The quiet suited her.
It soothed and whirled in the wind as it caressed her, gently blowing wild her hair and rubbing raw her skin.
The wind didn't speak. It didn't quietly cower like the Coven or blatantly forgive like Giles. It simply blew the broken pieces of Willow into blessed nothingness as she sat. And as far as she was concerned, it was the most welcoming thing on earth.
The tree was her furthest hiding spot from the cottage. Sometimes, when the prospect of living seemed too daunting and paralyzing, she needed the quiet growth and easy seclusion of the woods for company.
The magick lessons, of course, didn't help. The magick was where it all began. And ended. There was nothing Willow wanted to be farther away from than it.
A part of her was innocently fascinated with what the Coven taught her. How it was all connected - Gaia and the root systems; like millions of tiny computer wires in a vast network. But every tendril she followed in the system drew to a forsaken shuddering end. It might have all been connected, but none of it led back to Tara.
So what was the point?
The interest ended there.
She engaged them, of course. The good student was too deeply ingrained to ignore, and it proved useful. But this time, no dormant hopeful purity hid underneath. The driving force wasn't thirst for knowledge or geekish habit, but an empty inevitability.
All she wanted was a silent solitude; to be left alone and meditate until nothing remained. But they pressed with their magick and teachings, so she had no choice but to learn.
"Willow, you must try to focus."
And because she had nothing left, she did. She took deep breaths and tried to imagine the edges of her sight hazing into white. But white just made her think of red. Faltering, she looked desperately into Ms. Hartness' eyes, her own pleading and begging and raw with fear.
"Willow, stay away from the red. Listen to my voice. Hum with me."
Weakly, she had forced her vocal cords to vibrate. Small and fragile at first, but with Ms. Hartness' hum resonating in the background, Willow inhaled and started again low. She didn't have the strength to tighten the pitch, but the deep strum grew strong and steady on it's own.
The hum encompassed her, filled her bones with a resonating rhythm, and drugged her mind. Willow sunk into the vibrations in her chest, down into the dark, and a warm tendril pulled forth and surrounded her in a giant yawn.
Nothing existed in the black except the safe and the pulsating warm. Willow was no more or no less than a hum.
Slowly, percolating drops of consciousness seeped into her mind, collecting and forming shape. It was an hour later that Willow fully came into herself again.
Her eyes fluttered open into the dusky light and she saw the patient, tender face of Ms. Hartness wearily smiling back at her proudly.
Willow hadn't understood until later, as she lay in bed in the dark, that she had relearned how to fall asleep. Away from the nightmares, Willow circumvented her way to slumber. Safe from the white, red, and inevitably, the blue.
Willow sat up straight as she inhaled fully, stretching her and back and lungs. She stood and balanced herself on the tree, momentarily dizzy and lightheaded.
When the fuzz around her vision cleared, the long green stared in front of her; speckled with grass, shrubs, and wildflowers.
With a lasting breath, Willow began the long trek back.
It's time to learn.
"Will, it's time you learned how to do this," Tara began patiently.
Approaching the counter with more than a hint trepidation, Willow asked timidly, "Are you sure? My cooking skills are kinda not so great. Remember the George Forman grill? It's not so George Forman-y anymore."
Tara smiled at the memory of the deceased kitchen appliance's demise. "That reminds me, sweetie, lesson number one: grilling, baking, and cooking are three very different things."
"Uh, right. Okay. And sautéing is….?"
"A type of frying," Tara answered with a half-grin. "But don't forget the roasting, boiling, searing, poaching, braising, and deep-frying."
A look of blank awe smacked Willow across the face. "Wow. That's uh… a lot of terms."
Her smile never faltering, Tara nodded as she twisted around and reached for the cabinets. "Mhmm, so we'd better get started."
"Tara?" Willow squeaked.
Tara retracted her arm and turned around to face her girlfriend, who had backed herself into the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. "Yeah, sweetie?"
Gnawing her bottom lip, Willow glanced down at her feet before nervously asking, "What if I can't cook it right?"
At that moment, Tara fell in love with Willow all over again. Right down to her jittery, bouncing toes encased in fuzzy pink socks.
Seeing Tara's lazy smile grow even wider, Willow grew puzzled. "Why are you smiling? This isn't smiley-face material. This is…I-could-start-a-fire-and-burn-the-house-down material. Not at all with the good."
Crossing her arms, Tara asked, "Willow, can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"What's sodium chloride?"
"Um, the ionization of sodium and chlorine atoms?"
