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eretriaTitle: Walkabout
Author:eretria
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG
Pairing: platonic Willow/Xander.
Spoilers: 6.22 "Grave" and 7.01 "Lessons"
Size: ~ 11650 words
Summary: Secluded at the coven in England, Willow receives a visitor she doesn't expect. He's got the keys to a car and a plan for a road trip that will not end the way either of them predict when they start it.
Disclaimer: No profit gained or wanted.
Notes: I missed the friendship Willow and Xander shared. Which is why this story is theirs and only theirs. It doesn't quite tie into the canon events, but suspend your disbelief for a moment and pretend that it's a missing scene before Willow's vision of the Hellmouth. Well, missing scenes, really.
My deepest gratitude to my beta-readers,auburnnothenna, murron and bimo who made this story so much better and asked the difficult, right questions.
The church-bells rang, and the children recognised the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered and hastened up to their grandmother's room, where everything was standing as formerly. The clock said "tick! tack!" and the finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up.
[…]
There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and yet children; children at least in heart.
Hans Christian Andersen – The Snow Queen
I begin to see an object when I cease to understand it.
Henry David Thoreau
The afternoon is grey and drizzly as Willow walks back to the Coven’s main building. The air smells of damp earth and freshly cut grass and the dark, pink hydrangeas near the entrance gate glisten wet.
It’s quiet. Few people enjoy the extended walks Willow likes to take in this kind of weather. She has wondered about that and has come to the conclusion that it might have something to do with growing up in Sunnydale, where rainy days were rare and the fresh green smell she finds here in England all the time was just present for about two weeks in spring before everything was brow-beaten by the relentless sun.
She feels closer to the earth out here, more connected in this place where there’s very little concrete and green as far as the eye can see.
England feels older. More connected to an older knowledge as well. It’s serene, less rushed than California and she wonders if she could find her equilibrium here just by listening to the earth and learning for a couple of years.
She’s better now than she was before, but she’s not well yet. The other witches know it. Giles knows it, too, sees it when he comes to visit. He never says anything, but she reads it in every frown, every worried look. She knows he doesn't trust her. Maybe he never will again and that harsh knowledge hurts her more than she can put into words.
Willow wraps her arms around her midsection to quell the sudden ache in her belly. Giles doesn't trust her. The others – Buffy, Dawn, even Anya, and yes, she's sure even Xander – don't and can't trust her anymore.
Maybe she should stay at the coven. Treat it as her prison where the jailers know how to subdue her and none of her friends can get hurt.
The grey afternoon feels oppressive suddenly, and the damp earth smells of mold and she feels invisible walls closing around her.
The sound of a car approaching on the gravel road distracts before she can work herself into a panic attack and she peers around the corner of the house just to keep up the distraction.
It’s a new car, black, sleek, not really made for the bumpy dirt road leading up to the coven.
She watches as the driver pulls up near the entrance, kills the engine and gets out with a groan and starts stretching. He has his back to her but she can see that he’s tall, broad-shouldered and solid-looking. Hair so dark it’s almost black, curling over his ears where it has grown out of a regular cut. Something in her stomach pulls tight at the familiar, slightly goofy way he’s moving. He hasn’t turned far enough so she can see his face, but the set of the shoulders, the stance, the entire body-language screams familiarity.
When he does turn, she just sees his profile, but it’s enough.
Willow blinks. Once, twice. What she sees isn’t possible. He’s three thousand miles away. He can’t be here. No matter how much she has wished to see a familiar face in the past weeks.
She pinches herself on her lower arm and sharp pain flares against her skin.
"Xander?"
He flinches and turns toward her voice. A practised smile flashes over his face but even from the distance she can see that it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He walks toward her, giving her a little wave. "Willow. Hey. Hi."
"Hi," she says when he's reached her. It's a question as much as it's a greeting because she still can't believe that her eyes aren't deceiving her.
"Looking good," he comments, encompassing her entire body with a wave of his hand. "Loving the," he gestures toward her hoodie, "comfy chic. Glad to see you didn't go all plaid and tweed on us."
The humour is forced but she smiles anyway. He's here and he's making the same silly old jokes. Her rock in the sea. The man who saved the world. Her best friend. Tall and dishevelled, with those eyes that had held the truth even when she couldn't believe his voice, with those shoulders she cried against after everything was said and done and with those arms that had held her and hadn't let go. Xander. Her mind is so caught up in remembering that she's surprised she finds the words to answer him in kind. "Giles would have thought I was mocking him."
"And you wouldn't want to mock Giles," Xander agrees. "Not these days." He winces as soon as the words are out and Willow finds that she can't look at him any longer. What he doesn't say hangs heavy in the air – all the concern and the sharp worry that she might not be on the mend and that she needs to be locked away. Maybe that's why Xander came here. Maybe he just wants to check if everyone is safe from her. The nauseating thing is that she can't even blame him. She might do the same if roles were reversed.
She lets her gaze stray from his face to the car behind him; the slope of his shoulder blurs as she focuses on the rain on the windshield.
"How is he doing, anyway?" Xander asks and she hears the plea in his voice.
"He's at home, so he's doing well." It's not much of an answer, but at least she's making conversation when really all she wants to do is run.
"Drinking tea and reading?"
"Or at the pub and singing."
Xander shudders. "Don't remind me. I'm still not over that shock."
They fall silent again and Xander taps his fingertips against his leg in a rapid, nervous staccato.
Willow sighs and decides to be the grown up and face her fear. "Xander, the elephant in the room is getting bigger by the second. Any time now, it's going to squish us both."
Xander grimaces. "Pesky elephant. He should think about joining Weight Watchers."
"Xander." She loves and hates him for evading her at the same time. She doesn't want to have him confirm what she fears. A part of her wants him to keep evading her and to tell her that everything's fine and he just wants to see her. But the realistic part of her can't stand dancing around what she knows is the issue any longer.
"What?" He looks caught red-handed.
"What are you doing here?" Willow asks, surprised at how calm and resigned she sounds.
Xander sticks out his bottom lip for a split second, then gestures toward the garden. "I felt like vacationing."
"Here."
He squares his shoulders. "I can take a vacation, can't I?"
"A vacation that conveniently takes you to England," she says, allowing her disbelief to colour her words. "Which has never been on your list of places to visit before."
Xander shrugs. "I like broadening my horizons. Culture. Yay!"
Willow sighs. He's always been stubborn and quite obviously he doesn't want to talk about why he's here. Maybe another approach will work. "Well, what about the others?" she asks. She knows that he can read between the lines that she's asking about Anya in particular. "Do they know –“
Xander shakes his head. "No. I told them I was contracted to work on a military construction site where everything was on a need-to-know basis. Told them I’d be out of touch for two weeks. No cellphones, no e-mail, not even a pigeon allowed."
"And they believed you?"
"Hey," he gestures toward his face. "This face? Is a poker face." He looks as though he’s waiting for her to applaud him.
"You lied to them," Willow bursts out.
Xander’s face falls. "Thanks for putting it so crassly."
"It’s true, though, isn’t it?"
He drops his chin to his chest and runs a hand over his head, making several unwashed strands stand up on end. She notices how rumpled he looks. Tired, too.
"Did you come here straight from the airport?" she asks, taking in his creased shirt and the jeans with what looks like a grease stain – probably from one of the salad dressing packages on the plane – on them. He has dark rings under his eyes.
"Weird driving experience and all," Xander answers. "And let me tell you, the coffee at that gas – oh, sorry, petrol station – really sucked." He raises his head again to give her a hopeful look. "Tell me there’s decent coffee to be found here somewhere?"
Her mind is stuck, though. "You came here straight from the airport? Why?"
"I figured accommodation would be cheaper outside of London."
It’s another evasion. She’s had too many years of experience of seeing through them. With that experience backing her, it only takes one pointed look at the right moment to make his mask crumble.
It takes him a couple of minutes to stop looking at the hydrangeas. "I had to see you," Xander admits finally, his voice a near whisper.
Her heart skips a beat, then hammers against her chest forcefully. "Why?"
