By The Pricking of My Thumbs...Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Megan & Schehrezade

Chapter Fourteen

Tara stayed quiet, watching with a gentle eye as her girlfriend shivered and shook beneath the covers of her bed. Quiet because there was already too much noise with the yowling cries of a witch in withdrawal. The pain swirled down deep inside them both; for Willow it was a tangible agony—one that caused continual waves of mini lightning bolts to strike violently against her insides, heating and lacerating her flesh till she thought it would just be better to die. For Tara, the torment of seeing her lover and someone she had admired so buried within black power caused a throb of hurt to push at her throat and dictate the permanent tears at her eyes.



The longer she stayed, the more agitated she became. Willow was lost in the haze of her ordeal—attention to the goings on around her several levels beyond her capability for now. But Tara was more than lucid; was aware of the murmuring around the house of what wicked trouble Willow had wrought upon them with her lack of strength. Her lack of direction in the correct and right practices of white magic.



Admittedly, she didn’t hear anything specific, and was reacting more to the implication of looks and raised brows. So, instead of scanning the book on the floor by her chair, delving into possible solutions for Spike’s predicament, she sat wondering what thoughts made it to voice from their friends.



Tara hung her head and began a slow rock, motivated without conscious thought. She was to blame; she had suspected Willow’s duplicity in Buffy’s raising but had been euphoric along with the others and pushed her concerns aside. She should have known how deductive the call of power would have been to one such as Willow—a perfectionist who prided her intellect as well as her position in the Scooby group. She may waffle around suggestions that she was the ‘big gun’ in times of trouble, but it gave her a high that was profound and disturbing. It was the recognition and the thrill of altering the natural state of things that gave Willow the buzz—her need to control everything around her. Including her friend’s in varying situations of life and death.



The resurrection may have given Willow an extreme boost of confidence, but it had added to her arrogance as well. Such power within one as novice as Willow could not be successfully harnessed, despite what the redheaded witch might think or proclaim. They were paying for it now; paying for the expectation that one small-framed girl could alter the world and yet keep her own intact.



Every now and again Tara shuddered at the memory of Willow’s stumbling entry into the Slayer’s home. The essence of her overdose on magic had been pungent, and while the overflow might have been harmless to those rushing around her desperate to help, the sparks that lit her fingers and the blackness of her eyes and hair had been more confrontation than Tara had ever wanted to face.



The fade back to red had been a subtle one, but when the normality of appearance had returned to the witch, the reality of it had not. Normality seemed to be a thing left far in the past, and Tara couldn’t help wish it back, crave the easiness that was them before Buffy had died to save love.



Normal today was Willow keening in her bed, fighting from within the craving for more darkness as her body battled the need for power. There was nothing Tara could do but watch and offer support and encouragement whenever she could. In this place for Willow, it was rarely sought, the girl too far lost within her own struggle to even recognise that help sat a few short feet away.



The creak as the bedroom door opening was lost in the onslaught of Willow’s mournful wails. But the visitor, though pale and dressed down in neutrals, stood stark against the wounded atmosphere of the room.



“A-A-Amy?” Tara stood, hesitantly making her path from the other side of the bed to squeeze between Willow and the girl who had so recently been a rat. Her eyes fell unerringly on the sore looking bite on her neck, cringing at the close call both witches had when unprotected out on Sunnydale streets. “A-A-Are you o-okay?”



Amy’s eyes seemed to flash with a latent anger and Tara was at a loss to interpret its cause. Willow had saved the girl from being drained, had brought her home instead of leaving her weak and defenseless in the street. But then a smile pushed at her lips, despite the coldness that could not be hidden in her eyes.



“I’m fine,” she offered, her eyes straying to Willow’s tragic state in her bed. “Why is Willow like that?” she asked, indicating the shivering mass that was her witch partner in crime as she moved forward to finger some little trinket on the dressing table.



Tara studied her and worried at the absence of a magical meltdown, suspicious of the other girl and her motives. She felt nervous as Amy attempted to get closer to Willow, not knowing for sure if the girl was just curious or if she had some other more dark reason for being in her bedroom.



“W-Why are you here?” Tara offered instead of the explanation the brunette had asked for. The aura of the girl set her on edge, too much dark colour swirling together in a mash of palette and Tara knew that she needed to be on guard against the girl. Her smile was too sweet, too much on automaton for Tara to settle into the visit without concern.



“I came to say thanks. You know, for saving me and getting me home last night.” She paused again, keeping her eyes trained on the oblivious presence of Willow as she hurtled along her path of magical cleansing. “Is she sick or something?”



