Tara hadn’t left the Espresso Pump with Willow. She told herself – told Willow – that it was because there was still tea in her pot. But really it was because she couldn’t imagine a way for them to walk home together that wouldn’t be cruel. Either they’d have to part ways at Portico and Wellesley, or else there’d be a doorstop goodbye, and Tara just couldn’t bear to do it. So she stayed and she finished her thimbleful of tea.

But then, instead of leaving, she found herself caught up in watching the other customers – trying to read their stories from their body language and whatever snippets of conversation she could overhear. There was this one particular pair of – she assumed – high school girls that kept drawing her attention. They were sitting together at a corner table, and one was reading a book while the other pretended to be writing something, but really she was watching her companion. Tara was trying figure out if all the looking was nothing but you’re-in-my-line-of-sight-while-I’m-thinking-about-my-laundry, or if it was more of an I-kinda-like-you-but-I’m-afraid-to-say-so vibe. They looked young and wholesome and untouched by the darker side of Sunnydale. On the surface, anyway.

It was disturbing how little she could sense from them without seeing their auras.

Tara realised, suddenly, that she’d been restricting her social interactions to people she knew well enough that words and body language were enough. When was the last time she’d really spoken to a stranger? Or a casual acquaintance?

She looked over at the two girls and she unclenched the part of her that connected to magic, letting it flow through her. It was terrifying and painful from disuse but at the same time it was exhilarating and a little bit blissful. She shut her eyes and let her mind grow still and calm, then slowly reopened her eyes to look at the girls’ auras.

They glowed. Both of those girls glowed with the clear red of passion and the bright pink of new love blossoming. Tara smiled to herself. So not about the laundry – you go, girls.

She let her gaze slowly travel around the rest of the café. There was a whole rainbow of colours, some dark and muddy with pain and disease, but many more just like the high schoolers: ripe with the promise of good things to come. There was even the shining silver spark of new life all around a woman ordering tea at the counter.

Still smiling, Tara let the magic go again. It had been hard – it had hurt, even – but it was okay. She’d done it. For the first time in months, she’d reconnected to magic and it had been okay.

Something that had been wound up tight inside her relaxed, unwound. There was still fear there, and uncertainty, but somehow, telling Willow about it – witnessing Willow’s complete and total faith in her strength – it had given Tara the courage to try.

Sometimes Tara really wished she didn’t love Willow quite so much.

------------------------------------------

Dawn had been unusually silent ever since Spike came back from the salesman’s office with the keys to a dark blue ’97 Jeep Cherokee. He thought he’d wait her out – girl couldn’t hold back to save her life – but after five minutes of silent driving, he broke. “C’mon then. Spit it out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I just can’t believe you actually bought the thing.”

One eyebrow went up, but Spike didn’t say anything more.

“I thought you were joking!” Dawn said incredulously. “I thought looking at Jeeps was some lame attempt to put off replacing that hulking old clunker of yours.”

“Liked this one well enough an hour ago,” he grumbled.

“You weren’t supposed to agree with me! I was playing along – I thought there was gonna be a punch line.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know. Could it possibly be ‘cause of the fifty-billionty times you’ve said you wouldn’t be caught unconscious and bleeding in an SUV?”

“Thought you’d ‘preciate a replacement for the car you lost – you an’ Buffy.”

“It’s your car! It’s not supposed to be for Buffy!”

“What do you mean ‘for Buffy’ – you chose it!” He half-laughed. “An’ it’s not like she’ll ever drive it.”

Dawn snorted. “If it was for me, it’d be the BMW.”

“You can’t drive stick.”

“I could’ve learned!” Dawn shouted. She dropped back to normal volume. “How can you even afford this?”

“Been workin’ for Anya,” Spike said.

“You got a job?” Dawn stared over at him, looking even more upset.

“What, legit’s a problem for you now?”

“Don’t you dare try to be reasonable at me!”

Spike took a surreptitious sniff. Not that time of the month…. But he could still feel the frustration coming off of her in waves. He swerved the car off the road and into a layby, parking suddenly with a jerk. “Right. What’s this really about?”

Dawn slumped down in her seat, suddenly fascinated by her hands. “Your nails aren’t black anymore.”

Spike looked down at where his fingers were resting, naked, on the steering wheel. He hadn’t even noticed. “Refuse to believe this is about soddin’ nail varnish.”

“You wear sweatpants now. You used to sneer at people for wearing sweatpants.”

Spike frowned. “Since when d’you even notice my sleepwear?”

“Since when do you own sleepwear?”

“Since I worked out how bloody uncomfortable jeans are to sleep in!”

“You are so totally sleeping with her,” Dawn gasped. She made it sound like he was eating babies.

“Yes, Dawn!” he snapped. “Sleepin’! Never said I wasn’t.”

“So not the point.” Dawn waved a hand dismissively.

Spike blinked a few times. “We enter some kinda parallel universe when I wasn’t lookin’?”

“No,” Dawn hissed. “Moron.”

“Psycho!”

“God! You’re such a hypocrite. You feed me all this crap about not becoming some mindless little automaton, but that’s exactly what you’re doing!”

