Buffy is terrified by Holden's words. Spike siring? It's impossible. It's unthinkable. How can he? Between his soul and the chip, there is no way. And yet, the pile of dust at her feet begs to differ.
Sure, he's been staying a Xander's, but he isn't a prisoner. Since Tara's return, he's actually seemed a bit . . . saner? They all chalked it up to one less voice in his head, but maybe something else has taken its place. Unless Tara knows something? And they are in on it together, somehow? No! Buffy shakes her head against the thought. That doesn't make any sense, either. Tara's been with them at the house almost constantly since returning. And Spike didn't exactly want to stick around for Scooby research, so off he went—free to do his own thing.
Which, possibly . . . means killing people again.
It's late. Early, she amends, glancing at her watch, but it can't wait until morning. It's too important. Hurrying, she makes her way to Xander's.
The front door slams open as a very frantic Willow barrels through the entryway.
"Tara?" she calls out in alarm. "Buffy?"
She has one foot on the staircase when she notices light filtering into the darkened dining room from the kitchen. Unsure of what she will find, she creeps tentatively towards the kitchen, taking quiet steps.
Open containers of ingredients and clean baking trays lie scattered across the countertops. A bowl of half-mixed dough languishes in a bowl. The spoon, long forgotten, has slipped down into the batter. Puzzled, Willow turns to head upstairs but freezes when she sees a floury handprint on the handle of the oven, smearing down across its face. Another hesitant step brings Tara into view. She is crumpled on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, head between them.
"Tara!" There's no indication that Tara has heard her at all. She remains curled up, taking ragged, irregular, hitching breaths. "Oh god, Tara, are you alright?" Immediately her hands reach forward, but she pulls them back a moment, hesitating, as if unsure to touch. The uncertainty only lasts for a moment, and gently as she can, places a hand on Tara's shoulder.
Despite the care Willow takes, Tara's head shoots up at the touch, wide-eyed and terrified. "Willow?" she asks uncertainly, almost fearfully, as if doubtful of what she is seeing.
Willow exhales, relieved at a response, and delicately tries to assess if Tara is hurt, searching for any sort of obvious injury to explain the situation. Tara, for her part, ignores the ministrations. While Willow examines her for bodily harm, Tara searches Willow's face. Not noticing the scrutiny, when she finally looks back, their eyes meet and she freezes.
They have not stared at each other like this, so openly, since Tara's return. It's been stolen stares out of the corners of eyes, avoiding glances and looking away quickly, bypassing their feelings and each other as much as possible.
Willow blisters under Tara's deep, searching gaze, but she cannot tear herself away. "Tara?" she asks in a strangled voice. Willow is bare beneath Tara, naked to her core, exposed and raw, stinging like a freshly cleaned wound.
Fearful and doubtful of her own sanity, afraid of the past, afraid of the future, Tara searches Willow's eyes, looking for any shred of the Willow who haunts her—the one who whispers words with flowers and presses forward blindly. Instead she finds deep knowing and shameful understanding. Someone who has faced her darkest truths and emerged awakened.
There is still much to talk about, but for once, Tara feels like it can wait; that they can talk about it—as equals on the same firm ground, and not grinding against each other like tectonic plates.
Tara knows, from looking deep within, that Willow is no longer a danger, to herself or to others. She has seen the deepest, darkest parts of herself and shone a light upon them until they no longer haunt the shadowed corners of her mind. Tara knows this as surely as she had known Willow had problems in the first place. As surely as she had left Willow, she has now come home.
Willow had promised she would always find Tara. Turns out, all Willow needed to do was find herself, and there she was.
As Tara gazes at Willow, a sob breaks, and she falls into her. Gathering each other up, they cling to each other, reunited.
And Willow? Willow drowns. Only, it isn't the Blackness that pulls her down, but waves of Tara. She never wants to breathe again. Isn't sure she even needs oxygen to subsist anymore when everything she needs is in her arms. Willow is reminded of why she wants to live.
Unsure of the reason, but not questioning why, Willow simply thanks every god in the pantheon for the wonder in her arms. It is more than she deserves, more than she ever thought she would have again. With every tear Tara sheds, Willow is anointed; bathed anew and baptized in what feels like forgiveness.
Something had happened in the kitchen that caused Tara to fall to her knees, welcoming Willow's touch and making peace with the past. Her mind still presses with questions, but for now Willow simply lets them be and cherishes her miracle for what it is.