Where the Heart Is by Binky

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel are trademarked and copyrighted properties of Fox Television and its related entities, Mutant Enemy, and Joss Whedon. I have no affiliation to Fox, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Angel. No monetary compensation has been solicited nor will any be received for this fiction by the writer or the owner(s) of this website.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
Feedback: Yes, please.
Spoilers: BtVS Season 6.
Author's Notes: Thoughts in italics. Emphasis in italics. Strong emphasis in ALLCAPS. The original abbreviated version of this story was drafted as a challenge entry on the DCP forum of the Kitten board
Pairing: Willow/Tara

"Um, okay, one last thing? An aureole is a halo. You know, like they have around the heads of saints in Christian iconography? The word you want is areola, without the 'u' and with an 'a' at the end. That's the…" Tara had been in the middle of gesturing, using herself as a model, when she realized what she was doing and stopped, blushing. She took a deep breath. "You know, the dark skin surrounding the nipple? Unless you, um, want to say Nene's nipple was glowing?" Tara paused, reflecting on that possibility, since she really knew little about science fiction as a genre or its conventions. Definitely more Willow's bag. But the student's face was still scrunched up with what seemed her default expression of perpetual confusion. "If not, then it's a-r-e-o-l-a, not a-u-r-e-o-l-e. An aureole is like a corona." She finally stopped, relieved she'd gotten the explanation out, and smiled. Can this be any weirder? At least I'm not stuttering all this out.

Kris's nose wrinkled. "Corona? Isn't that the head of a co – a guy's…guy part?"

Oh Goddess. "No, well yes, it could be I guess, but I think you mean –" Tara again forced herself to stop. "Really not the point, Kris." Not that I'd know what I'm talking about on that subject, anyway. She paused. Really not the point, Tara, she mentally scolded herself. "I guess what I'm trying to suggest is, if you want to become a better writer, you really have to be willing to work a little at it. For example, research your topic, even little things like looking words up in the dictionary when you're not sure of the meaning or proper usage? Then you can start developing a personal style. Here's another example – 'tauten'? Why didn't you just use 'tighten'? Did you get 'tauten' from a thesaurus or something?"

"Okay, so anyway, go through this one more time before you hand it in. I marked off the paragraphs I think should be re-worded to make them flow more smoothly, and the parts…here…here…and…here…and here. And here…" Tara pointed out the relevant passages in the heavily red-scarred pages of the student's paper. "…Where I can't tell who's doing what to whom." Kris's characters have a lot of stamina.

Kris looked on as her tutor pointed out the reasons for all the red ink. "Yeah, that's the big problem with writing queer porn. Pronoun ambiguity."

Tara was about to nod sympathetically when she again caught herself in time. "Uh, right." Kris thanked her as she started putting her books into her school bag. Tara hid behind her mug of coffee, taking a cautious sip until her curiosity about which of the creative writing class instructors would accept Kris's piece as a writing assignment submission got the better of her. She had met them all, along with the other academic writing instructor staff from the English department, just after joining the writing lab as a part-time student tutor as part of her tuition and stipend package. She couldn't imagine which of the professors or visiting writers would permit this much latitude in fulfilling an academic assignment, no matter how liberal their personal attitude. "So, Kris, what class is this for, again?"

"Oh, this isn't for a class, Tare. It's a piece I'm working on for the fanfic bulletin board community I'm part of."

Tara almost spit up her coffee. She carefully put down her mug and gave Kris a stern glare. "What?"

Kris put down her backpack and leaned over Tara's lap to the computer sitting on the desk to the side. "Here." She brought up the web browser and started typing something in the address field.

Two months ago, Kris leaning over her lap like this would have been enough for Tara to completely freak out and end the tutoring sessions with the spiky haired, affable first year student immediately and permanently. She had long suspected Kris, one of those cool kids she had never had the opportunity of knowing growing up in Hillary, Alabama, who had no problem calling herself "queer" or asking whatever girl struck her fancy out on a date, might have a crush on her. The girl had first started coming into the writing lab for tutoring for a history paper three months ago and quickly established the fact that she found Tara's bosom very leer-worthy. A quick glance at the CDs – all Lillith Fair participants – and books (History of Sexuality and GLBTQ lit were well represented among the art history texts) piled on Tara's desk would've confirmed Tara's orientation, not to mention the Bound movie poster hanging behind her desk, a present from Willow for their two-month anniversary, after a movie night at Buffy's in which it was their turn to bring the movie and Tara had wisely talked her recently gay girlfriend out of Maedchen in Uniform for the more commercially accessible movie "from the producers/directors that brought you The Matrix!"

Tara didn't think it was right to encourage the girl even though she was now technically girlfriendless and available, for several good reasons. First, she was, in theory at least, mentoring Kris, and was in a position of authority over the young woman. Granted, this was a pretty flimsy excuse given she had less institutional power than the campus gardener's second assistant, but there were other reasons, as well. Though she was only three years or so older, Tara had also gotten a lot of mileage out of the serious issue of their age-difference in building the emotional fortress around herself.

Then, there was the biggie. There's Willow, even if we barely speak with each other these days. A sad smile unconsciously played on her lips. Tara couldn't deny it. There is still Willow, and will always be Willow…

But Kris was a nice girl, and she didn't want to hurt her. Thank the Goddess it turned out to be a moot point. Kris had absolutely no interest in her that way. Schoolmarm is apparently not her type, Tara thought with a blush at her boldness thinking she could be the object of someone's secret desire.

Little did Tara know that indeed, Kris had started out her visits with a raging crush on the quiet blonde, who, besides having a great rack and sultry blue eyes and a very sexy half-smile in which her full lips went up just on the right side, was smart and nice and apparently into girls – all of which made her very hot and desirable in Kris's book. But the brash young woman knew a lost cause when she saw it, and she had seen it early in the picture of the cute little redhead smooching a laughing Tara that the older girl carried in her wallet. Kris had seen it when her tutor had gone into her wallet to fish out some cash for Kris to do a mocha run during a particularly long and involved tutoring session. She later found out the girl's name. Willow, who, it seemed, was some kind of campus-renown super-brain, though on the other side of the academic tracks – she tutored in the computer sciences lab. She had asked Tara about Willow one time, and the way the shy blonde had blushed the color of Wllow's hair, she knew she didn't stand a chance. Oh yeah. She's got it bad. From what she understood, they had broken up about a month ago, but Tara still kept the picture in her wallet and still got the occasional glazed expression on her face when Willow's name came up.

The site whose URL she'd typed into the browser came up. "See? It's a BB where BC fans hang and share their fiction and drawings, comic books and videos." Tara frowned at the website, with the busty anime-style cartoon girls in various versions of revealing robotic battle armor, wielding impractically huge laser cannons and winking at each other lewdly. It looked strangely familiar. Kris continued enthusiastically, "I post in the AO section…here." She clicked on a link. "I'm Boom-Boom. That's my avatar." Kris pointed out a tiny animated picture of an exploding robot. What remained after the robot's outer casing shot off the edges of the tiny picture made Tara blush again. Then the explosion started over, repeating the revealing result.

Kris looked at her as if she'd suddenly sprung the head of a Gorlak demon. "Don't tell me you've never heard of Bubblegum Crisis?" Tara's blank stare confirmed her suspicions. Kris smiled sympathetically at the culturally-challenged older girl. "It's only the most awesome cyber-punk anime serial, like, ever! Don't worry. I'll let you borrow my DVDs, get you caught up."

"Kris, I'm not sure this is an entirely appropriate use of the writing lab's resources…" Tara began.

"Aw, no. You're not going to narc on me, are you?" Kris pouted, then her expression changed to one of utter horror. "Or stop reading for me, are you? Tara, no, I need you! I have to post this chapter by Friday, I promised!"

"But Kris…" The girl's puppy dog expression stopped her in her tracks. It reminded her of the one Willow always used on her, most of the time successfully, when wheedling for something. Usually sex. My sweet, crazy Willow! You chose magic over me, and you broke my heart. You lied to me and used me to make yourself feel better…But I still love you. I pray to the Goddess I did the right thing for both of us by leaving, but it's been so hard…

Kris could tell from the faraway expression on Tara's face that she had hit on something, though she couldn't tell what, and decided to push her luck. She made her voice small. "I'm keeping you from tutoring someone else, I guess."

That brought Tara out of her reverie. Her eyes narrowed at the girl's guileless attempt at manipulation – I've been tested by a master, little girl – but decided to play along. Tara pointedly looked around the room, an eyebrow raised. The crickets were virtually chirping in the lab. The big joke among the tutors was that working at the lab was a great way to earn money by napping. "Uh, no. Every time you come here, Kris, do you ever see any other students here?"

