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 that would inspire fanfiction. Fanfiction he wanted, fanfiction he’s got. No infringement intended.

RATING: NC17

SPOILERS: Everything through the first five seasons of BtVS, the first two of AtS.

Storming Heaven  part 3c

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Willow made it to the bus with time to spare. As she said her farewells to the Fang Gang, she and Cordy looked at each other, and suddenly found themselves hugging fiercely, as if their childhood had been spent in the closest friendship instead of the bitterest enmity. The ugly history between them was no longer of any import. They were both foot soldiers in the same war, and they had both suffered losses in the ongoing battle.

"I’m sorry," Willow told her, meaning she was sorry about Angel, and she was sorry about what she and Xander had done in high school and she was sorry that she had never looked for the good in Cordy.

"Me, too," Cordy whispered back, kissing Willow’s cheek. And she was; sorry about Buffy and sorry she had spent years tormenting and ridiculing Willow instead of seeing her for the smart, sensitive, wonderful person she was. Another quick, tearful hug and Willow boarded the bus, waving a final good-bye to the others.

The bus was half-empty, and she settled into a seat in the back, beside a window. Not that there was anything to see outside apart from headlights, cars and endless dark. Then again, she wasn’t really interested in the scenery. For weeks, she’d been snatching sleep when and where she could without really getting enough to feel rested. Taking care of Tara, running from Glory, dealing with Buffy’s death, and the situation with Angel had all taken their toll on her. She was tired, and attempted to sleep during the two-hour ride home. It was useless. Her mind kept replaying moments from the past few weeks, as if to find some clue to what she might have done differently to change the outcome of Buffy’s final battle with the hell-god. If she hadn’t gone after Glory to avenge herself for Tara, Glory wouldn’t have followed her home, wouldn’t have learned from Tara’s babbling that Dawn was the Key. If she’d thought to use the telepathy spell earlier, Spike could have gotten to the platform and untied Dawn before Doc appeared. If she’d known Doc was up there, and had used the teleportation spell that had worked on Glory to keep him away from Dawn.

If . . .if. . .if. . .

By the time they pulled into the Sunnydale bus depot, Willow was both physically exhausted and emotionally drained. She practically fell into Xander’s arms when he met her as she stepped off the bus.

"How’d it go?" he asked giving her a hug.

"Badly," Willow admitted, attempting to stifle a yawn, and failing miserable. "If, you know, badly were code for hellish and, possibly, cataclysmic."

"Cataclysmic?" Xander repeated with a raised brow, reaching for her bag. As they walked to his car, Willow filled him in. Xander sobered as he digested the information she gave him.

"And, this Host guy didn’t tell you anything more?" he pressed. "We don’t know what’s going to happen, but we have to be ready for it?"

"Like old times, huh?" Willow sighed. Xander shook his head, opening the car door and stowing Willow’s bag in the back seat.

"Those being the bad old times we wanted to forget, as opposed to the good old times we wish were still with us," he said wryly. "Guess we’ll be heading to the Magic Box tomorrow for a big ole’ research party, huh?"

"Yep." Willow slid into the passenger seat. "Key word being tomorrow as in not tonight as in, Willow gets some sleep."

"Tara might have something to say about that," Xander teased as he got into the driver’s side. "She missed you."

Willow smiled gently. "I missed her, too."

Tara was waiting up for her, with a pot of hot tea and a plate of cookies. Willow told her what had happened in LA. Tara agreed with Xander: research was in order, or, at least a brainstorming session. It wasn’t like they had a lot to go on in what to research. Perhaps finding out what they could about the Scroll of Aberjian was a good place to start? They spent a few minutes discussing possibilities, but Willow kept yawning, and Tara finally insisted she go to bed while Tara took care of the few dishes. By the time Willow had changed into her nightshirt, Tara was finished with her own chores, and able to join her lover in bed.

