Summary Willow’s in England, recovering from the dark magics.
But help comes from an unlikely quarter.
Rating PG13
Disclaimer No English countryside was harmed in the writing of this story.
Although I did rearrange it a little. Any injured copyrights were unintentional
Notes Set during the summer between S6 and S7.
Written for fetalcoffin in the btvs_santa exchange on LiveJournal
The world wasn’t the same.
And it was more than just the fact that Tara wasn’t in it anymore.
It was more than the fact that now that she’d sunk herself in dark magic, Willow couldn’t see just the bright side of the world. Everything, even the smallest, most innocent things were colored with a sense of decay and corruption.
It was because she was in England. And everything was strange here.
She didn’t drive, so the other side of the road thing wasn’t a problem. But little things, like the weird way the phones here rang, those were the things that made her feel out of place.
And grocery shopping.
Giles assured her that closer to Exeter and Weymouth there were the large supermarkets like she was used to back home. But in a small village like Westbury, she had to go to one store for meat and another for bread, and still more for dairy and produce. It took her most of the morning just to do a week’s shopping for the two of them. She didn’t like doing it. She still was gun-shy about being out among people. But Giles insisted. “Life continues on,” he said reassuringly, “and so must you.”
So she shopped. At least she was almost done for this week.
Willow looked down into the basket, going over her list in her head. Onions, potatoes, carrots, pears for Giles, a rare kiwi for herself. She couldn’t find good avocados here, much as she longed for some decent guacamole. A couple of tomatoes and a decent head of lettuce and she’d be done, free to go back to Giles’ house to hide out in peace.
Reaching into the bin of tomatoes, however, she grabbed another human hand instead.
Startled, she looked up into amused brown eyes. Eyes set in a face both mature and young, features deeply carved but still wickedly playful. A face that was all too familiar to her.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Ethan Rayne? What are you doing here?”
He withdrew his hand from the produce bin, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry, do I . . .” And suddenly he seemed to put her accent and her appearance together, closing his eyes in frustration. “Oh, bloody hell. You’re one of Ripper’s brood, aren’t you?”
“I’m not . . . I don’t . . . well, yeah, I’m a friend of his. And he’s not going to be happy to find out you’re sneaking around his neighborhood!”
“You mean he’s here?” Ethan’s eyes widened nervously. “He’s not still back on the Hellmouth?”
“Well, he’s not here here.” She retreated from her more aggressive stance. At the moment, she was actually pretty vulnerable. “He’s down in London right now. But when he gets back. . .”
“I’ll be long gone, I assure you.” He wasn’t looking at her, instead scanning the rest of the shop anxiously. “You aren’t here all by yourself, are you? Where are the rest of your do-gooder friends?”
“Back in California, if it’s any of your business. I’m living here with Giles right now.”
His look was as amused as it was insinuating. “Well. I guess he still has some of the old Ripper in him after all.”
“Not like that, gutter brain. I’m here to learn.”
His smirk only deepened. “I’m sure he could teach you quite a lot.”
She sighed. It was worse than talking to Xander. “From a coven of witches near Exeter. Magic. I’m here to learn magic.”
Ethan’s face grew thoughtful, his eyes a bit distant. She felt a gentle prod at her aura before he spoke. “I see. Lost control of it, did you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“And now Rupert’s trying to help you back to the straight and narrow.” He shook his head, lips pursed. “Never going to happen.” Depositing two tomatoes and a lime in a small paper sack, he headed towards the register.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” She grabbed her tomatoes and chased after him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He handed the green grocer a pair of bills and received change in return. “Just that you’ve let the genie out of the box, my dear. There’s no stuffing it back down now.”
Willow gave her own basket to the grocer to ring up. “I’m not trying to stuff it back down. I just need to get control of it.”
Ethan studied her critically as she paid for her purchases. “Have you worked anything since it happened?”
“Of course I have!” She snatched the change and the bag from the grocer and turned on Ethan. “It’s not like you can just stop working magic.”
He stared at her, seeing right through her.
She pushed past him. “Fine. I haven’t done anything unsupervised. Are you happy?”
“Not really.” He followed her out into the street. “Repression is Rupert’s way, not mine.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he’s my mentor and not you, isn’t it?”
His eyes narrowed.
Whirling on him in frustration, she demanded, “What do you want from me, Ethan? Why are you following me?”
“I hadn’t realized I was. Public street and all.”
She sighed tiredly. “Don’t be in town when Giles gets back.” Turning, she trudged off up the lane to Giles’ house. But she could feel him behind her still, watching her go.
She sat at the sidewalk table at the tea house, studying and ignoring the vague approximation to a frappachino the barista had managed for her. She didn’t have to talk to anyone, but she could at least tell Giles and Miranda that she had gotten out of the house and done something. Giles would think she was getting back to normal. Even though she didn’t feel very normal.
She jumped when the book was snatched out of her hands.
Ethan stood there, reading the back cover quickly, shaking his head with a dismissive cluck before chucking the book back on the table. “That new age claptrap’s not going to help you.”
She stared at him in disbelief as he sat down at the table with her. He had ordered an espresso for himself by the time she found her voice. “What are you still doing here?”
He shrugged. “I’ve avoided Ripper this long, I figure I can stay out of his way. I’ve got lucrative business in the area I won’t give him the satisfaction of scaring me off of.”
“But you’ll give him the satisfaction of pounding your face in? I guess that makes the kind of sense that doesn’t.”
“My favorite kind.” He smiled up at the girl delivering his coffee.
“Why are you here?” Willow asked sullenly.
“I just told you . . .”
“No. Why are you sitting here, with me?”
He picked up the small cup to take a sip. “Can’t a fellow share a coffee with a friend?”
“We aren’t friends,” she denied. “You don’t even know my name.”
