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Guestbook DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, along with a lot of other folks at FOX, various production companies and a network or two. Joss has publicly stated that BtVS was always intended as a show which would inspire fanfiction. Fanfiction he wanted, fanfiction he’s got. No infringement intended.
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Everything through the end of seasons 5/2. And, one from a particularly gripping scene in the final few minutes of the first half of the BtVS season 6 opener, Bargaining.
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Storming Heaven part 13
by
Margot Le Faye
As Angel turned his attention to the dark rituals he would soon perform, Buffy and Willow recovered from the ritual they had completed. Both girls slept for over twenty-four hours, not waking until late in the morning following Buffy’s miraculous return.
Both slept deep, but neither slept dreamless.
She remembered the touch of Angel’s flesh on her own, the love he had for her warming their cold embrace. She remembered she had been happy with him, happier than she had ever been, even in heaven, because he was her paradise, and all of heaven she could desire.
But she wasn’t allowed to keep him, not yet, and she had opened her eyes on darkness and a small, closed space, that brought hideous life to her nightmares, and acquainted her intimately with hell.
Willow’s spell did not restore her consciousness to a pristine body in perfect condition. No, there was a price to be paid for rebirth, whether she particularly desired rebirth, or not. Her body was revived from top to bottom, head to foot, in a matter of seconds. But, her consciousness was restored; she was awake and aware, before the process was complete. For a few hideous seconds, Buffy had felt her body, dead and rotting around her, had breathed in the stench of her own moldering corpse. And, then, even more hideously, had felt the pain of rebirth: dead nerves brought back to screaming life; leaking fluids reabsorbed, sinew and muscle re-growing and revitalizing on bones aching from the weight of mortality.
Her soul hadn’t been restored at that point, she didn’t remember the bargain she’d struck, or why she had been brought back. But, with the reanimation of her flesh had come the functioning of her major organs, including her brain, with a basic, animal awareness of what she was, and the memories imprinted upon it by the ordinary processes of biochemistry, electricity, and synaptic connections.
And yet, there had been a metaphysical connection, as well: something inside her recalled what the body had never experienced; the dreaming time with Angel. That part of her, the animal nature, devoid of soul, understood that she had been torn from her mate, and that those responsible would regret it. It also understood what death was, and what fear was, and why she had to get the hell out of her coffin before she died a third, and possibly final, time.
Within seconds of taking her first breath, Buffy began to claw her way out of her grave, her consciousness filled with rage: how dare they take her from the peace she had found in her lover’s arms, and restore her to this living hell she had all too gladly left behind?
In dreams, her soul accepted what had been done, understanding it was part of Ereshkigal’s price for relinquishing her claim to the flesh. The flesh must be made aware of what it had become, and what it was being returned from. In dreams, the lingering trauma healed.
She remembered satin tearing beneath her questing fingers, the wood it concealed splintering, gouging into her hands. Then had come a blast of power that cleaved the earth above her, and rent the coffin asunder, allowing sweet, wholesome air to disperse the stench of corruption. She had set her hands on the earth, feeling small, soft bodies slinking away from her touch, as the worms and insects burrowing here fled away from the disturbance caused by her passage. She had struggled upward, reborn from an earthen womb, almost as naked as the first time she had entered the world of the living.
She had seen the one who had forced her away from her lover’s side, the instrument of her return, and fury had consumed her. She had attacked, been thwarted, and then had come a blinding moment of pain, as spirit was returned to flesh, and she had been herself once more.
Or, perhaps, somewhat more than herself . . .
The dream allowed her to process the experiences her body had gone through without her soul, and to make the reunion of them more complete. Buffy snuggled deeper under the covers, her dreams turning to more pleasant matters, drawing for her a picture of what she had gained from the bargain she had wrested from the Powers.
Should she live long enough, this time, to collect on the debt.
Buffy’s sleep was deep and healing. Willow’s, though restorative, was not undisturbed.