Spike’s hands clenched around the wheel. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. Enraged frustration would not be helpful right now. “Dawn,” he said slowly and carefully, “you’re makin’ precious little sense here.”

Dawn slammed herself back against her seat, hugging her arms against her chest. This was going all wrong. How could he not understand this? How could he be so stupid? “She totally denied you slept in her room this morning, you know. Said you’d been in the basement all night.”

That stung. It surprised him how much. Spike could rationalise it as Buffy not wanting to admit to the nightmares, but that didn’t feel quite right. He shifted around in his seat, not sure what to say.

“She’s lied every single time I’ve asked,” Dawn continued.

“What do you want me to say?” Spike snapped.

“What I want is for you not to sleep with Buffy right after she beats you up.”

He winced. “Dawn.…”

“God! You think you’re gonna fix her by letting her hit you? Or buying her a car? Or looking more like the preppy douches she used to date? It won’t work.” Dawn took in a deep breath and then let it out. “She’s using you and she’s ashamed to admit even that much and you think it’s Christmas come early! You’re such a pathetic loser!”

Rage flooded through him, shutting down brain function and shifting the bones in his face. “You bitch!” he roared.

Dawn stabbed at her seatbelt buckle to release it then started fumbling around to find the catch for the door.

Spike’s face shifted back. He held himself rigidly on his side of the car and said in his quietest, calmest, voice: “It’s after dark. Don’t risk gettin’ hurt ‘cause you’re mad at me.”

Dawn stopped. Face frozen, she closed the door and edged back into her seat. “Take me to Janice’s.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Sure.” Spike decided that he needed to get very, very drunk. Very, very soon.

------------------------------------------

Willow felt jittery and slightly unreal walking back to her parents’ place. As she put her key in the lock, she was struck by quite how much the house didn’t feel like home anymore. Her eyes were blurring with tears before she even made it through the door.

She fled to her room. It felt less like it belonged to a stranger now, but it still wasn’t right.  None of Tara’s scarves or sweaters were roosting in the chairs or at the end of the bed. There were no hair ties scattered over every spare surface. There were no long strands of brown-y-blonde hair on the floor or in the bed.

Willow gave in to the tears. She felt so lost. How could she have had doubts about Tara? Tara was her everything.

Wherever Tara is, it’s home.

If someone had told her six months ago that she would use Lethe’s bramble on her girlfriend, Willow would have laughed in their faces. But she had. Twice. Even if the second time wasn’t so much using it on Tara as using it on everybody. And that was basically an accident anyway – if that extra bramble hadn’t all got mixed in, it would’ve been fine. Probably.

Or, you know, not.

Willow wasn’t even really sure why she’d done it anymore. She’d achieved nothing by it. Tara trusted her less; Buffy was just as unhappy. Even Xander was being all weird and standoffish now – although that was probably down to splitting up with Anya. He’d never dealt well with change.

But at least Tara had said she still wanted Willow to be in her life. That was something. And this new spell.... Willow could do the no-magic thing if it would make Tara feel safe again. She’d just have to focus on that. Take things slow. Win back Tara’s trust. That was very much in the realm of the possible.

Of course, no magic meant Willow wouldn’t be of any use to Buffy or, well, the world anymore. So as long as they were in Sunnydale, Tara couldn’t possibly want her to stop completely. It just wasn’t practical.

So temporary magic-stoppage. Willow could absolutely deal with that.

She looked over at her desk: it was dominated by texts and notebooks on vampires and souls. There was even a brand spanking new orb of Thesulah – ten bucks well spent on eBay.

She didn’t think Tara could possibly have meant for her to stop researching magic. That was an all-Scooby thing. Research parties were, like, half their social life. And besides, anchoring Angel’s soul was all about giving him choices, not taking them away. That was a Good Thing, even before you got to the guaranteed-no-more-Angelus part. So no need to pack up any of this stuff. No sirree.

Might also be worth finding out what, exactly, would happen to Tara when – no, if – Willow were to do any magic. All Tara’d said was that she’d know. What if it hurt? And Tara had a car – what if there was a loud noise or a flashing light or something? It could be dangerous. That’s something we really oughtta know about in advance, isn’t it? Knowledge is power, after all.

Willow started hunting through her books. She said it was for really big magicks so that’s probably elemental spells…. Empedocles, maybe?

------------------------------------------

Giles sat in the chair across from Buffy, hands clasped, desperately wishing he was better at this – at any of it. He’d entered a completely dark house ten minutes ago and nearly jumped a foot when he realised Buffy was sitting completely immobile on the sofa, staring at the wall.

It had taken three tries to get her attention.

It should be Joyce doing this. Or Willow, even. This was not what Giles did. He took care of the business side of things – the Slayer side. He knew where he stood with evil and demons – even it wasn’t so much standing as falling over unconscious – but this….

“How are you?” he asked quietly, trying not to notice the shadows circling her eyes and the too-defined bones jutting out of her face.

“I’m … going,” she said. She smiled. It was weak and watery, but it was real.

