Note:This chapter takes place in Help, Episode 4 of Season 7. They're sort of like scenes in-between what we, the viewers, saw. Think about them logistically and place them chronologically. Any questions, please feel free to ask!
Tara looks down at the papers in front of her.
There are a plethora of gods, goddesses, and other deities to choose from and countless spells among them.
But no spell ingredients. Well, there are ingredients, but not real ones. Everything in the Magic Box is a perfect replica of their real world counterparts, but all lack the mystical properties that make them potent spell ingredients in the first place. That makes things easier, actually; it narrows the options down.
Tara has decided to pick up where she—they—left off last year. Most of the research they did on Osiris is superfluous and moot now that she knows the nature of her death—nothing mystical about it. Not a Slayer, just an ordinary bullet for an ordinary girl. No, there was nothing down Osiris' path for her. But thinking about Osiris has
brought Tara to Isis—his wife, partner, and queen.
Isis' role in afterlife beliefs, Tara reads, was helping to restore the souls of deceased humans to wholeness as she had for Osiris. From the Late Period on, Isis became one of the deities most commonly mentioned in prayers that often referred to her kindly character and willingness to answer those who called upon her for help.
Help is something she sorely needs.
Spike asked once, why she doesn't want him to tell the others about her so they can help her escape. He means
well, and it isn't a bad idea… But how can she explain her reticence?
Hope is a dangerous thing; and it can cut both ways.
There had been hope once, inflating within Tara like a balloon, as the doctor told them she was turning a corner; that the cancer was in remission and no longer invading her mother and waging war against her body. She knew the way hope soured within her when he pulled them aside a few days later, apologizing deeply for the mistake, that in fact the opposite was true: the cancer cells were winning, multiplying faster than space would allow, overtaking organs. And Tara knew, then, what true demons were. The way it felt like she was never going to stop falling after that balloon popped; how hard the ground hit when she fell.
No. She wants to protect them from all that. Until she is sure, absolutely sure, that she can't do this on her own, that the spell won't work, there is no reason to tell them.
"I don't want them to hope," she finally admits, lamely. It is the best she can come up with.
Surprisingly, though, Spike seems to understand. "Yeah, I was afraid you'd say that. Nothing more dangerous, right?" He rolls his eyes at her surprised reaction, but sighs patiently regardless. "My mum," he says by way of explanation.
She flushes, a little ashamed to have thought so little of him.
"S'alright," he says, "Not like I go around blabbing about tragic backstories. Ruins the evil flow, y'know?"
Tara smiles at him gratefully. "Me too," she shares in apology. "My mom, I mean."
"I bet she was a nice lady."
"She was," Tara replies as the memories settle around her shoulders like a warm embrace. "I'm sure yours was,
Too."
Sadness flickers across his face and he smiles, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. It's always different, she remembers saying to Buffy a lifetime ago. This time, though, she reaches out, taking his hand in her own. Spike stiffens slightly, but says nothing and makes no move to pull away. Not for the first time, she's grateful he's here. Hope might not be the worst thing after all.
The thing Dawn hated most about crying was that after the tears dried, a dull, throbbing headache usually took its place. She felt the headache coming hours before, while they were in the middle of researching. It was hard to not be bitter when Willow sat there researching Cassie's website while everyone ignored Dawn's theories about what was going on. But it didn't matter anyway, she thought guiltily. All of them were wrong, and Cassie still died.
"Look, all I'm saying is that this is normal teen stuff. You join chat rooms, you write poetry, you post Doogie Howser fanfic. It's all normal right? Let's see what other sites there are."
Willow starts typing frantically when Dawn interjects. "You guys are way off track. I got a hunch on this one."
No one acknowledges her. Again. They're just looking at the laptop. As if she weren't even there.. As if Buffy hadn't asked her to get close and talk to Cassie to get details. But as soon as Willow's stupid computer beeps, they're all over that.
"Oh, wait, no, here's something. No, that's Phillip Newton."
"No, that's her dad," Buffy says. "Open it."
Dawn rolls her eyes. "Guys, I'm telling you. I got this case cracked wide open. I got the perp fingered. I told you about Mike Helgenberg, right?"
"Uh, that's the guy that asked her to the dance?" Buffy asks distractedly.
Dawn nods excitedly, "Right. The one that keeps asking her to the dance. I'm thinking, who likes to be rejected? Nobody. I'm thinking, some people can't handle the rejection. I'm thinking that—"
Willow interrupts her. Willow. Interrupts her. "Hey, I got something. Whoa, drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace—there's a lot of charges here."
Buffy's attention once again turns away from Dawn. "Her dad's a drunk?"
"A violent drunk?" Xander pitches in.