“Your name is Willow Rosenberg, only daughter of Sheila and Ira Rosenberg, junior at the University of California Sunnydale and late of 1630 Revello Drive. And we could be friends.”
Willow stared at him in a mixture of dismay and wonder. “How do you know all that?”
He smirked at her over the lip of his cup. “I still have contacts back in Sunnydale. I made some phone calls after we last met. I must say, I am impressed.”
She picked up her book again and opened it. “By what?”
“Oh, don’t be modest. That was quite a swath you cut through your fair town.”
“That wasn’t anything to be proud of.”
He leaned closer. “But you were, weren’t you?” His voice was smooth and low, confiding. “Not now, of course, but at the time. It felt good not to be weak and vulnerable, to be the one making the rules for a change.”
She stared at him in horror, the book slipping from her fingers.
“There’s no point in denying it. You certainly couldn’t have done all you did with any moral compunction holding you back.”
Willow closed her eyes, trying to crush down the fiery wash of ecstasy just the memory of all that power shot through her.
“No, this will never do.” He finished his drink and rose to his feet. “If you’re serious about overcoming this, and God knows why you’d want to, then you have to acknowledge that it felt good and you want to feel it again. Denying it is just giving it a tighter hold on you.” He dropped a ten pound note on the table before tucking his wallet back in his trousers. “I’ll be around. If Ripper turns out not to be the mentor you need.”
She watched him go, but all she saw was a young man’s flayed corpse, and all she felt was a deep sense of satisfaction.
Westbury was on the edge of the moors, inspiration and setting for The Hound of the Baskervilles. Even from Willow’s vantage several miles off, she could see it rising up, dark and depressing, gloomy even in the bright sunshine. It suited her mood today, so rather than walking the hills of Giles’ family estate, she began walking west along the road toward the moor.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised to hear footsteps falling in sync with hers. She didn’t look up, and they walked along in quiet companionship for a long time.
“You’re right,” she said finally, looking far ahead down the road. “It did feel good. And I didn’t feel bad about it. There’s some of it I still don’t regret, even though I know I should.”
“Tell me,” Ethan said softly.
So she did. Not just what had happened those last few days, but all the way back to Buffy’s resurrection. She held nothing back, and for the first time she was honest with herself about why she had done all the things she had. Even the noble actions had ulterior motives, giving her a chance to push herself, to prove her value, to be better than the rest of them. Even Tara, who she loved so much. She couldn’t believe how blind she had been, not seeing how each step took her further and further down. When she gave up working magic, she never really gave up the desire for power and the validation it gave her, leaving her vulnerable to all the minor lapses and finally to the surrender that wrought so much death and destruction.
He never said a word, just walked along beside her, listening. Willow began to understand the appeal of confession to Catholics. Every word, every secret she had kept even from herself, as she spoke it aloud made her feel lighter, more at peace. She was safe telling these things to Ethan in a way she never could have with any of her friends. She wasn’t worried about him judging her, hating her for the things she had thought and felt. He was no better than she was, and she didn’t really care what he thought of her.
“I can never make up to Buffy and Dawn for threatening them. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t regret killing Warren. Or Rack. I know I should, but I can’t help feeling like they got what they deserved.”
“So stop trying.”
She stopped and looked at him. He had his hands casually in his trouser pockets, looking very serious.
“Pretending you regret something you don’t will only get in your way. Accept that you aren’t sorry for those things and move on. Fighting with it is only going to hold you back.”
“How do you know?”
He took his hands out of his pockets. “Don’t regret much, do I?”
She didn’t know what to say, so instead looked off towards the dark shadow of the moor, still rising such a long way off. “It doesn’t seem to get any closer.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not worth getting there.”
She turned with a quiet sigh. “I don’t think I can do it today.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow.”
She was surprised when he walked her in silence all the way back to the house.
The cab took her to the train station. She wasn’t ready to go back, but they needed her. The train would take her to King’s Crossing and then to Heathrow, to a plane that would take her back to California. Where she wouldn’t have the excuse of being in a foreign country to justify the sense of the world being a very different place.
Even with the heavy rain, she stood out on the platform, not wanting to get cornered inside and forced into conversation. It was worth getting a little damp under the overhang to be able to avoid small talk with strangers.
She felt his presence behind her, and found she was relieved. Turning, she saw him standing at the end of the platform, his hair and the shoulders of his gray overcoat damp from the downpour. Slowly he began walking towards her. “So you’re going back.”
“Something’s happening. Something bad. I need to.”
“I felt it.” His steps remained measured, his eyes never leaving hers. “Think you’re ready?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They’re my friends. They need me.”
“How noble of you.” He stopped in front of her.
She looked up into his eyes, knowing he could see what she wasn’t saying. “I’m scared,” she admitted softly.
His hand came up, and she was surprised to feel the warmth of his palm cupping her cold cheek before he slipped it back around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as he lowered his mouth to hers.
There were equal parts passion and compassion in that kiss, and she couldn’t help responding to it, opening her mouth as his firm lips moved over hers. She brought her hands up to rest on his shoulders, stepping closer to feel his warmth without actually bringing their bodies into contact. His other hand curled behind her head, guiding her as their tongues gently caressed each other.
Ethan didn’t let go of her when the kiss ended. “There’s another choice, you know.”
She did know. And it was tempting. To not risk judgment, to have it okay for right and wrong to be more gray.
“They need me,” she finally repeated.
He nodded. “After.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who I’ll be then.”
“Yes, you do.” He bent to touch her lips again, finally releasing her head. She instantly felt the loss. “I’ll be around when you’re ready.” Slipping his hands back into his trench coat pockets, he turned and walked away.
“How?” she called after him, unwilling to have him be gone.
One word drifted back to her over the din of the rain.
“Magic.”