Xander's gaze snaps to her face, open and shocked. "Seriously, Will?"
The look he gives her is so incredulous that it rubs her wrong immediately, makes all her insecurities flare up at once. She's been right. She's been right in what she thought earlier.
For some reason, that sparks a hot surge of anger. "Yeah. Seriously. What, are you checking up on me?" She opens her arms wide. "Look at me." She turns in front of him like a model, albeit one vibrating with anger. The earth around her responds and a cold gust of wind ruffles their hair and clothes. "No black hair, no black eyes, no veins, no killing people or urges to destroy the earth, I’m all better, no need to fear the evil witch –“
"Willow, shut up."
Much to her own surprise, she snaps her mouth shut.
"You want to know why I’m here?"
"I thought I said that earlier."
A self-effacing grin flashes over his face, there and gone again in less than a second. "You did, didn’t you."
"I did."
"You did."
He stands in front of her and rubs a hand over the back of his neck again, clearly unsure of how to go on. It takes him a couple of tries and Willow wonders if he thought their meeting through even once before he stepped on the plane.
Eventually, Xander reaches out and takes her balled hand in his, running his thumb over her knuckles. His hand is large enough it nearly engulfs her fist. She feels the nicks and calluses that come from carpenter's work. "I had to see you."
"Why?"
"No reason."
"Xander."
"I just … I don’t want to overanalyze this, Will." He’s rubbing circles on the back of her hand now; hectic, leaving warmth in its wake. "I wanted to ask you if you –" He trails off again.
Willow feels her eyebrows knit, fearing something bad is going to come. "What?"
"If you’d be interested in a little roadtrip."
"A roadtrip," she echoes. This isn't what she expected. The normalcy of the question has her reeling.
"Yeah, you know," he gestures between them. "You, me, a car and a road and some cool destinations. A roadtrip." He shrugs and smiles a sheepish smile. "Originally, I had planned to get a silly hat and do a Miss Daisy’s chauffeur thing, but my plane arrived late and I had no time to pick one up at the souvenir shop."
A smile spreads over her face as she listens to him ramble.
"What?" he asks when he catches it.
"Really?" she asks. Faint hope begins to blossom inside of her that her assumptions may have been wrong after all. "A roadtrip?"
He nods and looks earnest. Of all the people she has ever met, only Xander manages that without it looking ridiculous. "Really. Just you and me. No one else." She sees the bad joke reflect on his face before he makes it. "It can be our dirty little secret. You know, me with the England thing and you with the driving around with a guy."
She turns toward the Coven’s entrance and thinks of all she has learned in the past months and all she has missed. She’s lead a solitary life, not socialising with any of the other witches - who are all afraid of her anyway. Giles’ presence has helped, but not enough. She's gained knowledge and control, but she's lonely. It's self-inflicted, sure, but she's lonely nevertheless. She’s tired of being lonely. And she hadn’t had any time to spend with Xander after Giles whisked her off to the Coven. This might be her chance to make things right again. Their chance.
"Let’s go," she says and slips her hand fully into his.
The smile that spreads over his face makes the grey afternoon seem just a little bit brighter.
***
Willow gets the blessing for the trip from the head of the coven with a warm nod and an "That's a brilliant idea, do go, just make sure to come back." After she had readied half a dozen explanations and justifications and strategies, she's still a little dazed by how easy it was when she throws her duffel bag in the backseat of the rental car.
Xander, in full entertainer mode, calls it their magical mystery tour and cheerily starts it out with a trip to Stonehenge.
Which, as it turns out, is a tourist trap catastrophe. They can't even get near the stones and the visitor's center along with the sounds from the street right next to the monument kills any mystical mood. They fall into mocking the new age people and nearly double over laughing when an earnest looking German guy unpacks a long grey cloak and a white beard and starts to chant, complete with large theatrical gestures, from behind the barrier to the awe of his fellow travellers.
"Who do you think he's trying to be, Gandalf or Merlin?" Xander asks in a stage whisper.
"The chanting sounds like Quenya," Willow wheezes out between giggle fits. "But the way he's moving, he could be Rasputin."
They mock and laugh and she enjoys the easy way they fall back into old habits.
"There's no magic here, anyway," she says when they finally can walk again without having to hold their bellies from laughing so hard. "Too many tourists."
Xander squints at her. "There never was any here?" He sounds a little shocked.
She keeps a straight face for a little while, then cracks a grin. "There was. There is. But it's nowhere near as powerful as people like to make it sound. This place was more of a glorified observatory."
"Which you knew," Xander states. His shoulders sink as he speaks.
"I did."
"Then why didn't you –"
"I always wanted to see it," she says, "and I know you did, too."
Xander perks up a little. "Okay, now that we have seen it," he says with a look at the giggling Korean tourists snapping pictures in dramatic K-pop poses, "how about we try to wash away the cheap taste it's left in my mouth with some fine examples of British cooking?" The air quotes are audible even without him making them.
"Pub?" she asks.
"Pub," he answers.
***
The Malet Arms is the town's only pub and find it comfortable and homely. Dark beams shore the low-hanging ceiling, the walls are lined with dark wooden furniture that looks lived in and comfortable and the walls are littered with pictures from what appears to be the owners hobby – deerstalkings.
Xander utters his surprise at the eclectic mix of dishes - Mediterranean, Oriental and traditional English - on the menu and Willow rolls her eyes. Giles has taken her to a couple of pubs in the past and she has learned that the American prejudice against British pubs really needs to die a slow death.
Xander scans the menu. It gives her the chance to look at him. She sees frown lines on his forehead that she can't remember noticing before. A stray grey hair interrupts the solid black of his hair colour and she can't help but wonder if she caused that. If she pulled it out now, it wouldn't be there anymore. Not for a long while at least. All back to normal …
"What?" Xander asks. He wipes his hand over his forehead. "Do I have something on my face?"
She cracks a smile at the flare of his insecurity and she's tempted just to go on staring and making him squirm real good. She doesn't. Maybe later. "Nothing."
"You were staring."
"Was I?"
"You were."
"Maybe I was just contemplating how I'd still be into you if I weren't gay." She actually puts her tongue into her cheek.
"You were?" Xander looks honestly surprised and flattered before it dawns on him that she's having him on. He pulls a face. "Willow, everyone!" he exclaims to the empty pub. "Always with the weird and sneaky sense of humour." He returns her grin. "I missed that."
The barman returns from the back room and comes over to their table. "Ready to order?" he asks. He's wearing a black T-shirt and arms are covered in so many tattoos that Willow is too distracted by them to even look at his face.
"Most of the stuff on here sounds a little scary to me, so I'll go with the Steak Burger."
"Xander!" Willow swats his arm. "When in Rome …" She waggles her eyebrows at him.
Xander places the menu back on the table. "Would you like to order?" he asks, sounding resigned.
Willow wonders how many times Xander had that discussion with Anya and if the easy deference was a leftover from their relationship. It's … domesticated. She's not sure if she's amused by it or hates it.
"We'll take the cod and the game pie."
Xander picks up the menu again. "Mushy peas?" he reads, his voice incredulous. "Mushy peas?"
"The cod has a beer batter."
"Did you really just order me the fancy version of fish and chips? And the alternative is pie?"
Willow nods with a wide and sunny grin. It feels good to tease him. "When in Rome."
Xander groans. "I'm going to need a drink."
***
"Okay, how about some place else? You know, some real thing, now that the cider has worn off and we're well-fed?"
Willow grins at him. "What do you have in mind?"
***
"Never sing on a burial mound, for the Wights will hear you and come to take you into the deep."
-- Old saying
Dusk is already beginning to creep in when they reach the Neolithic burial mound called Wayland's Smithy. Xander hasn't told her where he planned on taking her next, he'd just waggled his eyebrows and said that it was a surprise. It's definitely a welcome change when compared to Stonehenge because there's no one here. They're completely alone. A cool wind ruffles the large beech trees in a gentle caress. On the ground, last year’s dry leaves rustle in the breeze and they pile up in front of the chamber’s entrance almost as if something is calling them.
