by EasierSaid » Sun Dec 01, 2013 4:32 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.
Previously: Tara tried to kiss Willow, who flinched out of the way out of habit. Willow tried to explain as Tara fled. The next morning, Tara left their apartment for Marissa’s artist-in-residence studio to try and paint out her feelings; Willow is home, dealing with the aftermath of her flinch and preparing to come out to her mom that night.
Notes: No more park; back to the “present.” Song: Explosions in the Sky, “Your Hand In Mine.” (The one off of The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place, not the ones on the Friday Night Lights Soundtrack; big, nerdy distinction.) It’s the stretch run—let’s do this.
Thoughts in italics
PART 68
The previous year, Tara saw a woman get hit by a car. The blonde had just met up with Buffy outside of her office building; they were headed to a new restaurant nearby for dinner and drinks. Caught up in conversation they stopped at the corner of the intersection nearest Buffy’s office, the bright, flashing red hand warning them of an impending light change. A middle-aged woman—obviously rushing to her next engagement—bumped past them and strode into the intersection just seconds before a mid-sized sedan—also no doubt rushing its owner to his next engagement—took the left hand turn sharply and quickly. The sound was a dull thud, metal denting, and then a thump on the asphalt.
Tara was shocked. Shocked that she had witnessed the incident out of the corner of her eye, shocked that before she could even process what happened Buffy was in the street, checking on the injured woman, one hand instructing the driver to pull over, the other bringing her phone to her ear to call 911. Tara rushed to Buffy’s side, and the two women exhorted the injured woman to be still, to let them check her before she tried to move. The woman nodded, dazed, and after a long moment others from the sidewalk cautiously spilled into the street, directing traffic around them as Tara and Buffy helped the woman to her feet and to the curb.
The driver’s face was ashen as he stepped out of his car. He checked the hood first, his hand covering his open mouth as he saw the small dent, the hand dropping to his side as he saw the woman he hit moving gingerly to the side of the road. He rushed over, and then stopped a few feet away, closing his mouth suddenly before he paced away and took out his own phone, dialing some unknown person. “Jerk,” Buffy had muttered. “He’s probably afraid you’re going to sue him.” The dazed woman took no notice of the petite blonde’s words.
Tara sat with the woman until the police and ambulance arrived, held the woman’s trembling hand and tried to talk to her about anything and everything… But the woman was too dazed to hear her. The woman was undoubtably concussed, and Tara watched as her free hand absently and repeatedly checked her face for blood she thought she felt that wasn’t there.
Tara didn’t know why the memory came to her, her hair standing up on the back of her neck as three single notes from an electric guitar filled the room, the stereo’s speakers in Marissa’s Post Street studio surprisingly loud. Maybe it was because her hands trembled as she slowly walked backward from the table, the last song on Willow’s Real Me CD spreading like a fog to every corner of the room, or maybe because her eyes looked vacant yet desperate, searching for some unknown thing in the distance like the woman’s had that day. Tara certainly felt concussed; the redhead’s flinch had knocked her sideways, and she realized how badly she was limping through time since. She reached the wall opposite the bank of windows as she listened to two guitars playing together, like a dance, the sound from the street below completely obscured and erased by the music. She lightly bumped into the wall and then sank to the floor, her bottom resting on the cool hardwood, her knees pulled to her chest. The adrenaline of the morning was wearing off and she felt vulnerable as she listened to the song. She let the chill from the floor sink into her bones, dropped her head back to the wall and closed her eyes.
The song was gentle and dreamy, two electric guitars playing with each other, around each other, with a slight, reverberating echo that made the guitars’ notes float like high clouds on a hot summer day. She settled into it, consumed with the sound, and she was so immersed that she felt rather than heard the addition of an ominous drum beat from a low tom in the background. It went on for a short while, just enough to get used to the sound and then the song exploded around her, the low tom gone, replaced by a snapping, almost militarist march, the guitars insistent and hopeful. Her skin raised into goosebumps and she opened her eyes, swallowing hard, the emotion of the song starting to infiltrate her heart. The three instruments played together with a tender precision that nonetheless was tense.
She waited for the song’s words. Waited with baited breath, wondering what the lyrics would be this time, how they might destroy her, wreck her and then hopefully, hopefully build her up. How the words might make sense of Willow, explain everything she felt for the redhead, maybe explain what the redhead might feel for her like some sort of cypher. But the words never came. The music just continued building, relentlessly, layer upon layer, and Tara’s face screwed up, the anticipation twisting her. It was like her feelings for the redhead. Constantly building, constantly growing with no outlet, no release. And the waiting was killing her. Tears began to slip out of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks and dropping from her jaw onto her chest as the music continued to build.
And then the build dropped out and it was just the guitars again. Sweet, like sunshine, or the warm feeling of someone you love gently sweeping a stray hair away from your face as you smile to yourself about how perfect life is. She thought about Willow’s thin fingers as they trailed across her skin and shivered.
The peace was short-lived as the snapping drum returned, the music again building, and the pressure inside of the blonde began to expand, pushing against her skin, her body feeling too tight around her emotions. The feelings from this morning. The words she said the previous night. And she couldn’t bear waiting for some magic key encrypted in lyrics anymore. She couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face as the music swelled and crashed around her like a wave, breaking her. It broke her into a million pieces and she sobbed, her body jerking as the emotion inside of her fought to escape in one sucking gasp. She covered her mouth with her right hand, her left hand braced against the paint-splotched floor, her fingertips curling reflexively to keep her from collapsing. She cried with overwhelming sadness and overpowering joy. The music pulsed through her entire being, filling every extremity with a tingling feeling that made her want to burst out of her skin. It consumed her and made her heart beat fast in a way that only ever happened when she was with Willow.
