by EasierSaid » Thu Sep 23, 2010 3:22 pm
Title: Neverland
Author: EasierSaid
Feedback: Yes, please.
Spoilers: None.
Setting: AU. There is no Hellmouth, there is no slayer and no magic of the wicca variety. Just our girls and the rest of the Buffy characters living and loving in that great city by the bay, San Francisco.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Please don't sue me Mutant Enemy.
Notes: 'So slow down, your anchor will hold you here, right now, we're all breathing with you'
Thoughts in italics
PART 56
Tara loved the sound the light switch in her studio made. It was an honest to goodness click, and on cold, quiet mornings it echoed throughout the room. She liked that there was an aural accompaniment to the lights going on, liked how the sound resonated in the open space. Buffy teased her about it, said that modern homes had silent switches, but the blonde resisted changing it. She reached over and flipped the switch as she entered her studio and smiled when the click reached her ears.
The first thing she noticed after the lights came on was the painting of Willow's eye color laying gently against the wall across the room. The vibrant green stared at her, and Tara felt her cheeks inadvertently flush. She had rested the unfinished painting opposite the door the previous night, not consciously considering that it might be the first thing she saw when she came into the room. She stood still and stared, her gaze allowed to take in the prettiest green she had ever seen without fear of embarrassment or awkwardness. She could do something with it. Use the green as a base layer for a larger work. Or she could just leave it and smile whenever she saw it. The blonde blushed. She had passed the self-imposed deadline for using it for the show; the oil wouldn't dry before shipping it, and... She dropped her chin and shook her head with a slight smile. She didn't need to make excuses. She loved it just as it was; painting over it seemed impossible in the moment.
With one last look, she shuffled lazily to the drafting table and placed her full mug of hot coffee on the surface, the steam dancing in the air in front of her. She looked to her left and saw 'Neon Choir,' the red of Willow's hair under the Fillmore's lights reaching across the room and making her heart skip a beat. Tara exhaled, shakily, flashes of the morning fluttering inside of her. She had thought their earlier interactions were intense, but their conversation at breakfast was just ridiculous. Charged. It was like there was a buzz between them, an energy and Tara felt herself humming. She turned and regarded her studio, a live wire, her emotions sparking and dancing inside of her.
How would she ever be able to hold herself back if Willow leaned in close, impossibly close, or took her in a soft embrace? The blonde swallowed hard, the thought of the slim girl in her arms causing her feel a little dizzy. Her hands reached back and gripped the edge of the drafting table. Before today she had thought she loved Willow, but now, she realized that her unrequited feelings were mere shadows of what requited love could feel like. She squeezed the table and let go.
Love, she thought with a shake of her head. So now Willow's in love with me... She shuddered as the thought ran her blood cold, the one thing she wanted most of all truly terrifing her with its proximity. A soft voice that she didn't acknowledge hearing whispered 'yes.' It was a dangerous game, she again warned herself. What would she do if Willow's not what she was setting her up to be? And Tara again realized how much rope she was giving herself. If. Not when. If. She took another deep breath to try and center herself, and moved toward the center of the room.
As she approached her empty easel, she shook her head and reminded herself of the reason she was in her studio, the urgency of her upcoming deadline. She slowly stretched her arms above her head, then stretched her forearms in front of her. She didn't want to get sore like the previous night. She'd have to remember to take breaks occasionally. She swirled her hands at the wrists, the morning stiffness abating with each movement.
She moved to her left and picked up a blank canvas, then settled it onto her easel. She tucked a rag found on the floor into a belt loop over her hip; the stained material lightly brushed against her leg as she searched for tubes of paint and the right brush. She was relieved to not have to think about what to paint right off the bat. Every Friday Tara painted the fog. It was an exercise to try and spark creativity, like painting a bowl of fruit for other artists, something she had done any number of times before and would undoubtably do again. It was a test, a challenge—could she match the mood, the color, the texture of the fog? If not foggy outside she'd pull from her memory. The fog as it raced past Sutro Tower. As it pushed against Ocean Beach. As it sat low among the tall buildings in the Financial District.
She used these canvases as the base layer for much of her other work. It amused her, the idea of an idea coming out of the mist, both literally and figuratively. If anyone ever wrote a biography about her work, they had a metaphor ready and waiting for them.
She had been painting fog the previous Friday when Willow came home early from work, before Morgan's party. A lifetime ago... Tara realized with wonder. She looked from her materials to the sky outside, and then slowly drifted to the window, arching her neck as she got closer to look up at the wall of gray outdoors.