They didn’t plan to make love: Willow was too tired, and Tara was still recovering from Glory’s assault on her mind. They simply moved closer, to cuddle. Their good night kiss was intended to be a soft brush of lips, a reaffirmation of affection. But it did not stay that way. If Willow had thought about it consciously, she would have said that Buffy’s death had sharpened her perspective on her own life, making her that much more keenly aware of life’s fragility, and of the need to live it as fully as one could. But she wasn’t thinking. All she knew was that Tara’s lips tasted so sweet, she needed to taste more. . .

And then there was more than sweet lips: there was a tongue lapping at her own, and hands fondling her breasts, and her lover’s thigh pressed intimately against her. Willow twisted, pushing Tara onto her back, stripping off her nightshirt and Tara’s nightgown. Tara opened her arms, and Willow went into them, covering her, moving so that her own aching clit brushed against the wet pulsing heat of her lover’s, sending pleasure coursing through both their bodies. Heaven, this taste and feel of her lover beneath her, both of them rocking together in slow, sweet, ancient rhythms. Willow closed her eyes, the better to savor what she was feeling. If she kept this up, both of them would be spiraling into orgasm within a very few minutes. But, it had been far too long since she’d been able to make love to Tara, and Willow didn’t want things to be over too quickly. She slowed her pace, ignoring Tara’s disappointed moans, and after a few minutes, shifted away. Tara’s whimpered protest was cut off, turning into a gasp of delight as Willow slid two fingers inside her, and rubbed a thumb gently over her lover’s throbbing clit.

For a long time there were only the sounds of soft sighs, and heated kisses, and then Willow began to kiss her way down her lover’s body, suckling at Tara’s ample breasts until the large nipples grew hard and tight. Tara’s breasts were very sensitive, and sometimes Willow could get her to climax just by fondling the full, plump mounds. Normally, Willow enjoyed that, loving the power she had to drive her lover wild with her caresses. But right now, she wanted and needed more than that. Skillfully bringing Tara close to release, she would switch her attention to the other breast, or change the pattern of strokes and nibbling licks, moving Tara back from the edge before she could go over, denying her the longed-for release. She repeated the torment several times, until Tara was sobbing in frustration. Willow herself was beginning to be frustrated, so she put an end to the game, licking along Tara’s rib cage, and nipping at her hip bones. She settled between Tara’s thighs, inhaling the delicious, familiar scent of womanly desire.

There had been some dark days when Willow had wondered if she would ever be privileged to have that from Tara, again. But she had, and she did, thanks in part to Buffy, who had died to make sure that everyone she loved would be safe. Willow almost started crying again, remembering all the things she could have done that might have made a difference. But she knew that if Buffy knew what she was thinking, she would only roll her eyes and tell her that she was being silly. Buffy would tell her that she had done what she thought she should do, and that was all anyone could ask. Then she’d laugh, and tell Willow she’d better not disappoint Tara. Willow missed Buffy’s laughter, and she mourned her anew, even while she and her lover made love. . But, somehow, that seemed okay, thinking about the friend she’d lost while she made love to the woman she had regained. So, Willow didn’t cry. She just took a deep breath, savoring her lover’s scent, and reminded herself not to waste the gift Buffy had given her.

Willow bent hungrily to Tara’s clit, her eager fingers sliding into her lover’s tight, sleek passage. Moaning, Tara tangled her hands in Willow’s hair, pressing her closer, lifting her hips to her lover’s mouth, tongue, fingers. But, she didn’t stay that way. Willow had done too good a job of arousing Tara to fever pitch; she was as eager to taste Willow as Willow had been to devour her. In a very few minutes, she pushed Willow away, turning so that both girls could have what they wanted; mouth’s fused to each other’s sex, tongues delving, fingers probing.

