn't often a fallen or dearly departed Scooby member had a remnant of them left in Sunnydale. Most drifted away like dust to Angel in L.A. or were possessed in the dark by demons. It was almost a morbid rare treat to be able to visit a grave.
Buffy was slightly startled when they stopped walking, having arrived at their destination, and Xander spoke softly. "You know, I didn't think it would be this hard."
Nodding solemnly, she said, "I know. Me either."
Xander reached to pick up the old bouquet of brilliantly mixed zinnias, petals browning slightly at the tips like burnt paper edges, that rested against the tombstone. "She still doesn't talk to me, but I know her like the back of my hand. These are hers."
"Anya?"
He bowed his head in affirmation and with a forced chuckle said, "She probably did research on appropriate graveside manner."
Buffy gestured down at the mixture of flowers in her hand, "Well, these aren't exactly a dime a dozen at the grocery store, either."
He shrugged. "Well, what's the few extra bucks? We made a promise, Buff, and an elephant never forgets. Or shirks his duty. Or, you know…isn't an elephant."
Xander faithfully went to the floral shop in town every Monday and Friday to tenderly collect a mixture of ferns, phlox, irises, and orange blossoms. It had been the only thing Willow asked of him before she left. Somewhere he knew, best friend deep, that Willow didn't think she would ever be coming back.
He upheld her wish, but always added a single dark crimson rose just for her. It just felt right to him.
Cradling the old zinnias in his arms, Xander replaced them with the fresh bouquet as he sat down in the grass cross-legged beside Buffy.
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then, taking a deep breath, Buffy began.
"Hey, Tara."
Accidentally knocking the pots to the floor with a clatter, Tara cursed loudly as she burnt her fingers on the stove and shoved the throbbing digits between her legs, clamping her thighs together.
The morning light shone in through the window over the sink in the Summer's kitchen, soft like a lullaby, as Tara tried to prepare breakfast.
Ella Fitzgerald kept Tara company every morning, rain or shine, happy or sad, empty or full, pancakes or cereal, ready or not. It chased the silence away, if only for a little while, and jazz was something Tara clung to. Like the last remnants of a tube of toothpaste, Tara squeezed up the few inheritances she had, furrowed deep in her heart.
Mornings at home with Mom had been such a rare delight and Tara treasured them more than anything. Her father and Donnie always left early to work the farm, so Tara was left alone with her mother for a few precious hours. The house would sing with happiness, smug and full of cookies and magic.
Her mother would hoist her on a stool and hold her protectively from behind like a mama bear at the kitchen counter. She would sing with the radio under her breath, tickling the backs of Tara's ears. Lady Ella serenaded them warmly and flowers danced on the windowsill as they wove recipes into blankets of solace that Tara would wrap around herself during the long dark nights under lock and key.
Flour, jazz, honeysuckle, and daffodils would stick to the underside of Tara's heart when Father worked a dark magic all his own. Try as he might, however, nothing was more powerful than those happy mornings bathed in light and love.
Trying to shake the burning that licked the tips of her fingers and heart, Tara shook her head and went to the sink to run her hand under cold water.
"Morning, you," Tara felt in her ear as a soft body molded into hers from behind. "Funny shapes today?"
Tara smiled, feeling Willow's grin ripen in the crook of her neck.
The glass she was filling slipped from a lax grip and shattered into tiny fragments along with Tara's carefully conceived morning procedure.
Jerked out of her thoughts, as her back echoed a phantom Willow-warmth, Tara realized it just wasn't enough this morning. She had grown too comfortable with the routine. Her brain had relaxed in habit and her heart was beginning to think.
It was too much.
Barely remembering to turn off the stove, Tara left the kitchen in a flurry, crunching over the broken glass, and hurried to the front door.
She needed to get out. The house was oppressive and caved in on her slowly with faulty routines, patterns, and habits designed to keep her calm. Tara barely had time to realize she was panicking; it struck dart fast, unseen until it hit. Her breathing labored and spots danced behind her eyes as she leaned heavily against the banister.
She just needed to get to the door.
With a lasting burst of desperate strength, Tara leapt towards the door and grabbed the doorknob as she fell.
Fresh air flew through the air as the door swung open. It blew the crazy and the panic out of Tara like sifting sand in the wind as she lay collapsed in the doorway with one arm hanging off the threshold.
The hysteria fled after a few moments as a lazy breeze gently blew Tara's sweaty hair into the draft. Her mind cleared slowly, defogging like a mirror after a steaming shower, and her breathing returned to normal as she listened to her heart calming.
Thump-thump. Thump- thump. Thump – thump.
Taraheart, she thought as her eyes brimmed with a fresh wave of tears and her throat thickened and swelled. She forced them down with a deep swallow.
She knew no one was watching, but Tara felt self-conscious sprawled out like a lunatic in the doorway of the house. Stranger things had happened in the Summers' home, she knew, but not in this place.
Tara stood and brushed her hands off on her pants, staring forlornly at the long expanse of the lawn in front of her.
I need more eggs.
She needed to collect herself before going out again. Too unnerved to do it now now, Tara hugged her arms, rubbing her shoulders in cold comfort, and turned to go back inside.
The door shut firmly behind her.