Giles briefly squeezed his eyes shut in relief. “Your memory? Is it, er, is it coming back?”

Buffy froze. “Yeah,” she said quietly, dropping her gaze and staring into her lap. “There are still things missing, but nothing, um, nothing big anymore.” That girl who recognised me at the mall last week. Grade 10 French? I hope? “At least, I –I don’t think there is.”

She sounded so hesitant. It was heartbreaking. Giles continued: “A-and the nightmares? You, er, I mean I haven’t heard you….”

The ghost of a smile hovered over Buffy’s lips. “Gags are wonderful things.”

All of the colour drained out of Giles’ face.

“Kidding, Giles.” Kinda. “Tara’s made me some knock-out tea a few times. That’s … helped.” And then there’s Spike…. Even in her head, Buffy didn’t feel ready to articulate what he did for the nightmares.

Giles watched her stare off into the middle distance somewhere over his left shoulder. Watched. Always watching. “Have you, er, are you still losing time?”

Buffy mentally scrambled. “What are you talking about?” You can’t know about this. You can’t.

Giles realised, suddenly, that he’d never spoken to Buffy about this particular post-resurrection problem. His stomach dropped as he considered the possibility Spike had been mistaken. Or lying. “Spike—”

“He had no right to tell you.” Buffy’s eyes glittered. With rage. Not tears. Rage.

Giles pushed down a sudden urge to laugh. I‘m about to defend Spike. Deservedly. “It’s something I needed to know,” he said. “I had hoped you would confide in me, in your own time, but….”

Buffy shivered as the litany began again. I came back wrong. I came back wrong. I came back wrong.

Giles desperately wanted to tell her it would get better, that if need be, he would turn the world inside out to make it better. Instead, he reached out to give her arm a pat and made a valiant attempt at a reassuring smile. “The, er, the Council has been in contact with me,” he said slowly.

Buffy snapped to attention. “Why?”

“I didn’t tell them why I came back.”

“And again with the why?”

“Well … at first because there wasn’t time, and then….”

Because I’m all wrong. “What can they do?” Buffy asked, forcing herself to stay focussed. “Don’t they pretty much need me to justify, you know, everything?”

Since Buffy’s death, there had been a faction of Watchers pushing for Faith to either be released from prison or killed to call a new Slayer because a Watcher’s Council without an active Slayer had no business existing. But Buffy didn’t need to know about Council politics right now. “They have Faith,” Giles said, trying to sound confident.

Buffy snorted. “Oh yeah. ‘Cause I hear CIW’s just full of vamps.”

“Yes. Well. They may decide that a resurrected Slayer is … problematic.”

Or just wrong. “This is hardly the first time I’ve died….” Buffy’s voice sounded smaller, uncertain.

Giles smiled. “True. But … Quentin Travers dislikes the unknown. This is … no one has ever done anything quite like you before.”

“That’s me – mould-breaker-Buffy.”

“They will almost certainly wish to, er, to test you.”

Buffy looked up at him. “What did you find when you tested me?”

Giles’ face went slack-jawed. “I – you noticed what I was doing?”

“Jeez, Giles, give me some credit. I’m not completely brain-dead.”

He smiled weakly. “You are … better than you were.”

“Huh?”

“The M’Fashnik—” Giles froze. He thought he’d seen something like fear on Buffy’s face for a second, but then it was gone.

“The M’Fashnik?” she asked, a little breathlessly. Its head had looked like porridge sloshing around inside a balloon when Spike had carried it out of the basement. And she’d done that, in some kind of crazy berserker rage she couldn’t even remember.

Giles nodded. “Spike mentioned that you crushed its skull?” There it was again – a flinch. What the hell had Spike left out? “I should have thought it impossible – M’Fashnik bones are notoriously, er, unyielding.”

“Huh,” Buffy said. “Go me?”

Giles studied her, now absolutely certain he was missing something. “You are stronger; your reflexes and senses are sharper, faster. I imagine you will also find it easier to learn new movements, although I did not test for it. You are, quite simply, better as a Slayer.”

“Oookay. But you have worry-face,” Buffy said uncertainly. “I mean, shouldn’t ‘better Slayer’ equal a safer world for puppies and Christmas?”

Giles nodded. “That would certainly be the best case scenario.”

“There’s a worst case scenario?”

“I haven’t a clue how or why it’s happened, Buffy.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It could be just good luck, some quirk of your, er, your resurrection.” He smiled awkwardly. “But past experience tells me it is far more likely to be something more unpalatable: another manifestation of dark magic, possession, some sort of interdimensional passenger…. There could even be a – a residual connection to Osiris! I just don’t know.” Giles took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

Buffy suddenly couldn’t draw breath. It was like someone was standing on her chest.

He didn’t lift his head, and he sounded exhausted when he asked her: “H-have you noticed any other … changes?”

A rushing sound roared through her ears, so loud she almost couldn’t hear her own words. “You think I came back wrong,” Buffy whispered.

Giles opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he looked up at her. To focus. “Loathe as I am to admit it, I believe that is a very real possibility.”