Tara flicked her tongue first over Willow’s stiff clit, then along her nether lips, before licking inside her damp channel. Willow squirmed, pressing her hips closer to Tara’s talented mouth, meanwhile taking Tara’s clit between her own teeth and gently nipping, something that unfailingly drove Tara wild. In response, Tara replaced her tongue with first one, then two fingers, while licking Willow’s plump folds, then lashing her tongue against the pulsing clit. Her other hand slid over Willow’s hips, and began to probe the cleft between her buttocks. A third finger joined the two already in Willow’s hungry sheath, as Tara began to finger the tight roseate opening of her back passage. As she added a forth finger to her lover’s grasping channel, she gently pushed inside the other entrance, sucking hard on the taut bit of flesh beneath her lips.

Their rush to orgasm was hot and furious. Feeling herself thoroughly impaled on her lover’s fingers and tongue, Tara’s rich taste and scent filling her, Willow tipped over the edge first, white light breaking behind her eyes, her body shaking in release. The ferocity of her climax made her ruthless with Tara, and she bit down on the tender pearl between her teeth. Tara screamed, climaxing hard, fingers pistoning ruthlessly inside Willow’s body as her own release shattered through her. For both girls, one climax was followed rapidly by another, in a storm of passion that sought to negate the time they had been forced apart, the death that had brushed too close, the darkness the future might yet hold. In a few minutes, the storm passed, but they were young, and had come through a lot, and they sought the storm anew. It was an hour later before, spent, they curled together beneath the comforter, and with whispered murmurs of love, fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Across town, Anya was sleeping in Xander’s arms. She hadn’t woken when he returned to bed, just snuggled up when he got under the covers. Xander smiled and pulled her close. They had made love earlier, before he’d left. Making love was something that Xander and Anya did quite a lot but, lately, there had been a certain sharpness, an urgency, which hadn’t been part of things before. He knew it had to do with Buffy’s death. Losing her hurt like hell, would probably always hurt like hell. It also made him so very grateful to her. Buffy’s sacrifice was a gift to him and to the others, allowing them to go on with their lives, allowing Xander to have Anya in his life. It was kind of like what Anya said, after Joyce died: death made you more aware of how you were part of something bigger. But, there was more. Xander knew he owed his life to Buffy, and because of that, he was determined to live his life as fully as he could, determined to make his life meaningful. Buffy was gone, but the battle that she waged went on, and Xander knew that, in her memory, he and the others would always carry on with that war. As long as they did so, she would, in some way, still be alive. Sometimes it seemed that he could see her, laughing at him, telling him not to take life so seriously, that he would be fine. She would smile, her hazel eyes snapping with life and love, just the way he remembered. Closing his eyes, he called up some of the better memories, and drifted off to sleep.

Memories of better times with Buffy were all that kept Giles and Dawn going. Giles wasn’t sure if having Dawn in his house made it easier, or harder. She still cried herself to sleep at night, and he still didn’t feel free to break down and give in to his own grief. He had to be the one offering comfort, not the one in desperate need of comfort himself. His girl, his bright, beautiful, loving girl, was gone; the child of his heart resting in a cold bed of comfortless clay. And the worst thing was, Giles knew that part of her had wanted it, had been too exhausted and beaten down to think of her own death as anything other than a welcome release. In the end, he had failed his Slayer, because he’d been unable to give her a reason to go on. The rational part of Giles knew that Buffy simply hadn’t had time to find another way around the prophecy that would save Dawn and keep the walls between dimensions from crumbling. Refusing to sacrifice one or the other, she had done the only thing she could possibly do. But his father’s heart, the part of him that wanted to shelter and protect her, couldn’t help but feel that if he had only tried a little harder, had researched a little more thoroughly, he might have come up with some hope for her to cling to, and she might have found some other loophole in the prophecy, some other way to do what needed to be done. The thought tormented him, logic be damned. Losing Buffy hurt worse than any other loss he had ever faced: his friends, his parents, Jenny’s murder, Joyce. There were times he wanted to just give it up, release his pain, his very reason, and run howling at the moon. But, he couldn’t do that, because Dawn needed him, and she needed him to be strong. So, Giles was strong. And he no longer mourned Joyce Summers. He envied her. Because Giles had a new definition of Hell, now: Hell was being a parent forced to bury a child.