After a long moment looking at the clouds, her gaze drifted to the rain and the street below. If she concentrated on a square of sidewalk she could see the individual drops of rain plop and splash. When she let her eyes wander, lose focus, the individual drops made the street look like it was vibrating. Humming. She smiled, wondering if each square inch of the sidewalk shared the same vibration. The same pulse.
Her head tilted and she took in the road. She noticed how the water came down in sheets from the sky, how the light reflected off of it as it hit the ground and made the asphalt appear to ripple. Shift. The rain dropped hard and heavy against the street, moving in opposition to collected water that ran down the asphalt in a slow, almost oily pace. The rain hit uphill, the street water ran downhill. Water, going against the grain, harsh and oozing at the same time.
She closed her eyes briefly, letting all that she saw soak into her memory, etch itself into her subconscious. There might be a moment down the line when she needed to call it back when painting. A color, a movement. A feeling.
After a long moment she opened her eyes and returned to the middle of the room, stopping before the blank canvas and easel. As she set up her palette, mixing white and black into several shades of gray, her eyes occasionally drifted over to her stereo, and Willow's CD. She was so curious. So unbelievably curious about the songs now, now... She wouldn't listen to the whole CD again, that was just vain, and quite frankly daunting. But she had started to listen before the power went out yesterday; there were still songs she hadn't heard, songs that might give her an idea to paint.
She wiped her hands on the rag at her hip and went to her desk. She took a sip of warm coffee and opened her notebook, flipping the pages quickly to see what number song she had left off on. Her drifting eyes caught sight of snippets of notes from her previous listens, the words 'love,' 'passion,' etc. popping up more than once. Her heart raced. Finding what she needed to find, she picked up the remote. She hesitated before pressing play, a sudden urge for privacy over taking her. She dug out her headphones and with a comically secretive glance to the ceiling, secured them on her head. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes as she pressed play.
The soft hum of electric guitar sounded in her ears and the hair on her arms stood on end, anticipation and excitement raising her flesh in goosebumps. She half expected the song to cut out, the lights to go dark as they had the day before but when the song made it through the first verse without incident she relaxed. She pressed back and the song started again. She sighed, and allowed the music to seep into her frame as she sat on the floor, her body resting against the wall.
The song started tenderly, an electric guitar and a man's voice echoing in a way that made her wonder if the recording was of a live event. She turned the music up straight away so it was the only thing in her world. It drowned out the rain and wind outside, the girl she loved upstairs. For the moment, the music would be her every thing.
A heavy bassline dropped in after the first verse, a snapping drum setting pace. The blonde found herself nodding her head to the music, the lyrics dancing through her imagination. The song featured a yearning chorus and she was instantly drawn in by the simple words. 'Want to change everything. Want to change everything. Want to blame everything, on...' Tara quirked her brow as the lines infected her mind. She was unsure how much she wanted to read into the song. It was a nice song, catchy even, there needn't to be an ulterior motive for the redhead to like it, the lyrics didn't need to be read literally, but... What does Willow want to change?
A third verse, then the chorus repeated, and Tara let herself drop further into the music. The words faded away, and a guitar riff undulated like waves. The blonde's busy mind churned over the lyrics, and she found herself rocking to the music, her hands lightly tapping against her thighs in time with the drums. The man's voice returned, and her flesh raised again, new lyrics capturing her feelings with a perfectly worded turn of phrase. It was exactly how she felt every time she saw Willow. Torn down with every smile, the promise that probably could never be, but hoping, hoping, nonetheless in something spectacular and real. She thought about the last line and blushed, the double entendre and implication of 'every shining time you arrive.' Of Willow, 'arriving.' Tara swallowed hard.
The song ended with a smattering of cheers and a thank you from the singer—it had been live, and for some reason it made the aching emotion feel even more real. She replayed it once, her mind latching onto the same lines, her head nodding to the same rhythm. The same thoughts lingered, as she again wondered about what Willow might change.
The next song started and Tara immediately perked up, pausing the song after the second line. She knew this singer. He sang for the Red House Painters, a band she had fallen in love with when she had first moved to the city. She knew this singer! She smiled, not only because she loved the singer, but because she had finally recognized one of Willow's musical references that wasn't obvious like The Smiths. It was ridiculous, but it made her feel proud. Like she had a tiny connection go the redhead in a way she didn't know she had before. She forced her racing heart to slow, and her smile to dim. She hit the back button, then pressed play. The song restarted, a simple acoustic guitar and the singer's voice. It wasn't one she recognized, and she smiled at the chorus, the line 'it was love at first feel' repeated five times. She sighed happily.
