Nothing Makes Sense

by WillowX

Copyright © 2003

Willowxbvsb@hotmail.com

Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Sand Dollar Television and Kuzui Enterprises. Buffy is distributed by 20th Century Fox and the Warner Brothers Television Network.
Distribution: /www.geocities.com/willowneedsbuffy/    /mysticmuse.net
Feedback: Yes, please
Pairing: Willow/Buffy

Joyce died today.

There was nothing anyone could do, nothing anyone could say, it was done. The moment had passed. She died and the clock kept ticking. She died and there was still traffic on the streets. She died and no one noticed but us. I'll never understand how something so monumental passed the world by so unnoticed. Sometimes things just don't make sense.

Dawn decided she wanted to stay with us tonight. I don't think she feels comfortable around Buffy. It's almost as if she blames Buffy for what happened and that just doesn't make sense.

I try my best to lie still in bed as Tara holds me tight. Her grip is strong around my body and I can feel her breath on my cheek as she exhales deeply. She's afraid of letting me go and I'm afraid of holding on to her. I love her, so much, but there are feelings inside of me I can't deny and I think she feels them too. I want what I can't have and I have what I don't want. It just doesn't make sense.

I turn on my side and watch Dawn sleeping on the floor of our room. The soft movement of the sleeping bag as she breathes looks like an object floating in the ocean's currents, prisoner to the tides, the moons, the gravitational pull of the Earth. Is that what we are, prisoners of circumstance, floating around aimlessly in a vast ocean, without sense or purpose?

Her forehead is frowned and her lips are pressed tightly together, curved around the edges in an unhappy grin. I didn't know it was possible to sleep sad, but it is and that just doesn't make sense.

The longer I lay still in bed the busier my head becomes. Loved ones are supposed to bind together in a time of tragedy. They're supposed to find comfort in each others company. Yet here we are, Buffy's highest moment of tragedy, and she has effectively shut us all out, again, and that just doesn't make sense.

Thoughts of Buffy plague my mind. The clock on my nightstand keeps ticking, one second after another, while Buffy drifts further and further away from me. I'm afraid of what this will do to us, to our friendship, and of what her mother's death will do to her.

Tara is asleep now. Her lips are pouted, full and pink, the tip of her nose still red from crying earlier. She knows the truth; I've seen it in her eyes. But I know the truth too. What I want, what I need, what I've desired with all my heart is Buffy, but that, I can't have. All I can have with her is friendship, and what kind of sucky friend am I, abandoning her in her time of need?

"Tara, I have to go now," I whisper, tracing the tip of my finger over her eyebrow. Tara groans in agreement, more asleep than awake.

I slip out of the warm bed we share, out of the cozy dorm room we call home, away from the comfort zone we have created, and into the night I go. The night air is cold and angry. A gust of wind blows and I'm hit by a thousand icy pin pricks assaulting my skin. My face burns from the cold and I shiver in response, but it's too late now, I've come too far to turn back. Buffy needs me.

I walk across campus, taking as many lighted streets as possible, night time in Sunnydale is dangerous. I haven't gone out this late since Tara and never alone, but the thought of Buffy alone tonight is more than I can bear.

The streets are lifeless, filled with never ending darkness and overwhelming silence. My only companion is the sound of my boots as the soles clunk against the pavement with every step. One footstep after another and another and another but the road doesn't end and Buffy is nowhere in sight. It's amazing how far away places can become when you really need to get there, my mind racing with every step.

What will I tell her?

What can I tell her?

The more I think about it the more useless I feel. The truth is there's nothing I can say. There's nothing I can do. The moment has passed. Joyce died and the clock kept ticking.

"Buffy?" I ask, softly, making my way into the house through the kitchen door. Everything is dark, the house is quiet, yet, I can feel her presence. I can feel her.

"Buffy, are you there?" I ask again, walking toward the dinning room, dodging furniture camouflaged in shadows along the way. A dim glow of the moonlight beams in through the window of the dinning room, outlining Buffy's silhouette as she sits still at the head of the table.