She and Tara were studying together when she heard the baby crying. Tara continued to read, oblivious. Willow closed her book, and followed the sound into the next room. There was no baby, but a little girl was singing to her dolly, and it sounded like she was just outside, in the hall. As Willow walked toward the door, the singing faded, but now she could hear two little boys playing tag, behind her, in the bedroom. Willow turned to follow the sounds, but as soon as she got close, the boy’s voices faded, and the baby began wailing, once more. Willow followed the sounds of crying, singing, laughter, and sometimes the flick of fabric, the flash of long hair, the glimpse of a childish limb, would tease the corner of her vision, but she could never quite manage to really see. .
Tara, keeping watch over her sleeping lover, leaned forward in concern, as Willow began to weep softly, in her sleep.
Buffy was also being watched, but her rest remained undisturbed by the comings and goings around her, as her friends and her sister took turns looking in on her, reassuring themselves that all was well, that the gift bestowed upon them would not be snatched away, once more. It was not that her predator’s senses were dulled, leaving her unaware. Rather, they had sharpened, and even in sleep, she recognized that friends, not enemies, made the movements and sounds around her. And so she slumbered on, healing from all that had been done to her, all she had allowed to be done, building her resources for what yet remained for her to do.
****************
Spike crashed on the couch in Giles’ apartment for the rest of the day, once they’d gotten Buffy back. Or, he tried to. Though physically exhausted by a night battling demons, the sheer exhilaration of knowing that the woman he loved was alive again, that she was sleeping in a bedroom just a few yards above his head, the knowledge that his own part in her restoration would forever alter the relationship between them, kept him from sleeping.
He could feel her. Not the way he used to, when his vampiric senses would have to first transmit the scent of her perfume, the sound of her voice, or some other subliminal signal that the Slayer was near. No, now he could feel her in his blood, the way he had always been able to feel Dru, and Angelus, and Darla, the other members of his bloodline.
Because that’s what she was now: blood of his blood.
Eventually, he gave up trying to rest, and snuck upstairs to peek in on her. Dawn was curled up in a sleeping bag on the other side of Buffy’s bed, but Spike was nothing if not an expert in stealth. Dawn slept on, unaware of him, and for a few minutes, he’d been able to simply stare down and fill his eyes with the sight of Buffy, breathing deeply, smiling in her sleep, lost in some pleasant dream. He couldn’t help smiling like an idiot, himself, to see that, and left before he broke down weeping, and woke Dawn and everyone else up. The sight of her smile almost made up for the disturbance he felt at seeing her once-blonde hair spilling over her pillow in an ebony stream. Death had left her mark on the Slayer. There was something fearful about that, something terrible, and while gut instinct assured him that he himself needn’t worry about what it all meant, he couldn’t help but be concerned for what it might portend for Buffy.
The euphoria of having her back wouldn’t let him dwell on the matter for long, any more than it would let him get any sleep. By the time night fell, he was both more exhausted than ever, and more hyper, unable to sit still. He began pacing, wondering how long it would be before Buffy woke up. Giles dryly remarked that there wasn’t a lot of information on how long those restored from death took to recover from the restoration, and that she could wake up in minutes, or in days. Spike hadn’t been happy to hear it. Giles suggested Spike work off some nervous energy by joining him on patrol. The residual magic of the ritual might yet call forth whatever demons remained unslain within Sunnydale city limits. Spike didn’t think they would find any, but there was always the chance that a fledgling vamp might rise, so he happily accepted the distraction a patrol would offer.
Neither really expected this to be a busy night. Willow’s magic had drawn just about every non-human being for miles, and all of them had been slaughtered at Buffy’s grave. There really shouldn’t have been anything but a few fledglings, and it was rare for more than three or four to rise in a single evening.
That night, they fought two dozen.
"This isn’t natural," Giles said for the hundredth time as they finished their last sweep of Restfield Cemetery.