Buffy's already grabbing her jacket and bag. "We'd better find out. I have his address right here. Got your keys?" Xander is right behind her, "Yeah."
Dawn shakes her head, "Guys, I'm telling you, I'm liking Mike Helgenberg for the perp. Let's collar him before he—" The door slams ". . . Lawyers up."
Dawn's face falls. This is nothing new, for them to barrel forward without her, but she'd hoped that after all the Scoobying she's put in over the summer, things will be different. But no, they just leave her, again.
She huffs as turns to face the dining room. It's just Willow there, looking suddenly very nervous and alone.
Good, Dawn thinks, ignoring the guilt that flares immediately afterwards. She grabs her book bag and heads upstairs without a word, trying to ignore how much the dejected look on Willow's face hurts.
Her being wrong might not have mattered in the end, but it didn't stop the ache inside Dawn's chest from hurting any less. The ache that meant another person she cared about was dead. Again.
She sat on her bed not doing anything besides holding Mr. Gordo and staring emptily at nothing. She didn't notice Willow hovering in the doorway until a few moments later, when she knocked softly, holding a steaming mug.
"Hey, Dawnie. I brought you some hot cocoa. Thought it might help y'feel a little better? Having a hot mug to hold always made me . . ." Willow trailed off before starting again, "Well, it's all warm n' chocolatey. Your favorite! I even put salt in it the way you like, even though that's usually thought of as, y'know, gross."
Willow fidgeted for a moment with the handle, obviously feeling uncomfortable the longer Dawn didn't say anything.
She let the cheerfulness drop. "I'm really sorry about Cassie. I know you two got pretty close really fast." Still facing silence, Willow placed the mug on the side table and sat down on the bed next to Dawn. She looked at her hands for a moment, "Sometimes they leave so suddenly, y'know?"
There was a flicker of emotion in Dawn's face.
"And it doesn't—" Willow broke off. "It doesn't make any sense and I know it can be hard, b—"
Dawn's facial expression had started to soften, but it hardened instantly at those words. She interrupted in a low, cold voice, "Don't you talk to me about hard."
Willow fell back, surprised. "Dawn, I—"
"No! You don't have the right," she said forcefully as grief thickened her voice. "You left me to find her all alone! You. So don't tell me it can be hard to hurt when you took the easy way out and left me all alone."
Eyes already wet, Willow blinked against Dawn's anger. Though her face was a mask of pain, Willow's jaw was tight as she took it.
"I lost Tara, too!" Dawn continued, "And I needed you!" At this, Willow looked up, startled. Dawn was crying now, the anger having deflated into a deeper sorrow. "I needed you, Willow."
For those few months over the summer after Buffy died, Willow and Tara were as much parents to her as her own mother had been. They had moved in and slipped into the roles quietly, helping Dawn through endless nightmares, and running the household more smoothly than it'd been in months. They gave her love and structure when her world had fallen out from under her.
"You're right." Willow admitted simply. "You're right and I'm sorry, Dawnie. I didn't want— I wasn't supposed to come back, y'know?" She flashed a weak grin.
"Well you couldn't stay in England forever."
Willow shook her head sadly, heavy with guilt. "No, I don't . . . I don't just mean England." There was a sharp, cold, moment as Dawn understood and her eyes grew wide. Willow broke away from the scrutiny of Dawn's stare, fidgeting with the blanket on her lap. "It was never supposed to get that far."
"Dawn," Willow said urgently, grasping Dawn's hand and holding it tight. "Those things that I said? Those things that I did, I . . . I'm ashamed of them. They're never going to go away. But that means I won't forget. Any of it. Ok? I've seen the worst parts of myself and it's never going to happen again. I'm so sorry for everything I did to you."
Dawn nodded, feeling the doors between them open—the way they used to be. She knew this Willow. The one who'd brought gifts while Mom was in the hospital and helped tutor her in math so she wouldn't fall behind when she was sick. Who held her hand and rubbed her back whenever she cried that dark, backwards summer. Who tinkered for long hours in the basement working on the Buffybot after helping tutor Dawn during summer school. The Willow who coordinated schedules and tried to help the endless bills with small computer gigs after Buffy died (and long after she came back). The one who Dawn heard crying sometimes at night after soothing one of Tara's nightmares. She fell into Willow, throwing her arms around a small part of her family who'd finally come back.
"Please don't go again this time, ok?" Dawn mumbled.
"Looks like you're stuck with me—mildly reformed evil and all."
"That's ok," Dawn buried herself in Willow's shoulder. "We've gotten really really good at reforming evil."
They both chuckled, sniffling. Dawn yanked two tissues from a box and gave one to Willow. The mug was still warm, and she leaned back to take a sip of the hot chocolate. It's gonna be ok.