And then the crescendo was gone, and once again it was just the guitars, beautiful, serene. Tara gently shook her head side to side. It was them. Grand and intimate, big moments, little moments and all the other moments in between. Their friendship. Her love.
Her feelings went out from her wildly as the song continued, enveloping her, challenging her. Huge arches of love and pain, joy and disappointment. If it were color, she’d have a halo, arcs of aurora, bright and bold. She was in love with Willow. And Willow? Tara nodded her head, imperceptibly at first, until the movement rocked her back and forth, her face wet with tears. Her body shook with the shuddering breath she let go, years of doubts ejected as the music crescendoed again. She shook her head, her emotions sitting outside of her, wrapped around her, her flesh raised in bumps and she sat numb as the song concluded, the sounds of the street filtering back in as the last of the guitar’s notes disappeared. A car’s honk. The back of a delivery truck slamming closed. It felt so stark. Crass. She swallowed hard and wiped her face on her sweater, looking around the studio with new eyes. She quickly removed her wet shoes and stood awkwardly, the cold hardwood seeping through her damp socks to her toes, then strode with purpose to the supply closet.
It took a minute, her hands shaking as she worked the small silver key into the lock, the sounds of the street traffic more fully filling up the space behind her where the song had been. She desperately needed a canvas. Tara pushed open the simple wood door and flicked on the wall switch, her eyes adjusting to the artificial glow as she oriented herself in the room. She gravitated toward the largest canvas she could find, tucked behind others in a simple wood rack. She pulled it free and cursed, annoyed as she looked down, the fabric of her clothes tangled and clinging to her. The cuffs of her pants were still wet, her feet still moist so she removed her socks and turned up her pants before cursing again. The canvas wasn't big enough. Not nearly big enough. She sighed with frustration before noticing something out of the corner of her eye, propped behind a tall, wooden supply shelf.
A canvas. A big one. A little beat up around the edges, but workable. She looked around the shelves, trying to figure out how the canvas was wedged behind the structure. In a flash she started to empty the shelves, putting paints and brushes to the side, stopping only to shuck the warm sweater she wore. She needed that canvas. The feelings were bigger than her, so she needed a canvas that was literally bigger than her. She figured it was probably five feet by seven feet, the rectangle larger than anything else she had used including the large painting above the fireplace. She had thought “The Day in the Park” was to be her largest work—big to hold big feelings—but what she was feeling now was bigger than that. It was the biggest mess of feelings she had ever felt and she needed it out of her, out of her and on to a canvas.
As soon as the shelves were empty she began to pull on the structure until she had enough clearance to access the canvas. With hot determination she yanked it free, careful not to damage it, and once free she awkwardly angled it out of the closet and into the main room. She partially dragged it to the wall opposite the studio’s entrance and gently leaned it against the bricks, careful not to bump the table holding the stereo nearby. She looked to the floor and grabbed a discarded rag that she had accidentally dragged into the room with her and went about dusting off the edges and front of the canvas, her fingers dragging across the surface as she inspected it. Rough, but gessoed, small dimples and dents but no obvious holes. It would work.
Professionally this work wouldn’t help her. She knew that as she finished inspecting the canvas. She needed four paintings with the same dimensions for the show in LA and as things stood now she had three in her studio at home. But she didn’t care. Didn’t care about the titles she was supposed to submit to the printer tomorrow, didn’t care about the contract she was in great danger of defaulting on. She just needed to paint.
She abandoned the tubes of paint she brought from home early, her hands squeezing so hard her knuckles turned white in an effort to free every last drop of color from their confines. Seven ounce tubes gave way to 32 ounce jars, the paint coming off in heavy, buttery strokes on palette knives and stiff brushes. She worked left to right, and by the time she made her way to the far side, the paint on the left had dried sufficiently so that she could start again, layers building as she added more and more to the canvas below.
And the whole time her mind buzzed. She had so many voices in her head, so many memories that appeared unbidden, their meaning reformed and changed in the light of the previous week’s events. Her thoughts felt alien to her, like everything familiar was suddenly peculiar, things she long assumed wrong, and she wasn’t sure she could trust the new thoughts that had appeared in their place. What if they were wrong too?
She needed to find some order, some structure to the emotions, the thoughts, that were smothering her. So she started from the beginning, asking herself: When did she first see Willow? The answer came quickly: Five years ago. No, she thought, shaking her head, her hand squeezing the last of the white paint she brought from home onto a glass palette. That’s when they met. She tried again. Three years ago. No, she thought, again shaking her head, frustration rising inside of her as she used a brush to mix the white with Prussian Blue. That was when she fell in love with the redhead. No, the Willow she tried to kiss. The one that felt something for her. When did she first see that Willow? Tara exhaled sharply. The morning after the kitten club. A deep furrow appeared in the blonde’s brow, her stomach churning as she remembered that morning. How Willow had darted into the room, her body rigid, her movements economical and exact as she packed her computer away in a bag full of clothes. How she had averted her bright green eyes, how her face alternated between a light blush and an almost sickly white. How upset she had been, confusion and anger rolling off of her in waves. Willow had snapped at her that morning, her voice edgy and sharp. Is that when she realized? A first glimpse that maybe she was attracted to the blonde, the thought scaring the girl and turning her inward?
