FF: Two Steps Back (1/1)

[Zephyr <winter_herald@xxxxxxxxx>]

Title: Two Steps Back
Author: Zephyr
Summary: This is a response to Kirayoshi's Changing History challenge,
with a little modification. Willow decides that she has to make
things different, but is it what she really wants?
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: is healthy and high in fiber.
Archiving: Near Her Always; anyone else, just drop me a note.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns Buffy, the show and its characters. But the
pendant is mine.

* * *

Willow stepped into the Magic Box, the door chimes dangling in the air 
around her ears. She had expected things to be somehow different, to look 
different, anyway, but they were not. The shelves still held the same 
candles, talismans, books; Anya was still behind the register. She could 
see no change here to echo the change in herself, the change she had 
brought fourth that very morning.

A customer came in behind her, and she moved aside. She began to walk 
slowly around the shop, browsing the shelves to see what was what in the 
magic world. There were candles and charms, herbs and roots, books and 
star charts. They were all crutches, Willow thought, and doubly 
so. First, because they represented the power she had leaned upon so 
strongly to define who she was. Second, because at the height of her power 
she had needed none of them. She had only required a thought, a spark of 
will, to lift, to push, to bend, to break. But the more she devoted 
herself to shaping the world around her, the less she gave to shaping herself.

Oh, how she had changed.

She was no longer the shy geek who needed something, anything, a sign to 
show the world that she was a special girl. She no longer had a driving 
need to write her name in the stars. She had changed herself, now, and it 
was in her reflection that everything else would change. But not yet. Not 
quite yet.

Willow found a quiet spot among the shelves where some of the real magic 
books were kept. They weren't as popular as the ones with full-color 
covers and bylines like "WolfRaven" and "MoonSilver." It was quiet back 
here, quiet and musty, almost like the old library she had spent so much 
time in before it was blown up. Willow closed her eyes for a moment, 
leaning against the solid oak of a bookshelf, and allowed herself to just feel.

She felt the air around her, circulating in a small mockery of the patterns 
of wind outside. It tugged ever so faintly at her fiery red locks. She 
would never have noticed it before, when she was busier with other 
things. She felt the magic, too, of the store's inventory. It used to tug 
at her, at her very soul, but it no longer held that power over her. She 
was somewhere else now.

She felt her eyelids against her eyes. She felt the darkness behind 
them. She felt the dead gray dust on her hands, which she had not bothered 
to wipe off. She thought that maybe she never would.

"Excuse me, miss?" a voice said. Willow's eyes shot open, and she saw a 
young brunette woman standing patiently in the hall. "I need to get at 
the..." she trailed off and gestured at the bookshelf. Willow moved out of 
her way with a smile. "Thanks. I, uh... nice jacket."

Willow just nodded, and the customer made for the counter with her 
purchase. Maybe tonight she would curl up on the sofa and read it. Or 
maybe it wasn't a sofa kind of book. But either way, Willow wondered, 
would she even have picked it up at all if the rest of us hadn't done as we 
have done?

What was it about that particular book that caught the young woman's 
eye? Was it a particular pattern of shadows, perhaps, that Willow had cast 
on it? If she had not been standing there, would it ever have stood 
out? Or, if she had not said a particular thing, or cast some spell, would 
Anya have ended up stocking the shelves differently?

In how many of the alternate possible universes, which Willow had only an 
inkling of, did that young woman pick up that book and buy it?

Willow resumed her meditations by the bookshelf, not quite ready to leave 
its comforting earthy scent and do what she had come here to do. Where had 
she left off? Her hands. They were covered in dust, a gray dust like 
ashes. It clung to them, making them look spotted.

She was not dressed as she usually was. She was wearing black leather 
pants, the only pair she owned, and the long black duster that the girl had 
complimented. She had taken it from someone, who had taken it from a girl 
who lived and died so that another could live and die, and another. It had 
been just a little small on him, and it was almost too big for her. She 
would not have it for long.

