Chapter Twenty Six
Hush
To the anguished mind of Willow Rosenberg, it seemed that the night would never end. She woke every few hours, listened to the steady hissing and beeping of her machines, saw the glow of the hall-lights, and thought of Tara. If sleep continued to evade her, she took a moment to do a little more healing on her legs, but that exercise didn't take long to exhaust her. After being in a coma for two weeks she simply didn't have the reserves she was used to.
She was awake when the glow of the daystar began to illuminate her room. It would take a long time for the sun to shine fully on the exquisite courtyard, so she entertained herself by watching the clouds change colour. First they were bathed in purple, like a great curtain, or a veil. Then faint swatches of pink and yellow stained the underbellies of the clouds, and finally the sky faded from indigo to cerulean. Willow wondered if the colour was the exact shade of her nurse's eyes.
Tara. Every thought led back to her and Willow certainly didn't understand why. In the few days since she had awakened, Tara had been her support system, exuding a sense of familiarity and friendship that surprised the young witch. Tara made her nervous. She had been friends with girls before, obviously. Buffy had been her best friend for years. They would sometimes hold hands when walking down the streets, they had even slept in the same bed before. But Buffy never made her insides feel like this.
When she saw Tara it was like her entire brain shut down, reducing her to animal noises and general dim-wittedness. She was surprised to realize just how much Tara's good opinion meant to her, and she reined in her usually unbridled tongue just so she could sound smarter to her nurse. She may have an IQ of a genius, but there was something about Tara, the way that Tara would look at her, that would derail any of her carefully prepared sentences. The brown-haired woman intrigued her and made her feel decidedly odd. It wasn't a bad sensation; quite the contrary, Willow was quite sure that she could grow addicted to whatever feeling it was.
It wasn't until yesterday she discovered just how much she owed Tara. To think that this unknown woman had taken in a complete stranger, had run amok of demons and vampires, had done muscle-tearing healing, and still managed to make Willow feel like the most precious thing on earth. Maybe that was this unknown sensation, this feeling of being the absolute focus of another person. In the early days Oz had made her feel a little like that. It was a heady, drunken feeling, and she nursed its eventual disappointments just like a hangover. Sure, it was lovely at the time, but as years passed the relationship became confusing, and hurty, and definitely not worth it.
Willow would do anything to make Tara smile, for whenever Tara smiled it seemed that the whole world was at peace, her tortured soul with it. When Tara smiled Willow could forget about Hellmouths and vampires and the burden of being alone. When Tara smiled it was like she held Willow in the palm of her hand, a diamond of infinite worth, cherished, protected. But Tara was far from smiling now. Willow had eavesdropped, and had discovered something ominous, and she couldn't even reveal her knowledge to anyone else without being branded a spy. Rabbits. Demons. Fainting.
She bent her considerable intellect to the task of breaking down that conversation. First, Tara is ill. Second, she can't take the rabbits anymore. Willow immediately tossed out the idea of traveling with rabbits somewhere, that obviously wasn't it. Willow thought back to the time when she resurrected Buffy, how she had to take the life of a deer. Was it something similar? Magic was ripe in blood, maybe there was something about a rabbits blood that aided Tara, that didn't work now.
(She can't take the rabbits any more)
What had changed? She used to be able to take the rabbits, however that was. Now she couldn't. Was this yet another thing that was Willow's fault? The very idea frightened Willow. Was it more of Caleb's doing?
As the sun rose, as day began to break over the walls of the hospice, Willow contained her mounting anxiety the best she could. Would Tara come? Could Tara come? What would she do if Tara wasn't coming? April was nice enough, and she surely knew her job very well, but that at least put to rest the niggling worry that Tara was being only a nurse to Willow. April didn't speckle her comments with endearments, she didn't continually touch Willow on the hand, on the leg, or on her feet. She smiled, but it wasn't the same soul-quirking and infectious smile that Tara gave.
April didn't make Willow feel like the center of the universe. Tara did.
Willow was glad that she at least reasoned that out. Willow was a great follower of logic; which may have surprised some of her fellow Wiccans. They all thought magic was nothing more than manipulation of the natural order of things but Willow was a scientist. All magic worked within the laws of science, and the laws of logic naturally followed. All she had to do to prove her theory that Tara was not merely a nurse to her was to watch Tara in contact with another patient. That would be unlikely here; Tara had already explained how the hospice worked, with one-on-one patient/nurse interactions. She could try to scry on Tara, to get a glimpse of what the girl was like when she wasn't at work, but the thought made Willow grimace. That would be a misuse of magic if there ever was one.
No, she'd just have to trust her instincts. And after seven years of fighting the most cunning adversaries imaginable, Willow had developed a strong set of instincts. She was a little tightly wound, too, but at least she had instincts.