”I just can't be here.” Tara would remember Willow’s words, that moment, for the rest of her life. The embarrassed, tight look on the redhead’s face. Her words had torn at her. Tara had assumed at the time that Willow was fleeing from her because of something she did wrong… But what if it was because of something she did… right? She remembered the beaming smile on Willow’s lips at the kitten club when she handed the redhead that little pink stick with two green olives. The series of smiles the redhead gifted her with as they talked over the club’s loud music. How she had seemed to smile a different, gentler smile when she had said the words, “My Tara.” The blonde’s brow crinkled as she remembered something else Willow had said that morning. That she had a lot of “stuff” she needed to figure out. What kind of “stuff?”
Tara shuddered out a sigh as she moved back to the canvas, her mind still spinning. Willow had spent that weekend with Xander, a weekend the blonde had supposed at the time to be yet another attempt by the redhead to urge the dark haired man into loving her. But what if it had been something else entirely? A weekend of comfort with an old friend. Did Xander know? Is that why she rushed down there three weeks ago, because she needed–
Tara exhaled sharply, dropping her eyes as she swallowed back fear at what she was about to think. She composed herself and took a deep breath, bringing her eyes back up to the work in front of her. Did Willow visit Xander to come out to him?
It fit. The redhead was so awkward and out of sorts that morning, avoiding her gaze, her words. But when she came home, back from Sunnydale, it was like something had changed. Maybe that's when she realized it? That night at the club had been the first time Tara had felt like they were flirting, intentionally, since that day in the park. There had been flashes during their time living together, but that night at the club was definitely different. It's like it led to everything else, every touch, every invitation from the redhead to spend more and more and more time together. Did Willow drive down to see Xander and come out to him, and all those phone calls to him since were just touchstones as she navigated tricky waters? This is dangerous, Tara’s subconscious screamed. She had just started down a path that she wasn’t sure she should follow, but there was something at the end, something so beautiful if it was there… She had no choice but to follow it.
She remembered the first time she saw Willow after her return from Sunnydale. The girl’s beautiful red hair splayed across the coffee table, the redhead sleeping. Tara’s heart had been so bruised that weekend, and she remembered clearly how she felt as she warred with herself about waking the girl so she wouldn’t get a kink in her neck. But what about Willow? How had she felt? The blonde struggled to remember that night as she turned back to her paints, her fingers skimming over the tubes until she found the Rose Dore. And she remembered the bright smile on the drowsy girl’s face, the happy notes in her voice as she started to talk about her weekend once she woke. Willow had wanted to talk even though it was the middle of the night, but Tara had cut her off. What was it she wanted to say? The artist squeezed the paint onto her palette and then moved back to the canvas, and as she raised her hand, some flicker of the memory solidified. Willow had been playing with a small box as she spoke. The bracelet. Tara swallowed hard, her hand faltering as she moved the palette knife across the canvas, the sound rasping as it skipped across the surface. Willow had been about to give her the glass bead bracelet.
Tara wondered how she hadn’t seen it before. Because you were too brokenhearted about Xander, the girl thought, too busy with the show. She sighed, forgiving herself for not noticing earlier. She wondered why it took so long for Willow to give her the bracelet if she had had it that night. Did the redhead have second thoughts? Worry that the gift would be too intimate? She tried to imagine Willow’s feelings, and her heart sped up, the same way it always did when she did something for the girl. Made a dinner she knew the redhead liked. Turned up the thermostat for the often chilly girl in the morning. Cracked a dumb joke, just to try and make her smile. All those small gestures Tara did every day for Willow because she loved her, wanted to make her happy. Was the bracelet like that for Willow? A slightly grander gesture of her affection that went far beyond her usual, Tiny Jewish Santa MO?
”I saw something this weekend and thought of you.” Tara’s brow crinkled as she remembered the morning Willow gave her the bracelet. How the redhead had stood close, her eyes downcast as she spoke, looking at the box she gently cradled in her hands. How when she looked up, her bright green eyes shone even though her voice sounded nervous. She had said the blonde had to have it. The blonde shuddered as she slowly exhaled. It had probably taken Willow days to work up the courage to give her the box, and then she didn’t even get to see her open it. Tara closed her eyes, remembering resting it on the easel in her studio, unopened as she sparred on the phone with a shipping representative, Willow leaving for work in the other room. Tara felt incredibly guilty. She should have waited. But if she had… She sighed, her hand moving across the surface of the canvas, brush in hand. If she had, she wouldn’t have worn it that night. And she wouldn’t have seen Willow’s smile when she showed it off at the gallery, wouldn’t have seen the even bigger smile on the redhead’s face when she complimented and thanked her for it later during the show.
The blonde worked for a while, the thoughts settling into her. After a while she opened herself up to more thoughts. Of Willow with her date at the pre-gallery party, how relieved she seemed as she later described being rid of him. Of their handshake and the bright, blushing smile the redhead had offered as her hand lingered in the embrace. Of the look of pride and reverence when Tara revealed the name of ‘Fillmore.’ Tara’s brow quirked. Willow had visited the gallery another day, alone. The blonde remembered how she felt when she saw the redhead standing in front of her work in the middle of the day, and something about the memory tugged at her heart. Willow had asked over lunch in Marissa’s office if the blonde had been involved with Anya. Had asked about Jill. It was when she told the redhead that she didn’t mess around with straight girls. The blonde’s brow furrowed as the feelings from that afternoon came back to her, seeped into her, fresh as when she first felt them. She remembered being so confused; why did Willow care, about Anya, about Jill? The blonde breathed out slowly now, the answer plain. Because Willow cared. Willow cared about her, cared about her love life in a way that was awkward and odd for a new friend but perfectly natural for someone who–
Tara closed her eyes, her mind slammed with a thousand impressions of the redhead. The smile when Willow showed her the tube of lipstick she bought for Morgan’s party. The feel of the girl’s hand on her forearm, gently pulling her closer when she almost balked at painting the color of her eyes. The bagel from Katz. The vulnerable look in her eyes as she asked if they were friends in the moonlight on the stairs. The blush on her freckled face when Tara asked why she was visiting the gallery during her lunch hour. The worried look as she inspected the blonde’s pin-pricked finger. The twinkle in her eye as she asked if Tara thought her writing on the laundromat window was adorable. The smell of Willow’s skin as she held her gently after the Fillmore show. The caress of her knee after the redhead gently swatted her as they sat together on her bed. The look in her green eyes, urgent and warm as they stood inches apart on the landing after fog gazing. Those, and so many more, ran the blonde over.