Finally, she felt the gentle tug at her neck caused by the pendant that 
hung there. It had a gold chain and fitting, in which was set a brilliant 
emerald in the shape of a fourteen-pointed star: a sun, really. The 
emerald was unusual by most standards. One side of it was light and clear 
as buds in spring. The other was darker even than Willow's eyes. Seven 
points of light and seven points of darkness. It had seemed appropriate 
when she chose it.

It had become hers only recently. It reminded her of who she was and who 
she had been. It reminded her of more things than it perhaps ought 
to. When she stared into its depths it brought to mind love and pain, 
triumphs and troubles, friends and betrayals.

And if there was one thing Willow could not stand, it was betrayal. When 
she gave her trust she gave it all too completely, and gained certain 
expectations that were perhaps unfounded. She had expected Xander to be 
hers, all those years ago, and then Cordelia swooped in and took him and 
they didn't even get along all that well. She had shouted at him, and been 
angry at him, for he had turned back on her trust.

And yet in the end, who was it that kissed him and embraced him when he was 
involved with another?

All too many times she had turned away and been turned from, betrayed and 
been betrayed. She had trusted Amy, and Amy led her from fun to ecstasy to 
someplace between overload and oblivion. And she had trusted Tara. She 
loved Tara. And now Tara found Amy more worthy--of redemption, of 
love--than her. They were together, now. They were happy, now. Now that 
they barely saw Willow except on holidays and apocalypses, and neither one 
of those seemed to be coming very frequently these days.

But it was Buffy she had the hardest time dealing with. She had been 
delivering blood to Spike's crypt one day; Anya, of all people, suggested 
it would be a nice gesture after all he had done for them. Tara seemed to 
disagree, but something inside Willow compelled her to go. Maybe it was a 
desire to show her independence; maybe it was just a whim. But all her 
thoughts of gestures were swept from her mind when she saw her best friend 
and a living corpse entwined on the bed, satin sheets splayed around them 
like the petals of a dead flower on the ground, exposing them and 
displaying them.

It had been too much. She fled, bursting out of the crypt in a blind 
panic. By the time Buffy caught up with her, in clothes that looked just a 
little backwards, she had dashed through one cemetery and was halfway 
through the next. The sun was still shining, but she didn't feel it.

She collapsed against a tombstone and sobbed, and let Buffy hold her and 
comfort her and ask her what was wrong until the forces in her brain became 
too much again. She got up and ran all the way back to the house and shut 
herself in her room. And all she remembered after that was Buffy outside 
her door, asking her what was wrong like a child not realizing why her 
beloved pet dog no longer moves and breathes.

It took her nearly a week to recover. And to decide where she must finally 
place the blame.

Who went along with Amy?

Who made her lover forget a night of her life?

Who tore Buffy out of a heaven she earned for herself?

The old Willow had reacted to others' betrayal. She had felt anger towards 
Amy, resentment towards Tara. And what she had felt towards Buffy she 
could not give a name to if she had before her all the books in the 
world. But now such feelings were of no further use to her. After it was 
all done and over with, the only person she had cause to take vengeance on 
was herself.

Thus, she thought, ends the naming of parts--now I must be ready.

Willow left her place of mostly quiet seclusion and started to walk to the 
back of the shop, only to be interrupted by a shout that was, to her mind, 
all too cheerful.

"Willow!" Anya called, disturbing her slow shuffle towards the back 
room. She looked up to see Anya waving at her and jumping up and down, 
even though by this time she was just a few feet away. The lack of paying 
customers in the last fifteen minutes or so must have been driving the 
ex-demon crazy.

"Hi, Anya," she said. "How's the money?" It was the right thing to say; 
when asked about herself Anya would either hedge or change the topic to 
money eventually anyway.

"The money we have is doing quite well," she said. "It's the money we 
don't have yet I'm worried about."

"Why did I expect anything else?" Willow said with a smirk.

"I do have mouths to feed, you know," Anya said petulantly. She managed it 
so well that Willow even started to feel bad for teasing her. "Well, two 
mouths including mine and one ventral opening at this point."

"Right," Willow said, trying to avoid smirking at Anya's directness. "And 
how is the baby doing?"

