It's early evening by the time Buffy manages to disentangle herself from Spike. They dress in the dark, the pair of them sharing lovesick smiles, and as she steps out into the dwindling twilight, his fingers link between hers, squeezing softly.
On somewhat wobbly legs Buffy makes it across to the diner, and Spike's arm winds firmly around her waist for support as they cross the parking lot. They slip inside and wordlessly head towards the payphone.
Unwilling to relinquish even an inch of contact, Spike squeezes in behind her, settling into a lean against the phone booth's glass with his arms wrapped around her stomach as she dials Giles' home.
The phone rings as she leans her head back onto his shoulder for a moment, still savoring the dreamy post-sex glow that's left her feeling floaty and untethered.
"Love you," she whispers, tilting her head for a kiss as the dial tone drones.
Spike sighs as he presses his lips to hers, slow and content, a half grin stretched across his face, and as she pulls back he rests his head against the glass, looking for all the world like he could liquify in contentment. "Love you," he repeats just before Giles answers the phone.
"Hi, Giles it's—"
"Buffy," he blurts across, sounding out of breath. "I'm on my way. My apologies for the delay, getting through Sunnydale was near impossible."
"Bad traffic?" she asks, sinking deeper into Spike's arms as he adjusts his posture to cradle her back.
"You haven't seen the news?" Giles prompts just as Spike's hand squeezes her hip in a way meant to get her attention. She turns her head, catching sight of the TV above the diner's counter. The sound is muted, and at first she thinks it's a gardening program of bright red roses in bloom. Until the picture cuts to an aerial view of downtown Sunnydale, and the enormous brambles knitting together into an impenetrable mass.
"Oh," she breathes out. She turns, meeting the trepidation in Spike's eyes, her dream solidifying in both their minds. So much for romance. Silently she mouths I told you! and he nods in acceptance. "I've just seen it. I dreamed that, Giles. It's some supernatural floral big bad, huh?"
"Undoubtedly. Although local authorities are claiming it's the result of infected fertilizer," Giles answers, his tone derisive."Xander rang, he asked you to call him at his parent's house."
"Oh. Right, okay," Buffy replies, fresh apprehension blooming up her spine.
"I'll be with you shortly," Giles confirms and hangs up.
Buffy collects the leftover coins as they rattle into the change-return and re-slots them into the payphone, dialing the number for the Harris' house. It rings and is promptly answered by Mrs Harris. After a minimal greeting, Mrs Harris calls out to Xander to come get the phone, cut off by the sound of Dawn, her voice far away but by no means any less forceful.
"Is that Buffy?" she demands, and after a brief pause and a rush of clumping footsteps mounting the stairs, her voice is suddenly in Buffy's ear. "Buffy! More Taras turned up in Xander's place and we had to spend the night in his parent's basement! Plus there's freaking roses everywhere!"
"Oh hi Buffy, how are you Buffy, what are your thoughts on averting this next potential apocalypse Buffy?" Buffy mocks back, rolling her eyes.
"Anya thinks we should be opening up a floristry business," Dawn replies without pause, heavy thumping punctuating her words as she descends the basement steps with the cordless phone in hand.
Buffy snorts. "Capitalism will save us all."
"And didn't you hear me? I had to sleep in Xander's parent's basement. We've been here all day."
Buffy can't help smirking at Dawn's indignant outrage. "Does it still smell like bleach and that majorly aggressive floral fabric softener?"
"I have, like, a permanent migraine," Dawn confirms. "Are you coming back?"
"No, and you're staying put."
There's an outraged screech and Buffy winces, catching Spike's indulgent grin.
"I'm gonna get Tara," he whispers, squeezing her hip one last time, and Buffy turns, bestowing a lingering kiss as Dawn complains loudly in her ear.
He lays a chaste peck on her cheek and slips out of the phone booth, crossing the diner, back out into the parking lot, and across to Tara's room.
He knocks with his knuckle, a triple tap, and after a pause and a shuffle on the other side of the door, Tara opens it.
She looks disheveled, dark smudgy bags under her eyes and tangles in her hair that she subconsciously starts coming through with her fingers.
"Hi," she rasps, and Spike offers a sympathetic smile.
"Giles is on his way," he says leaning against the doorframe. "Thought I'd give you advanced warning before he descends with what'll likely be a small library in tow."
"R-right. Thanks," she mumbles, her eyes flicking back inside the room, furtive and panicked.
Spike frowns. "What's wrong?"
Tara's eyes snap back to his, her lip pinched hard between her teeth, tears starting to shine in her eyes. She looks about to say something, but then shakes her head hard, her knotted hair falling in front of her face. "N-nothing. N-n-nothing. I'm… I'm just gonna h-have a shower and then m-meet you guys in the diner?"
Spike nods, cautious about pushing her when her stutter is already returning in full force, but something isn't right. "Sure," he says, deliberately casually, taking another look at the exhaustion overtaking her soft features. "Coffee's on me, yeah?"
Tara smiles, weak but appreciative, and as she closes the door Spike lingers a moment, unsure if he should have said more, before he sighs and turns back to the diner.
Don't push.
Just wait.
"Wakey-wakey."
Willow pries open an eye, crusted over and stinging with sweat, shivering tightly as she meets Herself's gaze.
She swallows. Something in those eyes is wrong. The olive green that should be there isn't bright like a living reflection should be. There's something rotting behind those eyes. The red hair framing the face that looks like hers doesn't shine the way hair should.
The skin doesn't sit right.
