Note: This chapter takes place in Same Time Same Place, Episode 3 of Season 7. They're sort of like scenes inbetween what we, the viewers, saw. Think about them logistically and place them chronologically. Any questions, please feel free to ask!
When she was little, Willow loved to fly. Ever on the academic circuit, the Rosenbergs would take several short trips out to the east coast for conferences, events, and lectures. Willow'd earnestly beg, for weeks, to join them. As much as she enjoyed spending lazy afternoons with Xander and Jesse, she always felt different. Curious. And if she were being honest with herself, smarter. So sometimes, deep inside, she longed for something more. In her parents world, there were people like her; people who loved learning, spent their lives learning, never stopping, but thirsting for more.
While her parents' hands-off method of raising her had provided little except economic stability, the promises of their knowledge gave Willow wings. Their trips to New England, New York, Washington DC, and Chicago opened her eyes to a life outside of her empty home.
Never in a thousand years would Willow have predicted she'd stay—truly stay (and by choice, even)—in Sunnydale; not when she had Oxford and Harvard at her fingertips and dreams of catching snowflakes on her tongue. But intellect did not beget precognition, and Willow could never have known Buffy would come and change her life so drastically. It hadn't been easy, letting go of her childhood dreams of crunchy autumn leaves and apple cider, but a new purpose had taken over Willow—one that didn't involve grant proposals or academics.
Buffy had probably never understood the depth of Willow's sacrifice that day under the tree. That bone-crunching hug afterward had made her forget, of course. And so she pushed those dreams aside in lieu of a new one. Instead, she settled. Willow put her wishes on the shelf and lost herself in Purpose.
In Sunnydale, she was needed. And it felt good to be needed. To help.
Flying since had been more bittersweet than anything. She still tasted her old dreams, but they seemed so far away now, like childhood clothes she'd long outgrown. Flying reminded her of what she'd given up. And oh, how it had come full circle.
Eleven hours. It takes eleven hours to fly to London. Willow doesn't carry much.
The ride goes by in a monotonous hum, and when the pilot announces their descent into Heathrow, Willow closes her eyes in preparation.
There's a car waiting for her outside baggage claim that takes her to the countryside. The driver tosses her light suitcase into the back as if it weighs nothing. It almost does; Willow packed for Buffy and Xander's benefit—she knew she wouldn't be needing anything.
Giles will be waiting for her, she knows.
A few minutes away from their destination she takes out the photograph and lays it on her lap, smoothing the frame as if it were a rumpled skirt. She traces Tara's face as the car slows to a halt. Willow closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath.
The car door feels more massive than she's used to, and she wonders if English cars are all like that or if its a sign of her own weakness. She hasn't had much energy, every little small thing is heavy. Just breathing hurts.
Giles is there, looking more British than ever in tweed and a black umbrella. Everything feels damp as she follows him up the path to the cottage. Willow shrugs off the wet coat and makes no move to turn on the lights, preparing herself in the quiet dark.
She takes another deep breath before turning to face Giles, arms relaxed at her sides, chin flat, and eyes closed.
The seconds pass, beating heavily and long. After a few moments of nothing happening Willow cracks open an eye, confused to see Giles making tea in the kitchen.
He turns around to ask Willow if she wants some, but sees her posture instead and stiffens.
"Please," she pleads.
With a start, Giles understands Willow had expected him to kill her just as Willow realizes that was never his intent.
The crackle of the overhead speaker announces their descent into California
Willow emerged from the meditation, her breathing slow and even. She was in her regular position, palms face up on her knees. Willow thought of the last time her hands had touched her friends. When her arms had bled power and crushed bone. Stripped flesh. Her hands were tainted; she didn't want to touch Xander or Buffy with them anymore.
I'm not ready, she thought, for the third time that day. Giles had said it was important she go back. Had said that she was needed. Well, she didn't know about that, but she was ready to start delivering penance. She had a key to her parents' house, just in case, even though Giles said Buffy assured him she'd be welcome back at Revello Drive.
The problem was, she wasn't so sure if she deserved to be. But she had made a choice all those years ago as a girl under a tree, and Willow was finished breaking promises and letting down the people she loved. Even if they might not love her back anymore.
Buffy shuffled nervously in place. She hated airports. Everybody who didn't die in Sunnydale left from airports, but no one ever came back. Giles, her father, Willow.
Willow.
Which Willow was coming back? Would it still be her friend? And what did that even mean, these days. They hadn't connected since . . . well, they hadn't connected. Buffy knew some reformed evil in her days. Heck, she'd slept with two of them. But none of the evil she'd faced prepared her for this. Nothing prepared her for something so terribly common as grief. For what Willow could do. For what the girl who she'd once tackled to the ground with gratitude and overwhelming love.
Xander shifted his sign from one shoulder to the other looking around nervously. He was probably the only person more nervous than her.
"We've never been apart this long before, Buff. I don't know what to do without her," he'd told her at the beginning of the summer just after Willow left. "What'll it be like when she gets back, y'know? She's not—" he broke off, trying to find better words. "She's not gonna be the same."
None of us are, she'd thought.
Buffy tried to hide her fidgeting from Dawn, who was anxious enough. Buffy played with her necklace to try and calm the restlessness but she was still on high alert. Not for the first time, Buffy hated being the Slayer. She hated the positions she'd been put into time and time again; when it came down to killing the people she loved.
What would happen when Willow came off the plane? Would it be awkward? Of course it'll be awkward, she thought wryly. What's three months away from ending the world between friends.
Buffy looked down at her hands and thought of the last time her hands had touched Willow. How helpless and useless they'd been. Buffy hated her hands. They were just tools—they punched, cracked, hammered, gripped, and pushed. They had been powerless against Willow, all those weeks ago. God, if Buffy'd only touched her.
Climbing out of that catacomb had been the easy part. Once she and Dawn had clawed their way to the top, there'd been no time to rest. The world hadn't ended, and it was a bittersweet victory that had come at such a cost. The walk back to the house had been long and weary, Buffy and Dawn holding each other up as they stumbled back to the house. Papers from the coroner greeted them on the tabletop; reminders of what still faced them.
While Dawn took a long hot shower, Buffy had gone to the bedroom and started cleaning up the glass and blood. She'd furiously scrubbed the carpet, hands cut from the broken window pane, foam from the chemicals stinging her hands, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing, crying as hard as she'd ever cried. As hard as for Angel. As hard as for Mom. She couldn't see through her tears and scrubbed furiously, hands raw, trying to scrub it all away—her mistakes, her grief, her failures. Scrubbing Tara. It had never fallen apart so hard.
She hadn't even noticed Dawn coming in until arms came around her shoulders, fruity shampoo contrasting with the chemical smell of the cleaner. Buffy didn't know how to be strong for this; with a broken family and a ghost in the walls. She didn't know how to accept that Tara's death was her fault or that Willow had willingly walked into darkness because of it. So she simply clasped a hand over her mouth and wept, with endless 'I'm sorry's' breaking from her lips.
The smell of carpet cleaner echoed in her nose now and it made Buffy nauseated as she craned her neck anxiously at the people leaving the plane.
"Do you think she'll get the sign?" Xander asked, nodding towards his yellow crayon poster, pulling Buffy out of the past.