Series: Vignettes
Number: 41
Title:Fear Yourself
Author: Sassette
Feedback: Can be sent to
pink_overalls@yahoo.comSpoiler Warning: Set Season 4. No spoilers.
Summary: I don’t think it’s humanly possible for me to summarize this one. It hurt my brain. It may hurt yours as well. Proceed with extreme caution.
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters. I’m just borrowing them, because it’s lots and lots of fun.
Rating: PG-13+
Fear Yourself
Part 41 of the Vignettes Series
By Sassette
“Tara, what are you doing?” Willow asked slowly, in that tone of voice that could only mean she knew >exactly< what Tara was doing, and she wanted to know >why< Tara was doing it, because she thought Tara should stop doing it immediately.
“Who, me?” Tara asked, her eyes wide as her head shot up from where it was bent over her task, the guilty expression on her face – and the green streak of paint across her cheek - at odds with her innocent tone of voice.
“Is there another Tara here?” Willow asked, tapping her foot and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Well, just that one,” Tara said, looking sheepish and gesturing over at Tara, sitting in a chair in the corner, glasses perched on her nose as she poured over a book.
It was a fairly sizable room, and Willow stood in the doorway, a huge fireplace across from her providing light and warmth. The walls were a dark irregular stone, held together with mortar, and a heavy, squat table dominated the center of the room. Four simple wooden chairs surrounded the table, with Tara seated in one, the evidence of her activities laid out before her. In the corner were two large leather chairs, the one closest to Willow facing the fireplace, completely hiding its contents, and the other facing towards her, with Tara sitting primly there.
“Fine,” Willow said in an impatient voice. “Is there another Tara here who is doing something they’re not supposed to be doing?”
“I was just going to –“ Tara began, only to be stopped by Willow’s stern voice.
“You are painting frogs – frogs! – all over that table,” Willow said, her voice rising, only keeping the panic in check because the paintings were at the green blob stage, and not actually frogs at all. Yet. “And we all know what happened the last time you did that, don’t we?”
“The frogs came to life and chased you out of the house,” Tara said, looking up from her book and adjusting her glasses.
“Exactly!” Willow said with a triumphant look on her face. “Is that what you want?”
“But – but they’re so cute!” Tara protested, putting down her paintbrush and pouting, her lower lip sticking out.
“Cute?” Willow asked incredulously, her eyes widening with surprise as she looked at Tara closely. There was something … weird … here, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “You’ve been talking to the spiders!” she yelled, pointing a finger at Tara as everything clicked into place for her. The paintings of frogs, talking to herself, her insistence that they needed to build a gingerbread house in the woods …”You know they have eight legs so they can vote six times! You didn’t let them talk you into a vote, did you?”
“I did not,” Tara said, removing her glasses and closing her book, placing it in her lap and crossing her hands over it. “And I have not.”
“Yes, you have, and you did,” Willow said. “But not you, the other you!”
“Oh, well, yes, that’s true,” Tara said, putting her glasses back on and opening her book.
“No, I haven’t,” Tara said, her hand tightening on the paintbrush.
“You trying to make a liar of yourself?” Willow asked, her eyes narrowed.
“Well, okay, I have,” Tara admitted, putting the brush down and spinning it idly, putting her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. “But I only let them vote on where I’d put them when I caught them. You know I don’t let spiders stay in the house. I decided to paint the frogs on my own. What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
“What?” Willow asked, completely taken aback by the question. She hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Mostly, she just wanted this place to be a frog-free zone, but how? It wasn’t like she could spend twenty-four hours a day monitoring Tara’s activities, especially if Tara and Tara weren’t in the same room. Besides, who would teach the birds how to build their nests?
“Well, it’s not like they can actually >hurt< anything,” Tara said reasonably, still spinning the brush.
“Besides, you have to face the frogs sometime,” Tara said, not bothering to look up from her book.
