Willow felt her then.
Right…there.
A deep pang of Tara that sliced her open and made her gasp with hurt. The pain was suddenly everywhere. She felt it echo and pound around her, dragging her down into the deep. Willow cried out, felt her knees buckle, and the world spin.
In a flash, Giles dipped to catch Willow where she fell, and kneeled in the grass, holding her strongly. The ground was damp from the rain the day before, and tiny water bubbles surfaced as his boots squished into the grass. He had missed the subtle nuances of the earth while in Sunnydale. The pristine California sunshine had spoiled him, but here he remembered how to relish the wet mornings and early fog. They rooted him, deep and ancient, into the countryside. He felt more connected than he had in a long time. In the end, maybe that was one of the reasons he had brought Willow here. Perhaps here she could feel the rustic strength and wisdom that infused the weary and the lost. Including him.
Laden with Willow's dead weight, Giles counted the moments until she regained consciousness. He never got used to them, but eventually grew accustomed to the bouts of heartache and agony that overwhelmed Willow and forced her to the ground. He knew the blackouts were connected with her lessons. The new magicks introduced into her black-scarred system were bound to have their bumps and bruises along the way. She needed to re-learn how to use the light she was given.
He sighed.
I was so blind. So foolishly blind.
He knew the dirty residuals that rehabilitation created, clinging like sand to clammy flesh. It had haunted him in dark corners when Slaying business had retired for the evening and he was left alone in his house with naught but a smooth glass of scotch for company. How little he had touched magic since the days of Ripper. He let the power shrivel inside, too afraid to wrestle with his own potential. For good or bad, he didn't care to find out.
The dank guilt of his deeds tumbled inside of him for decades, sequestered, but never forgotten. It nagged on his conscious and pulled often, like a gentle tug. Don't forget me, it said.
He never forgot.
He did, however, hoard his flaws, like nuts for the winter, keeping them safe and secret. And because he was narrow in his ways and determined not to let the past repeat itself, he inadvertently let it happen anyway. He ignored the warning signs and led his daughter astray. His fears and shortcomings had led to her downfall, and he would not be so quick as to let it happen ever again.
And so he held her protectively, and waited for her to return.
As the third minute slowly ticked by, Giles felt Willow stir.
Gently, he thought.
He watched her eyelids tremble and flutter. Her green eyes, dull like frosted sea glass, quivered open and she looked up at the pale sky. A moment passed as she stared blankly, her gaze passing over the faraway clouds. Willow's face strained as she pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and exhaled through her nose.
Giles felt like he was intruding on a desperately private moment. He quietly cleared his throat, and soft as a lamb's breath asked, "Are you alright?"
Eyes still closed, Willow nodded and pressed her head into Giles' sleeve. "Can you just….hold me for a moment? Please?"
"I'd love nothing more." With that, he kissed the top of her head, and gazed at the spongy green hills across the valley, crowned with clusters of trees, as the sun made its way, tumbling through the sky.
His eyes were filled with green and his hand with red as Giles absentmindedly stroked Willow's hair. Thoughts of his recent phone call circled lazily in his mind, lingering like day-old baked goods at the grocery store.
Buffy's voice had warmed him instantly. The brittle ice surrounding his spirit melted with the spring of her bright greeting. His eyes had crinkled at the corners like tissue paper when he smiled. He had forgotten, just for a moment, that there was more to the world than pain and grief.
Trust Buffy to remind me.
It was more than just a phone call, really. Buffy had sounded much more collected than she had in quite some time. There wasn't a secret weariness or reluctant acceptedness that tinged her every move. Buffy seemed…ready. And Giles was proud of her. She had done it all on her own, and he knew at what cost.
The call started innocently enough, with light banter sprinkled in like cinnamon, but soon he could hear the nervous curiosity that tinged her voice. It was a full twelve minutes before he even broached the topic of Willow.
"Giles, are you sure? I thought this was supposed to be a six month shindig. Now you're telling me she's ready all of a sudden?"
"Buffy, this not about it being sudden. She doesn't have a choice in the matter, it's time."
"Time for what, the Copacabana? This isn't some sort of Coven initiation test, is it? See if she goes all Dark-Eyed-Magic-Mamma again at 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign? 'Cause I don't much like the sound of that."
Giles' loud sigh could be heard muffled into the receiver. "Some matters have merely been taken into account, and we've come to the realization that it's time for Willow to go back. No tests, no dark magic, no experiments."
There was a pause.
"'We've come'? Giles, does Will even know she's coming back yet?"
A lack of motion made Giles realize his hand had stilled, and was now resting heavily atop Willow's head. He looked down to see that she had cradled her fist beneath her chin and was clutching her other arm close to her chest. Her eyes still stared blankly into the hills beyond.
Ever so gently, Giles took his hand and nudged Willow's chin, tilting her head so she looked up at him. He stared deep into her eyes, leaden and weary, and felt the weight of a world on his shoulders.
He took a deep breath to steel himself, felt the saturated air permeate every pore in his lungs with a primordial strength, then met her gaze. "Willow," he began. "We must talk."
The afternoon light was heavy with gold as the hours slowly matured into early evening, saturating the air. Shadows stretched across the floor, reaching and crawling under furniture and up walls. Twilight was coming, and Spike was tired. The sun was sucking all the energy from his bones, he didn't remember the last time he'd been awake with the sun and it was exhausting.
He sunk deeper into the couch, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine that had been lying out on the table while Tara fussed about in the kitchen making lunch. It had been hours since either of them had eaten. Eventually Tara wiped her eyes dry at the stubborn insistence of their stomachs. Besides, the crying had to stop eventually.
For one thing, Spike had had enough emotion to last him for another two hundred years as far as he was concerned. But strangely it hadn't bothered him as much as he thought it would. He felt a strange calm settle upon him like fine silk at the mere recollection. He might not have known where he was-or, for that matter, why he was, but for now, he had a purpose: hold Tara.
So hold her he did.
And he felt strong and good. But their growling hunger had interrupted the lonely spasms of heartbreak, so then came resolve and sandwiches.
"Spike, do you want regular turkey, or smoked?"
Not bothering to glance up from the magazine, he didn't miss a beat. "Smoked."
Spike continued to mindlessly flip pages, but the words twisted and blended into a tangle of text. Overcome by a sudden dizzy spell, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, hoping to relieve the pressure. He vaguely heard other voices, muffled, from the kitchen, "Pop Tarts or Fruit Loops?"
As soon as it began, his nausea ceased, and Spike found himself balanced precariously at the edge of the couch. Trying to shake off the strange feeling, he shouted back, "What are you playing at, Blondie? I said I wanted smoked."
A moment later, Tara entered the living room carrying two pale blue ceramic plates, toppled high with potato chips and sandwiches, with a frown plastered on her face. "Spike, who are you talking to?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it abruptly and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing nothing, he turned back around to look at Tara who had sat down across the table and was staring at him worriedly. "Spike?"
Tiny alarm bells rang in the back of his brain. Something was wrong. He'd been both undead and around the Slayer gang long enough to know something wasn't right. Maybe the voices were coming back, but he found himself strangely comforted by that idea - it was nothing more than he deserved.
"Nothing," he says, changing the topic quickly and gesturing to the sandwich. "S'not blood, but it'll do."