"Nothing’s been natural since that hellbitch tried to open the doors between the worlds," Spike pointed out. "Her throwing the mojo on top of the hellmouth, mystic-sodding-energy floating around . . .a few extra newborns is the least I’d expect." The earth at Spike’s feet erupted as yet another fledgling fought free of its grave, only to be instantly dispatched by a casual thrust of Spike’s stake. "Not to mention, Willow used a hell of a lot of power last night, Rupert. You know there’s gonna be backlash from that."
"That’s what you think this is?" Giles asked as he took aim with his crossbow at another newborn, just rising from the earth a few yards away. "Backlash from Willow’s spell?" The newborn exploded into dust.
"Partly," Spike said. "Not like these things are always on the same time table. Some rise the same night they’re turned. Some don’t come out of their graves until days after burial. Could be what we are seeing tonight represents an acceleration, so we’re getting everyone who would have risen over the course of a week in one single, fun filled night."
"Could be," Giles agreed, loading another bolt into his crossbow. But neither really believed it.
It was almost dawn before they returned to Giles’ apartment--Spike flatly refused to return to his crypt until he knew Buffy was awake and well--and it didn’t surprise him to see the Watcher head, not upstairs to get some badly needed sleep, but toward a bookshelf, to locate a volume for research. Sighing, Spike decided to give him a hand. Not like he was going to get much sleep, anyway.
Xander and Anya brought coffee and donuts when they arrived a few hours later. They also brought groceries. Tara came down stairs, sending Xander to keep watch over Willow while she helped Anya make eggs, bacon and toast for the whole crew. Dawn was down a bit later, and Spike happily offered to watch Buffy while she ate breakfast. Wasn’t as if he actually needed to eat. Giles raised a brow, but didn’t object.
She was still smiling, and he felt himself grinning sappily in response. It occurred to him that he had never seen her looking quite this happy, in all the years he’d known her, and he wondered what she was dreaming about. Then, he remembered one thing he’d seen, nearly three years before, and his smile faltered just a bit.
It wasn’t long after he’d gotten to Sunnydale, just before he’d done the ritual to restore Dru to health. He’d been spying on Buffy, trying to suss her out, trying to figure out what her weak spots were, how he could get to her. So, one night, while she was on patrol, he followed, keeping to the shadows.
As it happened, she wasn’t alone that night. Angel’s presence meant he had to keep even farther back, so that his grandsire wouldn’t be able to sense his presence. Spike had worried about that, until he realized that good old Angelus seemed to be a bit too preoccupied with other matters to recognize the pull--so long as Spike kept at a discrete distance. Spike had done so, by turns irritated and aroused by the show that the Slayer and her vampire were putting on. Not that it was all that much of a show, as such things went. Angel was too much the gentleman to do anything other then exchange kisses with her. Oh, he held her, and even caressed her, but his hands never went where they shouldn’t, and Spike was increasingly frustrated by the tease. Because, the kisses the two shared were hot and hungry and passionate, and he couldn’t understand why they weren’t leading to a hell of a lot more. He could smell the girl’s arousal--heady and lush and pungent--even at this distance. She must have been drenching, for him to be able to smell her from that far away. Surely she wouldn’t have objected if Angel had pressed matters, and Spike knew that if he were in Angel’s place, he would be doing a hell of a lot of pressing right now. But, the restoration of his grandsire’s soul had apparently done more than draw the fangs of one of the most fearsome vampires ever raised: it had also deprived him of his balls. The great poof didn’t even try to give the girls bubblies a good squeeze. And, considering what a lovely pair of bubblies they were, that was a right proper waste. Spike made a mental note to give them a good squeeze himself, before he turned her.
He never got the chance, of course. Nor, the rest of that evening, did he get the chance to see Buffy and Angel do much more than hug and kiss in between rounds of dusting fledglings. But, around midnight, when most of the activity had died down, he saw Buffy and Angel sit together, resting against a tombstone as they kept watch over one more suspicious grave. She was cuddled against his side, her head resting against his shoulder, and they were speaking together in low, tender voices. A shaft of moonlight had come through the clouds, illuminating the face she turned up to her lover, and in that moment Spike had seen her radiant with joy, a young girl wholly in love, and wholly confident that her love was returned.