The movement draws their gazes to the mound, the set up is impressive: the standing stones at the entrance loom large and forbidding, while farther ahead, the open mouth of the burial chamber yawns dark and mysterious, and the wind now brings the chill of the fast approaching evening. With the sun already dipped beyond the horizon, there’s little light to guide them.
Neither Willow nor Xander worry, though. They have spent so much time in cemeteries since they met Buffy that such places don't scare them any longer. Generally the knowledge of what lies beneath does that. It’s different here, though; there’s a strange and gentle calm about the place.
Willow sets foot on the small flight of steps leading up to the top of the mound, while below, Xander chatters in an excited tone about the skill and the knowledge that went into creating this place from the heavy Sarsen stones.
Now that she's up here, she sees that the beech trees surround the mound but leave open an unhindered view toward the sky from where she’s standing.
She has the urge to see more of the sky than a quick glance and to feel the calm of the earth underneath her, so she sits down on the large slab of Sarsen stone, then reclines on it, just watching the darkening sky above her, fringed by the swaying beech trees.
She begins to hum under her breath, unthinking, a song she heard Tara sing in the shower sometimes. The melody wraps around her like a cocoon and in front of her inner eye, she can see Tara as she pokes her head out of the shower and smiles at her.
Her throat closes at the memory and breaks the song. She’s never been a great singer, anyway, so maybe it is better if she stops before she embarrasses herself in front of Xander.
She closes her eyes and listens to Xander’s steps and occasional thrilled comment as he moves inside the mound, listens to the wind and the dry leaves and the last rustling of insects before the night falls completely – and freezes when, just at the edge of her hearing, the melody she hummed before is continued in a bell-like soprano voice.
Willow scrabbles up into a sitting position and looks around, expecting to find a woman singing.
There’s no one there.
The singing, however, continues. Eerie, ethereally perfect singing without a source. Shivers race over her arms and back and she stands, looking again.
Still no one. She’s alone. She's alone with the voice that keeps on singing, gentle and lulling.
And she can’t hear Xander anymore.
Oh, God.
"Xander?"
No answer. Just more silence, pierced by the clear voice that's getting louder now. The calm atmosphere is gone, the earth feels hostile.
"Xander." They have to get away from here, something's not right at all. "Xander, where are you?" her voice has taken on a panicked tone, she knows and doesn't care.
In the near-darkness she can barely see the steps that lead down from the mound. She stumbles down and only catches herself by windmilling her arms madly.
"Willow."
That isn't Xander calling her. The voice she hears is female, multi-faceted, clear and dark, young and old and everything in between.
A trickle of cold sweat runs down Willow's back.
"Willow." A harsh whisper now.
She clamps both hands over her ears but finds that she can hear the voice inside her head now, echoing. "Destroyerkillerwitchdemonmistressgoddess, Willow."
They need to get out of here, they need to get away now.
"Xander where the hell are you?" She doesn't shout, she screams.
She reaches the bottom of the mound, touches her hand against the entrance stone for support when she stumbles over a root. As her fingertips get in contact with the stone, the earth starts to scream around her. It’s ready to swallow her whole and so terribly alive that she feels as though she touched a live wire that connects her to the darkest magic, the kind she only felt when –
The force of the assault slams her to her knees, hard enough to break the skin even through her jeans.
She can’t breathe. It’s there, it’s all there, Warren’s flayed body, its inhuman scream – not his, not his, it's just a body, not a person, it can't be because it felt too good, Tara’s blood, her life seeping through Willow’s fingers, the rage that filled every fibre of her being, the power, that terrible power that burned her from the inside out.
Only this time, Xander’s not here to save her. This time, it will consume her, it will eat her alive, leaving the world intact, just ridding it of an illness.
The earth opens up around her, cold and brutal arms pulling at her, welcoming her and the fire is back, it's inside her, licking, burning, killing. She kicks and claws against it but feels her strength weaken.
Maybe, she thinks as she sinks into the darkness, she deserves it. Maybe this is finally her punishment. Did she really think she could have done what she did without consequences?
Penance. Punishment.
Relief.
As long as nothing happens to Xander, she's actually all right with it.
She stops fighting and lets go, expecting hell.
***
There’s a small spark of light in the darkness. Tiny. Flickery. But it doesn’t go out.
***
Hell doesn't come.
She comes to and the first thing she hears is a frantic thump-thump noise that fills her entire being and resonates in her bones. Not her heartbeat. Somebody else's. One after another her other senses awaken , and she feels cold wind on her arms and damp earth underneath her. Her side is warm where it's pressed against another body and there are hands stroking her hair and face. Shaking hands.
For a delirious split-second, she thinks those hands might be Tara's, but they're too big and too rough. As her senses sharpen, she recognises they’re a carpenter's hands, worn by sandpaper and splinters.
Xander.
Even though every fibre of her being aches, she lifts her hand and covers Xander’s hand with hers, stilling the movement.
"Oh, thank God." His voice is a rough whisper that blends into the rustling of the beech trees above them.
He gathers her even closer than before, a desperate embrace, and she smells the sour sweat tang of fear radiating from his skin. It hurts, like he’s crushing her suddenly brittle bones but she doesn’t stop him.
"What happened, Will?" Xander murmurs after what feels like a small eternity. His breath disturbs her hair, warm and moist; a ward against the chill of the burial mound.
An excellent question. She’s not sure she can answer it. Earlier, she was ready to go into the dark, to face death. It just … didn’t happen. It’s as if the darkness spit her out again, like a mouldy pistachio in a bag full of tasty ones. It was unwilling to take her, despite the earlier lure.
She has no idea why. Except … maybe she just wasn’t ready. Maybe her essence isn’t as tarnished as she thought it was. She had told Giles two months ago that she just wanted to be Willow again.
So what if that was it? What if it wasn’t so much the darkness spitting her out as it was something in this place holding her back? Something not wanting her to go down that path? Something that resonated with the part of her that was Willow again and still?
Willow shakes her head and buries her nose against his chest, breathing in the comforting blend of detergent, warm skin and soap that’s unique to Xander. She can't put what happened into words. Not yet. Not before she understands what happened.
"Let's just avoid barrows from now on. Please?"
His silence in reply tells her that this isn't over, but he picks her up, gathers her against his chest and carries her back to the car.
***
Xander decides to treat her to something special after the Wayland's Smithy incident and gets them a twin room at the Overton Manor in Wroughton which his guidebook praises for its excellent breakfast. The house brims with understated elegance and their room is beautifully English without being over the top.
After sitting on their respective beds, unable to talk, they decide to have dinner at the recommended pub, the White Hart. It turns out to be a picturesque thatched two-story house with hanging baskets overflowing with purple, blue and vibrant pink petunias hanging on the front wall. They sit in the beer garden where they studiously ignore the next elephant in the room and eat fish and chips again. This time, Xander chooses it for them both. Willow thinks that it might be a bad idea to feed the elephant any more fat and starch, but the comforting taste of fried food makes her ignore her better senses.
Xander drinks a pint of dark ale from the local brewery and Willow gets tipsy on cider and she has no idea how they both manage to steer their conversation clear of any risky subject.
Maybe it's the alcohol. Neither of them is used to pints, and Xander in particular isn't used to the higher alcohol content of the English ales, so they soon fall into tipsy giggling and retelling childhood tales that really shouldn't be funny enough to warrant their amount of laughter.
When she thinks about it, though, they’ve always been good at it. Years of experience have taught them when to talk and when to be silent or gloss over something they don’t or don’t want to understand. The post-danger laughter feels good. It feels normal. It’s been far too long since she felt normal.
***
She's still a little giggly and feels okay when they turn in but once it’s dark inside the room, she can’t get any sleep. The day's events replay in front of her mind's eye and her thoughts run circles of why, what, who, why. After an hour, she gets up, stands beside Xander’s bed, asks silently, without words.
