Feedback: Loved, as always.
Distribution: Ask and ye may receive.
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and probably a whole bunch of other people do. Me? I've never so much as met one of the actors.
Summary and Notes:
This is a collection of 100-word-or-less drabbles. They all take place between 'Hush' and 'Seeing Red' (before the last five minutes). Expect everything from fluff to angst to smut.
They are not posted in any particular order, as they are not necessarily meant to relate to each other in any way. Each stands alone, though they all fit into the same storyline. I will post them in groups of five, and no, I have absolutely no idea how many of them I'm going to write.
On with the show!
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She always drank out of the chipped mug. She had nine other mugs in her cupboard, of varying shapes, sizes and colours, all of which were perfectly whole. Still, she always used the chipped mug. Maybe it was the good handle, big enough that she could fit her whole hand around it and feel secure. Maybe it was the ceramic it was made out of, the way it conducted just enough heat to warm her hands, no matter how hot the coffee inside. Or maybe it was the deep, emerald green colour that reminded her of her lover's eyes.
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The words on the page were so blurry, she could barely make them out. What was wrong with her book? She shook her head and blinked hard, trying desperately to focus. So intent on her studying was she, she jumped slightly when two arms snaked over her shoulders from behind.
"Will," Tara's voice purred softly in her ear. A shiver shook her body from somewhere deep in the base of her spine. "You want to come to bed now."
Slowly, deliberately, Willow closed her textbook.
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"Look! Look! The sky is falling!" Tara's terrified voice rocked Willow to the core. She sat curled in one corner of their bedroom, spouting apocalyptic nonsense, wide-eyed with abject fear. "They're coming and there's no way out! Up! Up! The dogs are crying!"
Willow wanted to bury her face in the pillows on the bed. She wanted to turn the shower on so hot that it burned and sob out her anguish. Instead, she put on a gentle expression and slowly approached the love of her life.
Tara flinched away.
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The darkness was total, but for the just-past-full moon decorating the sky. On a compulsion, Tara pulled her big easy chair just a little closer to the window. She sat and looked tiredly up at the moon. Keeping her company.
Why was she struggling so to accept the truth? She knew how Willow felt about Oz. She had always known, right from the first, that she played second fiddle - and she'd thought she'd be fine with that.
She sighed, dropping her chin to rest against her pulled-up knees.
Someone knocked on her door.
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She dumped the last box unceremoniously on the floor. There was another sitting on a chair by the door, and one on it's side on the other side of the bed, spilling it's contents over the carpet. Here it was, her entire life - bereft of love, of friendship. Everything but the candles, pictures, memories in these twelve boxes. She hoped she wasn't missing any really important memories.
With that thought, she fell to her knees and cried.
