"So. . . " Tara says later, calmly, hands folded together, "Do you wanna talk about what happened?"
"Not particularly, no." Spike snaps.
They've been sitting in the basement of the old high school for hours. Spike's behavior has continued to be erratic, talking to people who aren't there, yelling in what seems like pain, though Tara can't find anything physical to explain it. She decides to start small. "Why come here?"
He sighs, realizing the futility of fighting the situation, and decides to respond somewhat helpfully. "Dunno, really. Didn't feel like I was in control of myself. Suddenly there was just someplace I needed to be."
The phrase rattles throughout Tara's entire being.
"I remember," she murmurs, suddenly feeling very cold. And it's true—Tara won't forget it. Ever. Even if she wanted to. Though she was never fully present, parts of her remember Glory. In bits and pieces, like looking through a peephole and only seeing a small part of what's on the other side. When reality blurred into a nightmare and Tara was never certain of what was real. It felt like she'd been constantly dragged under by a tide—waves crashing around her—struggling to reach the surface.
Last time there'd been darkness and horrible things swarming, whispering, taunting her. Tara remembers crawling—slick blackness oozing through her fingers—and she kept sliding into thicker darkness until she was choking on it; until it crawled into her mouth, through her ears, and dripped from her eyes. And all the while it whispered and hissed. Tara remembers feeling dirty. The way her father had told her she was, the way she had tried to never believe in her heart, the way she finally was in the dark, cold place.
Closing inward still comes naturally, the way it did before she met Willow and the others—before she'd been transformed as a Scooby. She fights against it now. "And then you saw. . . Buffy."
"I didn't just see her, love. I saw them all. Near as I can figure it, I'm crazy and you're just another figment of my imagination."
Tara can't help laughing. Spike squints at her suspiciously. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you."
It's just so ridiculous.
"Listen, I don't appreciate being made fun of, even in my own head."
Her laughter finally dies down a bit. "Spike," she manages to say, wiping away a tear, "I'm not in your head, you're in mine."
He observes her a moment, squinting skeptically, then nods sharply, "Right. So we both think the other's imaginary, yeah?"
"No, you're definitely part of mine."
"Bollocks, no way I'm part of some dead girl's dreams," he says. Tara shrugs. "Fine, prove it. Do a spell."
At that, Tara's prior confidence falters. "I can't," she admits, feeling very small again. "Magic doesn't work here. Trust me, I've tried," she adds darkly.
Spike smirks. "Told you. Not real," he says, gesturing to her.
Tara glares at him. "Fine," she grits her teeth, "I'll show you." She closes her eyes and concentrates, focusing on her connection to the earth, just as her mother had taught her. She remembers how to, even if the earth has never answered her here. She remembers how it felt—almost warm . . . Her eyes fly open.
Not remembering. Happening!
Tara looks at Spike in shock and awe. "What?" he says, oblivious. Tara has no words, her jaw is slack in astonishment.
She feels the earth through Spike.
"So you've never been able to do magic here? Since when?"
"Since always? I've tried, but nothing happens. I-Its like striking a match that won't light. Its been like that since I got here. Spike, can I. . . try something?" Tara asks as calmly as she can.
He leans away from her, slightly suspicious. "You're not gonna curse me are you? I've got that covered, love, trust me."
"No," she shakes her head, "I'm just going to . . . sense." At his nod of acquiescence, she closes her eyes once more and sends her perception outward until it meets the source of energy. There it is—edges rusted, but still burning underneath, a glowing light like a lonely, frail filament.
"Oh, Spike," she breathes in understanding. "It must hurt so much," she says tenderly.
He squirms, made uncomfortable by her empathy. "Well yeah. A hundred some odd years of murder and terrorizing doesn't exactly make for a warm welcome when a soul comes marching back."
The earth, Spike's soul . . . they're connected. Spike is a door and his soul is the key. That's it. "A soul by its nature is a force of energy. I-I don't think you belong here. I don't think either of us are supposed to be here," Tara explains. "But you . . . see me?" she waits as he nods in affirmation. "And you also see— saw . . . Buffy." He confirms again. "But she couldn't see me." He shakes his head "So. What do we know?" Spike shoots her a look. "B-besides me being . . . dead," she adds.
He leans back and begins listing on each finger, "New high school, all shiny n' fresh, Anya's a vengeance demon again, Slayer and Little Bit are alive and well. No sign of your girl, though. Much as I could figure it, she's out of town. Probably visiting the old homestead. 'Willow Unplugged' as it were, for a spell."
Tara frowned, "What do you mean?"
"I might've been in Africa fighting demons for a near-useless soul, l but even there I could hear the earth screaming with your girl's rage. Grief is mighty powerful, and after what she did last time with you, can't say I'm surprised. Glad I was outta town though, no way in hell I woulda wanted to face her down, all gothed up."
Neither one of them had wanted to talk about it, After. Their fight before the fair. Before Glory. Granted, there had been more pressing matters, like covering up the death of a Slayer, secretly burying Buffy, and moving in to take care of Dawn, for starters. But Willow was clogged with grief and guilt over her best friend's death while Tara was keen to stay as far away from the nightmares of her prison as possible. Ignoring the trauma had been easy. But now, Tara realized deep in her gut, it had only delayed the inevitable. What had happened after she died?
He sighs and looks away before continuing reluctantly, "Been seeing things; hearing people long gone. The ones I killed. Hearing them, in my head. Taunting me. Punishing me . . . things that I did."
This, Tara thinks, is a problem she can hold onto. "Spike, you have to follow her," Tara presses, ignoring the Willow warning bells for another time.
"I can't," he says dejectedly, "You don't know what I did. I can't go see her. Don't deserve to. She doesn't deserve to."
She can sense him slipping away into insanity again, sense this chance slipping away. She remembers being crazy; hearing voices and not being certain of reality. He looks so lost. Delicately, she touches his arm, feeling the thrum of the earth through him. She lets that infuse her with strength and hope, then opens her eyes and speaks as much to herself as to him.
"You can do this."