Xander doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask. He just lifts the covers and scoots over to the far side, waits until she has crawled in and pulls her against him before draping the cover over her as well. It’s cramped and uncomfortable and he must be half-falling out of the narrow bed, but he doesn’t complain. Just holds her and strokes her hair until she falls asleep, lulled by his heartbeat.
It’s the comfort she’s needed ever since she came to England, the comfort she never dared to ask for.
***
Waking up, Willow feels , content in a way she hasn't been in months. The warmth of another body spooned around her makes her feel calm and she closes her eyes and enjoys those moments of half awareness in which her brain isn't up to speed yet and she can just feel.
Tara, she thinks and snuggles against her … only to notice something that definitely doesn't feel female. After an initial moment of panic, last night's events come back to her and she grins to herself. A couple of years back, she'd have given and arm and a leg to wake up in bed with Xander and have him respond to her.
She remembers Oz and how much fun morning sex had been with him. It wouldn’t be the same now, because sex with Tara had been a revelation, but she does remember.
If she did go back to playing for the other team, it'd be easy to initiate it now. Xander's a guy and she knows that a part of him will always be attracted to her, just the way a part of her will always be attracted to him. If she were still so inclined, she'd be stupid to say no. It would be perfect timing. And, according to one of Anya's many indiscretions, he wouldn't disappoint.
As it is, feeling Xander's morning erection just makes her a little wistful and a lot amused, because she now has material to tease him till the cows come home.
"Well," he rumbles against the back of her head. "This is awkward."
She has no idea how she manages to keep a straight face, but she does. "Want to tell you body that I'm gay?"
"I have ever since I woke up. It's not listening."
"When did you wake up?" she asks, because she could have sworn that he was still asleep until he started talking.
"Oh, about ten minutes or so."
She frowns. "That's when I woke up."
"I know."
"So?"
"I, ah … was hoping you'd have to go to the bathroom so I could jump out of the window in mortification."
"I could always turn around and breathe at you. I'm sure that'd be a turn off."
"Wouldn't change the mortification and besides, still a guy here, Wills."
"Not bothered by morning breath?"
"My penis doesn't have a nose."
"Xander!" she scrunches up her nose, but laughs and swats his arm.
"Feel like going to the bathroom now?" he asks when she has stopped laughing. "Because, I have to tell you, having you next to me, vibrating with laughter isn't really helping matters any." On cue, his dick twitches against her behind.
Willow can't help it, she can't stop sniggering over how ridiculous this whole situation is. "Vibrating?"
Xander rolls to his back and covers his eyes with his forearm. "Just kill me. No, really, do." He lifts the arm and squints at her with one eye when she doesn't stop laughing. "Please?"
Willow turns around in bed so she's facing Xander. She schools her face into what she hopes is a neutral mask. "How about you go to the bathroom and," she gestures toward his crotch and, no, done, losing it again. She sniggers for a full minute before she can talk again. Even then, her voice is shaky with subdued laughter. "And take care of things."
Xander is still squinting at her from one eye. Only this time, it's the other. "Thank you for not saying 'plumbing' or I would have had to go into a carpenterish huff."
Willow points to the ensuite bathroom door. "Go, or I'll never stop laughing at you."
"You'll be out here. The walls are thin." He actually looks alarmed.
"You can always walk into the breakfast room with your little problem," she points out sweetly.
"Note how I am not making the ‘between a rock and a hard place’ pun that’s clearly in the air.” He gets out of bed and walks toward the bathroom with a certain stiffness to his movements. Willow falls back against the pillows, laughing until her stomach hurts. The sheets and the pillow smell of Xander. It's a good, comforting smell.
"Glad I can still make you laugh," Xander comments drily from the bathroom door.
"It's a talent," Willow answers and smirks at him.
Before he disappears into the bathroom, he rummages around in his duffel bag and throws his mp3 player on the bed with a soft plastic click-thump noise.
Willow gives him her best insolent smile and waves her hand at him to make him shut the door.
She leaves the room without touching the mp3 player once she hears the shower come on, though. All teasing aside, there are certain things best friends really don't need to share.
***
"So, how are things between you and Anya?" Willow asks on the fourth day. They're walking through the gigantic stone circle of Avebury on a day bright enough Xander wears shades and Willow has bought a hat at the gift shop. She feels the question is allowed now that Xander has seen her weak spots up close. What she doesn't expect is the way his face falls at the question and his entire body sort of crumples, like a balloon the air is let out of slowly.
Anybody else would have received a snarky reply. Not her. Not here. For her, he's not answering the question but she reads his body language like a book. It's bad; his brash charm and loud jokes only barely cover the turmoil and hurt that lie beneath.
Willow pulls him into the shade of one of the big sarsen stones and reaches for his glasses. He stills her hand en route. "Don't."
"You can talk to me." She doesn't add that they haven't really talked about it since Xander left Anya at the altar. Not one on one, never in depth. Then Tara happened and Willow drowned in her own world of pain and heartbreak and never had the time to ask how Xander was coping.
"I don't even know how to justify it to myself, so how can I talk about it?" He sounds tired, not upset.
"I have always been good at deciphering your brainwaves, haven't I?" she asks, colouring her words in hopeful naïveté.
A smile flickers over his face at her words. She can't tell if it reaches his eyes or not; they're still hidden behind the shades. He hasn't let go of her hand yet and rubs his thumb over her knuckles again. "That you were, Will, that you were."
His words cut into her with the unexpected precision of a sharp blade where the pain only hits you after you see the bleeding wound. "Past tense?"
Xander grasps her hand fully, nearly crushing it, and takes off the shades with the other. His eyes are bloodshot but earnest. In this moment, Willow knows that he sees her and only her. "Never past tense. Never, you hear me?"
"Even if we don't spend as much time together as we did when we were kids, you don't stop being my best friend. Hey, if anyone can figure out my brain, it's you. And who knows," he shrugs, "maybe we're just good at figuring each other out. After all, I got through that great big noggin' here," he taps the edge of his shades against her temple, "and that's no walk in the park."
"It really, really isn't," Willow agrees. She acts on impulse; hugs him and doesn't let go. "I never said thank you, did I?" she murmurs against his chest.
He pokes a finger against her shoulder. "And if you ever do, I'll –"
"Shush." She closes her arms tighter around his ribcage. "Just accept it."
Xander stands very still for a long minute. Then he wraps his arms around her and leans against the stone. They stand that way until their breathing is synchronised.
***
They have tea and scones at a café in Highworth, about 20 miles from the Uffington White Horse, and Xander falls in love with them so completely he promptly overeats. Willow laughs at him when he holds his stomach on the way back to their B&B and claims to want to pay Giles back for never mentioning scones and clotted cream to him. Just as soon as he can move again.
Which he doesn’t. Not that afternoon. Not that evening. They sit in the B&B’s lush garden between roses in full bloom and lavender bushes lining the paths, listening to birdsong, feeling the gentle breeze on their faces, heavy with the sweet scent of the roses and the sharp freshness of the lavender. Xander wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her closer and Willow follows; she rests her head on his shoulder and listens to the sounds around them. Bees buzzing last rounds before they return to their hive for the night. The wind whispering through the poplar leaves on the far side of the garden. Churchbells in the distance. The moo of a sleepy cow.
Xander’s breathing, his heartbeat.
Willow turns her face so her nose rests against Xander’s collarbone and moves her hand to place it over his heart.
She can feel it beating. A little erratic, but strong. Alive. Warm.
When his hand covers hers, she opens her eyes to see that her fingers have dug into his chest and she relaxes them one by one, rubbing fingertips over places where her nails must have left marks.
"I’m here, Will. I’m not going anywhere."
Her sixteen year old self would have doubted it, would have asked for confirmation but would have ultimately believed him. Her post-Tara self knows that it’s a promise he can’t keep. Not forever.
"As long as I can," he murmurs and presses a kiss against the top of her head.
She closes her eyes again and drifts.
***
They stop asking for a twin room after Wayland's Smithy.
She curls into him and he wraps around her and it’s the way it was when they were children, before the Slayer stepped into their lives. Closeness, understanding, a feeling of absolute safety.