But then had come the ritual, which had weakened Angel, and not long after, Spike and Dru had awakened the Judge. Spike had never seen Buffy look as happy again.
Until this very moment.
He sat back in his chair. It didn’t really need her bringing her hand with the roses closer to her heart, or her soft whisper. He already knew she was dreaming of Angel.
For an hour of the most exquisitely painful joy of his life, Spike had a sleeping Buffy to himself. Awareness of her hummed along his nerves, sang along his blood, as he watched her, hungrily gazing on her expressive face as she responded, in dreams, to Angel’s embrace.
He knew that’s what had to be happening in her dreams. She smelled even more delicious than he remembered, her arousal stimulating his vampiric--and other--appetites. And, there were the soft, breathy moans, the way she moved in her sleep. Oh, yes, she was having a perfectly lovely dream.
Buffy sensed that she was not alone, but there was a familiarity to the presence, even comfort. There was something of Angel in what she sensed, and yet, not.
Spike.
Blood of Angel’s blood. And now, by the ritual Willow had completed, her own blood, as well. There was nothing to inhibit her, nothing she need hide from her sire. She returned to her contemplation of a possible future . . .
He was reading a book of poetry, moonlight spilling over his shoulder as he sat by a small stream. Sensing her, he looked up, and smiled. She came toward him, and he closed the book, offering his hand. She took it, and Angel pulled her into his arms for a tender, unhurried kiss.
There was no need for hurry. In this time, in this place, there were no limits to what they could do, what they could be, what they could share. The needs of the world were kept at bay, and there were no battles to be fought, no enemies to be defeated, no causes to die for.
"I promise," she said as she lifted her face from his, ending the kiss to stare deeply into his eyes, "we will have this." She bent to kiss him once more. He returned her kisses with joy and passion, as tenderness turned to need, and need to fire.
The bank of the stream was thick with grass and fragrant with wildflowers. Angel turned her in his arms, lowering her to the earth from which she had so recently ascended. She pulled him closer, needing him with her, needing him endlessly and forever.
Unhurriedly, she slipped her hands beneath the black silk of his shirt, mapping the cool flesh of his chest, worshiping muscle and sinew with her hands as her mouth worshiped his lips, and her tongue drank down the taste of his own. His own hands caressed her through the rough cotton of the T-shirt that seemed to be her only garment, then slid lower beneath the hem, lifting it up and over her body. She let him break the kiss again, long enough to get rid of her clothing, before she returned to the leisurely task of getting rid of his.
Kisses as drugging as wine, soft whispers, vows of love. . . she sighed, moving gently in harmony with her lover, whose hands were moving slowly, so slowly over her body, as if to relearn every curve, to awaken every nerve to sweet desire. It flowed in her veins, thick and sweet as honey, and tingled along her skin. Everything about her was attuned to the movements, the taste, the feel of her Angel. She tugged the shirt off his shoulders, helped his hands undo the fastenings of buckle and zipper, helped him become as naked as she was herself, so that they were flesh to flesh once more.
Dream flesh, not real, and this was not as it had been before; she was not really with him in a dream. This was a foreshadowing, a possibility, a vision vouchsafed to her alone. Part of her knew that, but still, there was a sweetness.