Her smile faltered at the second verse, a deep furrow appearing on her brow as the lyrics sunk in. 'They told me it was disgusting, they told me that it was a sin. Every night at your front door, I'd smile when you let me in.' Tara shifted slightly, suddenly uncomfortable. A disturbing feeling settled into her bones; it felt like shame. This earnest love song was wounded, and the lines, they hit a little too close to home. Of her own experience coming out, worrying about what everyone would think, say. It made her think about Jill, and Tara couldn't help but wonder why this song resonated with Willow. Was it just the chorus? The blend of the man's soft voice and sparse guitar? Was it something else, something that she wasn't seeing? This song, it was a folk ballad with a jagged piece of metal sticking out of its chest.
Tara paused the music, and unconsciously brought her free hand to her chest, her fingers absently rubbing against the fabric of her shirt over her heart. It was amazing how a simple song could so clearly recall her own bruised feelings, the awful awkwardness and shame that so often wove its way into coming out. Was Willow going through this? The blonde's heart ached. Did Willow feel shame? Tara closed her eyes and stilled her hand, the flesh warming the skin below. Her curiosity over Willow's reluctance with her mother and Buffy turned to concern. But she seems okay, Tara shakily reasoned. And it might be something else... she trailed off, weakly.
The blonde dipped her head as a new thought came to her. If Willow was going to come out, why hadn't she talked to her about it? Tara's brow furrowed. Because maybe it's more complicated than that, she allowed. But she could help. She had been out for so long, she could be an ear, or shoulder to cry on. Did the redhead know she could confide in her? Confide, anything, in her? Their friendship had escalated so fast, but now, it felt like they were so close... Did Willow know how she would be there for her, no matter what?
Tara swallowed hard and dropped her hand to her side. She shook the thoughts from her head, and concentrated on the stereo again. She hit back, then play, and listened to the song in full, the lyrics again warming then chilling her soul.
The third song started and Tara's interest was immediately piqued. A banjo. Softly plucked, in stereo the sound separated, each of the blonde's ears hearing something slightly different. The song featured a man, another soft folky voice. A woman's voice joined him in the second quartet and Tara's brow quickly furrowed. 'If there's anything to say, if there's anything to do, if there's any other way, I'll do anything for you'. She was less than a minute and a half into the song and it was already painful. The lyrics, the quiet hurt in the singers' voices; it was pleading and desperate, a quiet humiliation. The combination of voices was haunting, and the effect was amplified by the eventual inclusion of an imperfect horn, the sound muffled. The gentle song felt foreboding, and it made Tara uneasy.
The second verse started and she shifted, not noticing how tense her shoulders were becoming. 'Like a father to impress, like a mother's mourning dress...' Her brow furrowed. Then that line, that desperate line 'I'll do anything for you,' repeated. The horn and piano became more insistent, the horn turning brash, sounding as if recorded in a stairwell. Another horn joined, and the feeling of disappointment intensified before fading back to just the banjo and couple. 'I'll do anything for you' repeated and it broke Tara's heart as the instruments came back in. Four times it repeated, and then it turned. The turn was subtle, a slip into the past tense. 'I did everything for you'. It repeated eight times and the blonde frowned with each repetition. It was sorrow. Hurt.
Maybe she just likes the tune? the blonde thought, shakily.
Tara took a deep breath. The bitterness and grief was palpable. Who had hurt Willow enough for her to find solace in this song? Because it couldn't just be the tune, the soft lilt of the singers voices, the marriage of raw horn and piano. The blonde immediately thought of Oz, but something about the song's focus, the repeated reference to family made her wonder. Willow had such a great relationship with her family, she often talked about her mom and dad with such happy and glowing words, yet she worried about seeing her mother this weekend. Tara knew they weren't around a lot when Willow was young, she and Buffy had said as much, but if that had caused a rift that was this painful, she would be shocked. To hear Willow and Buffy describe it, those earlier hurts had been healed in college. Then what was this? Tara shook her head.
The earlier songs, the songs about broken hearts and intense love had hurt, but the last two destroyed. It was the difference between childhood slights and scars that you carried into adulthood. When they had talked about her parents earlier in the week Willow's voice had been warm. Affectionate. No angst in sight. But this...
Willow had said the songs on this CD made her fluttery, happy. How were these fluttery?!