Willow longs to be that child again. Carefree and unburdened. Even though she knows it can never be, she burrows into Xander's warmth and enjoys this time while it lasts.
***
continued in part II
Author:
eretriaFandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG
Pairing: platonic Willow/Xander.
Spoilers: 6.22 "Grave" and 7.01 "Lessons"
Size: ~ 11650 words
Summary: Secluded at the coven in England, Willow receives a visitor she doesn't expect. He's got the keys to a car and a plan for a road trip that will not end the way either of them predict when they start it.
Disclaimer: No profit gained or wanted.
Notes: I missed the friendship Willow and Xander shared. Which is why this story is theirs and only theirs. It doesn't quite tie into the canon events, but suspend your disbelief for a moment and pretend that it's a missing scene before Willow's vision of the Hellmouth. Well, missing scenes, really.
My deepest gratitude to my beta-readers,
auburnnothenna, murron and bimo who made this story so much better and asked the difficult, right questions.The church-bells rang, and the children recognised the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered and hastened up to their grandmother's room, where everything was standing as formerly. The clock said "tick! tack!" and the finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up.
[…]
There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and yet children; children at least in heart.
Henry David Thoreau
The afternoon is grey and drizzly as Willow walks back to the Coven’s main building. The air smells of damp earth and freshly cut grass and the dark, pink hydrangeas near the entrance gate glisten wet.
It’s quiet. Few people enjoy the extended walks Willow likes to take in this kind of weather. She has wondered about that and has come to the conclusion that it might have something to do with growing up in Sunnydale, where rainy days were rare and the fresh green smell she finds here in England all the time was just present for about two weeks in spring before everything was brow-beaten by the relentless sun.
She feels closer to the earth out here, more connected in this place where there’s very little concrete and green as far as the eye can see.
England feels older. More connected to an older knowledge as well. It’s serene, less rushed than California and she wonders if she could find her equilibrium here just by listening to the earth and learning for a couple of years.
She’s better now than she was before, but she’s not well yet. The other witches know it. Giles knows it, too, sees it when he comes to visit. He never says anything, but she reads it in every frown, every worried look. She knows he doesn't trust her. Maybe he never will again and that harsh knowledge hurts her more than she can put into words.
Willow wraps her arms around her midsection to quell the sudden ache in her belly. Giles doesn't trust her. The others – Buffy, Dawn, even Anya, and yes, she's sure even Xander – don't and can't trust her anymore.
Maybe she should stay at the coven. Treat it as her prison where the jailers know how to subdue her and none of her friends can get hurt.
The grey afternoon feels oppressive suddenly, and the damp earth smells of mold and she feels invisible walls closing around her.
The sound of a car approaching on the gravel road distracts before she can work herself into a panic attack and she peers around the corner of the house just to keep up the distraction.
It’s a new car, black, sleek, not really made for the bumpy dirt road leading up to the coven.
She watches as the driver pulls up near the entrance, kills the engine and gets out with a groan and starts stretching. He has his back to her but she can see that he’s tall, broad-shouldered and solid-looking. Hair so dark it’s almost black, curling over his ears where it has grown out of a regular cut. Something in her stomach pulls tight at the familiar, slightly goofy way he’s moving. He hasn’t turned far enough so she can see his face, but the set of the shoulders, the stance, the entire body-language screams familiarity.
When he does turn, she just sees his profile, but it’s enough.
Willow blinks. Once, twice. What she sees isn’t possible. He’s three thousand miles away. He can’t be here. No matter how much she has wished to see a familiar face in the past weeks.
She pinches herself on her lower arm and sharp pain flares against her skin.
"Xander?"
He flinches and turns toward her voice. A practised smile flashes over his face but even from the distance she can see that it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He walks toward her, giving her a little wave. "Willow. Hey. Hi."
"Hi," she says when he's reached her. It's a question as much as it's a greeting because she still can't believe that her eyes aren't deceiving her.
"Looking good," he comments, encompassing her entire body with a wave of his hand. "Loving the," he gestures toward her hoodie, "comfy chic. Glad to see you didn't go all plaid and tweed on us."
The humour is forced but she smiles anyway. He's here and he's making the same silly old jokes. Her rock in the sea. The man who saved the world. Her best friend. Tall and dishevelled, with those eyes that had held the truth even when she couldn't believe his voice, with those shoulders she cried against after everything was said and done and with those arms that had held her and hadn't let go. Xander. Her mind is so caught up in remembering that she's surprised she finds the words to answer him in kind. "Giles would have thought I was mocking him."
"And you wouldn't want to mock Giles," Xander agrees. "Not these days." He winces as soon as the words are out and Willow finds that she can't look at him any longer. What he doesn't say hangs heavy in the air – all the concern and the sharp worry that she might not be on the mend and that she needs to be locked away. Maybe that's why Xander came here. Maybe he just wants to check if everyone is safe from her. The nauseating thing is that she can't even blame him. She might do the same if roles were reversed.
She lets her gaze stray from his face to the car behind him; the slope of his shoulder blurs as she focuses on the rain on the windshield.
"How is he doing, anyway?" Xander asks and she hears the plea in his voice.
"He's at home, so he's doing well." It's not much of an answer, but at least she's making conversation when really all she wants to do is run.
"Drinking tea and reading?"
"Or at the pub and singing."
Xander shudders. "Don't remind me. I'm still not over that shock."
They fall silent again and Xander taps his fingertips against his leg in a rapid, nervous staccato.
Willow sighs and decides to be the grown up and face her fear. "Xander, the elephant in the room is getting bigger by the second. Any time now, it's going to squish us both."
Xander grimaces. "Pesky elephant. He should think about joining Weight Watchers."
"Xander." She loves and hates him for evading her at the same time. She doesn't want to have him confirm what she fears. A part of her wants him to keep evading her and to tell her that everything's fine and he just wants to see her. But the realistic part of her can't stand dancing around what she knows is the issue any longer.
"What?" He looks caught red-handed.
"What are you doing here?" Willow asks, surprised at how calm and resigned she sounds.
Xander sticks out his bottom lip for a split second, then gestures toward the garden. "I felt like vacationing."
"Here."
He squares his shoulders. "I can take a vacation, can't I?"
"A vacation that conveniently takes you to England," she says, allowing her disbelief to colour her words. "Which has never been on your list of places to visit before."
Xander shrugs. "I like broadening my horizons. Culture. Yay!"
Willow sighs. He's always been stubborn and quite obviously he doesn't want to talk about why he's here. Maybe another approach will work. "Well, what about the others?" she asks. She knows that he can read between the lines that she's asking about Anya in particular. "Do they know –“
Xander shakes his head. "No. I told them I was contracted to work on a military construction site where everything was on a need-to-know basis. Told them I’d be out of touch for two weeks. No cellphones, no e-mail, not even a pigeon allowed."
"And they believed you?"
"Hey," he gestures toward his face. "This face? Is a poker face." He looks as though he’s waiting for her to applaud him.
"You lied to them," Willow bursts out.
Xander’s face falls. "Thanks for putting it so crassly."
"It’s true, though, isn’t it?"
He drops his chin to his chest and runs a hand over his head, making several unwashed strands stand up on end. She notices how rumpled he looks. Tired, too.
"Did you come here straight from the airport?" she asks, taking in his creased shirt and the jeans with what looks like a grease stain – probably from one of the salad dressing packages on the plane – on them. He has dark rings under his eyes.
"Weird driving experience and all," Xander answers. "And let me tell you, the coffee at that gas – oh, sorry, petrol station – really sucked." He raises his head again to give her a hopeful look. "Tell me there’s decent coffee to be found here somewhere?"
Her mind is stuck, though. "You came here straight from the airport? Why?"
"I figured accommodation would be cheaper outside of London."
It’s another evasion. She’s had too many years of experience of seeing through them. With that experience backing her, it only takes one pointed look at the right moment to make his mask crumble.
It takes him a couple of minutes to stop looking at the hydrangeas. "I had to see you," Xander admits finally, his voice a near whisper.