Tara turned away from the canvas and paced, her body walking away in an attempt to flee from the emotions she was feeling, from the emotions that were manifesting on the large rectangle at the opposite end of the room. The emotions followed her though, pawing at her, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck and causing her to roll her shoulders and neck in a way to slough them off. But it was no use; the emotions were tenacious and grabbed her, forcing another thought into the mind she desperately wanted to clear. Willow had kept her career a secret to protect her feelings. Tara swallowed hard as she paced again, her body electric. It was after that night that she first thought that Willow might like her. Like, like her like her. That she might have a crush on her. But she dismissed it, explained it away as the act of a good person, a strain of her generous nature because how could Willow like her when she loved Xander? Tara clenched her jaw. She had closed herself off to the idea even though it made sense, even though that what Willow did—making the conscious choice, every single day for months—to protect her seemed so above and beyond what a mere acquaintance would do.
The memory of that night washed over her. Of Willow pressed into the kitchen counter opposite her, fear in her eyes. She looked so small, her cheeks flushed red as she waited for the blonde’s reaction. She was afraid of what Tara was going to say, what she would do. Afraid that she’d cry, like at the park. Or snap at her, like Buffy. Or maybe even not even care, like Xander. Tara’s heart broke as she remembered that moment, and then swelled as she again felt pride in loving someone so caring.
The blonde returned to her work and sighed with frustration as she dug into jars of Marissa’s paints, the empty tubes she brought from home twisted and malformed in little piles around their carrying case. She pilled her glass palette high with a thick rainbow of paint then turned back to the canvas and worked.
She couldn’t be too hard on herself, she knew that. How could she have possibly thought anything other than that Willow loved Xander given the circumstances? It was a perfectly reasonable deduction to make based on years and years of evidence. Willow even said she loved Xander at dinner when they went for Thai. She smiled sadly as she remembered the sight of Willow’s tongue gleefully pressing against her lips as she smiled, pride in her voice as she told her about her rat cam. But no, Tara thought suddenly, shaking her head as she realized something. She had said it, the blonde, she told Willow that the redhead loved Xander and the girl had simply confirmed it to be true. Tara quickly replayed the conversation, a difficult task because her mind had been spinning that night, yet one detail stood out. ”It's his life.” Willow had shrugged her shoulders when she said it, like his decision didn't effect her, not really, because he was him. Singular. Not part of a them, a couple. Willow wanted more from him, she confirmed that, too, but what if more was just a friendship that didn't rely on her using cell phone minutes? It didn't have to mean what Tara and Buffy had assumed for years.
And a series of unpleasant memories assaulted Tara. Late night conversations with Buffy, the petite blonde’s voice tight and angry as she spoke about her confusion over Willow’s unrequited love for Xander. The defeated, frustrated tone in Buffy’s voice when she spoke with the redhead about the dark-haired man. Fights she overheard between Buffy and Xander, the accusations, the denials. The blonde’s own intense dislike for Xander, long a part of her soul, now feeling like lead in her stomach. She felt incredibly guilty.
She shook her head, adding a layer of Davy’s Gray to the canvas. Willow had a shirt the same color, and Tara loved it because when Willow’s hair sat on her shoulders the tips looked like flames on charcoal. The blonde opened herself up to memories of the girl’s expressive face, her green eyes sparkling, or her freckled forehead furrowed with deep lines. Vixen lips. Tara sighed, looking down at her feet briefly before looking back up at the canvas. She remembered the look on Willow’s face when they entered Morgan’s party. Such a lovely smile, her lips curling up under her round cheeks, eyes twinkling. Then there was the flushed look of shock when the redhead had touched her bare back, her apology stammered, her eyes dark and wide. And then everything else…after… How the night had changed, as if on a dime, leading to the redhead’s crushed voice spoken into the night as she paced along a dark sidewalk. What had changed? Morgan, Tara admitted, her head momentarily bowed. The brunette’s arrival; it seemed so clear now. That’s when Willow started texting Xander, when it seemed like their time together had gotten so badly derailed. She paused her movements before the canvas and placed her hand over her heart, exhaling as she remembered the pain in Willow’s voice as she spoke about being in love on the sidewalk. It broke the blonde’s heart in a way that seemed to be a complete 180 from how it had broken when she heard it the first time. That Willow had been talking about her…
It was almost too painful to remember. The sound, that thick, wet sound of Willow’s voice catching, choking around her words as she spit them angrily into the phone. Tara remembered being nailed to her spot on the sidewalk, unable to move as the pain in the redhead’s voice sliced through her. She had never seen Willow that way before, her thin arms wrapped around herself, her lips quivering, her head shaking. She looked so vulnerable. Broken. "I can't stand feeling this way.” Tara sharply inhaled as she remembered Willow’s voice, the words—that she could empathize so completely today… Tara’s mind drifted and she remembered leaving the party, Willow closed off, huddled and small in the back of the cab as they rode home in silence, a million miles between them in the backseat. Of the too-loud song the girl had put on when they got home to try and obscure the sobs the blonde could still so plainly hear down the hall. How red-rimmed Willow’s eyes were as she opened the door and declined Tara’s offer of comfort.