The blonde thought about not going on. The last two songs had shaken her, and she was worried her equilibrium was tipping into dangerous territory. She needed to work. To paint, to create, to pour her imagination onto a canvas and she wasn't sure she'd be able to create anything coherent if she felt this uneasy.
She placed her free palm flat on the floor and slightly flexed her fingers, the pads sliding slightly against the lacquered grain of the hard wood. She needed something to wipe away the last song, and she knew, even if the next was bad, the song after would be the song they had hung the lights to. Song 17. She'd remember the number for the rest of her life. She needed to hear that song.
She composed herself as the banjo, horn and piano faded and waited for the next song, unsure of what she was in for. A sparse dreamy guitar and bass echoed into her consciousness, before another guitar picked and dropped in like rain. It was a marked contrast from the previous song. Where the previous song had felt ominous, this song felt peaceful. It was like staring at a still lake as it began to rain, fat drops pinpricking the smooth surface. A male voice sang, and Tara's first impression was that his voice was unremarkable. It was joined by another male voice for the second line in each couplet, and the blonde found herself lulled by the lyric's gentle imagery.
And then, a chorus of voices surged en masse for the refrain and the effect hit her like a wall of sound—there was no place for her ear to retreat to. A bass voice resonated low, a high, ethereal voice floated overhead and Tara inadvertently pressed back into the wall, her breath caught. The words seized her heart and it swelled with the voices. Her skin raised in goosebumps, and a chill shook her shoulders.
She didn't expect the tears, but they stung her eyes and she pressed pause, overwhelmed by emotion. The soft muffled sound of the apartment filtered in past her headphones. The heater kicking on. A faraway siren. After regaining her composure with a few short breaths, she hit play again. The music again surrounded her, the rain drop guitar, the chorus's voices repeating the word 'love.'
Tara closed her eyes and let the lyrics paint pictures in her mind. Eventually a violin accompanied the singer, then a strumming acoustic guitar. The choir returned, and once again Tara was surprised by the overwhelming emotion, tears once again stinging her eyes.
She smiled as she hit the back button and play. The song, the lyrics, the voices; it was like a restless heart finding peace. It reminded her of her mother as she embraced death. A tired soul deciding to stop fighting and just feel love. The self wasn't important, it was about the soul awakening and just feeling. It was a beautiful song and her heart soared along with the choir's voices. She didn't need to know the specific of why Willow chose this song. It didn't matter. If Willow felt what she felt when she listened, it was enough to know that they shared that big emotion.
The song faded and she didn't even realize that the next song started, the acoustic guitar springing, a bass matching chords. She smiled. The song from the night they hung the fairy lights. She closed her eyes and let it play, remembering how Willow's gift made her feel. Remembered the sweet look on the girl's face as they stood under the lights for the first time, the crown of light bouncing off of her red hair like a halo. Remembered how much love she felt for the girl as they laid next to each other on her bed.
As the song faded she opened her eyes, and pressed stop on the remote. She felt calm. Wonderful. Peaceful. She stood and made her way to her easel. She picked up her palette and began to paint, the rain tapping against the glass behind her, her brush wet and coarse against the rough canvas.
*************************************
Willow looked at the clock and exhaled loudly. She purposefully rolled her shoulders to try and release the day's tension as she powered down her computer and pushed back from her desk. It had been an insane day, the kind of day where you'd forget to eat lunch or use the bathroom if your body didn't protest so loud. She had looked to Tara's studio as she put together a bagel and cut an apple around 2:30, but she simply didn't have time to stop in. When she did stop in, when she saw this new painting, she wanted to be able to linger. To soak it in.
The redhead slightly smiled. The new painting was named after a lyric from a song from her CD. It filled her with immense pride. She had been so nervous—what would the blonde think of the songs? Would she like them? Hate them? Be indifferent? But it seemed like the blonde had liked the music, enough to remember a simple phrase, perhaps use it as motivation. Willow wanted to know more about why Tara picked the phrase for the title of the painting. Wanted to know everything about the painting's conception.
The redhead sighed again and stretched, her body relaxing in phases as she unwound from work. She had been working so much over the last two days that it seemed odd to think about having two days off. Two days that would be so much more stressful than any deadline at her work. She took a deep, shaky breath. One thing at a time.
She had heard Tara come up and use the bathroom several times throughout the day, but the artist never dallied, always returning to her studio promptly. Willow wondered if the blonde had wanted to stop in but didn't, fearing she was interrupting. Wondered if the blonde was making headway with her work. The redhead hoped so. Tara deserved to be out from under that dangling anvil.