Her heart skips a beat, then hammers against her chest forcefully. "Why?"
Xander's gaze snaps to her face, open and shocked. "Seriously, Will?"
The look he gives her is so incredulous that it rubs her wrong immediately, makes all her insecurities flare up at once. She's been right. She's been right in what she thought earlier.
For some reason, that sparks a hot surge of anger. "Yeah. Seriously. What, are you checking up on me?" She opens her arms wide. "Look at me." She turns in front of him like a model, albeit one vibrating with anger. The earth around her responds and a cold gust of wind ruffles their hair and clothes. "No black hair, no black eyes, no veins, no killing people or urges to destroy the earth, I’m all better, no need to fear the evil witch –“
"Willow, shut up."
Much to her own surprise, she snaps her mouth shut.
"You want to know why I’m here?"
"I thought I said that earlier."
A self-effacing grin flashes over his face, there and gone again in less than a second. "You did, didn’t you."
"I did."
"You did."
He stands in front of her and rubs a hand over the back of his neck again, clearly unsure of how to go on. It takes him a couple of tries and Willow wonders if he thought their meeting through even once before he stepped on the plane.
Eventually, Xander reaches out and takes her balled hand in his, running his thumb over her knuckles. His hand is large enough it nearly engulfs her fist. She feels the nicks and calluses that come from carpenter's work. "I had to see you."
"Why?"
"No reason."
"Xander."
"I just … I don’t want to overanalyze this, Will." He’s rubbing circles on the back of her hand now; hectic, leaving warmth in its wake. "I wanted to ask you if you –" He trails off again.
Willow feels her eyebrows knit, fearing something bad is going to come. "What?"
"If you’d be interested in a little roadtrip."
"A roadtrip," she echoes. This isn't what she expected. The normalcy of the question has her reeling.
"Yeah, you know," he gestures between them. "You, me, a car and a road and some cool destinations. A roadtrip." He shrugs and smiles a sheepish smile. "Originally, I had planned to get a silly hat and do a Miss Daisy’s chauffeur thing, but my plane arrived late and I had no time to pick one up at the souvenir shop."
A smile spreads over her face as she listens to him ramble.
"What?" he asks when he catches it.
"Really?" she asks. Faint hope begins to blossom inside of her that her assumptions may have been wrong after all. "A roadtrip?"
He nods and looks earnest. Of all the people she has ever met, only Xander manages that without it looking ridiculous. "Really. Just you and me. No one else." She sees the bad joke reflect on his face before he makes it. "It can be our dirty little secret. You know, me with the England thing and you with the driving around with a guy."
She turns toward the Coven’s entrance and thinks of all she has learned in the past months and all she has missed. She’s lead a solitary life, not socialising with any of the other witches - who are all afraid of her anyway. Giles’ presence has helped, but not enough. She's gained knowledge and control, but she's lonely. It's self-inflicted, sure, but she's lonely nevertheless. She’s tired of being lonely. And she hadn’t had any time to spend with Xander after Giles whisked her off to the Coven. This might be her chance to make things right again. Their chance.
"Let’s go," she says and slips her hand fully into his.
The smile that spreads over his face makes the grey afternoon seem just a little bit brighter.
Willow gets the blessing for the trip from the head of the coven with a warm nod and an "That's a brilliant idea, do go, just make sure to come back." After she had readied half a dozen explanations and justifications and strategies, she's still a little dazed by how easy it was when she throws her duffel bag in the backseat of the rental car.
Xander, in full entertainer mode, calls it their magical mystery tour and cheerily starts it out with a trip to Stonehenge.
Which, as it turns out, is a tourist trap catastrophe. They can't even get near the stones and the visitor's center along with the sounds from the street right next to the monument kills any mystical mood. They fall into mocking the new age people and nearly double over laughing when an earnest looking German guy unpacks a long grey cloak and a white beard and starts to chant, complete with large theatrical gestures, from behind the barrier to the awe of his fellow travellers.
"Who do you think he's trying to be, Gandalf or Merlin?" Xander asks in a stage whisper.
"The chanting sounds like Quenya," Willow wheezes out between giggle fits. "But the way he's moving, he could be Rasputin."
They mock and laugh and she enjoys the easy way they fall back into old habits.
"There's no magic here, anyway," she says when they finally can walk again without having to hold their bellies from laughing so hard. "Too many tourists."
Xander squints at her. "There never was any here?" He sounds a little shocked.
She keeps a straight face for a little while, then cracks a grin. "There was. There is. But it's nowhere near as powerful as people like to make it sound. This place was more of a glorified observatory."
"Which you knew," Xander states. His shoulders sink as he speaks.
"I did."
"Then why didn't you –"
"I always wanted to see it," she says, "and I know you did, too."
Xander perks up a little. "Okay, now that we have seen it," he says with a look at the giggling Korean tourists snapping pictures in dramatic K-pop poses, "how about we try to wash away the cheap taste it's left in my mouth with some fine examples of British cooking?" The air quotes are audible even without him making them.
"Pub?" she asks.
"Pub," he answers.
The Malet Arms is the town's only pub and find it comfortable and homely. Dark beams shore the low-hanging ceiling, the walls are lined with dark wooden furniture that looks lived in and comfortable and the walls are littered with pictures from what appears to be the owners hobby – deerstalkings.
Xander utters his surprise at the eclectic mix of dishes - Mediterranean, Oriental and traditional English - on the menu and Willow rolls her eyes. Giles has taken her to a couple of pubs in the past and she has learned that the American prejudice against British pubs really needs to die a slow death.
Xander scans the menu. It gives her the chance to look at him. She sees frown lines on his forehead that she can't remember noticing before. A stray grey hair interrupts the solid black of his hair colour and she can't help but wonder if she caused that. If she pulled it out now, it wouldn't be there anymore. Not for a long while at least. All back to normal …
"What?" Xander asks. He wipes his hand over his forehead. "Do I have something on my face?"
She cracks a smile at the flare of his insecurity and she's tempted just to go on staring and making him squirm real good. She doesn't. Maybe later. "Nothing."
"You were staring."
"Was I?"
"You were."
"Maybe I was just contemplating how I'd still be into you if I weren't gay." She actually puts her tongue into her cheek.
"You were?" Xander looks honestly surprised and flattered before it dawns on him that she's having him on. He pulls a face. "Willow, everyone!" he exclaims to the empty pub. "Always with the weird and sneaky sense of humour." He returns her grin. "I missed that."
The barman returns from the back room and comes over to their table. "Ready to order?" he asks. He's wearing a black T-shirt and arms are covered in so many tattoos that Willow is too distracted by them to even look at his face.
"Most of the stuff on here sounds a little scary to me, so I'll go with the Steak Burger."
"Xander!" Willow swats his arm. "When in Rome …" She waggles her eyebrows at him.
Xander places the menu back on the table. "Would you like to order?" he asks, sounding resigned.
Willow wonders how many times Xander had that discussion with Anya and if the easy deference was a leftover from their relationship. It's … domesticated. She's not sure if she's amused by it or hates it.
"We'll take the cod and the game pie."
Xander picks up the menu again. "Mushy peas?" he reads, his voice incredulous. "Mushy peas?"
"The cod has a beer batter."
"Did you really just order me the fancy version of fish and chips? And the alternative is pie?"
Willow nods with a wide and sunny grin. It feels good to tease him. "When in Rome."
Xander groans. "I'm going to need a drink."
"Okay, how about some place else? You know, some real thing, now that the cider has worn off and we're well-fed?"
Willow grins at him. "What do you have in mind?"
Dusk is already beginning to creep in when they reach the Neolithic burial mound called Wayland's Smithy. Xander hasn't told her where he planned on taking her next, he'd just waggled his eyebrows and said that it was a surprise. It's definitely a welcome change when compared to Stonehenge because there's no one here. They're completely alone. A cool wind ruffles the large beech trees in a gentle caress. On the ground, last year’s dry leaves rustle in the breeze and they pile up in front of the chamber’s entrance almost as if something is calling them.