Tara swallowed hard and doubled back to the paints. She took on blues and yellows, then started to furiously apply them to the canvas. She remembered the wounded look on Willow’s face as they ate cake the next night, her naturally sparkling personality dampened and depressed. How befuddled she was by Tara’s trellis explanation, how curious and insistent she had been about Tara’s desire to date Morgan. Because she remembered my ‘perfect girl’ description… Tara shook her head. How long had those throw away words hurt her? The blonde pursed her lips tightly and doubled her efforts, paint splattering off of the canvas onto her shirt, her pants. Tara had thought at the time that the conversation was a pleasant, if oddly personal, distraction from the real problem—Xander—however in retrospect it was a temporary salve for Willow’s singed heart, because Willow was jealous of Morgan and she was hurt that Tara was thinking of starting a relationship with the brunette.
Tara sighed, every mention of Morgan, every moment spent with her in front of the redhead roaring through her mind. Willow had thought she had lied about Morgan calling while they were out, had called her on it when they sat in blackout in front of the fire. Tara’s brow furrowed, her hand slowing as she remembered that dark afternoon, the tone of Willow’s voice, the look on her face as she pushed through her obvious discomfort in discussing Tara’s omission. Their relationship had changed that day. That seemed to be another shift for them. Was it knowing Morgan was out of the picture that had changed things, that made Willow more bold? Or was it the secrets they had revealed, the trust they had shared… The blonde swallowed hard, remembering the outline of Willow’s body as she stood in front of the fire. The color of her hair, sparkling with gold and copper highlights. The feel of the redhead’s body as she abandoned her seat by the fire and sat near the couch, heat emanating off of her. The overwhelming love Tara felt for her in that moment when Willow listened with kindness as she spoke of her inexperience and Jill’s indifference.
Tara shook away the memory and looked at the work in front of her. She frowned. The painting wasn’t what she wanted, the colors wrong, the texture off. She took to Marissa’s paints again and started mixing, coming up with a green that resembled the old chalkboards of her childhood. She painted a layer on top of what she had already done and then set to adding color to that.
After a while, she felt an itch at the back of her brain. She tried to ignore it, but it eventually drove her to literal distraction and she stopped painting, stepping back and thinking. Willow had said on their walk to Anya's store that she had been dealing with "life things." Well what bigger “life thing” was there than coming out? Tara thought about that as she started to work again, the paint sitting thick on the canvas. Willow seemed afraid of seeing her mom, of seeing Buffy—people she loved. She was anxious in a way that went far beyond her usual fidgety nature. Tara had thought it strange Willow didn’t invite her mom to their apartment, but now it sort of made sense. And Buffy… Hadn’t Willow all but avoided her best friend for the last few weeks? The fear, the avoidance—it all made sense if Willow was working up the courage to say something that she thought might disappoint them, though Tara for the life of her couldn’t understand why Willow would think Buffy would be anything other than supportive. She sighed. Supportive. Of Willow loving– Of being with–
Tara shook her head. How she had managed to make it to yesterday night before trying to kiss Willow she’d never know. She had, after all, wanted to kiss her a thousand times before then. The soft touches alone at the Fillmore this week had almost broken her, and the feel of Willow in her arms after the show, her soft skin brushing against her cheek as they pulled apart, was up to that point the greatest test her willpower had ever known. Tara breathed out slowly, her cheeks flush at the thought of her lips on Willow’s neck, the soft kiss she had talked herself out of as they paused from her silly story about Jaque and Lar. Of the happy kiss she had wanted to plant on the redhead as they exited Magnolia’s, of the one she had avoided as they sat across from each other sipping cider under a blanket of fog. The fog. Tara closed her eyes and remembered the feel of the girl in her arms as they laid together on the roof. She had never done that before, just held another woman as they drifted off to sleep, and the feeling… She sighed dreamily. They fit. Add to that feeling the fact that Willow trusted her enough to come back to her embrace after briefly sitting up and asking her a question, that Willow trusted her enough to fall asleep as she laid encircled in her arms…
Tara reveled in the memory of Willow’s breath on her cheek, how it caressed her neck, simultaneously sending shivers through her body and soothing her as they fell asleep together. She loved the feel of the redhead’s body slacking and growing heavy against her own, loved the beautiful, beautiful befuddled look on her face as she woke from sleep a mere foot away, errant rain drops dropping heavy around them. And the feel of the redhead’s damp fingers on her face, pushing her matted blonde hair from her eyes. Gentle. Burning. Tara pursed her lips and swallowed hard. Oh god, how she wanted her, their eyes never breaking from each other as they drifted together in that moment. The blonde remembered the moment she decided to kiss Willow. The little flick of Willow’s tongue as she licked her lips, her bright green eyes questioning, pleading. Tara felt her heart start to beat harder, felt her face flush.
But Willow flinched.