"Well, there you go!" The girl could sense she was breaking down Tara and her over-developed sense of responsibility. She had one last card to play, and it would be the dealmaker or breaker. "And Tara, think of it this way, I'm writing! Me! Barely literate, uncultured, foul-mouthed, cartoon-loving, videogame-playing me! This –" and she gestured toward the webpage. "It can't be all bad, can it?"

Having once again given Kris her infamous rant about the banality of American monoculture and its stupefying effect on the creativity of the American consumer earlier that hour, Tara knew she was being played. However, she had to admit, it was a good point. "No. And you're not barely literate."

Kris strategically conceded the other items on her list of character flaws. "So you'll keep betaing me?"

Kris pouted, but Tara's stony glare brooked no opposition. "Okay. I can do an M. I know I have it in me." She puffed out her chest. "I can take on any challenge. They don't call me Boom-Boom, the Forever Robot, for nothing!"

Tara flashed back to the Buffybot and its original raison d'etre and grimaced. "Get out of here."

Kris grabbed her bag and was halfway out the door. "I'll email you the final version before I post it, Tara! Hell, I'm gonna dedicate it to you!"

"Please don't!" she called after the rapidly disappearing form of the younger girl.

Tara sighed. Kris really did remind her of Willow, in so many ways, and she often found after their tutoring sessions that her heart ached to see her ex-girlfriend again, even if it was just to see how she was doing with her recovery.

She heard Willow was doing better despite recent struggles from Buffy, when she went to visit the Slayer at her day job at the Doublemeat Palace. And of course, she got updates whenever Dawn or Buffy called. Most days during the first couple weeks following their breakup, she would return after classes to her single dorm room, retained as a stipulation of her tuition scholarship, to find a message from either Dawn or Buffy apprising her of Willow's progress or lack of it. In the beginning, Willow had called too, but after the first few times, Tara had firmly put a stop to it…

"I'm fine, Willow. Is Dawn or Buffy there? Could you put either one of them on the phone?"

Pause. She could almost hear the gears in Willow's head working. It was 5PM, Dawn should've been home some time ago. "No. They went to the mall."

She didn't, and Tara was relieved. Tara knew it was too soon, that their separation had not been in effect long enough for its intended purpose. She needed time to think, to remember herself before Willow, and to heal, get over the pain of being used and manipulated like an automaton, a…a boomer? A Tarabot, for all Willow's intents and purposes.

Yet even then, when the anger and hurt she felt was still so raw and hot it made her physically nauseous, hearing the pain and need in Willow's hoarse voice was enough to shake her resolve to see their separation through and let it run its course. That was why she had to cut Willow off, even if it was harsh. It was necessary. She desperately needed time away, to become her own person again, and Willow, she felt, needed the same.

Tara still had an hour left in her shift and had already finished her own class work, so she started idly scrolling through the website, still struck about how familiar it seemed.

Then she realized…Willow had this site bookmarked on her laptop. Tara had interrupted her ex-girlfriend browsing it during a break in fixing the Buffybot the summer before Buffy's resurrection. Willow had stammered something about Warren "utilizing the latest boomer technology" in the Buffybot's construction, and was using the website to research schematics before quickly minimizing the browser. But this looks like a cartoon website, not a…Tara's mouth dropped open upon clicking a link titled "Linna's – visuals gallery". Pictures and videos came up that made Kris's avatar look suitable for a Disney short.

Tara backed out of the gallery and, after a moment of hesitation, tried the "Daley's – Members" link, clicking "W." On the off chance…She felt relieved to not find Willow's name. But, just above where "Willow" would fit in the member list…It was too much of a coincidence. Tara clicked the member name.

NAME: Wicca'dRed
JOINED: 02/21/2000
EMAIL:
LOCATION: Hellmouth, USA
POSTS: 553
LAST 5 POSTS:
Forum: Nene's – FF corner
Posted: Feb 22 2001 14:28 GMT
Subject: NEW – THE UNBELIEVABLY FICTIONALIZED ADVENTURES OF TWO BOOMERS IN LUST (WARNING! AO) by WICCA'DRED

Preview: Hi everyone, Well here it is, the first chapter of my new fic. If you didn't follow the sounding board thread in the beta forum, too bad, I deleted it. You won't even find it in the ar…[MORE]

Forum: Nene's – FF corner
Posted: Feb 23 2001 12:29 GMT
Subject: RE: NEW – THE UNBELIEVABLY FICTIONALIZED ADVENTURES OF TWO BOOMERS IN LUST (WARNING! AO) by WICCA'DRED

Preview: Aw shucks! Thank you all for that. PrissLuvBunE – Yes, she is that hot. To tell you the truth, my gf might very well kill me if she ever knew I wrote a ff based on what we did that ni…[MORE]

Forum: Nene's – FF corner
Posted: Feb 26 2001 16:54 GMT
Subject: THE UNBELIEVABLY FICTIONALIZED ADVENTURES OF TWO BOOMERS IN LUST (WARNING! AO) by WICCA'DRED – UPDTD CH 2 FEB26

Preview: Thanks to all who left fb for the first chapter. This is the second, and by the posting gl I have to increase the rating to 21 which is kinda silly considering I'm 19. Irony is kinda i…[MORE]

Forum: Sylia's – HQ & general
Posted: Aug 12 2001 08:12 GMT
Subject: I'M ALIVE. THANK YOU AND SORRY

Preview: I know some of you have been trying to email me the past few months. I'm sorry for bouncebacks, but I had to delete that address. Some really heavy, hard things have happened in RL…[MORE]

Forum: Sylia's – HQ & general
Posted: Dec 01 2001 06:18 GMT
Subject: I'M STILL ALIVE. THANK YOU AND SORRY, AGAIN

Preview: I see my name came up again on the Nene board. Thank you to all who expressed concern. I'm still here, lurk occasionally. Things actually got better for a little while, but somethi…[MORE]

Fifteen minutes later, after reading the post then the replies that followed, including Wicca'dRed's post the second link pointed to, Tara leaned back from the monitor, her mouth hanging open. Finally, she closed her mouth though her brow furrowed simultaneously. She's right. I'm gonna kill her.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Tara clicked on the link that would bring her to chapter two.

Another twenty minutes later, Tara's mouth was hanging open again. It took a little longer for her to recover after this chapter, because it was difficult to sort out all the reactions she was feeling. She paused and reflected, trying first to approach things dispassionately, not as Willow's ex-girlfriend.

She knew her reaction to the first chapter had been tainted by recognizing a moment in their private life made public on the Internet – it was such a cliché, though Willow at least had altered the particulars enough to obliterate any connection to their real life. She learned early on in their relationship that her girlfriend had an exhibitionist streak and accepted it, even found it a little exciting in the right context, but this…it stirred Tara's resentment anew. It was just another example of Willow's lack of consideration for Tara's feelings, her selfishness and wolfishness, and she was hurt.

The second chapter, however, was a little different. As she had indicated in the disclaimers, the developments in Wicca'dRed's second installment warranted a rating change. Part of the reason for that was the chapter wasn't a direct adaptation of their personal lives, so Willow had extrapolated. Unless I slept through the part about the two of us having a three-way with a…"sexaroid?" Hmm. Maybe it was inspired by the Aprilbot? Oh, so don't want to go there…But did Willow?

Instead, Tara tried a different tack. She actually did a good job advancing the plot while also managing to develop the characters. The way she intercut the battle scene with Priss and Sylia and the GENOM combat droid with what Nene and Linna and the T-0069 were doing in the command booth was really well done. The increased…squishiness of everything in this chapter aside, it isn't a bad piece of writing.

Tara frowned at herself, realizing there was something not right about how she was approaching Willow's story. Increasing squishiness was precisely what the fiction was about, and it couldn't be dismissed. The realization gave way to a grudging pride. It was quite easy to see, especially after just editing a draft by a novice writer like Kris, that Willow had written her story well. And I'm surprised, why? She excels at everything she does.

As soon as the statement settled in her mind, Tara realized that it too was a mistake, compounding the previous one of trying to approach Wicca'dRed's second chapter as a stranger. She was not being fair to Willow as a person. Willow already put so much pressure on herself, she didn't need any more from the people who love her.

The story simply was what it was, the writer was who she was. For what she had had with Willow, squishiness had been a big part. A huge part, even. It was just the way she was, and just the way they were. I fell in love with a horndog and I have to admit, some of it rubbed off on me. Or Willow rubbed it on me. Either way, that's who I am, now, too.

That conclusion seemed very significant, but reaching it had tired Tara out so she filed it away to contemplate later, at which time she would also try to deal with her unwitting role in chapter one.