Tara was speechless, and then the anger singed at her heart as it clambered to be released. She clenched her fists hard at her side, preparing for the battle that seemed more than inevitable.



“She is not sick,” she denied in an uncharacteristically strong voice. “She is suffering—through no small fault of yours. I don’t think you should be around her now.”



The smile didn’t even falter, making Tara’s blood set frozen and still in her veins.



“How can I hurt Willow? She helped me, made me real again.”



The dilated pupils warned Tara and she moved quickly in between the two intoxicated witches, making it just in time as Amy extended her arm to point at Willow, and calmly spoke, "Potestas".



The thick crackling net of power that webbed between Tara’s parted hands caught the ill-intent and with a voice as strangely calm as the one who bestowed the gift, “redeo potestas tuum”. Amy’s retreating back received the blast, the impact rocking her off her feet and hitting her head hard on the door. Her body shimmered in transformation until Tara muttered another word, and the hairiness of a rat was cast away and the girl just lay on the floor, defeated by the purity of good.



With a quick look at Willow—her shaking even more pronounced and whimpers more heartbreaking from the short exposure to more magic—Tara risked the short trek to the stairs, called down for Dawn and Anne for help, and returned to keep watch. The burst of power did nothing to shift the calm assurance of her confidence; she felt no need to seek artificial means of strengthening or extending her capabilities. A sad look at Willow had her uttering a prayer of thanks that she was secure in herself and offered tidings for the strength and guidance she had received in controlling her gift.



While she returned to her seat—eyes focused only on her girlfriend—Amy was removed from the room and encouraged to never come back.



She kept her vigil for the rest of the night.



For love.


~@~@~center>


To Buffy, her spot on the porch seemed too warm, too worn for it to still belong to her. It was silly how she felt usurped by a girl who was herself—younger and harder and much more of a warrior than she had ever been. But the final line had been breached with that kiss, and Buffy found she just couldn’t take it. Didn’t want to take it. Didn’t want to just step aside and let Spike be seduced by a Buffy from another dimension—even if she did seem to be smarter and sharper about the benefits of love with a particular vampire.



Spike was her vampire, and that is where the buck stopped. The memory of his lips on another just hurt too much. Especially when the memory of those same lips on her own had never been allowed to reach her heart.



When he came out the back door and took a seat beside her, though, she couldn’t help but swallow hard and move that tiny space closer; hoping the feel of her heat might incite him to switch his loyalty back to her. With his proximity, the comfortable silence that brought back too many sad memories, he felt like hers. Felt like he had always been and always would be hers. It slipped her little pockets of courage, suggested a path to bring him back to her.



The first night back was a little hazy, the pain of being suddenly alive, of being ignored by Spike, of confronting her twin. It was all so much that the smaller details of the reunion were fuzzy. But one thing she thought she remembered was that Xander had mentioned a spell, and despite the action over the past week or so, Buffy was getting impatient about her time with Spike. He acted so aloof around her, one minute she would think she’d caught him studying her, feel a smile warm her insides, only to find him turning his back on her. It felt so final, so unreal to her.



This world that her friends had returned her to was so different, so cold and painful. Everything that she was—everything she had had—was now gone from her. Her family was changed, her position as Chosen subverted and shared, even more so than with Faith, because now she halved the job with herself. Her Watcher had left, and now her power-hungry best friend lay in a shivering wreck in bed. The upheaval of all that had grounded her when she was alive tore at her mind, left the scattered shreds that still recognised with some familiarity and hope clawing at whatever she could.



At what she needed.



She couldn’t explain when her heart had opened to Spike. Maybe it was the night they had geared up to fight Glory and save Dawn—an unrecognisable vampire from the one she had first met and survived thanking her for treating him for what deep down he really was. Or maybe she could date it back to when she had given him her first willing kiss, influenced by nothing but gratitude and confusion.



The thought made her shiver, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it could even be dated back to the night he’d chained her up and surrounded her with crazy female vampires. The night he’d first said the words that had sent her into a frenzy of freakage and denial. Despite her fear now, it brought the ghost of a smile to her lips …brought the germ of an idea to her mind and begged for a little of her past to be back in front of her.



He’d been so quiet beside her that she had almost forgotten he was there. His nearness had flooded her with memories. Some that had been annoying, or difficult, were now flavoured with nostalgia because everything had changed.