“Yeah, you have to face the frogs,” said a new voice that sent a chill down Willow’s spine as a figure stood up from the chair she couldn’t see and turned to face her.
Billy Greene.
“You!” Willow said, her eyes narrowing. Billy Greene was five years old, but tall – way too tall. And he had been the one who had put a frog in her lunchbox, which had jumped onto her face when she had opened it, forever changing her view of the amphibious creatures.
“You!” Tara said, standing up, the simple wooden chair falling backwards, her elbow scraping across the table top and leaving a new smear of paint.
“You!” Tara said, standing up, shutting her book with an ominous snap.
“Yeah, me,” Billy said, smirking.
And then the smirk was wiped off his face by a paintbrush as Tara slapped him with it, leaving a streak of green behind. “You horrid little boy!”
“How could you do such a thing to my Willow?” Tara demanded, the heavy book meeting the back of Billy’s head.
“Ow, ow!” Billy yelled, covering his head with his arms and cowering as Tara continued to smack him with the paintbrush and Tara continued to smack him with the book. He got smaller and smaller until her disappeared as Willow looked on with wide eyes.
“What?” Tara asked, finally noticing Willow’s goggle-eyed expression.
“Nobody messes with my girl,” Tara said with a little shrug, looking bemusedly at her paintbrush.
“My girl,” Tara corrected, sitting back down and opening her book again.
“Right. Because you’re Tara. That’s what I meant when I said ‘my girl’,” Tara explained to herself.
“As long as we’re clear.”
“Crystal.”
“I’d like to point out that the whole frog thing was really, really funny,” a new voice said as a figure rose from the chair and turned to face Willow.
Cordelia Chase.
“You!” Willow said, her eyes narrowing. Cordelia Chase was seventeen, and the one who had put a frog in her locker their Freshman year of high school, which had jumped on her face when she had opened it, reinforcing her view on the amphibious creatures.
“Ah ah ah,” Cordelia said, holding up a hand to Tara as she approached with her paintbrush, and another to Tara as she reared back with her book. “You can’t fight all of Willow’s battles for her – why else would you paint the frogs.”
“This is different,” Tara said stiffly, though the book slowly lowered.
“How is it different?” Cordelia challenged in a voice of mocking disdain that only she could manage.
“Well, the frogs are a metaphor,” said another voice, standing up from the chair and turning to face Willow.
Xander Harris.
“You?” Willow said, pointing a shaky finger at her best friend.
“Oh, you,” Tara said, letting the book drop from where she had raised it up again, ready to strike.
“Oh, you,” Tara said, her shoulders slumping as she lowered the paintbrush she had begun to brandish threateningly.
“The frogs are a metaphor,” Xander repeated, his eyes going half-closed as if he were trying to remember something and was going back because the interruptions had disrupted his recitation. “And the spiders are a metaphor. They both represent things that you’re afraid of, but the frogs are things you’re afraid of that you shouldn’t be, because Tara would never let anything hurt you, and the spiders are things you’re afraid of that you >should< be, because Tara wouldn’t let anything hurt you. Though,” he said, frowning, looking right and left. “I have no idea why there’s two of them,” he said in an undertone, though the words carried clearly. “Unless you’re going to cast some three-way spells?” he asked hopefully. “Can I watch?”
“No,” Willow and Tara and Tara said in unison.
“Then why am I here?” Cordelia asked. “Because I >so< have better things I could be doing right now.”
“You’re hear because you represent Willow’s damaged self-image,” Xander said. “But Tara can’t help with that, because that’s something Willow has to fix for herself.”
“What?” Tara said, taking off her glasses. “Willow’s wonderful, and good, and smart …”
“And sexy, and kind, and funny …” Tara said.
“And cute, and loving, and beautiful …” Tara said.
“And brave, and selfless, and did I say smart already?” Tara said.
“She’s perfect!” Tara and Tara said.
“But she has to learn to see herself like you see her, not how she sees her,” Xander said, jerking a thumb at Cordelia.
