There is a magic, delicate moment, sometime during the inescapable night, when time and space blend together like watercolor.
It had been hours since darkness descended and cast the world into weary shadow, pronouncing the deep tired that seeped into Tara and Spike's bones. It was an exceedingly draining day, and sleep was long overdue.
As the haze of unconsciousness fuzzed Spike's mind, he could no longer recall how long it had been since he'd shut the lights, peeled down the sheets, and crawled into bed. Sleep hummed in the back of his brain, pressing behind the eyes like a faint headache. He recalled, somewhat curiously, how foreign the sheets felt, weighing down his feet at the cliff of the bed. The fabric, although soft, seemed laden with starch when texture rubbed against his skin as he turned onto his stomach and flipped the pillow over to the cool side.
How long had it been since he had lain in a bed? It felt alien, having no chilled stone slab beneath him. Despite the warmth of the layers, the mattress remained distinctly cooler, reminding him, even in sleep, where he had come from- a tattoo of cotton.
But this moment, this delicate wire of transubstantiation, soon began to work it's magic.
In that tissue paper veil that shrouds sleepytime thoughts in embryonic cocoons, Spike disintegrated like paper pulp into a vat larger than himself. Soon, feeling passed beyond sensation and the bed and everything on it ebbed into the ocean of numb. It could have been Dreaming, but there was no sense of self in this place.
No, this was something far greater in which the being known as Spike traveled. It was beyond Space and Time itself.
On and on he tumbled, passing milky nebulas and streaking stars, floating gently through space. It was then that Infinity stretched out with its smoky tentacles, encased him in a haze of possibility and spat him out into the sun.
It was bright, it was sudden, and it sizzled. As the offending pain bored into his flesh, identity smacked back into him like a wet sock and Spike the Vampire was returned to the world.
And there he sat, crumpled up behind a restaurant alley, dumped rather unceremoniously by unknown forces. He stared dumbly at the crust of black-nail polish clinging stubbornly to his cuticles as the voices trickled back into his head. The loudness again overtaking his mind distracted him from the sun while steam slowly started billowing out of the sleeves of his jacket.
His eyebrows furrowed in a weary confusion as a crowd only he could hear pounded in his eardrums. It was familiar, this feeling, and that made him more nervous than anything. Panic grasped him as he raised his head and queried to the empty alleyway, "Mommy?" before his legs crumpled and darkness overtook him.
It was strange, really, the things coming to England had brought- endless dark dreams and night sweats, driving on the wrong side of the road, deep meditations, British slang. But none struck Willow as more odd than adding milk to tea as she sat cushioned in an armchair, cradling a forgotten mug in her lap.
Despite Giles' insistence that tea was the all-time-cure for any ailment, Willow never indulged in the drink. Instead, she preferred a hot, hearty mocha to stir up the blood in her veins. During the later than late nights of demon research at the Magic Box, a balmy liquid didn't appeal to her as much as the sugar-rich coffee. Truth be told, she never wanted to be soothed by a quiet cup of tea because there was always the worry of unwinding too much in the face of danger. No, the self-appointed demon researcher couldn't afford respite in tea. Mocha was thick, heavy with caffeine, and necessary to avoid relaxation. In the Scooby world, nothing was more dangerous than getting too comfortable.
Besides, Tara was always the one to drink tea and she drank enough for the both of them. Her and Giles often shared an affinity for a midnight cup of chamomile and hushed conversation. In the midst of various research, Willow would secretly watch while the two sat on the second floor overhang, reveling in the magic moment of people she loved together in harmony. Willow had no need for tea, she had Tara- more perfectly tranquil and steeped than any beverage.
Willow cupped her mug tightly, creating a loose warmth, as though the smooth-as-teeth porcelain might transport her back to such nights. Her legs remained numbed and forgotten, folded beneath her, when the door to the cottage cracked open and ushered in a very wet Ms. Hartness.
Her hair hung in ringlets, matted to her neck and face, while water continued to drip from the tips. Peeling off her jacket, Ms. Hartness hung it on the hook next to the door and valiantly attempted to make some semblance of order out of her tangled hair.