She wanted it back with an irrationality that had her wanting to fight fists up for him. Wanted to flatten her competition—and hide in his arms until everything went back to how she knew it. She could fight for him, but the possibility that she had waited too long—that she hadn’t shared her small hope of finding love within his heart when the battle was over—kept her hesitant and hidden. She hadn’t admitted her subtle falling that night as he waited at the foot of the stairs, too torn with the suspicion that one of them might not make it through to morning.



The rustling of leather beside her brought her out of her reverie where she saw her own swan-dive to save the world, to save those she loved. He poked into pockets, searching for his cigarettes most likely, but for some reason he came up empty, finally resting fidgety hands on his knees and expelling a laboured breath.



“Must have been a tad confrontin’ for you the past couple weeks,” he started, and the tenor of his voice warmed her from within. Tears she had struggled to hold back were now pushing hard at her eyes, and without being able to control it her lip wobbled.



“You don’t know the half of it,” she answered, her voice husky with tight emotional control.



He seemed more than willing to let their fledgling conversation die into nothing and Buffy felt the panic that came with viewing him kissing the other in her inner eye. She was losing him, losing him to her innocence because her experience had continually shut him out. When it looked like he was about to stand and leave, Buffy couldn’t stop the impulse that grabbed at his sleeve to hold him still, slowly letting go when his inquisitive blue burned a hole in her heart.



“W-Willow told me what happened with the bot…” she began but stopped as his eyebrows crossed in confusion.



“Yeah, not sure what that was about.” He offered nothing else, seemed to not be able to even think of anything else to go along with the memory.



Buffy felt the frustration, and so decided that this spell—or whatever it was that was preventing him from sweeping her up in his arms—had to be resolved. Had to be reversed before she lost him for good. Those events they had shared, the memories she had hated—had led her to a belief that she hated him—were so important now, and to have them so stripped away that he couldn’t even remember her made her feel the hot gurgling bubble of fury.



Maybe an onslaught of memories could break it, destroy whatever barrier was holding him away from her. Force everything to be right again.



“Remember when you and your crazy ho ex zapped me with the cattle-prod and you chained me up in your crypt?”



She noticed the small twitch and the narrowing of his eyes, appearing as if he was looking at something so far away it was almost invisible. No recognition was forthcoming and Buffy felt the panic begin to flood her with adrenaline. She jumped to her feet, agitated with the slowness, the need to throw herself at him and force him to love her again.



“The shrine? You had pictures and photos of me all over this wall, a mannequin you dressed up like me and you’d stolen some of my clothes. Remember?”



No one could have mistaken the break in her voice, the edge of hysteria his blank expression was causing. He shook his head and her heart squeezed more tears out of her, set her whole chest area to an empty, hurting pulse that rose until it nearly choked her.



“Why?” she nearly shouted at him, anger joining the panic and lending a wildness to the sheen of her eyes that immediately shot itself at him, capturing him in her net once and for all. “Why don’t you remember me?”



The puzzlement on Spike’s face had been devoid of emotion until her tears began to flow freely, the wobble of her lip more unsteady. It cracked at a piece of him and he hated every second of seeing her so upset. It was so different to Anne—the other one with these looks inspired him to want to run hard and fast away from her when unsteady emotions struck, but with this one…he wanted to hold her. Felt like he could dust happy in her arms.



This whole situation blew his mind, and maybe therein lay his problem. Maybe some annoying little chit had been tampering with his brain and instead of helping, might have wiped out all the good stuff. Would be bloody typical of the witch, not leaving well enough alone and cocking it up good and proper.



He’d had it bleeding well confirmed—the night the real Buffy walked back through her front door. The other—the witches little vampy alter ego had made the suggestion, hinted at him reeking of someone’s magic touch. He should have investigated it then; shouldn’t have forgotten, that’s for bleeding sure. He’d thought she was playing him, trying on the mind games so much the modus operandi for every Aurelian he’d ever stumbled across…except for himself.



His jaw clenched in equal parts anger and sorrow. Red had been good to him recently; they all had. Why would she have done it? There was no reason he could suss that would have her foolin’ around with his noggin’.



“That bloody…” he couldn’t complete the insult, finding that it hurt for some reason to defame the witch, any of the Scoobies. They had shown him some form of loyalty and consideration lately, so different to in the past.



Buffy spun on her heel and watched him, wondering and hoping if he knew what the source of his forgetfulness was.



“Do you know…”



“Bloody Red. She’s always buggerin’ up spells. Can’t think why she’d want…”



Buffy was shaking her head no, her face such a picture of sadness that it halted his rant in mid sentence.



“No, this isn’t Willow’s doing.”

To be continued