In the night, when the daily business of life was done, and there was nothing to keep his grief at bay, Giles took refuge in his memories of the times when she’d been happy, reminding himself that for her sake, he had to carry on the battle in which she’d fallen. Some nights, though, the struggle was harder than others. This was one such. He’d been looking through a shelf in the storeroom at the Magic Box, trying to find a particular crystal that a customer was interested in purchasing, when he’d come across a bit of cloth, carelessly discarded. When he lifted it out to look beneath it, the cloth unfurled in his hand, and he realized he was holding one of Buffy’s scarves. He froze for a moment, staring at the bright scrap of silk, then pressed it to his cheek. The scent of her surrounded him, illusively vital, and he breathed it in, wishing desperately he had more of her to hold onto. It was several moments before he regained the composure to put aside the scarf, retrieve the crystal and face the customer. So, tonight, he held the bottle of gin a little longer than usual as he poured his nightcap, wondering if he really needed to bother with the glass. Would it be so awful if he drank a bit more just this once, and woke up a little later tomorrow morning? Would anyone even care?

Giles suddenly realized how Buffy would react to that idea. He could almost see her shake her head at him, and tell him that he had a lot more to do in his life, before he could set down his own burdens as, in the end, she had been ready and willing to do with hers. She would not want him to give in to his sorrow, and the desire he had to crawl into the bottle of gin and never come out again. She would tell him not to blame himself for her choices, and that she needed him to be strong, to look out for Dawn and for her other friends, for her sake. Sighing, Giles poured himself a glass, and put the rest of the bottle back where it belonged.

He sat for a while, drinking his nightcap and taking comfort from his memories. And taking strength from them as well. Though the pain of losing Buffy would never go away, he realized it would lessen over time, ultimately becoming a soft, bittersweet ache. Someday he’d be able to think of her and smile. Remembering her strength in the battles she fought, her courage, even at the end, and knowing that she would want him to go on, he finally found a degree of peace. He went to bed, and soon fell asleep, the last thing he saw behind his closed eyes the tender curve of her gentle, loving smile.

In Giles’ spare room, Dawn hugged her pillow and wept. Her father still couldn’t be found, and he wasn’t really her father, anyway. Dawn wanted to be with the people who had real memories of her, in a place she had real memories about, not with an unfather in LA or an unaunt Arlene in Illinois; people she knew she had never met in places she knew she had never been, whatever her memories said to the contrary. For now, she was with Giles, but that wasn’t really a practical arrangement. The authorities weren’t going to take too kindly to the idea of a middle-aged bachelor raising a teenaged girl to whom he was not related by any ties of blood, however strong the ties of the heart. Willow and Tara couldn’t exactly put her up in their dorm room, and even if Spike had been remotely suitable to be guardian of anything other than a case of beer, his crypt was rather lacking in the basics of human habitation, like running water and someplace to cook. Fortunately, Anya and Xander had gone for their blood tests the day after the world hadn’t ended. As soon as their marriage license came, they were going to visit a Justice of the Peace. Willow and Giles would be witnesses, but Tara and Dawn would be there, too. Maybe even Spike. Anya was very understanding about the whole demon thing. They were going to go on a short honeymoon trip, and when they came back, Dawn was moving in with them. Eventually, there would be a house. Maybe even some babies for Dawn to complain about having to baby-sit, and yell at for getting into her things. But, the house would not be the Summers’ home. Dawn didn’t think she could ever go back there.