Willow looked at her clock again, and felt her shoulders tense. This time tomorrow she'd be finishing getting ready to see her mom. She'd be brushing her hair for the last time, or checking her shirt for wrinkles in the mirror. A lump in her throat formed and she exhaled loudly to try and force away the rushing tide of nerves. Her whole life was about to change and she was terrified. She loved her mom, didn't want to hurt her, had spent the majority of her life trying one way or another to make her proud. And tomorrow she might break her heart.
The what ifs assaulted her. What if her mom yelled, cried, or even worse, said nothing at all? She closed her eyes. She'd gone over every scenario a thousand times. She couldn't control her mom's reaction. What was going to happen would happen. She exhaled slowly, a well-practiced move to try and abate the fear-based adrenaline that shot through her slim frame.
She ran her damp palms over her jeans and thought about her plan. Tell her mom. Tell Buffy. Tell Tara. She sighed and swallowed hard. Xander had said she was going about things the way she was because she needed to be in control; that she felt that she could control the conversation she was about to have with her mother, with Buffy, maybe even Tara if she just did everything the right way. She certainly felt that she knew well enough after three years spent probing what her mother's reaction would be. What she would say. She felt less confident about what Buffy's reaction would be, though she suspected she knew. And Tara...
Willow leaned back in her chair. Though not crazy about Xander's control theory, she could at least admit that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to tell her mom first because she knew how to respond to the inevitable barrage of questions. 'How long have you been gay?' 'Are you sure you haven't met the right man, are you sure that you aren't just lonely?' 'Who is the girl, and how long have you been lying to me about seeing this person?' I was born gay, Willow practiced in her mind for the thousandth time. I'm not going to meet 'the right man' because I'm not attracted to men, and it's not because I'm lonely, but because I'm gay. The redhead took a deep breath as she practiced the next part. There is no girl, and I haven't lied to you because I haven't dated any women. This isn't about anyone but me. I'm not infatuated with anyone, not Buffy, not Faith, not Amy. I'm gay, Mom. I'm just, gay. She closed her eyes. Technically, it was true. She wasn't lying, she hadn't dated. But bringing up Tara would only confused the issue. She didn't want her mom to think Tara 'turned' her, or some other ridiculousness. She didn't want her mom to potentially hate Tara before even meeting her.
She thought to Tara asking about Buffy this morning and again felt guilty. The redhead had consciously avoided the petite blonde all week. She just couldn't make chit chat knowing what was coming. It was too hard, too confusing. But Sunday there would be no avoiding. Telling Buffy was such a different fear than telling her mom. Because she was far more worried about what the petite blonde would think about Xander knowing years before her than of the girl knowing she was gay.
She thought about that for a moment. Her fear in telling Buffy about her being gay was not a fear of outright rejection. The petite blonde would never consciously shun her for her change in teams. It was the disappointment Willow feared. That Buffy would think the redhead wasn't who she thought she was. Willow knew the double dates were important to her best friend, knew the straight best buddy image was cherished and she was about to shatter that. For Willow, who had always been reliable, always been the trustiest of the trusty, losing that valued status hurt. Would Buffy confide in her less? Include her less? She thought about Buffy's relationship with Tara, but... It was different. Willow and Buffy had a history that Tara and Buffy didn't have. Willow had been on those double dates. She had been the wing woman. It was different, she convinced herself.
And Xander. The closer it got to telling Buffy that the petite blonde had been kept in the dark for years it hurt. The redhead couldn't imagine how much more it would hurt for the petite blonde. Xander, Willow, Buffy—they were supposed to be the Three Musketeers, yet somehow it got away from them. Willow closed her eyes. She couldn't do anything about it now. She could only wait, less than 48 hours and take her lumps. She'd bake as many cookies as it took for the petite blonde to trust her again.
The redhead again glanced at the clock. It was growing late, and from the sound of it, Tara was still in her studio. No time like the present, Willow thought, standing stiffly. She did say any time...
Willow left her room, the nerves about her upcoming outing turning to nerves of excitement. She was pretty sure she had never been this eager to see a painting in her life. She alighted the stairs and turned left, her eyes taking in a sliver of light from the slightly ajar door. She knocked lightly, and pushed the door open when she heard Tara say, "Come in."
"Hey" Willow said with a bright, shy smile.
"Hey," Tara said with a warm smile, nerves fluttering up into her stomach. She laid the palette she held on the floor and wiped her hands on the rag at her hip.