Goddess…I'm wet. A scan of the comments following the second chapter confirmed she wasn't the only one with that reaction. Tara continued to the end of the page, expecting a continuation of the narrative, only to find the last posts of the thread were by readers inquiring about an update, until they too petered to a dead end.

Tara backed out the two screens to the list of Wicca'dRed's last five posts, now clicking the fourth one.

What she read cut through Tara's heart. There, in the span of a dozen lines, Willow had summarized in carefully generic terms the awful time beginning with Joyce's death ("my best friend's mom, who was like a mom to me, too, passed"), Glory's violation of her mind ("my gf was traumatized and got really sick"), Buffy's death ("then my best friend, the one whose mom died earlier, was killed"), and the crushing responsibility of adopting Dawn ("my gf and I are taking care of her little sister, cause that's what she would've wanted"). Wicca'dRed ended the note with an apology to the other forum members that she wouldn't be coming back for the foreseeable future.

Tears stood in Tara's eyes. She wiped them, before scrolling down. Wicca'dRed's friends, readers, and even just lurkers in the forum left messages of condolence and support following her apology. They continued for several pages. There were too many to read through, and in fact, they seemed rather personal so Tara gave them only a cursory glance, almost missing the last post Wicca'dRed had left on the forum, the one pointed to by the fifth link on her profile page.

Forum: Sylia's – HQ & general
Author: WICCA'DRED
Posted: Dec 01 2001 06:18 GMT
Subject: I'M STILL ALIVE. THANK YOU AND SORRY, AGAIN

I see my name came up again on the Nene board. Thank you to all who expressed concern. I'm still here, lurk occasionally. Things actually got better for a little while, but something happened recently and I'm going to need some more time to deal with RL before I come back here to hang with you guys.

Good news, a relative of my best friend came to live with us to take care of lil sis, so she's with blood family again, which is probably for the best. I don't think I was ready to be a parent at 20, especially not to a teenaged girl. My gf was much better at it than me. She really is my better half, but it was a lot, even for her. That was a lot of pressure taken off us so things got easier for awhile. That is, until I messed up everything and she left me.

I screwed up real bad and hurt her. So now I'm putting everything I've got into making it up to her but it's going to take a while because I want to do it right.

Thank you all for the messages you left the last time. They were beyond helpful. I'm on my own with this one, tho, so no need to reply to this. Hopefully I'll be back for good soon, and I'll finish UFA2BL. If you were there when I sb'd this in beta, you know I wrote it for her tho so if I don't get her back, I don't think I'll be back myself. Not as Wicca'd Red, anyway, who is the true author of UFA2BL. I hope you all understand.

The message had been posted two weeks ago. Only a couple of "good luck" follow-ups had been added, most of the posters following WR's suggestion that no replies were necessary. Tara's shift had ended fifteen minutes ago without her noticing. Catching the time on the computer clock, she closed the browser and sat back. The last post hadn't provided any more clarity to what she'd learned about Willow in the past hour. In fact, she felt more confused than ever. Still, she sensed that things were slowly, steadily resolving themselves, and also felt comforted by the feeling, stronger now, that Willow and she still had a chance together. She gathered her things and left the lab, locking the door behind her. I'll call her. See how she's doing. Not tonight, but Friday, after I've had a chance to think about it some more. Tara smiled, comforted by her decision, and headed back to her dorm room.

Tiny bubbles in the wine. Makes me happy. Makes me feel fine…Could use a drink right now. Darn headaches…Head feels like it's gonna explode. And not in a good, literal, wholesome Gentlemen-go-boom kinda way.

Extra large capacity Whirlpool washing machine, 3.2 cubic feet basket. Tide concentrated laundry detergent with bleach alternative. Safe for colors. One small capful will handle a full load of laundry. That means two capfuls for my double load in our extra large capacity Whirlpool washing machine. Maybe a little more. I forgot to pre-treat Buffy's blouse. This demon goo won't come out. Yuck. I hate when they just don't go poof! This is just gonna stick to the blouse, infecting the rest of the load with its corrupting demonic mojo and quite possibly staining or even corroding the inside of the extra capacity 3.2 cubic feet basket. Perhaps all wearing the corrupted clothing would develop mystical rashes, or maybe even become possessed with said demonic energy. Why, we might be impregnated by wearing such tainted clothing. Even Xander's got a jacket in here – don't know why. Mister Looks-like-I-made-it has a Laundromat in the basement of his complex. Huh. He'd look funny, pregnant with some kind of demon spawn…Though it'd probably just be destiny for him, anyway. What to do, what to do? Could magick it out, lickety split, like I used to. Send it back to the dimension of evil from whence it spawned. Yeah, they were all fine with that once upon a time. Go Willow, Wiccan extraordinaire! Just come up with a spell. You're the best at what you do! That thing you do. Whatever it is. You can do anything. As long as it saves money on professional dry cleaning…God, what hypocrites.

Too much thinking. Gotta stop that. Off to the side you go, demon-goo-shirt. Hopefully not cleaning you won't be as fraught with danger as cleaning you seems to be. It's all a delicate balance. The yin and yang of optimal laundering. Dawn likes all her clothes extra soft, though, so remember, 3 capfuls of fabric softener, definitely.

Flash o' blue. Baby blue. Tara's eyes. We like to sort sort sort sort sort. Whites whites, darks darks. Uh, delicate? Or a white? How the frilly heck do you go, friend? Tag's torn out. Buffy'll have a fit if I ruin it.

"…Approximately one ounce of detergent per kilogram of laundry in ten litres of water…" What the –? You have got to be kidding me. Where the heck did he buy frickin' metric Tide? Probably had it shipped from Canada, just on principle. Unbelievable. He took off, skedaddled back to the mother country, and left nothing but metric household sundries in the Summers garage where it eventually will disseminate and infiltrate our very American existence. Accomplish what good, proven, centuries-old imperialism and colonialism couldn't. Well, two can play that game, mister. Your British-slash-Canadian laundry detergent works just as well in our big honkin' American extra large capacity Whirlpool washing machine. And see? I'm a big enough American jerk to just go ahead and assimilate it without conscience! Like a red, white, and blue Borg! Or, uh, something like that.

In ya go, kiddies! You too, unmatched red argyle sock. Maybe the Powers That Be will be kind to you and the mysterious occasional otherworldly portal at the bottom of the tub will suck you in and reunite you with your long-lost mate. Maybe one of us can be happy again.

Yes, ma'am. I remember. "Don't overload, the cleaning is really done by the water not the detergent. No amount of extra detergent will help if you overload. Here, let me show you." You pretty much ended up doing it yourself. Let me try, baby? Just show me and then I'll do it. You cooked breakfast already this morning. You shouldn't be doing all the housework yourself.

"Um, sweetie, maybe you haven't noticed but I'm kind of the homemaker in this family."

Oh God I wanted to take you right there against the Whirlpool. Pull your sweatpants and boxers down and let you sit on top of it during the spin cycle and eat you out right there, with your thighs shaking and your hips thrust toward me and you coming all over my lips and tongue.

I stole it. Remember now. It was lying in the chair next to the bed. It was soft and I was cold and it smelled like her. She had left for her morning class and I was still in bed. Made love that night. Woke up, she was gone and it had gotten cold. She'd put a blanket around me, though. But no warm Tara. I stole it, wore it all day. She left for good a…week later? On Tuesday. Her art history class is Monday morning, 8:00AM. She left on Tuesday, so a little over a week later.

Can't remember seeing her wear it that week. Maybe Dawn found it after. Always borrowing stuff, that one. Can't find half my shoes these days. Little shoe monster…Or, uh, big shoe monster. Or little shoe big monster. I'll be happy when the growth spurt finds its way to her feet. Gotta have a talk with her about that…Huh. It kinda smells like Dawnie now.

Just toss it in. Say goodbye for good. There. Close the lid. Wash it clean. Give it to Buffy. She'll give it back. No scenes. No shouting. No hurt feelings. No feelings at all.

God, Tara. Do you still think of me? Will you give me another chance? Will you wait for me? Can you do that much for me? I'm trying so hard, but sometimes I don't even know what for. Before, I didn't have anything but school. And Xander, yeah, and Buffy, but it seems like I lost them both some time ago. Or it feels that way. We hardly talk anymore. Xander's always with Anya, talking about their wedding, and Buffy…God. I can't even look at her anymore. Not after…But I wouldn't even care. I still had magic…and you. I'm giving up the magic, but I still don't have you. It doesn't seem fair. I don't want to be alone again, Tara.

Are you still mine, or am I now all jealous stalker-girl now, 'cause you're not, but I still think of you all the time anyway? I wonder what you're doing, if you're in class or the library or maybe painting or listening to the radio while you clean up after dinner like you used to do when you were here with me. Do you sleep alone at night, or do you have someone else now?