The blonde sighed heavily. She looked up at the painting in front of her through watery eyes and her face twisted in displeasure. She hated it. She absolutely hated it. Why weren’t things working? She took a large palette knife and started to angrily scrape the paint from the surface. Small sections of paint came free leaving jagged layers of color behind, but it wasn’t enough. Her chest heaved, her face red as she grew more and more upset, the painting seeming to mock her for her wasted time and energy. Then she remembered seeing a large rectangular glass palette in the supply closet. She rushed into the supply room and came back with it and started to use it’s edge to scrape at the paint. She leveraged her whole body, pulling and pushing the two surfaces against each other, her fingers white as she held onto the thin edges.
Hot tears spilled from her eyes. Why had Willow moved away? If she had feelings for her, why, why didn’t she kiss her back? Tara scraped again, her breathing coming fast as she worked. Because she’s scared? Not ready? Because she told the redhead that she was unavailable when she said she didn’t mess around with straight girls, confusing her? Or all of the above? Tara thought ruefully. She told Willow that she would be patient. Not even six hours before she tried to kiss her, she had told the girl she would wait and she didn’t. She pressured the redhead when she obviously wasn’t ready for what Tara wanted from her. I mean, w-we’re basically d-dating without ever acknowledging it. The blonde squeezed her eyes shut. She told Willow she’d wait and then, then…
Her shoulders slumped. To kiss Willow, to feel her, to show her how much she loved her… She had let her guard down to try and was rebuffed in the most painful of ways. Tara felt like a fool. And the worst part was she didn't know why. Was it because she tried to kissed a “straight” girl? Or because she ran when Willow tried to explain? Was it because this story she told herself today, of Willow’s feelings for her, might be a fantasy? Or because she dove head first, without the rational part of her mind slowing herself down in the least, into a relationship that was firmly entrenched in a closet so dark and so deep that she had become bewildered by how she was expected to behave in it. She knew she wanted Willow with everything thing she had, but the fear of what Willow wanted, of what Willow would be capable of giving her, crushed her.
She stepped back from the painting and paced away, gently dropping the large rectangle of glass on a balled up canvas cloth by the supply closet door. She was hyperventilating. She needed to calm down. She took deep breaths and felt her body start to return to some sort of equilibrium. She wiped at her eyes, smudging paint onto her cheeks and turned, gasping at what she saw.
The painting. It was… It was… Beautiful, she thought, confused. And, it was completely different than anything else she’d done before. She usually used paint in high, choppy layers to create impressions of events or feelings, but this was… She shook her head, unable to fully process what it was. The layers were stripped away, the colors blurred together and distressed. There was no pattern, the lines she left as she scraped went in every direction, and the paint was left swirled together, clashing, peeled away, greens revealing reds, blues overlaid with yellows. It was dynamic. Vibrant. Raw. How had she done this?
And as she stared, dumb, her mouth hanging open, she realized that while the painting over the fireplace was all of the feelings she had for the redhead, all the love, all the confusion… This? This was everything Willow felt for her. Tara knew the redhead had feelings for her. She knew it. In her bones she knew it but the flinch, the step back… Tara shook her head. Willow loved her. Even if she never admitted it. Married a man, married Xander; Willow loved her. And this painting was what they could be together if they stripped everything else away. It was Sunday morning pancakes. Stargazing on the roof. Long walks down verdant paths and everything, everything she ever wanted to do in life with a partner. With Willow.
After a long while Tara tore her eyes from the work and looked out the window. It felt like coming up for air after holding her breath for an eternity and she was shocked to see a wall of gray, the rain still there, the sky still gloomy. She noted for what felt like the fifth time that week that it looked like 4 pm outside. Just on the edge of dusk, the day dark and tired.
And she suddenly panicked.
She looked at her wrist to find it empty, her watch on her dresser at home. In a rush she moved to her bag and opened it, her hands shaking, her fingers fumbling as she found her cell phone resting on top of a pair of yoga pants. She powered it on and waited, the feeling in her stomach sinking and sinking until the time appeared on its face. She was slammed by a wave of guilt. 4:03. She'd never make it home before Willow left to see her mom. Not with the amount of work she'd need to do to get the studio put back together.
And she couldn't leave. She looked to the pile of empty paint tubes and jars, the number of palettes, knives and brushes that needed to be cleaned and her huge painting that was hours, maybe days from being dry… Marissa's reputation, her carefully crafted reputation, relied on things like Aaron Bellows using her space. It helped her network, improved her profile and if Tara violated the gallery owner's trust by leaving now... She shook her head at the enormity of it all. She absently checked her phone again and started; there was a message. Her hands started to shake anew. Willow. She again fumbled as she navigated to the play back screen and then eagerly pressed the device to her ear. “Hey, Tara, it’s Morgan.”
The blonde took a deep breath, not hearing the rest of the message as her hand fell away from her face. Morgan. From Wednesday, the call she didn’t take when she was out to dinner with Willow. The blonde squeezed her eyes shut tight and when she opened them her lashes were tinged with unshed tears. Did she really think Willow would call? It would have been a first. And what would she say? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you come home? Tara exhaled. She was so embarrassed. And angry. And scared. She sank to the floor for the second time that day and hugged her knees to her chest.
**************************************************************
Willow sat up from her cocoon on her mattress and simultaneously pushed her messy hair and comforter from her face with a huff. It was 3:58 in the afternoon; time to start getting ready to see her mom. She had stayed in bed most of the day, sleeping in fits and starts, dreaming the same thing every single time. A flinch, her body rocking away, and the sight of Tara’s pain washed across her beautiful features.