Sweet, the taste of his lips on hers, the brush of his mouth against her heated skin. Sweet, the kisses he placed down the column of her throat, over her collarbone, her ribs and belly and thighs. Sweet fire when his mouth found her tender secrets, the core of femininity at the apex of her thighs, and sweeter still when his tongue sought out each hidden charm and lavished it with attention. She whimpered as he licked along her nether lips, stabbing inside her tight passage, then swirled out again to tease her swollen little pearl. He seemed hungry for all of her, and savored each delicacy for long moments bringing her closer and closer to delight. She tangled her hands in his hair, moaning, arching her hips to his mouth, holding his head closer. He chuckled at her impatience . . .and slowed his movements further, so that sweet pleasure became sweeter torment, until she called out to him, pleading. He moved over her then, soothing her with more kisses, and she felt him poised at the entrance to her body. She opened herself to him, cradling his hips with her own and drew him toward her. He sank into her slowly, and she wanted to weep at the perfection of their joining, of feeling his coolness sooth her heat, of having him stretch her to her limits, filling her, completing her. She lifted her legs to wrap around his waist, and her arms around his back, holding him closer, wishing she could hold him close to her, forever, and wriggled against him, encouraging him to move.
He didn’t want to be hurried, and he soothed her with more deep kisses, more gentle touches. He withdrew with aching slowness, and returned as slowly, tantalizing, teasing, tormenting. She whimpered again, her need rising, but he would not accede to her unspoken plea. Instead, he kept his pace slow, strong, steady, more intent upon finding each nuance of sensation he could evoke in her, rather than simply finding one place to deliver hot, hard friction that would lead to quick release. Seemingly, he didn’t want to release her, and in the end, she didn’t want to be released. She wanted what he gave her: himself, endlessly, devoted to her pleasure. The wave built slowly, so slowly, but when it crested, it swept all before it in its path. Buffy lifted her hips to impale herself more fully on his hardness, biting into his shoulder with blunt teeth as rapture flooded her senses. Her body shivered and quaked around his own when he finally allowed her the ecstasy she needed from him. As she shattered for him, her head fell back, away from his shoulder, and she cried out his name. . .
. . .realizing, only afterward, that he had not joined her in climax, and was merely waiting to build the wave for her again. Moaning, she surrendered once more to his hungry kisses . . .
Spike was torn between savage delight that she was alive, and able to dream, and savage rage that she was dreaming about the great poof, and not himself. He was her sire, damn it! If there were any justice in the world. . .
Spike almost laughed out loud at the thought. One thing he had learned in the past one hundred and twenty years of his unlife, was that there really wasn’t any justice in the world. Not by his standards, anyway.
He was calmer as he continued to watch her. And, when her gasps became more pronounced, her tossing more fretful, when her whole body stiffened and her face was transfigured by bliss as she clutched the roses tighter in her hands, he was able to keep himself from vamping out and laying his own claim on her. She had never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment. Spike promised himself that someday, he would see her look just as beautiful, and that he would be the cause.
For now, he contented himself with continuing to watch as she sank into a deeper, more restful slumber.
It was another half-hour before Dawn returned, grabbed some clean clothes, and headed off to the shower. As soon as she was done, she returned to watch over her sister again. Spike figured that if Buffy had another erotic dream about Angel--hell, when had the chit not dreamt of Angel?--Dawn wouldn’t realize what was going on. Or, if she had a clue, she’d wake her sister up before things got too embarrassing, so he left to go back to researching with Rupert.
He’d been at the books for another hour when he felt it. Spikes eyes flicked upward to the ceiling.
"What is it?" Giles asked, noting the odd expression on Spike’s face. Spike grinned at him, in response.
"She’s awake," he said. Giles nodded grimly. He really had been hoping that Spike was wrong about the sire/childe bond he thought he had with Buffy. But that was not to be. The Slayer, perhaps the strongest Slayer the world had ever known, had been raised from the dead to face an unknown menace that could destroy the world, but she was now bound to one of the most notorious vampires to have come from a bloodline known for its viciousness and depravity: The Master; Darla; Dru; Angelus, Scourge of Europe; and William the Bloody, himself. Each was a legend of horror and violence, mayhem and slaughter, even amongst the ranks of the undead. William the Bloody might be prevented from doing all the evil he desired by the chip in his head, but what use might he find for a Slayer who felt a childe’s obligation to him? Giles dreaded what this could mean for all of them, and for the world under Buffy’s protection.