She won't love you like I did. Do. I still do, Tara. Does she treat you right? Better than I did? It wouldn't be hard, I know. But no one can love you more. I tried my best. I really did. Wasn't it good enough? I don't know what else I could do. Can I call you now? Hear your voice? Sometimes I want to call you just to get your answering machine. I want to do that right now. But maybe you're home, and you told me not to call. I don't want you to be mad at me anymore. I'd do anything to make it right, Tara. Anything so you won't have that disappointed look in your eyes, anything…

I can see you wearing it. I remember. You wore it the third time we met. To lend me one of your magic books…The codex of God knows what Babylonian mystic that I'd never heard of but sounded good to read 'cause it meant you'd have to meet me again to lend it to me. Maybe our hands would touch when we exchanged the book, and I'd feel that spark I felt whenever we touched. And then we could just naturally hang out before your afternoon class. You stuttered when you said my name. W's were always the hardest for you. Ironic, huh? I gave you a hard time from the start. You had trouble just saying my name.

Was this the one? There were no lights, 'cause we'd taken out the power to break Oz out. And you were sitting alone, waiting, in the dark.

I'm so sorry, baby. So sorry I put you through that. Made you wait. You didn't deserve that, thinking you weren't loved. 'Cause you were. Are. And he ran you down, earlier, hunted you. And you still came to find me? To help him, even after…

It wasn't this one…It was the other one, my zip-up sweatshirt. You borrowed it from me, when I came to visit you after you saw Oz in my room that morning. It's how he figured us out. Me, all over you. How ironic is that? That he knew before I did? Or not ironic. Typical. I was so clueless, not knowing before my ex-boyfriend did. And making you wait, too. Alone in the dark.

I said I'd make it up to you, starting that night. But it was hard to see anything. The extra-flamey candle only gave so much light. And I didn't know what I was doing, but you could probably tell that already. I ran my hands from the top of each flap, down, down, to the middle of your chest, the anticipation building with every inch my hands moved. You were breathing so hard, you brushed against my fingertips every half-second because I didn't pull my hands away. I remember I thought it was rude of me to keep my hands there after I'd undone the zipper but I really just needed to feel you, even if it was through your bra. I had to draw out the moment just before I'd see you completely revealed and open and knowable to me. Big knowledge woman. Your body is full of secrets. And you know me, super-nerd Willow. I just need to know everything.

I slipped my hands under the sweater to your shoulders and ran my hands down your arms. Your skin is so soft and warm. While you pulled the sleeves down, my hands moved from your upper arms to your chest, cupping you from the front. Holding position. So you could take off the sweater. I'm fine, Tara. Finey McFine. That'd be me. All fine with the lesbian…

Kissing. Lesbian kissing? Uh, just kissing. Tara-kissing. Starting with familiar ground is good. Oh, yeah. I'm fine with that. Real fine. Very fine. Your lips are so soft, Tara, your breath wet and warm on my lips. Thank you for this. For waiting.

Can you take off your shirt, Tara? Take off your shirt, and I'll take mine off too, okay?

Gyah! As soon as my undershirt is off, the air is cool against my hot skin. We step back into our embrace to stave off the chill. Now this is something new. The awkward first-time bra un-hooking ritual, times two. Uh, I think Oz was better at it than me. But he had other girls before me. Uh, sorry. That didn't sting, did it? More kissing. This must be what tying a tie on someone else's neck must feel like for a guy. Uh, except it's really not. Completely different point to that…C'mon, snappy plastic loop thingy!

I'm getting impatient. Why can't I be smooth at this? Isn't this something I should be good at? I've been doing it on myself, like, forever. Or at least a few years. God, when did I become this complete freak, this breast-obsessed…guy-type person? My mouth is watering. I'm actually drooling, trying to get to her boobies…C'mon! C'mon! And…

I'd dreamed about your breasts so much, so often. Maybe because my breasts are so much smaller than yours. I hope you're not too disappointed with mine. You're not? Really?

I love your wide hips and big, soft boobies…You have so much nice, soft padding, in all the right places. Your body was made to be a mother, not like mine. Sometimes I feel – felt…I felt guilty, thinking that's not something we can have together. You'd be a wonderful mother, I know it. Don't know how I'd be. When we fell in love, I started to think about that, even though I never used to with Oz. Weird, huh? Kinda got that backwards. But who am I kidding? I couldn't even take care of your cat. Anya better not expect me to babysit if she and Xander start a family. She can pay Dawn to do it. Yes, Mistress Payback can sure be a bitch. Give Dawnie a taste of her own medicine…

I'm tired of trying to make everything up to Dawnie. It doesn't matter anyway. Nothing I do is good enough…And I can't stand being around Xander anymore. I don't know when he became Mr. Responsible. It makes me sick. Like he did so much more than I did, with so much less. I don't know what's worse, his pity or that I-knew-it-all-along smirk of Anya's. Thank God it's almost over. Maybe they'll move out of town after they get married. I don't know if I'd mind so much.

"Um, baby, whatever you're saying to me down there, I can't hear from way up here."

"Oh Goddess…" Rubbing my ear against you. Freak. "O-Okay." Later, you'd lick my ear, just like I'd wanted.

Three capfuls for Dawnie. I should just go get my textbook and re-read that stupid Chem chapter already. It'll take my mind off her.

"Remember, wait for the tub to fill with a little water first, don't dump it directly on the clothes. It'll spot."

Oh GOD, Tara. How could you do this to me? How could you leave me like this? Just when I need you most, you leave? The first time I make a mistake, it's "I don't think this is going to work" and you're out the door? What happened to always? Didn't it mean anything to you? Were you leading me on? How fair is that? How fair are you? Do you know what you've done to me? Do you know what I'm going through?

Leave then! Just leave. Just go…Better I know now, than when I really need you, that I can't count on you. You're just like the rest of them, always asking for everything, then leaving after you get what you want…Godammit. Leave me, then, you…you…Oh God.

Your hips are so wide. I slipped your pants off by undoing the button first, pulling down the zipper, and slowly working the fabric off them. Your panties come down, too. In the almost dark, with the extra-flamey candle, I can just about make out the triangular patch of hair down there. Oh God, Tara, I can smell you. Do you taste the same way? Is this really happening? Am I really doing this?

Her arms around my shoulders, my hands all over her body. So much skin. Almost automatically, my hands find their way to her breasts. I cup them, and they're heavy in my hands. So different from my own when I feel mine, when I touch myself, thinking of Tara, before tonight. Before that night. Before, when I thought about Xander, cupping my own breasts never occurred to me. But this feels right. It feels right, it feels good, holding your breasts, feeling their softness and their weight, squeezing, tracing your nipples. They tighten at my fingertips.

Nerd. Brainiac. Jew. Pagan. Witch. Freak. Addict. Dyke. Queer. Honey. Sweetie. Baby. Lover. Yours.

"It's okay if y-you don't w-want this, W-Willow…W-we can just keep going the w-way we are…"

What do you mean, it doesn't matter? I mean, holding hands and kissing and the…the feeling, the touching, that's nice and all…I mean, it's great, but don't you want someone who can be, uh, sexual with you? I don't want to hold you back from someone who'll…

I'm nervous, Tara. I mean, I've never…I've had crushes, but never anything like this…and I've wondered. A whole lot. And there were dreams, before? You know? And I get excited. And…and I want. I want so bad. But I'm scared. If it's not as good as…or what if I can't…Maybe I've thought about it too much and I don't really know what I should be expecting. I mean, we kiss, which is so good. Your lips are so sweet and soft. And when it's not your lips, your skin…I had no idea I liked the taste of skin so much. I mean, yours is so soft and I can taste you under your vanilla soap. And…And I…but what if…

I-I've been doing some research? 'Cause, you know, it's what I do. I'm Research Gal. So I went online to read a little about it?

And basically, it's something called mirroring. Because we're, uh, both females? So, theoretically, it should work out between us. Hypothetically, that is. 'Cause, you know, I'm all big with the theory. Gotta check out the theory before practical application, 'cause, uh, all kinds of badness can happen by just pushing random buttons…

Well, we do everything together, y'know? I mean, I'll just do whatever you're doing to me back to you – assuming of course, it's alright that you, uh, lead? Since, uh, you've been doing this longer? Not that I'm saying you're some big experienced slut or anything! But…but you've…uh…

"W-Willow, it's a-alright. W-We can try it that w-way? A-Anything y-you w-want, okay?"

That way, we can, uh, figure out what we like to do? And it'll be a way to let the other person know what we want. 'Cause, you know, sometimes it's hard to say what you want. Though for some reason, I can't seem to shut up sometimes, like now…So eventually, when we figure it out, we can start, uh, improvising more? What do you think?