“Oh, please,” Cordelia said, letting out an indelicate snort. “I have >way< better taste than the wonder wiccan here. And over there.”
“Hey!” Willow said, finally joining back into the conversation. This >was< her dream after all. She should probably take part in it. “That’s the woman I love and the woman I love you’re talking about, and she’s worth one plus a hundred-million of you!”
“Why the ‘one plus’?” Tara asked.
“Because Cordelia is worth nothing,” Tara answered.
“Oh, right,” Tara said, nodding. “And a hundred-million times zero is still zero.”
“Exactly.”
“And you know what?” Willow asked. “I don’t have to listen to you anymore. I’m not in high school! I don’t have to see you everyday, and even if I did, I don’t have to take this crap from you, or anyone like you, because you’re just a Great Big Bitch!” Willow yelled, advancing on Cordelia and giving her a shove. “And, and, you just say bad things about people because it makes you feel better about yourself, because you aren’t, ummm … you’re not,” Willow went on, pausing as realization dawned on her face. “You don’t think you’re worth anything, either, unless you’re ‘better’ than someone by putting them down! That’s actually kind of sad, in a ‘poor misunderstood Attila the Hun’ kind of way.”
“About time you realized that,” Cordelia said, rolling her eyes and disappearing.
Cordelia reappeared, grabbed Xander by the arm, and then they both disappeared.
Tara and Tara turned to look at Willow, twin expressions of expectation on their faces.
“I still don’t want you painting frogs,” Willow said stubbornly, jutting out her chin a little.
“I don’t need to anymore,” Tara said, shutting the book and putting it down, shrugging a little.
“Yeah,” Tara said, tossing her paintbrush into the fireplace. “You can handle them now, though it’s not going to be easy.”
“And we’re both going to get hurt before it’s settled,” Tara said, walking towards Willow.
“But I’m already hurt,” Willow said, a sad look on her face, though she couldn’t quite remember what she was supposedly sad about.
Tara shrugged, and stepped into Tara, and then there was one Tara taking Willow into her arms and hugging her.
“I know,” Tara said, smiling a little when Willow’s arms wrapped around her and held her tight. “But not as bad as you think. And things will be scary, and things will be hard, but we’ll get through it. Together.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” Willow mumbled into Tara’s neck, letting the sense of peace she found in Tara’s arms wash the pain away.
“You won’t,” Tara said, her voice absolutely certain, and Willow relaxed, knowing that Tara. “And even if you did, you’d find me. You always find me.”
“When? When do I find you?” Willow asked.
The alarm clock buzzed and Willow awoke with a jolt, her usual gradual ascent into wakefulness startlingly absent. She turned her head, and there was Buffy in the bed next to hers in their dorm room.
Sitting up, she looked around, confused, expecting the walls to be a different color, and wondering where the fireplace went. But that wasn’t right, there was no fireplace – that had been in the dream, with the blonde girl. Buffy? No, not Buffy. A different girl.
An important girl.
The dream wafted away like smoke, and Willow gasped at the pang of sadness that hit her when it did, unable to shake the feeling that the dream had been important, and held something of incredible value to her.
No, more than that. It had held the one thing that would become the top benchmark for what was valuable to her.
But it was gone, and she had the irrational urge to cry, feeling shaky and weak, until that feeling too faded.
“You gonna’ turn that thing off, or am I gonna’ hafta’ hurt you?” Buffy asked, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Oh, right!” Willow said, hitting the alarm clock and turning it off.
“Mochas at two?” Buffy asked, already on her way back to sleep as she referred to their Tuesday tradition.
“No,” Willow said absently, her mind still on that elusive dream. “I’m going to try out that Wicca Club thing today.”
Why I find this hysterical is anyone's guess.
. Loved it. Love sam xx 
. Love sam xx 
yeah. so, I'll just... go now. Great writing though!!! 
Willow shouls show her some of the not so pg sites, the fog on the screen could distract her from the punctuation and spelling mistakes.