"Approximately seven months and twenty-two days," Anya said with alacrity, 
not quite answering her question.

"Isn't it a bit early to be able to tell with that much accuracy?" Willow 
said, leaning over a bit to look pointedly at Anya's nearly flat stomach.

"I don't think so," Anya said. "Anyway, the doctor said about eight months 
and that was ten days ago. Hey, don't lean over the counter like 
that. You'll block my view of the customers, and... hey, nice pendant."

Willow cursed silently. She'd leaned over a little too far and her pendant 
was hanging over the counter as if it was on display.

"Looks Celtic," Anya continued with a voice that was casual but still 
somehow steely. "Maybe from Brittany, old design." Willow looked up at 
her and saw that Anya was no longer examining the pendant. The two locked 
eyes. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Anya said.

"I have a very good idea what I'm doing," Willow replied. "Better than you 
do."

"You weren't supposed to mess with these kinds of things anymore," Anya 
said. "You might hurt Xander or damage the store." At least, Willow 
thought, she's putting Xander ahead of her money these days.

"After this," Willow said. "I won't."

"I'm telling Buffy," Anya said, turning to walk back into the training 
room. Willow caught her by the arm, leaning over the counter, and dragged 
her back to her place. She looked around to see if any of the customers 
were watching, then fixed her gaze on Anya.

"No, you're not," she said, letting the smallest fraction of her power show 
through in her voice. Anya stiffened. "You're going to stand 
here. You're going to take people's money from them in exchange for 
goods. And everything will be better, I promise."

"Better? How? If you change things, what about all the money Xander and I 
have saved up? Will it just never have existed?"

"I'm doing this for Buffy," Willow defended herself. Anya crossed her arms 
and snorted.

"Yeah, yeah. I bet that's what all addicts say. What are you going to do, 
make her like you?" she said, her voice sharp.

"Never," Willow said. "She's going to be happy. I did this all for her."

"You can't. It's not fair," Anya said, trying a different tact. "How come 
you get the world shattering powers and all I have is a mortal body? If I 
could still shape the world I'd use my powers for something useful, like 
making money."

"You'd use it to torture and maim people who got a little carried 
away. Like you always did, Anyanka."

"A lot of them deserved it."

"I know," Willow said, nodding. "Some of them do. Some people do deserve 
to hurt for what they've done. For the betrayals they've committed. But 
there's more to it than that. I have to help Buffy."

"Well, she won't let you. I'm telling her," Anya said again, and again 
Willow stopped her.

"No, Anya," Willow responded. "You of all people should know what I can do 
now."

For the first time, a flicker of real fear crossed Anya's face. She knew, 
all right. Willow held her gaze for a moment, then lowered her voice and 
spoke more softly. "I'm going to talk to Buffy. Right now. Stay out of 
it. Please."

Anya stared at her a moment longer, then nodded. Willow removed her hand, 
and the two women stood there and faced off. Finally, Anya looked down at 
the counter, snatched up a pen and started becoming very interested in a 
pile of forms. Willow turned away. It would all be better after she 
talked to Buffy. After Buffy told her what was wrong.

She continued her walk to the back of the shop. Not so very long ago, the 
candles and herbs and crystals would have been a temptation calling to her 
very soul, calling to her to use them, focus her power through them and 
change the world. Make it better, make it worse, it didn't matter. Just 
make it something.

They no longer called to her. She looked at them like an old man looks at 
digital games and cups full of glow-in-the-dark goo, faintly remembering a 
time when he, too, played with toys in his day. They held no more appeal 
to her than as paperweights, as Giles had once used an orb of Thesulah.

She had to talk to Buffy. More importantly, she had to get Buffy to talk 
to her, to tell her what was in her heart. Buffy had been closed off ever 
since she returned, and after Willow found her with Spike, things had been 
even more strained, more changed.

It would all be better after she talked to Buffy.

As she stood outside the door to the training room, she held the faces of 
her friends in her mind in turn. It wasn't goodbye, she knew, but it was a 
kind of goodbye that she was saying now. The change in her would make 
everything different.