Uh, maybe, I should, uh, get with the disrobing, 'cause, hello, there you are, all in your nakedness, and here I am, still in my jeans. I mean, how rude. Of me, that is. So, uh…

Tara's lips! Oh. Tara's lips. Soft. They're pressed, slightly parted, against mine. I guess I need to shut up now.

Okay. You can help. Please. Thank God at least one of us knows what she's doing. I step out of my sneakers then my jeans and underwear complete the small pile of discarded clothes.

We're still kissing and groping like horny teenagers which, okay, we are, as I back her up, steering for the both of us toward her bed. But you know, the word horny just doesn't do this – this thing, this wanting and aching and absolute needing between us justice. She's letting me lead again. I'm nervous, but very excited. Her touches are making me more so. I can hear us both breathing hard and little noises are coming from our throats. Oh God, it's so much sexier than a cheesy porno soundtrack like the one Oz and I rented that one time, on a whim. But maybe I shouldn't be thinking about that just now. Does it make me a bad lesbian, that my first love was a man? Or is it just the last love that counts? Dammit! Why do I have to be thinking all the time? Pay attention, dummy! Remember this. It's important. First times only happen once! Uh, obviously…

She's sinking to the bed, and I lower myself down on top of her. Something takes over inside me, some natural instinct, and I'm breaking from our kiss to dip my head toward her heaving chest. My tongue is out of my mouth, licking her nipple and before I'm even aware of it, I'm sucking at her beautiful breast. Yup, it's official. I'm a breast gal.

Oh. Yeah, that was the plan, wasn't it? Sorry. I guess I got carried away. At least we can laugh about it. Maybe we should take turns instead? I sit up a little, but my hands are still running all over her chest and sides.

I hesitate, thinking it means she doesn't like me touching her that way. But she actually meant she wants to touch me, too, and she's not willing to wait. I'd blush with pleasure, if all the excess blood in my body hadn't already gone south. She pulls me close again, so our breasts mash together. Her nipples are poking into mine, erect and hard. Wow. She's got strength. I like. Very much. Her hands roam from my neck down my front and sides to my hips. Her breath is hot on my cheek. We kiss. Just lips at first, then my tongue finds its way past her lips to taste her teeth.

We manage to maneuver onto our sides without stopping the smoochies. Kissing and touching like this, I can only breathe through my nose. Oooooh God…I can smell her. Or is that me? I haven't had sex in so long – not counting all the masturbating I did after Oz left, first thinking of him, then later, of her. I'm really, really wet, so much that I think I might even be dripping. Plus I'm so hot down there, so maybe it's me. But it could be her. I want to know. My hand moves between us, to between her thighs…

As I'm about to touch her pussy, she kind of pulls away from me, breaking our kiss. But she stays close, her forehead pressed to mine, and we just lean into each other, starting to sweat and breathe hotly into each other's mouths. I look at her, questioning, even though it's too dark to see her clearly. She's trembling.

Is that all? But that's okay, Tara. That's better than okay. That's good. Goody good good, in fact. Wet is what we want…uh, good thing I said that and not you, huh? You know, with your stutter, and all the w's? Sorry. Inappropriate quipping seems to be one of my natural spaz defense mechanisms against nervousness. But you've probably noticed. Uh, here. I'll show you, okay? Feel me. I take her hand from my waist and guide her between my legs. Her fingertips just brush against my wet lips and my clit and my pussy begins throbbing, wanting to be touched more. I moan and my eyes close.

For the first few seconds, my hand covers hers showing her what I like but then I let her go to hold her hip. Her hand stays, expertly caressing me like she's been doing it forever. Or at least since I was ten. She moans, as if she's touching herself. But actually, it's me. My hand found its way between her legs and this time, she didn't pull away. She's wet, too. Very wet. Like me. Our hands are gentle, we use our fingertips lightly, exploring first, then our touches become heavier, more massaging. Her hair is just a little less coarse than mine as I scratch across her mons, then go lower, tracing her slit, sliding easily in all the moisture. All the while, my clit screams every time she touches it as her fingers flutter around my inner lips. There's so much wetness and it's so easy to slip my middle finger into her pussy, just to the first knuckle. Little smacking noises join the sounds of our panting and small moans. I circle her clit with my thumb with increasing pressure while I'm entering her, 'cause I know that's how I keep aroused and excited when I'm being penetrated shallowly, like what she's doing now, before my g-spot is found. I hope our fingers are long enough.

She just nods quickly, her lips pursed together. In the dim light, her expression is illegible. She's either on the verge of coming, or in incredible pain. The last thought fills me with panic and I slow down.

Tara, breathe through your mouth, baby. It's okay. Tell me if you don't like how this feels. Let me know, okay? We can try something else, if you don't like it.

"I-I like it, W-Willow. I-It feels good, having you inside me? I-It feels really good."

It's almost enough to push me over the edge prematurely, but I hang on. I want to get there with her. The effort to quell myself keeps me quiet for a second, but I know there's no anxiety in her at the pause 'cause we're in synch by now, and she knows why it takes me an extra second to say back, I love you too, Tara.

The words stop as we concentrate on the pleasuring. She's panting in short breaths. Mine are longer. I force myself to go slow. Something tells me she hasn't been penetrated deeply before, so I take my time, using just one finger for a while, until she gets more comfortable. But Oz was of course bigger than Tara's slim finger, so I need a little more. Tara, baby, can you use two fingers? It feels so good, what you're doing, but you can press a little harder, too, upwards, maybe, toward you…Oh God, there it is. She found it.

More kissing, more touching. I can't get enough. We're gasping for air, but beyond the immediate moment of our hungry touches, something else, some missing piece of a puzzle I didn't even know I was trying to solve, just falls in place with a small click inside me. It's not in my brain where I usually try to keep everything, the important stuff and the not-so-much. It's more in my gut, and between my legs. Before I'm even aware of what I'm doing, I'm leaving her, but just so I can bring my fingers to my mouth and lick her wetness from my fingertips. I've tasted myself before. When I thought about her, before, thinking this might happen, that we might become lovers. I wanted to know I could handle it. I mean, I was curious when Oz did it to me that one time, but I didn't have the incentive like I did for this, to make sure…So I tasted myself, to see if I could do it, that it wouldn't be a turn off and I wouldn't react badly and hurt her feelings. But I know it's different, when it's someone else. Another girl – another woman.

She actually tastes a little sweet, faintly like the raw honey I tried during our fourth grade field trip to a local apiary.

She'd stopped touching me, had stopped all movement, to watch me sucking her juices from my fingers. My eyes had adjusted better to the dark. I could see her swallow, hard. I've cleaned off my fingers so my lips are free to press against hers again. I wonder if she can taste herself on my lips, taste what I would do because I love her. Not that it's a chore or anything. In fact, I'm feeling kind of greedy. For once I won't miss out. And I won't share. I go back to see if I can get a third helping, hoping she's had a chance to lubricate again.

When she sees that, she hesitates just a fraction of a second before her hand moves back down between my legs. She parts me, enters me, her fingers rubbing against my smooth walls. Then she leaves me and brings her hand slowly to her mouth. Her lips part, but I don't want it to be an obligation. It's no longer a game. You don't have to, Tara. If you don't want to, you don't have to, just because I…

She looks me straight in the eye, to make sure I understand that she knows that, and takes her wet fingers into her mouth.

She leans backward as I go forward. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place with a silent click inside me, another mystery solved. I push her legs apart and settle myself between them. Her hands circle my waist at first, to keep me close. I'm not going anywhere, Tara. I plant my arms on either side of her chest, pinning her down with my own spread legs. When I start thrusting my hips against her in the classic way, her hands move to my ass and squeeze and pull to let me know how fast she wants me to go. I try my best.

I ride her at first. I know it's this rather than any other way because the kinky hairs on her mound scratch at my sensitized clit while hers is kissed between my cum-soaked inner lips. Our moans become loud. And my arms start to tremble with the effort of keeping my weight off her.

I make a small adjustment, lengthen the vertical stroke, and feel her hard clit against mine, my cum slipping down into her, to mix with hers. It's an odd kind of frenching that only two women can do. There's something about that thought that makes me strangely happy. That there's part of me, something, that can only be for her. That I saved something for her – something I couldn't mess up and give to anyone but her.