"Are you ok?" I ask, standing frozen in place. She doesn't flinch, not even to look at me. Her champaign blonde hair is pulled into a tight pony tail, her lips dark and red, a skin tight black body suit hugs the curves of her breasts and I can't help but wonder what she's doing dressed like that, just sitting there, like a statue, staring at a glass of liquor that sits on the table in front of her. The sight of that confuses me.

"Have you been drinking?" I ask, concerned.

"No," she responds, her voice as icy as the winds outside.

"What are you doing here in the dark?" I ask, ever so cautious.

She doesn't respond. She doesn't even look at me. Her expression is stoic and unrecognizable. Like the expressions on faces of those wax replicas they make of famous people, their features familiar but the stares dead and empty, the way Buffy's stare looks now, stripped of feeling, fixed on something yet nothing at the same time. I tiptoe towards her, taking the seat next to hers at the table.

"Please, talk to me," I beg.

Silence dangles between as she considers my request. After a moment, she takes a deep breath, almost as if she hasn't done so all day, enjoying the coolness of the air as it seeps through her lungs and calms her soul. Slowly she turns until our eyes meet. Her light green eyes are sharp, like broken glass, cutting through my skin with her gaze. I've seen that sharpness in her eyes before, right before a kill, when the animal in her has bubbled to the surface and taken over. Those are the eyes of a Slayer, a killer, a tiger waiting for her prey. Not the eyes of a friend and much less those of a girl who's just lost her mother.

"I went on patrol tonight," she begins to explain, her tone even and level.

"Because it's what I do, it's who I am, rain or shine I'm the Slayer," she hisses, disdain dripping from every word. My skin chills at the shift in her tone.

"It was very uneventful, very routine, very boring," she says, without batting an eyelash. I nod as she speaks, trying to listen to what she's telling me, to what she's really saying, to what she's truly feeling, but there's nothing.

There's no feeling in her voice and no emotion in her words.

"After a while I got tired and decided to come home. Two blocks away from here I was attacked by six vamps," she says, an eerie smile tugging on the edges of her lips.

"Six, Will, all at once, and I did it. I took them all on. I didn't even sweat. It was so easy that I decided to have a little fun. I tried a few new tricks. I was kicking ass left and right and enjoying every single second of it. I got so wrapped up in them that I forgot about every thing else," she says, the tone of her voice escalating with pride.

"For a moment, a split second, I was just the Slayer, a machine, a killing machine," she clarifies.

"Well, Buffy, I think that's –" I begin to say. She cuts me off as if she didn't even hear that I had started speaking.

"I dusted them, and it felt good, great even. I was amazed at my own skill. I ran the rest of the way home. I couldn't wait to tell Mom what a good ass kicking I had gotten in tonight. What a great Slayer her daughter was. I knew she'd be waiting for me like she did every night," she pauses, almost as if gathering the strength to say what was coming next. My stomach sinks.

"Then I remembered," she whispers, closing her eyes. My heart aches for her, a tight knot forms in my chest, making it hard for me to breathe. Her eyes open again, fixed on me, slicing right through me with her glare.

"I remembered, Will, and it was as if it happened all over again. She died again in my head," she whispers through trembling lips, her voice deep and shaky.

"Oh, Buffy," I say, tears streaming down my face.

"This," she says, cutting me off, gripping the glass of liquor that sits on the table.

"This is single malt scotch. It's what mom used to drink every time I'd piss her off," she says, raising the glass to her nose, inhaling the smell of its contents eagerly.

"This smell always reminds me of the time she kicked me out of the house," she pauses to smile at me, a crazed wicked smile.

"For years the smell of this made me cringe. I knew I was really in for it if I smelled this in the air," she proclaims, slamming the glass back down on the table.

"Now I find this smell comforting," she hisses, her words sizzling with anger.

"Does that make sense to you?" she asks, sarcastically.