"Rise and shine," Herself persists. "Time to fix it all, right?"
Willow's tongue rasps across her bottom lip. Finds no moisture there.
When did I last drink?
Her head pounds, eyes swimming in and out of focus. Muscles ache. Jaw hurts from having been clenched all night.
Her stomach feels rock hard from not having eaten in days. Pain in every nerve all the way down to the bone.
Am I…
Am I dying?
"I need water," she croaks.
Herself shakes her head. "There's no point."
"No point?"
How… How can there be no point?
"No time," Herself corrects genially with a wave of her hand, but Willow's brow furrows.
"But—"
Something cracks outside the window and Herself's eyes snap to it, staring over Willow's shoulder. The room is dark, Willow realizes. No light breaks through, but sharp shadows etch the inside of the room like twisted vines.
"Up, up, up," Herself insists, but doesn't reach out to touch her.
Willow levels herself up and groans, clutching her head. "Where are we going?"
Herself smiles pleasantly. "Somewhere important," she answers, sounding rushed. A hole opens in the wall. "In there," she demands, and Willow surveys the chasm filled with darkness skeptically.
"In there?"
There's a groan, like wood on wood, and Willow turns to the window.
She's dreaming. She's dreaming and that knowledge is a kind of comfort. God, she needs to sleep, but if she's dreaming she's already asleep, and she is dreaming because the whole window is thick with roses. The flowers pressed flat, obscuring the light. Thick thorns scratch the glass.
"Go," demands Herself, and this time her tone brooks no argument, urging Willow through into the dark.
They take up the back booth, Spike scooching closest to the wall as Buffy leans into him. Tara smiles weakly back at the pair of them, settling her bag gingerly on her lap as she hunches into the corner, eyes flicking nervously every couple of seconds to the TV set and its repeated newsreel.
"Giles should be here soon," Buffy says and Tara nods, stiffening when the waitress makes her way over.
"What can I get you folks?" she asks, her gaze flicking over Tara in recognition from the night before as she takes out a pad from her apron pocket.
"C-coffee, please?" Tara requests, fussing with the ends of her sleeves. "And the chicken salad sandwich."
The waitress jots it down and turns her gaze to Buffy.
"Uh, same," Buffy says with a nod.
The waitress nods. "And…?" she prompts, pointing at Spike with her pen.
He clears his throat.
"I'll get the steak."
Buffy snorts, and he shoots her a glare. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Just never heard you ask for it."
"How d'you want that cooked?" the waitress asks as she scribbles.
"Raw," he answers.
The waitress pauses, and her eyes slide from her pad to Spike, a flick of a glance to Tara, who blushes, and back again. "Raw?"
"Yeah, and the bloodiest one if you can, cheers," he adds, blatantly ignoring Buffy when she smirks again.
The waitress shakes her head and writes it down, casting another look at Tara before heading to the kitchen, a mutter of 'freaks' only just reaching Spike's ears.
"You know," Buffy says, shifting down in her seat to get comfortable, "we should have world-saving-meetings in diners more often. Coffee and sandwiches? This is way better than the Magic Box."
"They've got pie too," Spike says, smiling affectionately.
"Hands down, best apocalypse mission base so far," Buffy states. "Unless the pie is key lime. I draw the line at green desserts."
"I think it's apple," says Tara, craning her neck.
"Score," Buffy replies as headlights swing into the lot, parking next to Spike's De Soto. Giles exits the car, and stoops to pick an armful of books off the backseat before spotting them through the diner's window and waving, nearly dropping the pile.
"Buffy," he breathes as he reaches the table, nearly colliding with the waitress carrying the food. "Oh, coffee," he begs as she deposits the plates. "Black. Please. Thank you—we have a problem," he begins as soon as the waitress turns her back, barely out of earshot.
"The roses?" Tara asks tightly, eyes already shining with panic.
"Yes— no, no-no, something worse," Giles stammers, dropping the heap of books on the table, page 143 of Rituals and Summonings already open on top. "Much worse."
It's slow going, moving through this tunnel. Something's pushing her out, pushing her back, and Willow can feel Herself behind her, forcing her forward with her malicious presence.
I'm lost. I'm lost in the dark.
"I feel so lost."
This last is in Tara's voice. Clear in her head like a beautiful bell and she answers the call of it.
"But I found you, didn't I? Tara, didn't I find you before?" she mutters to herself, trudging on over what feels like sharp rubble, broken concrete. "You've got to find me this time. It'll be okay. You'd know me even in the dark, right?"
She stumbles and reaches out a hand in the pitch dark. Pain shoots through her hand, thorns puncturing her skin, and Willow cries out, her bone-dry throat hoarse and broken. Tara, find me, please—
"Keep going," Herself wills. "Keep going, Willow. We'll be there soon."
Willow whimpers, crying without tears as she takes a few more steps.
"It's for Tara right?" Herself encourages. "Do this and I'll give you Tara."
Willow blinks, her bewildered brain finally tuning into Herself's words. "Give me?"
"Yes," Herself agrees, nodding eagerly. "Whatever you want. You can do whatever you want with her."
Willow's stomach somersaults, heart palpitating as she sways on her feet.
Give me? Like a thing?!
A dizzying freefall of horror forces adrenaline into her sluggish, exhausted mind, the fog lifting so completely that she nearly loses her balance.
That's not me, Willow thinks with sudden forceful clarity. How did I think that was ever me? How crazy have I gone to think I was ever talking to… that, that was ever my face?
Oh God, Tara…
Tara, what have I done?