Her hands leave my backside and go to my small breasts hanging between us. She pinches my nipples and rubs my skin, damp with sweat. The friction and the heat and all the wetness…The feelings are so intense, I'm almost outside my body with love and lust. T-T-Tara…

With the gentlest of pressures on my shoulder blades, she urges me down. My arms are shaking so badly, but I don't want to let go and violently collapse and hurt her. Our hips are still thrusting in synch. Bending one elbow at a time, I manage to safely lower myself down on top of her. We're both covered in sweat above the waist and cum below. We start kissing as I come. Or she's kissing, now at my chin and cheeks and jaw. She had to let my mouth go because I'm panting and gasping and moaning and I need air, my womb contracting and squeezing as I'm coming so hard, as I'm coming all over her…

She's holding me close, kissing at my closed eyes and cheeks and my open mouth. She's whispering my name, stroking my sweaty hair. "Willow, Willow, honey, sweetie, baby, lover, love you, love you…"

Her hips stopped moving as she comforts me, her arms around me, forgetting herself. But that won't do. My body hasn't stopped shuddering. I'm exhausted, like everything liquid's been poured out of me, like my very soul seeped out from between my legs and was left glistening on Tara's sex and thighs. But I'm a woman on a mission. I've been without real purpose much of my life, but that's all changed. In the span of twenty minutes, my life has changed, and now I know where I belong. Lie back, baby?

My only regret is that I have to leave the comfort of her arms. But that's okay. Her legs will do just fine. Her fingers are still running through my hair, pushing damp strands from my face as I descend, and I begin. I start at the top of her mound, using the width of my tongue through her wet curls, cleaning my spendings from her as she patiently lies still. I make my way downward, avoiding her clit as much as possible. It's still hard, it hasn't calmed. It's peeking out from its hood, demanding attention, But I give it just a light kiss, my promise to pay it mind shortly, and move on instead to stiffen my tongue to run down the soft folds of her left side, to the nadir of her sex, back up in a similar manner up the right. I spread her pussy lips with my tongue, then plunge inside to harvest her honey.

I have to exit her to answer. What is it, baby? Doesn't it feel good? She might need me to talk again so rather than putting my tongue back into her pussy, my lips latch around her clit and I suck on the pulsing nub instead.

"O-Oh Goddess…It feels w-wonderful. I'm so happy. But I w-want…I want you up here, my first time? Is that okay?"

Her first time? Really? Pride. I'm her first! Joy. She wanted me to be her first! Relief. She doesn't have anyone to compare me to! I can suck as much as I have to! Not that I'm trying to…uh, suck. I mean be bad at this. I want to be very, very good at this. Very good, for her.

"W-Willow, please. Come up here? I-I don't think I can hold o-on much more…Y-You've got me so close…Please, Willow?"

My baby never needs to beg. I'm coming, Tara. She sits up and moves backward to lie back against the headboard of her bed. I climb up her body, placing my hand between her legs, massaging her. With the other hand I adjust the pillow at her back. We kiss some more but then she breaks our kiss as her face scrunches up. Her eyes close, but I want to see them. She closes her thighs so tightly that I can't move my hand. I won't leave you, Tara. Open up, spread your legs for me, baby. You'll still feel it. I promise. She does, and I do my best to keep my word, make her feel everything. My other hand goes behind her neck to keep her close to me. She's panting, very, very close. I've brought her to the edge. I tell her, I love you, Tara. I'll tell her every day.

She comes, hard, her shoulders shaking starting waves of shudders through her whole body that I can feel in my fingers still held in place by the strength of her sex. She keeps me for almost a minute, still trembling, then lets me go so that I can hold her. I ease us both back down to the bed, sweaty and exhausted and deliriously happy and pull the blanket at the foot of her bed up over us, knowing that we'll be asleep within ten minutes. I'm the happiest I've ever, ever been. I've found my calling! And I know, now. It's your last love that counts.

I'm crying. My face is wet with tears. I've been standing here, crying for God knows how long. The wash is done, don't know since when. It could've been ten minutes, it could've been two.

The phone rings. No one's here but me. I'm feeling too exhausted to get it and decide whoever it is can leave a message if it's that important. Probably just a bill collector, or a charity. The door at the top of the staircase is open. I can hear Buffy's message, then the beep.

Clothes fly through the air as I literally throw the laundry basket, half-filled with t-shirts from the last load, to the side. I almost trip on the last step, scrambling to get to the phone from the basement, before she hangs up. Hello?

Tara? Oh God. It's Tara. How have you been holding up, sweetheart? I miss you, baby. Have you missed me, too? It's so good to hear your voice. I miss you so much, half the time I feel dead inside. The other half I wish I were. H-Hi. I was just thinking about you. How have you been?

Fine. The universal word for 'no comment, is anyone else there?' Well, this sucks. But keep her on the line. I wanna listen to her voice a little while. Make small talk…But what do I say? Uh, nobody is home right now, Tara. Dawnie hasn't come home yet and Buffy's working. Oh, great, genius! That was brilliant! Remind her that neither of the two people she called to talk to are available –

I-I'm sorry, Tara. Did you say you were calling for me? Maybe she forgot something. Like her sweater, maybe?

Really? I'm fine, Tara. WTF? Fine? Didn't you just say fine was the universal word for 'no comment, go away please?' Fix this, stupid! Tell her! I, uh, still have some bad times, but I-I think I'm getting better.

"Um, I don't know if you think it's too soon, but, um, did you want to maybe go for coffee? I want to catch up with you, a little. That is, if you're free? Before Buffy's party Saturday? Maybe Thursday, third period, before your lab?"

My chest hurts. I love you, Tara. I'm sorry, baby. Sorry I messed up. So sorry I hurt you. So sorry I…I violated you. It won't happen again. It won't ever happen again. I want you to come home. Will you please come home?

Bye, Tara. But you're already gone. My chest hurts. Ow. My heart's racing. Why? Is this a –? Am I dying? Is this a heart attack? I can't die yet. I have to live until Thursday. I have to see Tara. She wants to see me. She wants to talk and catch up. She called me. She wants to see me. I can listen to her voice again. I can look into her eyes. I can tell her how sorry I am. I can't be…I can't be…

It's my heart. It's only my heart, breaking and bursting again. How many times can it do that? But I did it this time. I was the cheater. I was the one who didn't trust her. Who didn't have faith…

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Feel…See…The fibers knitting back, stronger. It's stronger. Whatever doesn't kill you…It's only getting stronger. I can be strong, Tara. I can be better. I'll be better…

I'm seeing her Thursday! Yay! I'll see her Thursday! Thursday, love. I'll see you then. And you'll see, too. I can be better. I will be better – for me, and maybe one day, for you.

The problems had many sources, some individual, others due to combining their particular individual idiosyncrasies in their relationship.

Her own were multiple and varied. She knew that from the start – the start not being the life she had made for herself here in Sunnydale, more specifically, the life she had begun the first time she lay eyes on Willow and felt her heart race with the flourish of its awakening – but from the very start, with Mama and Dad and Donnie in the rural town of Hillary, Alabama, where she had been born and raised and lived until she was eighteen.

When she was born, the town had been on the cusp of significant changes. It had for the century since its founding been an agricultural community, mostly vegetable and soybean farms, but in the past twenty years had been modernizing, moving out into the larger farming industries better subsidized by the state, livestock – chicken, mostly, but also pork and beef – and feed crops. Her own family had been caught in the transition. Their farm was the small, family-business type, raising table vegetables on the side while wheat was their main product. Much of their product was raised for local consumption, and "local" had to be understood in its strictest sense of Hillary and the surrounding towns within their county. A small chicken coop was used for eggs and poultry, but mostly for the family, neighbors, and occasionally for the bed-and-breakfast in town when their other suppliers closer into the town proper ran low. Their return seemed to become less and less every year as the competition grew but demand did not increase accordingly to accommodate both the small and medium-sized farms. Luckily – or unluckily, depending on your point of entry into the debate – the process of modernization had never progressed in Hillary and the large farms, which of course included the corporate variety, never took root.

Tara learned at a very young age that she was a generational witch. The women of her family had talent passed on through their genes which, if honed properly, would make them adept magic weavers. It was not the big-spell power that Willow had. Rather, their talent was mostly of the earthy variety, channeling natural energies from their immediate surroundings to focused local effect. Her power, like her mother's, however, had been suppressed by her father, Thomas, a very religious and superstitious man who looked on anything pertaining to the supernatural as perversion and blasphemy, something he was morally obligated to expunge – at the very least in the small community he had control over, the Maclay household. His moral obligation was a serious matter – a pact between himself and God, and justified any means necessary to execute. This included the use of force, physical and emotional.

Her mother had died when Tara was seventeen, the victim of ovarian cancer that had been caught too late to effectively treat with chemotherapy even following an emergency hysterectomy, even if the Maclays hadn't had the cheapest kind of insurance mandated by state law to pay for her treatment. At least her denouement, once the diagnosis had been made properly, was quick, though painful. Less than six months after she'd told her family of her condition, Ruth Maclay passed. She had only been 48.