The movement draws their gazes to the mound, the set up is impressive: the standing stones at the entrance loom large and forbidding, while farther ahead, the open mouth of the burial chamber yawns dark and mysterious, and the wind now brings the chill of the fast approaching evening. With the sun already dipped beyond the horizon, there’s little light to guide them.
Neither Willow nor Xander worry, though. They have spent so much time in cemeteries since they met Buffy that such places don't scare them any longer. Generally the knowledge of what lies beneath does that. It’s different here, though; there’s a strange and gentle calm about the place.
Willow sets foot on the small flight of steps leading up to the top of the mound, while below, Xander chatters in an excited tone about the skill and the knowledge that went into creating this place from the heavy Sarsen stones.
Now that she's up here, she sees that the beech trees surround the mound but leave open an unhindered view toward the sky from where she’s standing.
She has the urge to see more of the sky than a quick glance and to feel the calm of the earth underneath her, so she sits down on the large slab of Sarsen stone, then reclines on it, just watching the darkening sky above her, fringed by the swaying beech trees.
She begins to hum under her breath, unthinking, a song she heard Tara sing in the shower sometimes. The melody wraps around her like a cocoon and in front of her inner eye, she can see Tara as she pokes her head out of the shower and smiles at her.
Her throat closes at the memory and breaks the song. She’s never been a great singer, anyway, so maybe it is better if she stops before she embarrasses herself in front of Xander.
She closes her eyes and listens to Xander’s steps and occasional thrilled comment as he moves inside the mound, listens to the wind and the dry leaves and the last rustling of insects before the night falls completely – and freezes when, just at the edge of her hearing, the melody she hummed before is continued in a bell-like soprano voice.
Willow scrabbles up into a sitting position and looks around, expecting to find a woman singing.
There’s no one there.
The singing, however, continues. Eerie, ethereally perfect singing without a source. Shivers race over her arms and back and she stands, looking again.
Still no one. She’s alone. She's alone with the voice that keeps on singing, gentle and lulling.
And she can’t hear Xander anymore.
Oh, God.
"Xander?"
No answer. Just more silence, pierced by the clear voice that's getting louder now. The calm atmosphere is gone, the earth feels hostile.
"Xander." They have to get away from here, something's not right at all. "Xander, where are you?" her voice has taken on a panicked tone, she knows and doesn't care.
In the near-darkness she can barely see the steps that lead down from the mound. She stumbles down and only catches herself by windmilling her arms madly.
"Willow."
That isn't Xander calling her. The voice she hears is female, multi-faceted, clear and dark, young and old and everything in between.
A trickle of cold sweat runs down Willow's back.
"Willow." A harsh whisper now.
She clamps both hands over her ears but finds that she can hear the voice inside her head now, echoing. "Destroyerkillerwitchdemonmistressgoddess, Willow."
They need to get out of here, they need to get away now.
"Xander where the hell are you?" She doesn't shout, she screams.
She reaches the bottom of the mound, touches her hand against the entrance stone for support when she stumbles over a root. As her fingertips get in contact with the stone, the earth starts to scream around her. It’s ready to swallow her whole and so terribly alive that she feels as though she touched a live wire that connects her to the darkest magic, the kind she only felt when –
The force of the assault slams her to her knees, hard enough to break the skin even through her jeans.
She can’t breathe. It’s there, it’s all there, Warren’s flayed body, its inhuman scream – not his, not his, it's just a body, not a person, it can't be because it felt too good, Tara’s blood, her life seeping through Willow’s fingers, the rage that filled every fibre of her being, the power, that terrible power that burned her from the inside out.
Only this time, Xander’s not here to save her. This time, it will consume her, it will eat her alive, leaving the world intact, just ridding it of an illness.
The earth opens up around her, cold and brutal arms pulling at her, welcoming her and the fire is back, it's inside her, licking, burning, killing. She kicks and claws against it but feels her strength weaken.
Maybe, she thinks as she sinks into the darkness, she deserves it. Maybe this is finally her punishment. Did she really think she could have done what she did without consequences?
Penance. Punishment.
Relief.
As long as nothing happens to Xander, she's actually all right with it.
She stops fighting and lets go, expecting hell.
There’s a small spark of light in the darkness. Tiny. Flickery. But it doesn’t go out.
Hell doesn't come.
She comes to and the first thing she hears is a frantic thump-thump noise that fills her entire being and resonates in her bones. Not her heartbeat. Somebody else's. One after another her other senses awaken , and she feels cold wind on her arms and damp earth underneath her. Her side is warm where it's pressed against another body and there are hands stroking her hair and face. Shaking hands.
For a delirious split-second, she thinks those hands might be Tara's, but they're too big and too rough. As her senses sharpen, she recognises they’re a carpenter's hands, worn by sandpaper and splinters.
Xander.
Even though every fibre of her being aches, she lifts her hand and covers Xander’s hand with hers, stilling the movement.
"Oh, thank God." His voice is a rough whisper that blends into the rustling of the beech trees above them.
He gathers her even closer than before, a desperate embrace, and she smells the sour sweat tang of fear radiating from his skin. It hurts, like he’s crushing her suddenly brittle bones but she doesn’t stop him.
"What happened, Will?" Xander murmurs after what feels like a small eternity. His breath disturbs her hair, warm and moist; a ward against the chill of the burial mound.
An excellent question. She’s not sure she can answer it. Earlier, she was ready to go into the dark, to face death. It just … didn’t happen. It’s as if the darkness spit her out again, like a mouldy pistachio in a bag full of tasty ones. It was unwilling to take her, despite the earlier lure.
She has no idea why. Except … maybe she just wasn’t ready. Maybe her essence isn’t as tarnished as she thought it was. She had told Giles two months ago that she just wanted to be Willow again.
So what if that was it? What if it wasn’t so much the darkness spitting her out as it was something in this place holding her back? Something not wanting her to go down that path? Something that resonated with the part of her that was Willow again and still?
Willow shakes her head and buries her nose against his chest, breathing in the comforting blend of detergent, warm skin and soap that’s unique to Xander. She can't put what happened into words. Not yet. Not before she understands what happened.
"Let's just avoid barrows from now on. Please?"
His silence in reply tells her that this isn't over, but he picks her up, gathers her against his chest and carries her back to the car.
Xander decides to treat her to something special after the Wayland's Smithy incident and gets them a twin room at the Overton Manor in Wroughton which his guidebook praises for its excellent breakfast. The house brims with understated elegance and their room is beautifully English without being over the top.
After sitting on their respective beds, unable to talk, they decide to have dinner at the recommended pub, the White Hart. It turns out to be a picturesque thatched two-story house with hanging baskets overflowing with purple, blue and vibrant pink petunias hanging on the front wall. They sit in the beer garden where they studiously ignore the next elephant in the room and eat fish and chips again. This time, Xander chooses it for them both. Willow thinks that it might be a bad idea to feed the elephant any more fat and starch, but the comforting taste of fried food makes her ignore her better senses.
Xander drinks a pint of dark ale from the local brewery and Willow gets tipsy on cider and she has no idea how they both manage to steer their conversation clear of any risky subject.
Maybe it's the alcohol. Neither of them is used to pints, and Xander in particular isn't used to the higher alcohol content of the English ales, so they soon fall into tipsy giggling and retelling childhood tales that really shouldn't be funny enough to warrant their amount of laughter.
When she thinks about it, though, they’ve always been good at it. Years of experience have taught them when to talk and when to be silent or gloss over something they don’t or don’t want to understand. The post-danger laughter feels good. It feels normal. It’s been far too long since she felt normal.
She's still a little giggly and feels okay when they turn in but once it’s dark inside the room, she can’t get any sleep. The day's events replay in front of her mind's eye and her thoughts run circles of why, what, who, why. After an hour, she gets up, stands beside Xander’s bed, asks silently, without words.
Xander doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask. He just lifts the covers and scoots over to the far side, waits until she has crawled in and pulls her against him before draping the cover over her as well. It’s cramped and uncomfortable and he must be half-falling out of the narrow bed, but he doesn’t complain. Just holds her and strokes her hair until she falls asleep, lulled by his heartbeat.