"Farewell to the old," she murmured, "farewell to the new; for the new 
becomes old, and the old becomes past. And nothing," she said with no 
small irony in her voice, "will ever be the same again."

Anya? She liked the ex-demon now. They had come to terms of a sort; 
Willow still teased her, but not as much, and Anya no longer feared for her 
Xander's heart.

And Xander? He was as sweet as ever. He had, if anything, managed to 
regain, even in marraige, some of that childhood innocence that had become 
so rare around here.

Giles? Off in England. She missed him, and she had a feeling she would 
miss him for some time more.

Tara and Amy? She couldn't think of them. She could not.

Dawn? Poor Dawnie. She lost her father, her mother, her sister. She 
tried to get her mother back and found a shell; she thought she had her 
sister back but there was just a shell there, too. The shell of a warrior 
whose soul was condemned to Earth while her mind lingered in Heaven. And 
whose fault was that?

And Buffy, her friend, her confidante, her solace and savior? When Buffy 
was lying dead in a box, Willow had missed her terribly. She had thought 
it so unfair that the girl who saved the world should have to rot in a 
crate in the cold dead ground. So she brought her friend back to what she 
thought was warmth and love, only to find that Buffy had touched a kinder fire.

And so it went, from the blood of a Key to a hole in the ground to the urn 
of an ancient god to this.

Willow put her hand around the pendant she wore, squeezing it until it bit 
into her fingers and palm. She reached up and unclasped it, letting the 
golden chain fall and dangle. Relaxing her grasp, she held it up and 
looked once more at the back, on which was engraved a single word: 
"Buffy." She'd tracked down a jeweler in town who had done it without 
asking why. The letters were in a fine cursive script, and their trails 
snaked into a Celtic knot around the edge.

Finally, letting out a breath, Willow entered the training room. Buffy was 
crouched in the corner, leaning against the wall with her knees drawn up to 
her chest. She got like this sometimes. She was sitting as far as she 
could from the mats, the punching bags, and the weapons while still being 
in the room. Only blank floor surrounded her. Willow walked over and sat 
down beside her.

"Willow," Buffy said, and her friend was glad to see that she smiled a 
little when she said it.

"Hi Buffy," Willow responded. She turned the pendant around in her hand a 
few times as Buffy stared off into space. "I brought... I want to give you 
something."

Buffy finally turned to her, then did a double take.

"Wow, Willow, look at you. All dressed up in Spike's clothes." The words 
were out of her mouth before she could stop them, so surprised was she at 
the sight of Willow in the black leather duster. Willow's mouth hung open 
for a moment in surprise. She'd almost forgotten. "Oh, God Will, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Buffy," Willow said. "I can't say I like it, but... I think I 
understand. And things are going to get better now."

"Are they?" Buffy asked, turning pleading eyes to her best friend. "I... I 
didn't even love Spike. I used him, Willow, and I let him..."

"Shh, Buffy. It'll be all right."

"And he's still out there, somewhere, probably thinking about what he's 
going to do to me..."

"Maybe not," Willow said. When Buffy gave her an inquisitive glance, she 
self-consciously rubbed her dusty hands together, sprinkling crusty gray 
flakes over the floor by her feet. "I mean, maybe he's found someone else 
to fixate on unhealthily."

"A girl can hope, right Will?"

"Always." They stayed silent for a few moments, surveying each other, 
making up for the time in which they had barely spoken. "Now what were you 
saying about shiny gifts?"

Willow just smiled and held out the necklace to her friend, who took 
it. Their fingers brushed for an instant. Buffy cradled the gift in her 
hands.

"It's beautiful, Will," she said. "What's the occasion?"

"Does there have to be one for me to want to give something to my best 
friend?" Willow asked, just barely stopping her voice from cracking. She 
tried her best to keep her tone light.

"Thank you, Willow," Buffy said, and finally gave her friend an all-out 
grin. "Here, help me put it on."

Willow took the chain and reached around Buffy's neck, brushing aside her 
hair. She closed the clasp with a gentle click, and they both admired it 
for a moment.