Though she loved Ruth with all her heart, was profoundly grateful for the love, kindness, devotion, and protection her mother had bestowed on her children throughout her life, Tara knew her mother had had her limitations and weaknesses. Her mother had been born and raised in Hillary before her, Thomas just a couple of towns over in Bote. The Maclay farm, in fact, had previously been known as the Anders farm, Ruth's father's farm. So, her mother had never left Hillary and it was that focused, small-town mentality that had limited how her short life had played out…

They had had a late spring cold snap so Tara pulled on her black leather duster, made sure her keys were in her pocket as well as the bottle of holy water and the short stake before pulling the door closed behind her. The walk to the bus station was not far, the path well-lit. She also had developed her capabilities as a witch and could now incinerate a vampire, possibly two if they came staggered, if necessary. She would make the trip despite the dangers of the Sunnydale night.

Tara had occasional moments of utter clarity reflecting on her life before Sunnydale, particularly thinking of her mother, when she dispassionately thought that Ruth should have led a very different life without Thomas Maclay or, of course, Donnie or herself, Thomas' progeny. She should have left, gone to university, even a community college, learned a trade, found a calling – anything, other than becoming the wife of a man so choked up in moral principles that he himself had once declared that the only joy he found in life was the closeness he had with his very demanding God. His family was only a means, an opportunity, to demonstrate his moral fiber to the Lord. Tara was not Ruth. What her father offered wasn't what Tara wanted or needed. So after Ruth succumbed to the cancer, Tara left her father's house as soon as she was able.

But Tara had, since coming to Sunnydale, learned to forgive her father his inflexibility. If her mother had been restricted by the small-town mentality of Hillary, her father was no less so. Her only concern was her brother. Living with Thomas but with a wild streak neither time nor their father's sermons had tamed, she was afraid Donnie would end up badly.

Willow and she had had numerous conversations, all starting with the premise of possibly calling her father to ask how things were going with him and Donnie, and see if his attitude toward his only daughter had softened at all. Most of those conversations, inevitably, ended with a vigorously argued debate over parental and filial responsibility and not becoming a slave to one's upbringing. Willow's position was predictable. Ira and Sheila Rosenberg, though ever supportive of their daughter's intellectual development and academic achievement, had taken a hands-off approach to their daughter's emotional upbringing. Yet, Willow had still managed to grow into a young woman who enjoyed making and receiving emotional contact. In fact, she craved it, needed it to live. Luckily, she had received it in the form of the friendship she had with Xander since they were five and, for the past six years, Buffy. Of course, there also had been Oz, who Tara knew could not be forgotten. Giles and Joyce Summers had provided it, too, so Willow did not go without through the time the fates had delivered Tara to her and her to Tara, when the sweet chore of emotionally nurturing Willow had been gifted to the older girl. But the fact that her parents had passed on that responsibility left Willow resentful and with a lasting sense of disconnection from her parents.

The disconnect differed from her father and her mother. Her relationship with Ira, like many father-daughter relationships, hit the plateau of fatherly possession and protection of his little girl long ago and leveled off, unable to progress any further beyond that natural barrier. Her relationship with her mother, on the other hand, had always been stilted, to the point perhaps of being unnatural – something Willow had struggled to convey to Tara in advance of and after the occasional perfunctory holiday meal at the Rosenbergs, and the trademark awkward silences that marked the gathering of true strangers.

"I'm sorry you had to sit through that," Willow said softly. They were walking back to the bus stop to catch the bus back to campus. At Tara's raised eyebrow, she clarified, "The 'Sociology 101: Coalitional Politics in the Age of Multinational Capital' lecture. There was some new stuff in there. She must've brushed up on the latest journal articles when we accepted the invitation."

Tara smiled and shrugged. "Hey, at least I learned something. Who knew I had so much in common with transsexual prostitutes in New York City's meat-packing district?"

"And at least she didn't call Buffy 'Bunny' again." Willow frowned. "Though that's probably because she didn't mention Buffy at all."

Tara said nothing; she never did. Willow's parents treated her well enough, even if Sheila's attitude toward her daughter and her partner bordered on the clinical. She comforted Willow, but secretly, she compared Willow's parents to her father and thought, pragmatically, that there were worse home situations to be in.

Of course, Willow knew it, too. But still, it hurt, and ironically she reflexively became as detached as a daughter as Sheila was a mother. On the intellectual level, the only one she truly connected with her parents on, she knew she no longer needed them. It might be why she could not understand the reason behind Tara's occasional lapses into silence on particular days – days, Willow would find out, that marked Thomas's or Donnie's birthday, or the day her mother passed. The latter Willow understood. The former, not so much. Willow reciprocated Tara's comfort and also tried to keep her silence as she watched her lover's futile meditations on the men of her family having a change of heart – and character – regarding Tara's place in their lives. But silence had never been Willow's strong suit, thus, the debates on parenting and responsibility those lapses inevitably engendered.

But it had never come down to following through. Willow was right. Thomas had remained constant throughout the many years, constant as Biblical Job. Tara, however, had not.

The bus came and Tara boarded it. It was almost empty. Sunnydale's residents seemed to intuitively know that traveling at night posed certain hazards and avoided it if at all possible. The five mile bus ride normally took twenty minutes to complete. Tara paid her fare and took the first seat after the handicap section. She looked out the window, not really seeing the lantern-lit campus grounds eventually recede in favor of the streets lined with storefronts in the city's downtown proper.

Looking back on the past three years, the changes she had undergone were enough to take one's breath away. Vampires, demons, hell-gods, and of course, magic. Of the last, not the Wiccan variety, which she had known since she was a girl at her mother's secret tutelage, but of the variety of love.

None of the others would have believed it with how quickly things had publicly escalated between them once Willow had come out to the gang, but it had taken some time before Willow started to open up to her about the things occurring beneath the surface of her playful, often child-like exterior. In fact, it took, perhaps, to Tara's twentieth birthday when her demon, her very last secret from Willow, was disproved that she fully realized Willow had demons of her own. They were of human origin but still in need of exorcism, and just as deadly if left to feed on their host. Even as intimate as they had been, and Tara knew it was impossible to have been any closer than the two had grown in their years together, Willow had kept her secrets from Tara, her darkest one the fear, so intense it threatened to paralyze her unless she forced it down and concealed it behind her façade of brave cheer, of not being good enough. Of failing, as a scholar to her parents, as best friend to Xander and Buffy, as a witch to the Slayer, a protégé for Giles, and as a lover and helpmeet to Tara.

She's changed because of me, as I've changed because of her. I need to take responsibility for that. Take ownership of us. There's no shame in it at all.

What Buffy had confided in her regarding what she had been doing with Spike, the shame she felt…That was never what she and Willow had. The physical aspect of love had been a central component of their life together. It had been from the very beginning, when the power of merely holding hands had generated the raw force that saved their lives as they scampered to barricade themselves in the Stevenson laundry room the night the Gentlemen had come calling. By the time Willow eventually came to the conclusion, a month later, that her feelings for Tara had developed beyond the limited satisfaction gentle squeezes of the shoulder or brief embraces as friends permitted, Tara was more than ready for the soft, at first tentative kisses, the extended contact of holding hands, and waking in the morning after a night of casting spells with the smaller girl snuggled close to her in her bed.

When they became lovers another six weeks later, there was just the smallest amount of shyness, of awkwardness when it came to their bodies. Their cycles had been close before, but then the months of constant sleepovers at Tara's after long nights of casting while Buffy had been engrossed with the Initiative had been enough for them to completely sync, so when it came time for Willow to bring her extra-flamey candle to Tara's door, it was the most natural thing in the world to share themselves physically, without hesitation or reservation.

After the normal period of fumbling as they became familiar with each other's bodies, the pace of their sexual life accelerated such that, two and a half years later, they had been physically intimate in almost every way imaginable. There had been the sweet times when the lovemaking had been almost a spiritual thing, the reenactment of the metaphysical merging of their two souls in the mundane act of physical coupling. Then there were the times when it had been about raw want, and Tara had desired nothing more than to simply crawl into Willow's body through the opening between her thighs and take up residence inside her, until forcibly evicted by the inevitable flood of Willow's sweet cum. And all the kinds of sexual intimacy in between. With toys and without. Fifteen minute morning quickies and weekend long marathons, public places where the thrill they may be discovered naturally expedited the achievement of their peak, public but out of the way places where they didn't care and took their time because it felt better that way, and the privacy of the various beds they called theirs over the past three years – her dorm room freshman year through the end of sophomore year when Glory destroyed it looking for her Key, the hotel room in San Francisco their first summer vacation trip together, the bed and breakfast in San Diego for spring break their second year, the one in Phoenix the last week of July their second summer (the summer Buffy was gone), the bed they made their own at the Summers house when they returned…

There had not been a single time it felt unnatural or wrong. Even though some of the episodes Buffy described in her secret affair with Spike may have been structurally similar to the crazier things Willow and she had done, there had never been the slightest bit of shame that would force color into their cheeks the way Buffy blushed hotly in her confidences to Tara about what she had being doing these many weeks with Spike…

…She lay on her back, her legs spread, Willow on top of her, also with legs spread but on her haunches and scissoring Tara's, rocking her hips achingly slowly. "Willow…"

They did. Tara was feeling very flustered. Willow could be quite the little sadist when she wanted to be. "You know if we keep doing this, I'm going to burst into flames any second."