Willow jumped and threw an arm over the chair so she could view her mentor. Noticing the woman's disheveled state, Willow flung into action, clunking the forgotten mug on the table in her haste. Concern immediately flooded her features. "Ms. Hartness, why are you- is everything all right? Was there a storm? Are you hurt? Are you okay?"
"Willow, dear, I'm quite alright, thank you. Although I do believe my umbrella has died a most violent death, I seem to have escaped with a mere soaking. How lucky of me."
Willow's fussing dimmed and her shoulders sagged with a noticeable relief. A soft "Oh," escaped her lips.
"I do believe I've braved far worse weather in this countryside than a mere rainstorm. Thought there was that one time years ago during a veritable monsoon and a bottle of, what was it now, Sambucca?"
Ms. Hartness trailed off, squinting at the far wall with fond memories. Willow, in the meantime, stared back with an equally squinty, yet curious expression. "Ms. Hartness?"
"Hmm?"
"Ms. Hartness," she said more firmly, trying to bring her attention back to the present.
"What? Oh yes. Never mind that. Another story for another time, hmm?" Ms. Hartness motioned for them to sit.
"Willow," she said and waited for her to meet her gaze. "I assume that since this is the first time you've missed dinner in quite some time, Rupert has finally told you."
Willow didn't trust her voice. Instead, she nodded and looked at the floor.
"One of us was going to tell you last week, but he came to me and requested to do it himself."
It was alright, after all. Willow had supposed this moment was coming ever since she arrived at the Coven. As much as she longed to stay forever and never go back, a part of her always knew it had to end.
Then again, she'd also never expected to stay for so long. A part of her believed she'd be thrown out after only a few days. Hopeless. Useless. A lost cause. Too evil to be bothered with. She had even packed her bags one morning, but instead of a taxi, she was greeted with hot breakfast.
"But how?"
Ms. Hartness crinkled her forehead in confusion, "Sorry dear, what?"
Willow didn't even realize she'd spoken, but it was impossible to backtrack now.
She'd never told anyone before, not the group, not the Coven, not even Ms. Hartness or Giles, but there was something that lurked deep within the shadows. Willow would feel it crawl under her skin, up her neck, and in her fingers. It was everywhere. And it oozed. All the time. Always. Everywhere.
It wouldn't have been so terrifying if it came unawares, but The Black struck when she was most focused; it was in the hum when she meditated and the roots when she was at the tree. It grabbed her down like a tide too strong and drowned her in the darkness until she was no more. Giles had been there a few times, but she had a sprinkling of bruises up and down her body for all the times he hadn't. It scared the hell out of her.
"How," her voice cracked, "am I supposed to go back with all this blackness inside of me?"
"Willow."
So wrapped up in her fear, she didn't register that Ms. Hartness had sat next to her and took her hands in her own. "Willow, look at me."
Numbly she made eye contact, even as hot tears welled, making everything blur.
"You, my dear, are a very special witch. That darkness? It is a remnant. Of the things you've done, of the lessons you've learnt. Had you given into it, you wouldn't feel it at all. It is remorse, it is guilt, it is regret. For everything that has happened and everything that now will be. Embrace it, Willow. It makes you human."
Willow knew she was human, this was no surprise. But after everything she'd learnt on the Hellmouth, being human made you no better than a demon. It just made you worse. Because humans have a choice. And she had made that choice anyway. She gave into it, that darkness, that evil. Sometimes it just seemed easier to end it. A few times she nearly had.
But something smooth, hard, and warm stood in her way. Willow looked down and found the cup of tea in her hands. When had she grabbed it? The tea of midnight, of chamomile, and whispers. The tea of Tara. Willow gripped the mug tighter and resolve bubbled to the surface.
A great glow of Tara infused her. Willow was the water and Tara was the tea. She soaked up the moment, letting Taratea seep into her bones. Willow knew it wouldn't last long, but for now? For this minute? It was enough. Willow breathed through her nose and looked back at Ms. Hartness.
"When do I pack?"