"Now I have to get you something," Buffy said.

"You are something, Buffy Summers," Willow said. "Besides, it makes up for 
that horrible thing I got for your birthday. Don't know what I was thinking."

"I think 'instant gratification' were the words."

"Yeah. But I guess we both know that it doesn't come that easily, 
huh?" They considered that a moment. It was true for both of them, in 
different ways.

"It doesn't," Willow agreed. "The good things take time... funny thing, 
time, always marching on and on and on, forward into the darkness. What if 
it could turn back, change?" She saw that Buffy was staring at her 
oddly. "I've been reading. Novels. Literature."

"Right," Buffy drawled, enjoying their simple closeness too much to want to 
pry too deeply. "And I guess it might be nice, to go back and make things 
better. But we can't. So we just keep on going, and going."

"Yeah," Willow agreed. "Lots of going."

"But I should have... if I'd talked to you, before. Maybe things wouldn't 
have turned out... this way.

"Maybe. I guess we'll never know."

"Willow, I am sorry," Buffy said, looking into her friend's eyes and trying 
to make her see the truth in hers. "I should have said something, not 
closed up..."

"It's okay, Buffy. I forgive you," Willow said, the words bringing her a 
strange sense of peace. "But really, I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"What? You already apologized to Dawn, and she's okay now. And really, 
the one who was hurt most by your magic was you."

"There was someone else," Willow said, looking straight at her so her 
meaning could not be mistaken. Buffy stared back at her. "I had no 
right..." Willow trailed off. Buffy was beginning to cry now, and it tore 
Willow up to see it. Her best friend was in pain. Even if it was just for 
a short time now, Buffy was in pain.

But some things just had to be said.

"You didn't know," Buffy told her with gleaming eyes. "You couldn't have 
known."

"I should have. I should have known, I should have found out. Do you... 
do you ever miss it?" she asked, gently prodding.

"You did what you thought was right, Will. You always have, when things 
got thick and pointy. Willow, I forgive you too," Buffy said. On an 
impulse, she leaned over and kissed Willow on the cheek. Tears were 
running down Willow's face as well now. But Buffy continued.

"But yeah, sometimes," she confessed, just loud enough for Willow to make 
out. Willow leaned forward automatically. "Sometimes I do wish you had 
never brought me back."

Willow felt a rebellion inside her. This was what she had come for, this 
admission, but now that it had come she wished it had not. Not now, while 
the softness of Buffy's kiss still lingered on her cheek. Not like this.

Buffy sobbed quietly, and when she looked up Willow could see tears on her 
face. But sadness turned to shock as Buffy saw the visage of her best 
friend. It was shifting, melting, forming ridges. The necklace about 
Buffy's throat felt like it wanted to choke her.

"Willow?" she sobbed.

"Done," Willow replied, her voice low and sad. The world around her was 
blurring, and whether this was from her tears or her magic she did not 
know. Buffy reached out a hand towards her, helplessly, and out of 
instinct she reached back, but it was too late. The new distance between 
them prevented any contact.

Buffy, for her part, saw everything at once as progressing like wildfire 
around her and stopping in freeze frame. She saw the sunlight through the 
windows glinting on Willow's red hair. She saw the dust on her friend's 
hands shining. She saw every red ridge on the face of the person she had 
shared the world with, all leading into her brilliant crimson eyes. From 
each eye ran a single blood-red tear.

"Willow?" Buffy said again, calling out to her as if across a great 
expanse. Willow looked back at her with mixed fear, sadness, and hope.

"I love you Buffy," she said. She had to say it one last time.

"Willow?" Buffy pleaded. But finally, Willow knew that she would not reach 
her friend. Not now, probably not ever. She stood and took two steps 
backwards, exactly two; she would remember that number for the rest of her 
days.

"Goodbye, Buffy," she said. "May you be half an hour in heaven..."

Around her, the world crumbled.

* * *


Zephyr

"No one's going to go see the story of Othello going to get a peaceful 
divorce."
-Joss Whedon


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