Willow ruthlessly continued rubbing at the same agonizing pace. "Hey, as long as it's a controlled fire. Not like Spike in the daylight under his dumb blanket, barging his way into a meeting at the Magic Box." Willow frowned, hesitated.

That definitely wasn't helping. Tara pushed up, because Willow had stopped. "Oh no, Willow…"

Willow tried to resume, but she was faltering. "Right! No girl scouts. Cause that's just…ick. Back up one page to boy scouts, then! With the…the controlled fire and being prepared, with matches and…"

It still wasn't quite right, and Willow's face was starting to scrunch up, her pace now erratic. "Not matches…rubbing…rubbing sticks?" Tara offered.

Oh, that did it. Willow burst out giggling, rolling off Tara, laughter shaking her whole very naked body.

"I didn't mean it that way!" Tara sighed. That's what she got for trying to help. They would have to start all over again. But first, they would have to wait until Willow, still wheezing for breath, got her mind out of the gutter. Or that particular street's gutter, anyway.

Thoughts of Spike were not the sexual incentive for Willow as they were for Buffy.

The bus rumbled past the street where The Magic Box was. Tara did not notice the commotion in front of Anya's store, focused on her destination.

The lovemaking was Nirvana, the sex could be mind-blowing. It had been a big part of their life together, but of course, not the only part.

There were moments of sheer joy. Willow could make her laugh. She could do it without even trying. Her bantering with Anya, pretending to loathe the former vengeance demon and Anya's never-ending supply of inappropriate sexual innuendo and war stories of her glory days of vengeance, could make Tara laugh so hard, it was medically dangerous. They could both be rich women if they ever took it out on the road, a euphemism she kept to herself so as to not give Anya any ideas about kidnapping her girlfriend and dragging her on a cross-country tour of comedy clubs in search of the elusive Hollywood buck. Given Anya's penchant for the literal, it could happen…

"…I can't believe I'm even saying this. Yet again. I have zero interest in Xander's…man bits!" Willow didn't bother holding the door open for Anya and it almost slammed in the smaller woman's face as she followed hot on Willow's heels into the Magic Box.

"That's ludicrous. They're so delectable, how could any woman in their right mind have seen them and not instantly desire them?"

"Number one," Willow gritted, "I've never seen these sacred man bits." She cut off Anya before she could be interrupted, "For the last time, Anya, five year old bits are boy bits and do not count!" She stomped off to drop off the books she'd borrowed from Giles on the counter. "Number two, lesbian!" Willow gestured emphatically to where Tara was seated at the research table across the room. "Hello? Hot girlfriend, sitting right there!" Tara waved shyly, blushing at Willow's descriptive. "Ergo, natural immunity to the temptation. And finally, number three, lest we forget, me, all with the saneness. You, sorely lacking! Do the math."

"Tara, I can handle this!" Tara's eyes narrowed as Willow's inversely widened. Willow instantly knew she'd made a categorical error, a fact not lost on shrewd Anya. "But…so could you! Much better than me, in fact! So do! Handle it, I mean."

Not for the first time, Tara wondered if being the only adult who had a sibling – not counting Buffy, of course, until a year ago – gave her special insight and patience with these childish squabbles between the only-child Scoobies. "Anya, there's no need for this discussion. I can assure you that Willow poses no threat of taking Xander's…bits? Or, um, just Xander, from you. She has all she can handle with me. Willow will do nothing to jeopardize her access to Tara bits, which she most certainly will if she continues to allow you to bait her."

Anya's cackling laugh interrupted the lovers' exchange. "Whipped! I knew who wore the pants between the two of you. You!" She sneered at Willow. "So, Tara, give me some pointers on the fine and venerated art of withholding. Not the federal kind. I know all about that already." Anya grumbled under her breath for the hundredth time about her IRS C-notice.

"I hardly see the point, Anya. I can't see you ever deploying it on Xander with even an ounce of credibility."

Later, it took some time to calm Willow down. But you knew that it was all in jest. What I told Anya, I was really saying about myself. I'd never withhold myself from you, I never could, though I know now you were still withholding a part of yourself from me.

But it finally came out. Secrets can't be held forever. Not from the one you share your soul with…

…Earlier in the week, after the disastrous non-wedding, the coffee date interrupted by a still-devastated Anya, who they finally were able to calm down enough to feel comfortable letting her leave the Espresso Pump to continue their date.

"I was a geek before you knew me, Tara. Before Buffy came and changed everything. A total nerd. Not Buffy's big gun. No badass Wicca. Not anyone someone like you would look twice at."

Willow, for such a huge brain, you're such a big dummy. "Do you think so little of me?"

"Oh Tara, that's not what I meant. I mean, I know you were shy, after your dad and Donnie and all…I know you'd just arrived here, your first time on your own and hadn't found your confidence yet, but if you tried, after you did, you could've had your pick of girls. Why would you want me?"

Because I knew from the start that I was made for you. "I never wanted anyone else but you."

Of course, it was mutual, but in every relationship, there are practical imbalances. Willow had, on most issues, been the first into the breach. The first to admit her feelings were beyond simple friendship, the first to initiate physical intimacy. The first to suggest living together, the first to suggest making a home for each other after graduation. She was the first to defend Tara, the first to put herself in harm's way to protect her…

"…Harlot! Pervert! You'll burn in Hell! Don't touch me with your filthy hands!"

Tara was locked in a corner of her mind, watching in abject horror as the words tumbled forth from one of her older demons, long ago denatured and bottled but freed anew after Glory's trespass ripped through the order of her mind. She could see but not react as they cut viciously through Willow. Afterward, a month after Willow rescued her, restored her, when Buffy's death had become a dull constant ache deep within the bones instead of the stabbing pain of a raw open wound, she had broached the topic with Willow.

Not quite; the demon was hers, the fire and brimstone preacher she had invented from her childhood terror of her father's hurting words. But the anger and embarrassment were no longer there in Willow's eyes, so Tara knew not to correct her lover. The demon had left them both, more or less intact. But that wasn't the demon that hurt Willow the most, she found out later. It had been the other one, the one that wrung its hands, ashamed of itself, chastising itself, for loving Willow. Willow was still afraid that the demon was right. I should have known.

But her protector was strong, and hid it well. And when she could no longer hide it, she had fallen to using magic to prop up her façade.

"Before you found me, I wasn't anyone special." She continued before Tara could interject or she could falter. "It's true. Then when I had you, all I wanted to do was tell anyone and everyone, yay me, look! I have Tara. I would've done anything to keep that. And I tried. But I did it the wrong way, and…and I'm sorry. Goddess, I'm so sorry. If I never get you back, at least I want you to know that I'm sorry, and I know you deserved so much better."

From the bus stop, 1630 Revello was just a half block away. Tara strode the familiar distance purposefully, her hands in her pockets. She reached the front of the house, the porch light lit but the windows dark. She lifted her eyes to the second floor, to their bedroom. The light was on. She walked up the porch steps and used her key to open the door.

The day she had come out to Willow, a voice had called to her, as she struggled with the self-doubt acquired after 18 years of lessons learned in Hillary. It told her to trust Willow's nature. She had questioned it at the time, thinking it might be her mother in some form returned from the afterlife to give final guidance to her daughter. Being Wiccan, she knew such things were not impossible. But it had not been Mama. Two and a half years flew past, and the voice was still with her. It was her own voice, changed by finding Willow.

From the pain on Anya's and Xander's faces at their aborted wedding, from Buffy's death and restoration to the emptiness of lost heaven, from Dawn's forlorn look when looking through her photo albums of Joyce, from her own memories of Mama's abbreviated life, Tara knew. Life can be short – anywhere, not just in Hellmouth, USA. When you find the good kind of magic, when you find your true partner in casting it, don't let her go into the Nether Realm alone.

Tara noted the open weapons chest at the foot of the stairs but did not stop to investigate. She continued her way unerringly upstairs, to the first door on the right. It was ajar, the glow of the lamp bathing her love in a warm yellow light. Willow, I'm home.

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Where the Heart Is

by Binky

Copyright © 2006

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