It was the wall that did it. That and the words 'Oh, my love,' that Tara had intoned at start of shift yesterday, the words Tara thought that Willow didn't hear. Willow heard them all right; she had been playing possum when her nurse came in, just to see what would happen. The wall, however, Tara would have needed no wall unless there was something to hide. Because the wall was there, Willow knew there was a secret as well. And as fantastic and improbable as it seemed, as unworthy as it made her feel, Willow thought she knew what the secret was.
Tara was in love with her.
Willow had no idea how or why such love came about, but as she thought on it, the morning light seeping into her room, the more it made sense to her. Her flash of insight yesterday when Dr. Daniels came in, she had known he was in love with Tara but that she didn't return that love. Even Althanea had hinted to it; her vituperation had stung Willow and forced her to think the whole thing through.
(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)
Althanea didn't make Willow angry, she had merely confirmed Willow's hypothesis that she was more than a mere patient, a little project, a tiny blip to Tara. With that one question, Willow's world had opened up to the possibility of Tara loving her. Willow wondered if Althanea really knew just how effective an interrogator she was. Willow, after seven years of demon-hunting, mentally took notes on Althanea's style, committing it to memory, vowing to find an opportunity to use it herself.
The clock ticked closer to eight o'clock and Willow watched it anxiously. At times it almost seemed to slow down, stop altogether, go backwards even! She wasn't even sure that it would be Tara coming today... it was Friday after all, Tara was sick
(She had a fainting spell. Do you know how ill she is?)
and she may not be coming in to work today, what with the weekend so close and all. The mere thought caused Willow's throat to tighten. She spent the next few minutes pondering that throat closure, the beating of her heart, the sweatiness of her palms.
I'm straight.
Logic, Rosenberg. You say you're straight, but what is this feeling in your chest? Why does your heart ache so at the mere thought of this woman? Why do you continually stare at her breasts, at her lips? What is this warmth between your legs when you wonder what it would be like to press your lips against hers? Why is she so familiar to you?
(I think I would die for her.)
When Willow said it, she knew it was true. There was something about Tara, something soft and vulnerable that Tara tried so hard to hide behind a wall of professional detachment. Willow had never felt so strongly about someone so fast before, not even Buffy. Buffy had confused her in the beginning, with overtures of friendship with Willow the geek that Willow simply didn't understand. Her relationship with Buffy turned out to be one of the most rewarding of her life. Now another girl had entered, and Willow was even more confused than before. What was there in Willow Rosenberg that had attracted these beautiful, self-assured women? Would this relationship be even more spectacular than the one she shared with Buffy? Would there, could there, be love?
And would eight o'clock never come?
Willow looked out into the courtyard again. What did Tara mean to her? Time for an experiment, Rosenberg, to prove that hypothesis. You believe Tara is in love with you? Well today, just today, you'll watch. Watch Tara, watch the wall in her eyes, watch every move she makes, listen to every sound that comes out of her mouth, feel every shiver that comes across your spine when she trails her fingers over you. Watch, Willow.
Watch and learn.
Willow watched the clock. At two minutes past eight, she heard footsteps down the hall and cursed herself for not memorizing Tara's stride yet. It could be anyone, it could be April, John, or Dr. Daniels himself. It could be the lady with the breakfast tray and the little paper cup of pills. It could be the cleaning lady.
It could be Tara.
And Tara it was.
Tara stood in the doorway of Willow's room and looked in, her hand on the doorframe. Her hair was pulled back in her perennial ponytail, and the three slashes down her face looked angry. Her face was pale, with two spots of colour high on her cheeks, a hint of darkness under her eyes. She was wearing the most adorable scrubs Willow had ever seen, with dancing teddy bears on them. She stood a long time in that doorway, and they looked at each other.
Note that in your experiment, Rosenberg. Note how your heart soared when she walked in.
Tara walked in slowly, yet deliberately; she seemed to have lost the shuffle she was using yesterday. Neither of them had yet spoken, neither of their eyes turned away from each other. Each step Tara took to get to her bedside Willow's heart ached greater and greater. There was something different about Tara, something essential. What happened to the woman yesterday who could not even look at her?
At first Willow thought it was some trick of the light in the room, deflecting somehow off the waterfall in the courtyard, passing through the double-thick panes of glass. Tara was glowing. The sight of her took Willow's breath away, and she closed her eyes momentarily to get a grip. But there, even through the pinkness of her eyelids she could see Tara shine with an ethereal glow. The reading of aura's was a talent that Willow had never really been blessed with, but looking at Tara Willow knew that even the most mundane of eyes could surely see Tara glow, her eight chakra connected with the infinite love of the universe, sending waves of compassion in her wake.