Nodding, Tara questioned further. "Good. And what is the square root of pi squared."
After a moment of contemplation, a baffled Willow squeaked, "Uhhhh, pi?"
Opening a cabinet door, Tara pulled out a bowl and a large wooden spoon from the drawer near her thigh. Slapping them on the countertop next to Willow, she slid close to her lover, feeling their legs and hips melt together like warm chocolate. "And how did you know both of those answers?"
Growing incredibly distracted by the lips dancing in front of her eyes, Willow offered, "Three quarters of a bachelor's degree and a handful of mediocre classes in high school?"
Putting her arms on the counter on either side of Willow, Tara leaned in and whispered, "Follow the formula."
Gulping, Willow's brain wasn't making the neural connections necessary to catch Tara's point. "Following. the….what?"
Pulling back with an extremely satisfied look on her face, Tara grabbed the bag of flour and placed it into Willow's capable hands. "The recipe for salt requires synthesis of the ingredients sodium and chloride. For the other, you had to first multiply 3.14 by itself, then divide that by itself to reach a conclusion, yes?"
Willow nodded.
"All you have to do in order to cook is break down the recipe into an equation. It's no different than a science experiment or a math problem. Follow. The. Steps," Tara finished, punctuating the last words with a kiss on Willow's nose.
The pieces finally clicking into place, a warm confidence poured into Willow, and her face blossomed into a brilliant smile. "How do you do that?"
Tara gathered Willow in a loose embrace, "Well, it was easy 'cause I love you so much. But I'll admit, I had an ulterior motive."
Looking up into Tara's eyes, the redhead implored, "And what might that be exactly?"
"Well, where would you be when you want to pamper your poor, sick girlfriend who's stuck in bed with the flu and you don't know how to make pancakes?"
With a burst of laughter, Willow pecked Tara lovingly on the cheek and began gathering supplies and ingredients with a vivacious flourish.
Soon, buttermilk pancakes were sizzling in the pan and Willow was stirring another batch of batter in a bowl. The kitchen was pregnant with love, and the air was laden with the warm scent of baking. Blissfully content, Tara soaked up the smell of a perfect Sunday mo-
Tara's eyes fluttered open to the sunshine dancing through the window blinds. She lay under the blankets, still a bit groggy from her dream. It had been so easy for the memory-smell of pancakes to sensually waft her into consciousness. She let the familiar heaviness settle into her heart like it did every morning, but suddenly her eyes snapped open.
Wait. Where's that smell coming from?
Tara yanked her bathrobe from where it hung on the wardrobe and pulled it on when every single nerve in her body jumped in alarm.
Tara froze.
A clang. It may have been muffled through the floorboards, but a definite and resounding clang reverberated throughout the house and shattered her world.
Tara's pulse pounded in her ears as she stood motionless, but was soon jolted into action as she heard indistinct mutterings join the clattering downstairs.
No. It's impossible.
Scrambling to the door, Tara flattened one palm against the hard surface and cracked open the door. The cool air from the hallway blew onto Tara's face and she closed her eyes with joyous rapture.
It had been so long, oh so long since she had heard those sounds - any sounds. Tears leaked from her eyes. It was almost unrecognizable, this feeling. So foreign, Tara had long given up any expectation of having it again. Something as simple as hope had abandoned her. Yet here it was, sizzling and glowing and welling within her, as she let herself believe her waiting might be over.
She was about to swoop down the stairs in excitement, but a sudden fear caused Tara to pull back. Was it all another trick? A dream? For all Tara knew, she could still be asleep now, floating on the tendrils of fantasy, only to again wake with a horrible and consuming emptiness.
But the smell. It pulled her from her misgivings and she took a first step into the hallway. Hardly breathing, as if it would shatter the possibility of the moment, Tara slowly crept down the stairs, each step bringing her closer to the euphoric noises in the kitchen. Slinking across the floor, Tara's heart resumed it's rapid fluttering as the sounds in the kitchen grew clearer. It nearly thumped out of her chest when she saw a body at the counter.
Whatever hope had blossomed inside Tara earlier, in an instant burned to ashes. The metallic taste of copper invaded her mouth and her heart dropped into her stomach. The smile that had graced her face withered into a grotesque twist when the figure turned to face her.
As Tara wavered in the doorway to the kitchen, Spike turned around, spatula in hand, and watched her fall to her knees.
"Oh, you. Need more eggs," was all Tara heard before she blissfully let blackness claim her.