She avoided downstairs as best as she could. The one time she ventured down for something to eat for lunch she had felt her chest constricting; the note—slightly creased from where she had grasped it tightly in her hand—taunted her from its resting place on the kitchen counter. The note broke her heart. She had driven Tara from her home, from her safe space. In all the time she had lived with the blonde she had never known her to paint any where except her studio. And now today, she was gone. Willow was so ashamed.
She sighed as she stood from her bed, the apartment seeming colder than usual. She didn’t deserve the note’s valediction. ‘Love.’ She flinched. She wasn’t quick enough to tell Tara that she was sorry. She drove her from her home, and still, the blonde signed the note, ‘Love,’ telling her that in some way—some, small way—it was okay. But it wasn’t okay. It was as far from okay as things could be. Willow shivered and hugged herself closely as she walked to her closet and grabbed two towels. Tara wasn’t mad at her, or at least, the note didn’t convey any anger, and she definitely deserved anger. For leading the gentle, shy girl on, for putting her in that horrible, horrible position on the landing. Of course Tara would try to kiss her. Willow’s brow furrowed as she shuffled across the hall and into the bathroom. She had held the blonde close, tenderly swept hair from her face. Had looked at her with what she knew must have been yearning, hadn’t moved at all as Tara’s intentions first became clear.
Willow started the water and unceremoniously undressed. She put her hand under the stream, and satisfied with the warm temperature, stepped inside. She stood under the stream and let the water cover her, caress her. She sighed as the steam filled her lungs, a little of the day’s tension loosening from her shoulders. She had no idea what the blonde was feeling. Tara didn’t want to see her, that much was obvious. If she did, she would have waited until Willow was awake to leave, would have stayed in her studio today to paint. But she didn’t wait, she didn’t stay. She was probably embarrassed, perhaps even humiliated. Willow tried to imagine how she would feel in the same situation, if Tara had been the one to drop her head and rock away, a tight smile on her face. She would have been destroyed.
She swallowed around the shame and guilt sitting in her throat. She was a whirlwind of feelings, and she still had to see her mom. She was still nervous, still afraid, of the conversation she was about to have with her mom, but what happened with Tara had given her a kind of wounded confidence that she didn’t fully understand. Because though tonight’s conversation with her mom would probably hurt, it couldn’t possibly hurt more than the look on Tara’s face after she flinched. How could it? Over the last two weeks she had let Tara in, let her get to know the real her, and the blonde had fallen in love with her. Being closeted was hurting them both. It needed to change.
Willow sighed and automatically reached for her bottle of body wash before stopping, her hand extended. After a brief consideration she moved lower and picked up Tara’s bar of vanilla-scented soap. Three weeks ago she had accidentally used the soap and it had driven her mad, her shame at being closeted, her hurt at an unrequited love, crushing her as Tara’s scent enveloped her. But now… She lathered up her hands and then rubbed the suds over her skin, the scent comforting her. She’d wrap herself in Tara, the scent a reminder that no matter what her mother said, Tara was the one that mattered.
The redhead rinsed off, washing her hair quickly and then cut the water, the steam lingering, clouding her vision of herself in the mirror as she stepped out onto the soft bath mat. She quickly dried herself and then wrapped her hair in a towel. She collected her clothes and made her way back into her room. After discarding her clothes into the hamper, she stood still and looked around her room. The room she had recently decorated, Tara’s two paintings standing out, the calendar from her mom a reminder of how long it took her to settle in. Something caught her eye on the corner of her desk and she slowly made her way over, the warmth from the shower still keeping her skin rosy and warm. It was the poster from the Black Keys show. Willow sighed as she looked over the poster from the Fillmore on her desk. A drop of water had fallen on one corner despite Tara's best efforts to protect it from the rain, and the ink had run slightly, the black turning a watery gray. It looked like a tear-stain. She rubbed her thumb over the mark. It was so backwards. You get to know someone first, and then dig down to when you love them, only what she had with Tara? This was love and then digging out. She felt like she’d been buried for years. Suffocating.
She took a deep breath and exhaled, her eye catching the clock. 4:43. She made her way to her closet and picked out jeans and a long-sleeved shirt she knew her mom liked. She dressed quietly, methodically, her hand moving slowly as she dried her hair with her towel and brushed her tangled hair straight. She blew her hair dry and applied a minimal amount of make up before settling into her chair and checking her email. Her eye again caught the clock. 5:12. No more stalling; the rain outside would no doubt make traffic heavy downtown. She headed downstairs with heavy steps, her body feeling like it weighed double what it actually did. She flicked the lights on in the great room and made her way to the kitchen counter, her eyes quickly searching out and settling on Tara’s note.
She didn’t want to read it again but she forced herself to, and found that it still hurt and confused as much as the first time she read it. She closed her eyes, feeling the shame and anger overtake her again. She took a deep breath. She had to stay calm, couldn’t cry again, not this close to leaving to see her mom. She opened her eyes and focused again on the note, and narrowed her field of vision until it was just two words. ’Love, Tara.’ Xander said that this, this feeling of unbelievable sadness and regret she felt at her flinch, at her inability to just stop Tara and explain, was just an apology away from being nothing. And then, then they could be together. Because that was what was important. That Tara loved her. That Tara wanted her, so much so that she broke her most fundamental rule of not messing around with straight girls to try and kiss her. She broke that rule because it had finally broken her, the closeness, the bond that they shared and when she looked into Willow’s eyes, as the redhead stroked her matted hair from her face, she no doubt saw—if only for a moment—how much Willow loved her, too.