Tara was drawing closer, so Willow opened her eyes. It was not a long space by any means, the distance between the door and her bed, but Willow was captured by time, and it seemed that she watched Tara approach for hours. Still no words. Willow's eyes were fixated on the eyes of her nurse, and they were indeed the most glorious cerulean blue, the blue of mountain lakes, the blue of bellflowers. There was a tightness around them, a most careful positioning, and Willow instantly knew that her nurse was in considerable pain.
Finally her nurse was hovering merely a foot away, standing by the bed where Willow lay, half-reclining at her ease. She felt anything but ease. Her emotions were roiling inside her, a dozen of them battling for supremacy in this most surreal of moments. She was only peripherally aware of this monumental battle inside her own skull, as she was busy drowning in the depths of Tara's eyes.
Logic, Rosenberg. Ordinary people don't 'drown' in other people's eyes. That's for Hallmark movies of the week and dime store romances.
Shut up, Rosenberg.
Tara still had not taken her eyes off of Willow. Yesterday Willow had accused this woman of hiding secrets, of keeping tales. No such illusions remained. Willow stared straight into the eyes of Tara Maclay and saw everything. Willow saw aching fatigue and mental exhaustion. She saw vast amounts of pain, clenching and tearing agonies. She saw darkness, a great black wall of adamant where Caleb was held prisoner against his will. She saw courage, determination, and resilience.
Willow saw love.
And the pureness of it, the intensity of it caused her to quake and tremble. She could see her whole life pass through the blue of Tara's eyes. And where she might have been frightened, before, preoccupied with needless concern, Willow now felt only fulfillment. Tara had thrust a key into a lock in her mind.
I was a prisoner.
What else happened in my mind?
They still had not spoken any words.
Peace enveloped them in a blanket composed of heaven-threads. The lady came in with Willow's breakfast and Tara fed it to Willow without any hesitation. Willow gladly let her. Tara filled a basin with warm water and lathered shampoo into Willow's hair which smelt delightfully of sandalwood and roses. Tara's fingers lovingly caressed every inch of Willow's skull, rubbing, probing, amplifying the ache that was steadily growing in Willow's chest.
Who was the author of this passion? What poet composed this symphony of neurons, this crescendo of glorious heartache? The pressure mounted inside her until every particle of her ached for some sort of release. Unable to voice her feelings, and definitely unable to act upon them, Willow merely stared at Tara, memorizing the configuration of her nose, the exact placement of her mouth, the dimples on her cheeks.
How's the experiment coming, Rosenberg?
Tara put away the bathing things and combed Willow's hair, and Willow could feel the strands of her hair being combed, then pulled through Tara's fingers, again and again. That necessary ministration now complete, Tara moved to Willow's other side. She pulled over a stainless steel cart and sat down. First Tara caressed her hand, and ran the tips of her sensuous fingers over the abrasions on Willow's knuckles. She then looked at Willow, and her smile was like the sun rising.
Willow was sure her heart faltered in that moment. It surrendered. And when it resumed ticking, she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. There was no remorse for her loss of innocence, only excitement. What wonders would Tara show her?
For their music they had the beeping of machines, and Tara's talented hands almost danced as they competently withdrew the IV that had been chaining Willow to her bed for weeks. Pressing a wad of gauze to the tiny injury, Willow watched as Tara put tape over it, and she watched as Tara lifted her hand to her lips, and she watched as Tara's lips pressed down gently on her abraded knuckles.
Now this wasn't the first time that Tara's lips had come in contact with her skin. Just yesterday as Tara was leaving Willow with Althanea, Tara kissed her on the cheek. Willow reflected on that brief kiss and its accompanying warmth again and again throughout the long night. Now, with Tara's wall down, this brief feathery kiss on her knuckles didn't merely surprise her, it also sent a cascade of warmth down her whole body, and her skin swept into goosebumps.
Tara peered at her over her taped hand and her eyes were dancing in mirth.
Cheeky miss. Willow vowed to get even with her for that one.
Hmm. Getting even. What a delightful prospect.
Tara's glow continued to sustain Willow as the morning progressed. She stood on her feet for the first time, leaning heavily on Tara for support. Resting frequently, Willow triumphed by finally walking (if you could call it walking) to the bathroom. Far better than a bedpan. Even as she tottered forth, Willow knew it was only because of Tara and Althanea. Tara for most of her healed body, Althanea for her legs. Tara still wordlessly urged her to do three short bouts of physical therapy, and Willow was exhausted and in pain when they were finished. In the resting times between the careful manipulation of her limbs, Tara sat next to Willow and held her hand. Neither of them said a word.
And Willow couldn't help but remember the only other day in her whole life when she had been this quiet. It wasn't really her choice. A bunch of fairy tale demons had stolen everyone's voices, and then the hearts of seven select sacrificial victims. Willow pondered the white magic of this day compared with the black magic of that one. Willow had managed to keep her heart intact last time. This time, no such luck. Far better for Tara to have her heart than some nameless beast.