"Is this an okay time?" The redhead asked, hovering at the doorway, twisting her fingers before her.
"Yeah, come on in."
Willow walked in hesitantly, still in awe of the space she was in, reverent of what it must be for Tara. "How are things going?" she asked.
The blonde kind of shrugged with a half smile. "Going, I suppose," she said. "Nothing finished, but prep stuff. It feels closer, though. I guess. I hope."
"Closer's good," the redhead replied encouragingly.
"Definitely good," Tara said, mimicking Willow's earlier flirting. The redhead blushed, recognizing the tease, and dipped her head. Adorable, the blonde thought, her smile slightly widening. "Is your work all done?" Tara asked, her eyes never leaving her roommate's face.
"Yeah," Willow answered, raising her eyes and meeting the artist's gaze. "It was a really busy day, but I think we wrapped it up for the weekend."
"That's good," Tara said with a slight head bob. "I mean, it's nice that you won't have to worry about work when your mom's here."
"Yeah," Willow said, slightly dipping her head, her smile slightly faltering. The blonde noticed.
"So," Tara said, shifting her weight slightly as she changed the subject. "It's um, it's over there, on the floor against the wall, if you want to see it."
The redhead turned, following Tara's nodded directions. "Wow," Willow murmured as she took in the new work. She was overwhelmed by the beauty—high paint clashing and coalescing—and she walked toward it like a moth to a flame, stopping a few feet away. She looked for a few long moments, her back to Tara, as she took in every dip and curve of the paint, every square inch of the canvas. "Hey, it's like 'Fillmore' only–" red. Willow felt like she had the wind knocked out of her. It was 'Fillmore,' with red. She furiously went through the options. Red from Tara's drink, red from the concert lights, red from my hair. Her mind spun and spun and spun and she felt slightly dizzy as she slowly turned to face the expectant artist behind her. Her voice was softly awestruck. "It's beautiful." And red, her mind screamed.
"Really?" The blonde asked. She had been holding her breath since Willow spoke, unsure of what the girl would think. Did she see herself in it? Know that that perfect shade of red, the shade that made Tara think of lust and love and really great music, was her? She again felt herself holding her breath, a thin hand on her stomach, her eyes wide with hope.
"Really. It's..." Red. Red, red, red. The redhead simply shook her head.
Tara exhaled, and smiled, the relaxed grin spreading across her face and stealing Willow's heart all over again. "I'm really glad you like it."
RED! "I do," Willow sputtered. "I do. I love it. I. Tara–" She cut herself off, willing herself to slow down. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.
"Hmm?" Tara asked, still fluttering about the redhead's approval.
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" The redhead blurted. "I mean, I know you're super busy and you have all of this stuff to do and going out to dinner is the last thing you probably should be doing but I thought maybe you could–"
"Yes," Tara said simply.
"–go out– Really?"
"Yes," the blonde said with a nod, her body humming as she spoke. "Dinner sounds good."
"Great." Willow smiled triumphantly. "Uh. Where would you like to go?"
Tara half smiled demurely. "You're the one that asked..."
"Oh, right," The redhead said, her brow momentarily furrowing. "It's just, I still sorta don't know that many places." She winced, slightly embarrassed.
"Well what do you feel like?" Tara asked. God she's gorgeous.
"Anything," Willow quickly replied. Anything if it's with you.
"That narrows it down," the blonde joked. "Hmm, how about Magnolia's, in the Haight?"
"Don't know it, but sure," Willow said agreeably.
"It's a pub, restaurant-type place," Tara said with a slight, melodic laugh. "Fish and chips, some fancy stuff."
"Sounds wonderful," the redhead said, the blonde's good mood wrapping around her like a warm blanket.
"Great," Tara smiled. "Give me an hour?" She asked. "I need to clean up a bit." She motioned to the studio and herself.
The redhead smiled, noticing the small splotches of paint on the blonde's thin hands and clothes. "Sure, no problem," Willow said, a bright smile pulling at her lips. "I'll just be upstairs."
"Okay," the blonde said, leaning down to pick up the palette at her feet, her eyes never breaking their gaze.
"Okay," Willow repeated. She backed out of the room with a goofy grin on her face, her hand pulling the door closed behind her. With a click, she released the knob and turned toward the stairs, her head spinning and her heart thudding in her chest.
Thanks!
Tara secretly looking up to the ceiling.. it’s the little details like that that makes this story seem so real.
would happen...