It was bad enough when Mom died, but Buffy had been there, and somehow that made it okay: the two Summers girls supporting each other through their grief. Now, the only thing Dawn had were memories, and some of them weren’t even her own. But all of them were comforting, and each night, it got a little easier to fall asleep. When she closed her eyes, she could see her sister smiling at her, and could almost imagine that Buffy was bending down from heaven, brushing aside a lock of Dawn’s hair, and whispering, "Night, Dawnie," into her ear. Tonight, she hugged that picture close, and telling herself that somehow, somewhere, her sister was still watching over her, she fell asleep.

The memories haunting Spike were not so pleasant, and he was not sleeping. He was on his second bottle of Johnny Walker Red. He always remembered to take the empties with him when he left, because it would be disrespectful to leave them on her grave. Getting drunk on her grave wasn’t disrespectful: it was only what she deserved. She had told him they weren’t all coming back, and he’d understood that. But, it wasn’t supposed to be only her who left. He had been ready, more than ready: he’d been eager. What the hell did his unlife hold that was so important, anyway? Guarding the Nibblette? That was her job, damn it! She should be around to do it. The only thing he had ever asked of his unlife was to go down fighting, and the only thing she had ever asked of hers was to be allowed to live it. This could have gone down the way they both wanted, but whoever was in charge of things, whatever indifferent fates or uncaring gods oversaw the pathetic freak show that was life on the Hellmouth couldn’t make it that easy, for everyone, could they? Why the hell hadn’t they taken him, instead? Why the hell had he failed her, the one time he’d had a chance to really prove himself to her? If he could’ve kept Doc occupied for just another minute . . .

"It shouldn’t have been you, pet," he said miserably. "It should never have been you."

She wouldn’t have agreed, he knew. He could just imagine her, smirking, her hazel eyes crinkling up as she laughed at him. It wouldn’t be unkind laughter, not any more. But, he could almost hear her say that saving the world was her job, and that his was to protect Dawn for her. And, he could imagine her smile changing, her eyes turning dark, as she added a pointed reminder: if he didn’t do a good job of protecting Dawn, she’d haunt him for the rest of his unlife. Idle threat, he could imagine himself answering her back.

As the first mists of the cold hour before dawn crept over her grave, Spike took another slug of scotch and wished desperately that Buffy Summers would come back to haunt him.

In LA, the Fang Gang made the best of a bad situation, going to their separate homes, and finding their separate beds. Fred had the guestroom in Cordy’s place, where Dennis hovered watchfully over both girls, fretful and waiting.

Only Lorne was awake, drinking a Sea Breeze while he listened to Peggy Lee belt out the kind of torch songs nobody seemed to write, anymore. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he was anagogic enough to sense that something was about to cut loose, and prescient enough to know he wasn’t going to like it when it did.

So, when it happened, it woke all but Spike and Lorne from deep slumber. Willow bolted up in bed, moaning, "Oh, God, oh God," over and over as Tara clung to her, weeping. Anya woke, screaming, then buried her face in Xander’s chest and sobbed, as he, shaking, tried to put aside his own fear in order to reassure her. Fred whimpered, and pulled the covers over her head, while Dennis floated the pain killers and a glass of water over to Cordy, who was screaming as the vision hit, almost before the other horror finished. Wes swore softly, and got out of bed. There were some books he was going to have to consult. Gunn thought about getting up, then thought some more. He wasn’t terribly surprised, after all, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it, right now. Pragmatically, he decided to get some sleep, so he would be ready when the time came. Giles woke, gasping, and a moment later, went running towards Dawn’s room, where a series of ear-splitting shrieks were further rending the air. Lorne sighed, and finished his Sea Breeze. It was going to be every bit as bad as he’d thought.

And Spike, who had begun to pick up his bottles and head back to his crypt before first light, looked up at the heavens and laughed, glad to know he wasn’t the only one suffering.

As the last echoes of Angel’s cry of loss faded from the world, the only people who had recognized it for exactly what it was, did what they could to comfort each other, or prepare themselves for what might well be the end of the world.

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More to come

FEMFIC     PART3b     PART 4 coming 8/5     FEEDBACK

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