"It's ok to be sad," I whisper, reaching for her hand. My fingertips barely brush over her skin.

"It's ok to cry, even Slayers are allowed to cry, Giles told me so," I say, trying my best to cheer her with a smile.

"I'm not sad Willow," she spouts, pulling her hand away from my touch.

"I'm angry!" She growls, a single tear making its way down her face. Her body language begins to change now. She grabs the glass she's been holding, the skin around her knuckles white from the grip, and pushes herself up from her seat with the other hand.

"I'm angry because I wasn't here, because I couldn't help her, because I didn't see how sick she was," she says, pacing around the dinning room, her voice escalating.

"I'm angry at the doctors, for being stupid, for not taking care of her, for not fixing her like they were supposed to, like they promised they would!" She blurts out, her tone turning to rage now.

"I'm angry at the world, at the Gods, at the Powers That Be, at whatever is responsible for choosing me, for making me the Slayer, for making my life so hard, for making me suffer every minute of every day, for making me fight for everyone else, for people I don't love, people I don't know," she rants. She stops pacing and turns to me. The veins in her eyes are blood shot red. She's breathing sporadically, gripping her free hand at her side.

"I save hundreds of people a day, Willow, and I couldn't save her. My mother! They didn't let me save her! " She screams at the top of her lungs. Her voice burns through me.

"I hate them, Willow! I hate them! I hate them for taking her. They took her, Willow! After all I've done, they took her from me. After all I've sacrificed. I hate them! I hate them!" She screams until she runs out of air, her face flushed red with anger. She pulls the glass of scotch into the air and throws it against the wall with all her might. The sheer force was such that the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving a large wet stain on the wall, the heavy smell of scotch filling the air, making my eyes water.

"I hate them," she murmurs. Suddenly, she collapses into tears right where she stands. I stand from my seat, my own legs weak, shaking, my heart pounding in my ears, and can feel hot drops of sweat beating down my forehead. I run toward her, kneeling at her side, the sound of her cries tearing my heart apart. She's devastated.

"Come here," I say, pulling her into my arms. This is it. The mighty Slayer has fallen, her angry façade fading, warm tears running down my shoulders.

"That's it Buffy, let it all out, I'm here for you," I groan, as I too cry. She wraps her arms around my waist tightly, as if her heart hurts less when she's holding me. I rock our bodies, back and forth, trying my best to soothe her, her cries loud and thunderous. The longer I hold her the louder she cries.

Then, suddenly, things begin to make sense. This is exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, where I'm supposed to be. I belong here, holding her in my arms, wiping away her salty tears.

"Nobody knows why these things happen. I don't think they're supposed to. I don't think we're meant to bury our loved ones. It just doesn't seem like we were built for it, to endure such pain. But it happened. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anybodies fault. It just happened," I whisper.

"What am I supposed to do now?" She moans.

"Now you have to cry. Let it all out Buffy, I'm here, I won't leave. You won't be alone," I assure.

I sit on the floor of the dinning room, holding my best friend in my arms like a baby. My legs are numb and my nose is stuffed but I continue holding her. I'll hold her forever if I have too.

"Thank you," she says, with an unfamiliar muffled voice.

"You should get to bed, Buffy. You have to do a lot of things tomorrow," I respond.

"Please don't leave," she asks, gazing into my eyes. The sharpness of her eyes has dulled, washed away by the flood of tears. The pale moonlight lighting her features once again.

"Ok. I'll sleep on the couch," I concede.

"Please come upstairs," she asks, softly. My heart freezes for an instant but I shrug it away, it's ridiculous. My own desires are beginning to play tricks with me.

Buffy takes my hand, gripping it tight. I follow closely as she leads me upstairs. I can't believe the emotional roller coaster she's been on. Thank goodness for my busy head urging to come be with her tonight, she really did need me.