Willow felt her confidence grow as Xander’s words finally took root in her heart. Because Tara wanting to kiss her, wanting her, that was what was important. Not that Tara had left, though that was gut wrenching and awful, but that she loved her. And whenever she came home, be it later tonight or in the next five minutes as she pulled out of the garage, Willow would tell her how much she meant to her. How desperately and fervently she loved her. She’d tell Tara everything and hopefully it would lift whatever dark cloud had descended on their lives. Willow knew she’d feel awful about that flinch for the rest of her life, would strive to make it up to the blonde for the rest of her life… But for now, she held on to the two words on that note, ‘Love, Tara,’ like the lifeline that they were.
Willow took a piece of paper from near the phone and with quick strokes wrote that she was going to see her mom. She set no expectation of when she would return, because she didn’t know. And when it was time to sign it, she followed Tara’s lead, and mirrored the blonde’s valediction. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she stepped away from the counter. It was real. She was going to see her mom. She was going to come out. And then… And then. She took another deep breath and again exhaled slowly. She looked around the apartment, swallowing hard and then screwed up her courage, grabbing her keys and coat before exiting into the quickly darkening evening.
**************************************************************
Marissa noticed the studio’s light as she walked toward the gallery from her happy hour meeting. She couldn’t imagine that Tara would have forgotten and left it on, but then, she couldn’t imagine that the blonde would still be painting at this hour, not when she started so early in the day.
Curiosity got the better of her, so she used her keys to open the studio’s street door and quickly alighted the narrow stairs to the main space. Marissa entered the studio and gasped. She pulled her eyes from the massive work across the room long enough to look over to see Tara sitting small on the floor to her right, her legs pulled to her chest, her blue eyes red-rimmed and puffy staring at the painting. The frizzy haired woman took a quick step toward the artist.
"Tara, are you oka–"
"I have the titles," Tara croaked, stopping the gallery owner short. "For the show,” she needlessly elaborated as she looked over to her friend. “I c-can put them in in the morning."
Marissa nodded, frozen to her spot. She looked back to the work and then to Tara. "It's beautiful."
Tara nodded as she looked away, new tears starting to pool in her eyes.
The gallery owner evaluated her friend. She looked like she had no where to go. “Tara," she started softly, smiling gently as the artist’s eyes looked up and met her gaze. "Do you want to come back to our place? For dinner, nothing fancy." She sighed as the blonde’s brow quirked. "Maybe you can talk about what's bothering you." Even as she said the words, Marissa knew what was bothering the blonde.
Tara nodded slowly. “Okay.” After a long moment spent composing herself, she spoke. "I need to wash up."
"Okay." Marissa nodded. "I'll wait."
Tara nodded again and moved to the small bathroom in the corner, grabbing her bag as she went. Marissa turned back to the large work and marveled. It was a masterpiece. She didn't throw the word around, she really meant it. Bound for a museum or private collection one day, to sit amongst Kellys and de Koonings. It was the work over the fireplace times a thousand. If Tara intended to sell this in LA Marissa would do everything in her power to make sure it not only went to a prestigious collector likely to one day show at a museum, but that Tara would find herself richly rewarded far above what was expected for an artist at her level of recognition. Marissa almost cried with wonder that she was present the day it was created. She stepped forward, careful not to crowd the work. She could see it was still wet in some places. She turned her head slightly as the water in the small bathroom went on, and she wondered, as she turned back to the painting, if Willow would ever know that she was the inspiration for a master work.
Last edited by
EasierSaid on Sun Dec 01, 2013 11:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Glad you liked the Buffy and Riley appearances. One of the challenges—and the bummers—about writing this story is that it is so Willow and Tara heavy. It’s always nice to have the other characters pop up because I miss them too. (Even Riley; go figure.) I think my favorite part about Riley in this last update is that I imagine him telling Buffy later about how he worried he interrupted something intense between Willow and Tara and Buffy looking at him like he had three heads. Glad you liked petty Tara as well. She had flashes of it on the show and it felt unrealistic to have her react any other way. Her feelings were hurt, and sometimes people who are hurt say and do dumb things. I far prefer her to be human with flaws and maybe miss her characterization a bit (though it pains me to say that because characterization is so, so important to me) than to have her be the archtype. (Nice Whitney reference, but I prefer the Chaka Khan original! 
) I’m glad you thought the conversation at the bar was fun despite the painful circumstances. I liked the mythical line, I could see Buffy saying it very clearly, so glad you liked it too. Glad you liked the last conversation - it was necessary. It just didn’t seem like they’d be able to keep hopeful thoughts three years later without it. Definitely back to the present now, though this update is more of a tablesetter/resetter. Hope you enjoy it and thanks very much. Love you.
Thanks so much, hopefully this jump back into the post-flinch world will help, even if it’s a bit of a re-establishing things update before the boulder really gets rolling. Please enjoy the next update. 
. It is good to virtually see you again too. 
UPDATE!! YAY!!! Another awesome update. Thank you!! Someone needs to lock Willow and Tara in a room and make them kiss it out! 
Again thanks for the update! and hope you have a great time these Holidays. 
And second, thank you so much for the super duper kind words. I’m truly humbled and I really appreciate them. I’m really glad you liked Tara’s thoughts. I was actually worried about that, that it would be too hokey or too detailed, but it felt right and to be honest, I sort of needed it to get back into the mindset after the day in the park diversion. Their love then was so new and raw, whereas now it’s weary and deep—it was really challenging to switch gears so completely. Seeing the story through Tara’s eyes really helped me, and hopefully it helped her too! 
finals are this week X-/ (I sorta, kinda shouldn't be here in the first place lol XD)