When Buffy finally opened her eyes, more than twenty-four hours after she had been put to bed in Giles’ guestroom, she found Dawn sitting on her bed, just staring at her. She smiled wryly.
"I’m not going anywhere. I promise."
Dawn smiled back. "I get that."
Buffy sat up and stretched, the roses she had been holding all night still clutched in her hand. She looked down at them for a moment, then brought them to her lips. Buffy kissed the bloodstained petals, then set them down on the night table, and got up. She was wearing a T-shirt that had to have belonged to her Watcher, though if anyone had asked her, she would have said that Giles didn’t own anything so casual. There were, it seemed, still some unplumbed depths to her mentor.
"God, I need a shower," she said, running a hand through her tangled hair. "And some fresh clothes."
"Anya and Xander brought some back here last night," Dawn said, indicating an overnight bag that had been Joyce’s sitting on a chair at one end of the room.
"Good," Buffy said. "How’s everyone doing? Is Willow okay?"
"She’s still asleep. Tara’s with her."
Buffy nodded. "I’ll check up on her after I get dressed." Her stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. "Um. Or, maybe after I grab something to eat." She grinned widely, her eyes sparking with laughter. "Feels like I haven’t eaten in weeks."
"Buffy!" Dawn gasped, a little shocked at her sister’s irreverence; Buffy hadn’t eaten in weeks. She’d been dead and buried, and Dawn had been heartbroken, lost, confused. At a great cost in magic and effort and blood--from what Giles and the others had said-- Buffy had been restored to them, and she was now standing in front of Dawn, actually making little jokes about that whole horrific experience. Abruptly, Dawn burst into tears. "You were dead! You were gone, really gone, and I thought I’d never--"
Buffy pulled her younger sister into her arms, and tried to comfort her.
"I know, Dawnie, I know," Buffy said, her own throat closing with tears she refused to shed. "I know it was awful for you, and I’m sorry. But I’m back now. It’ll be okay."
Silently, she vowed that this time, it would be.
**********************
Willow opened her eyes, but it didn’t help. She still couldn’t see her babies. Would she ever get over the aching sense of loss, the profound grief, of having given them up? Somehow, she didn’t think that was possible. That thought brought fresh tears, and she sniffled, alerting Tara, who had been reading in a chair drawn up by the bed, to the fact that she was finally awake.
"Hey," Tara said softly, closing the book, and standing up, coming toward the bed. Willow looked up at her and smiled tremulously.
"Hey," she returned shakily, wiping at her eyes.
"Are you all right?" Tara asked anxiously, fussing over the covers as if Willow were an invalid who needed tending. She certainly felt tired enough to be one. "Are you hungry? I could bring you something to eat, and some tea."
"I . . .yeah. Maybe later. But, now . . .I think I need to talk about it." Tara’s hands went still on the covers.
"Oh." she said, and sat down on the bed, beside her. Willow looked at her lover. Tara’s face was drawn and tired, her eyes were reddened by her own tears. She probably hadn’t slept since the ritual.
"You know, don’t you?" Willow asked.
"Life for life," Tara said quietly. "Because magic is never without consequences, and power always has a price." She reached for Willows cold hands, and took them in her own, gazing into Willow’s eyes earnestly. "I know how much you wanted to have children. We’ve talked about starting a family, someday, about asking Oz to be the father. I’m sorry, so sorry, baby . . ." Willow broke down, and Tara pulled her into her arm, offering comfort as the mother wept for the children she would never bear.
Between bouts of weeping, they spoke earnestly, for over an hour, as Willow confided not only her grief, but her guilt. The children would have been Oz’s as well, and Tara’s. Did she have the right to make the choice to give them up without knowing what Oz or Tara wanted? Tara assured her that she did. Only Willow could decide whether or not to bear children. But that wasn’t Willow’s only fear. Even though the children were happy, had she done the right thing by consigning them to the Dark House? Tara told her that there had been no choice. If they hadn’t been born into the Dark House, they might never have been born at all.