It’s the comfort she’s needed ever since she came to England, the comfort she never dared to ask for.
Waking up, Willow feels , content in a way she hasn't been in months. The warmth of another body spooned around her makes her feel calm and she closes her eyes and enjoys those moments of half awareness in which her brain isn't up to speed yet and she can just feel.
Tara, she thinks and snuggles against her … only to notice something that definitely doesn't feel female. After an initial moment of panic, last night's events come back to her and she grins to herself. A couple of years back, she'd have given and arm and a leg to wake up in bed with Xander and have him respond to her.
She remembers Oz and how much fun morning sex had been with him. It wouldn’t be the same now, because sex with Tara had been a revelation, but she does remember.
If she did go back to playing for the other team, it'd be easy to initiate it now. Xander's a guy and she knows that a part of him will always be attracted to her, just the way a part of her will always be attracted to him. If she were still so inclined, she'd be stupid to say no. It would be perfect timing. And, according to one of Anya's many indiscretions, he wouldn't disappoint.
As it is, feeling Xander's morning erection just makes her a little wistful and a lot amused, because she now has material to tease him till the cows come home.
"Well," he rumbles against the back of her head. "This is awkward."
She has no idea how she manages to keep a straight face, but she does. "Want to tell you body that I'm gay?"
"I have ever since I woke up. It's not listening."
"When did you wake up?" she asks, because she could have sworn that he was still asleep until he started talking.
"Oh, about ten minutes or so."
She frowns. "That's when I woke up."
"I know."
"So?"
"I, ah … was hoping you'd have to go to the bathroom so I could jump out of the window in mortification."
"I could always turn around and breathe at you. I'm sure that'd be a turn off."
"Wouldn't change the mortification and besides, still a guy here, Wills."
"Not bothered by morning breath?"
"My penis doesn't have a nose."
"Xander!" she scrunches up her nose, but laughs and swats his arm.
"Feel like going to the bathroom now?" he asks when she has stopped laughing. "Because, I have to tell you, having you next to me, vibrating with laughter isn't really helping matters any." On cue, his dick twitches against her behind.
Willow can't help it, she can't stop sniggering over how ridiculous this whole situation is. "Vibrating?"
Xander rolls to his back and covers his eyes with his forearm. "Just kill me. No, really, do." He lifts the arm and squints at her with one eye when she doesn't stop laughing. "Please?"
Willow turns around in bed so she's facing Xander. She schools her face into what she hopes is a neutral mask. "How about you go to the bathroom and," she gestures toward his crotch and, no, done, losing it again. She sniggers for a full minute before she can talk again. Even then, her voice is shaky with subdued laughter. "And take care of things."
Xander is still squinting at her from one eye. Only this time, it's the other. "Thank you for not saying 'plumbing' or I would have had to go into a carpenterish huff."
Willow points to the ensuite bathroom door. "Go, or I'll never stop laughing at you."
"You'll be out here. The walls are thin." He actually looks alarmed.
"You can always walk into the breakfast room with your little problem," she points out sweetly.
"Note how I am not making the ‘between a rock and a hard place’ pun that’s clearly in the air.” He gets out of bed and walks toward the bathroom with a certain stiffness to his movements. Willow falls back against the pillows, laughing until her stomach hurts. The sheets and the pillow smell of Xander. It's a good, comforting smell.
"Glad I can still make you laugh," Xander comments drily from the bathroom door.
"It's a talent," Willow answers and smirks at him.
Before he disappears into the bathroom, he rummages around in his duffel bag and throws his mp3 player on the bed with a soft plastic click-thump noise.
Willow gives him her best insolent smile and waves her hand at him to make him shut the door.
She leaves the room without touching the mp3 player once she hears the shower come on, though. All teasing aside, there are certain things best friends really don't need to share.
"So, how are things between you and Anya?" Willow asks on the fourth day. They're walking through the gigantic stone circle of Avebury on a day bright enough Xander wears shades and Willow has bought a hat at the gift shop. She feels the question is allowed now that Xander has seen her weak spots up close. What she doesn't expect is the way his face falls at the question and his entire body sort of crumples, like a balloon the air is let out of slowly.
Anybody else would have received a snarky reply. Not her. Not here. For her, he's not answering the question but she reads his body language like a book. It's bad; his brash charm and loud jokes only barely cover the turmoil and hurt that lie beneath.
Willow pulls him into the shade of one of the big sarsen stones and reaches for his glasses. He stills her hand en route. "Don't."
"You can talk to me." She doesn't add that they haven't really talked about it since Xander left Anya at the altar. Not one on one, never in depth. Then Tara happened and Willow drowned in her own world of pain and heartbreak and never had the time to ask how Xander was coping.
"I don't even know how to justify it to myself, so how can I talk about it?" He sounds tired, not upset.
"I have always been good at deciphering your brainwaves, haven't I?" she asks, colouring her words in hopeful naïveté.
A smile flickers over his face at her words. She can't tell if it reaches his eyes or not; they're still hidden behind the shades. He hasn't let go of her hand yet and rubs his thumb over her knuckles again. "That you were, Will, that you were."
His words cut into her with the unexpected precision of a sharp blade where the pain only hits you after you see the bleeding wound. "Past tense?"
Xander grasps her hand fully, nearly crushing it, and takes off the shades with the other. His eyes are bloodshot but earnest. In this moment, Willow knows that he sees her and only her. "Never past tense. Never, you hear me?"
"Even if we don't spend as much time together as we did when we were kids, you don't stop being my best friend. Hey, if anyone can figure out my brain, it's you. And who knows," he shrugs, "maybe we're just good at figuring each other out. After all, I got through that great big noggin' here," he taps the edge of his shades against her temple, "and that's no walk in the park."
"It really, really isn't," Willow agrees. She acts on impulse; hugs him and doesn't let go. "I never said thank you, did I?" she murmurs against his chest.
He pokes a finger against her shoulder. "And if you ever do, I'll –"
"Shush." She closes her arms tighter around his ribcage. "Just accept it."
Xander stands very still for a long minute. Then he wraps his arms around her and leans against the stone. They stand that way until their breathing is synchronised.
They have tea and scones at a café in Highworth, about 20 miles from the Uffington White Horse, and Xander falls in love with them so completely he promptly overeats. Willow laughs at him when he holds his stomach on the way back to their B&B and claims to want to pay Giles back for never mentioning scones and clotted cream to him. Just as soon as he can move again.
Which he doesn’t. Not that afternoon. Not that evening. They sit in the B&B’s lush garden between roses in full bloom and lavender bushes lining the paths, listening to birdsong, feeling the gentle breeze on their faces, heavy with the sweet scent of the roses and the sharp freshness of the lavender. Xander wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her closer and Willow follows; she rests her head on his shoulder and listens to the sounds around them. Bees buzzing last rounds before they return to their hive for the night. The wind whispering through the poplar leaves on the far side of the garden. Churchbells in the distance. The moo of a sleepy cow.
Xander’s breathing, his heartbeat.
Willow turns her face so her nose rests against Xander’s collarbone and moves her hand to place it over his heart.
She can feel it beating. A little erratic, but strong. Alive. Warm.
When his hand covers hers, she opens her eyes to see that her fingers have dug into his chest and she relaxes them one by one, rubbing fingertips over places where her nails must have left marks.
"I’m here, Will. I’m not going anywhere."
Her sixteen year old self would have doubted it, would have asked for confirmation but would have ultimately believed him. Her post-Tara self knows that it’s a promise he can’t keep. Not forever.
"As long as I can," he murmurs and presses a kiss against the top of her head.
She closes her eyes again and drifts.
They stop asking for a twin room after Wayland's Smithy.
She curls into him and he wraps around her and it’s the way it was when they were children, before the Slayer stepped into their lives. Closeness, understanding, a feeling of absolute safety.
Willow longs to be that child again. Carefree and unburdened. Even though she knows it can never be, she burrows into Xander's warmth and enjoys this time while it lasts.
continued in part II