We reach her room and she hands me a t-shirt which I assume is to be my pajama. I look up to ask and catch a glimpse of her slipping out of her leather pants. The sleek way the pants peel off of her skin makes my heart flutter. I turn nervously, ringing the t-shirt in my hands, shaking the thought out of my head. This is not the time lusty wrong feelings.

"Will?" She asks, from behind me.

"Yeah," I yelp, in an unusually loud voice, without turning.

"Why did you come over tonight?" She asks. I look down at the t-shirt, thinking for a moment.

"Because I was worried about you," I answer.

"Why were you worried?" She asks.

"Because I love you, Buffy, you're my best friend," I respond. She's silent for a long moment, pondering what I just said, and I wait quietly for the other shoe to drop. I know its coming, I can feel it. My pulse quickens and my heart begins to pound.

"Do you love me or are you in love with me?" And hello to the other shoe! Her question is so straight forward I loose my breath. I stand, speechless, thinking of what to say next.

"Willow, can you please look at me?" She requests. I turn, slowly, to find Buffy standing in the middle the room still holding her pants.

"Why are you asking me this?" I ask. Even in the darkness of her room, I can see that her stare has gone back to being intense.

"I've been thinking a lot about life and how quickly it runs through your fingers. My mother's death has given me perspective and I've learned that there are too many things about my life I regret," she concedes.

"Such as?" I prompt, nervously.

"I'm in love with you. I have been. From the beginning I think, from always," she says, and all the air just seeps out of the room.

"And you regret it?" I ask, interrupting her. Her eyebrows arch in hurt. She didn't expect me to say that at all.

"No. I don't," she says, piercing me with her eyes. I look down nervously. Years I've longed to stare into her eyes and have her look at me the same way. To have her look into my soul, read my thoughts with her eyes, feel me with just one glance but, now, it scares me, and I find myself avoiding her gaze.

"When I was sitting in the darkness earlier my life began to flash before my eyes," she explains.

"My life is so hard, Will. I sat there for hours trying to remember the last time I was happy. I mean really happy," she says, her forehead frowned.

"I couldn't," she whispers.

"I couldn't remember a single moment. That's when it dawned on me, maybe I was just not meant to be happy. No wonder everything is so hard for me, I've spent my life struggling for the unattainable. Maybe this is what being the Slayer means. Being alone, suffering in painful silence, in dark solitude. And just as I had concluded this, just as I had decided no one in the world loved me, just as I had conceded to being alone forever . . . you walked in," she pauses, inching towards me.

"It was my darkest moment, Willow, and then you walked in," she finishes. I'm speechless from her words. I can hardly keep my thoughts straight. My world, as I know it, just spun out of control.

Unable to muster the words to respond, I walk towards her slowly. My body trembling nervously, my breathing labored. I take her face into my hands and pull her towards me. Her eyes are filled with tears and my heart is about to burst.

"I'm in love with you," I confess, inches away from her mouth. She closes her eyes and fresh tears squeeze out.

I lean in closer, her lips stretching to meet mine. I can feel the closeness of her mouth to mine. I can feel her warm breath blow over my wet lips. I can almost taste them on mine. I've dreamed about this moment, fantasized about it. Her mouth looks soft and sweet, I burn to taste her. My heart is about to explode. I have never felt this way before.

So comforted.

So desired.

So loved.

So guilty.

"Tara," I whisper, right before our lips touch. A small whimper escapes her lips as she leans her forehead against mine, resting our heads together.

"Will you hold me tonight?" She asks, breathless, against my mouth. The muscles in my body relax. I nod in agreement and watch as she climbs into bed. Like a child, waiting to be tucked in, to be loved. I climb in next to her and settle at her side. Buffy makes her way into my arms and closes her eyes. Her heartbeat thumps loudly against mine and it feels right. It feels right. Slowly her breathing begins to level and the scent of her hair, roses and jasmines, intoxicates me. Again I find myself preoccupied with my thoughts. My world has just been flipped up side down.

Nothing makes sense, but, I guess, sometimes they just aren't supposed to.

The End

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