There were other reasons for Willow’s guilt. The ritual had required her to do things she would never, ever have considered doing . . .
. . .except that, in some small, secret part of herself, she had considered doing them.
"I think the most horrible part about it is, it wasn’t horrible, at all. I wouldn’t have, you know. Been unfaithful to you. And, I told myself that this wasn’t about pleasure. It wasn’t even about sex, really. I was trying to bring Buffy back, so that she could save the world, and that was what I had to do."
"But you liked it. And you feel bad about that," Tara said.
"Shouldn’t I?" Willow demanded bitterly. "It’s not like I never, ever thought about it. I mean, I had such a crush on Giles when we first met him: He knew so much, understood so many things. Plus, British," she said with a weak smile.
"The accent," Tara said with a nod. "And, Spike has an accent, too."
"Yeah. Not quite the same accent, but . . ."
"It’s sexy," Tara said. "They’re both sexy. Well, if you like guys, I mean. Which, I guess you do."
Willow gasped, and Tara realized that the last had come out more harshly than she intended. "You know I love you," she began.
"Yes, I do," Tara agreed. Part of her wanted to soothe away all of Willow’s doubts, but she knew she couldn’t do that. They had to get this out in the open, or it would fester, and grow into something that could destroy the happiness they had so carefully built between them. "I know you love me. But. . .it’s hard. . . knowing that you want them. It’s as if, maybe I’m not enough for you."
"Tara, no! I love you so much, and I didn’t want to hurt you--"
"And you didn’t hurt me," Tara said firmly. "But, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t conflicted. Honey, do you think I want it to have been horrible for you? Do you think I would want you to have been disgusted or repelled by what you were forced to do? I wouldn’t. I don’t want you to hurt, or suffer at all." Willow didn’t look convinced, so Tara tried again. "It isn’t as if you went looking for someone else because I wasn’t enough for you. You did what you had to do to bring Buffy back, to save the world. You went into the realm of death, and you faced down a goddess, and you gave up your children and you had to . . .do things . . . . And, I know, it could have been sickening or repulsive, and you would still have had to do it. But, with everything else you’ve gone through, you’ve done, you’ve sacrificed. . . baby, if it was . . .nice . . .if it gave you any kind of pleasure at all. . .I can only be grateful."
"And yet . . ."
"And yet. . ." Tara agreed.
"Tell me," Willow demanded softly. Tara steeled herself, looked into her lover’s eyes, and did. "I’m grateful that you enjoyed it. But, I have to wonder . . .now that you’ve been with them . . .will you want to be with them, again?"
And there it was, the small seed of doubt that could grow to tear them apart.
Willow returned Tara’s gaze unflinchingly, aware that the future of their relationship hung in the balance, and that she must be scrupulously honest.
"The sex I had with Giles and with Spike was . . .it wasn’t like with you, or even Oz. I mean, I love you. And Giles and Spike each thought I was somebody else. But . . .they’re good. You know, older, more experienced, more self-assured. So, as far as sex went, it was pretty fantastic."
"Oh," Tara said, and dropped her gaze, beginning to pull away. Willow tightened her grip on the other girl’s hands.
"As far as sex went. Not as far as making love." Willow added, her voice firm.
"Oh?" Tara said, a bit more cheerfully.
Willow smiled. "You’re the one I love, you’re the one I want to be with. And when it comes to sex, and really good sex, and fantastic sex? It doesn’t compare to making love."
Tara smiled back. "Guess you’ll have to show me that, sometime soon," she said, leaning forward to kiss Willow soundly. "Now," she went on a moment later. "Are you ready for breakfast?"
_____________________________________________________________________
Still not the end.
FEMFIC PART 12 PART 14 (coming soon) FEEDBACK
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