But whatever power had been sustaining Tara in the morning had started to give way as the afternoon progressed. Willow could see Tara's difficulty getting up from the chair in which she sat. She could see how carefully Tara sat down. The shuffle reappeared as Tara didn't have the strength to lift her feet from the floor. Tara's fingers strayed to her temples for absent rubbing when she thought Willow wasn't looking.
Willow was always looking. There wasn't a single moment during that entire day when she voluntarily took her eyes off her nurse. Her eyes open, her mouth shut, Willow watched Tara struggle through the rest of that great and terrible day.
And as the hours passed, Willow's torment grew. The pain her nurse was in was unacceptable. Willow was so used to getting her own way, for finding an answer to even the most impossible riddles that this problem frustrated her to no end. Several times during the day Willow had contact with Tara's skin, mostly through hand-holding, and every time Willow attempted to call upon the energies of the universe to heal her friend. And every time, the answer was no. Every time she tried, she encountered a seamless and vast great black wall.
Only a friend, Willow?
(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)
It was almost six o'clock. Tara would be leaving soon, and Willow wouldn't see her for the entire weekend. The prospect of two whole days without Tara unnerved her. Not that she begrudged Tara's time off, she knew how needed it was, it was just... complicated.
(Why complicated, Will?)
She could almost see Buffy ask the question. It was as if her best friend was sitting on the corner of her bed, still dressed in her Slayer duds. Would Buffy understand the vast change, the revolution in her heart, the castle of her past under siege? Her heart's total surrender? Why complicated?
Because of Tara.
Because of the whisper of conversation she shouldn't have heard. Because of rabbits and more than that, so much more. Because the only time she felt alive was when Tara was with her.
Logic, Rosenberg. Why does Tara make you feel this way?
I DON'T KNOW!
Could Willow love a woman? With anyone else, Willow would have said no. She took too much comfort in the familiar; needed the familiar relationships in a world where almost every week there was a new challenge to overcome. But now, with all her friends gone, the unfamiliar loomed over her, and it was frightening, but only until she thought of Tara. With Tara at her side, Willow believed she could face those unending years without the Scoobies. With Tara at her side, Willow could continue to fight the forces of darkness. With Tara at her side, Willow could feel worthy of love, and could share that love with the purest soul she had ever encountered.
It wasn't that Tara was a woman. It wasn't that Willow may be gay. It was simply that Tara completed her, filled in the little spaces of her heart and soul. Love knows nothing of gender. Straight or gay, love is love.
Logic, Rosenberg. Has anyone, anyone at all, ever made you feel like this? Xander, when you were first crushing on him the same time as he was crushing on Buffy? Oz, when he couldn't take his eyes off you in that silly Eskimo suit? Use your head, Rosenberg.
And be honest.
And Willow looked at Tara. Tara who was luminous even when washing her hands. Who shone like a pillar even when looking out the window. Who radiated compassion and love like the sun. Tara who loved her. Against all odds, Tara loved her.
How could she let Tara go without saying something? Willow didn't want to speak, the hush was magical, and entombed them as if they were under the umbrella of a tree. But how to let her nurse know how she felt, how worried she was at their impending separation of only a few days? By and large, Willow wasn't a student of subtlety. She could be rather blunt and tactless on occasion. Her mouth usually got her into trouble, and yes, sometimes out of trouble, too.
One minute, Rosenberg. Decide now.
Tara was gazing at her. Willow's heart was furiously pounding. Her skin ached all over, every muscle in her body cried for a single touch, a single caress. Her experiment had boiled down to this one moment. She almost felt faint with desire, with the arousal that began as a single hard nub between her legs and had now spread to shake her extremities. Willow honestly believed she would die, absolutely die if Tara didn't touch her now.
Where has this feeling been all your life, Willow? Why has it taken more than twenty years to feel it? Where was it when you were with Xander, when you were with Oz?
Tara was gazing at her, and her heart was in her eyes. Willow could see the immensity of it, could see the ethereal glow that shimmered on her like a mirage. Quite deliberately, Willow forced herself to think of Xander as a romantic interest. She shuddered, and chucked him out the window. Then she forced herself to think of Oz, and she stood up the phantom Oz next to the glowing Tara and compared the two.
(You deserve so much more than I can give you)
And the key Tara thrust into the lock in her mind, it turned.
Tara was gazing at her, and Willow's eyes blurred in tears. This is the moment. You've been waiting your whole life for this. The experiment is over, Willow. You're in real life now.
She stilled the impulse to wipe the tears away; she left her hands at her sides as the tears began to roll ponderously down her cheeks.
Come to me, Tara.
And Tara's face was anguished, her eyes melted, and she took a step towards Willow, then two.
