TITLE: Insomnium AUTHOR: seraC EMAIL: seraphcelene@yahoo.com SPOILERS: Explicit spoilers through Grave. How many episode references can you spot? RATING: PG13 ARCHIVING: Essential-Imperfect, Buffy Fiction Archive, Near Her Always. All others please ask. SUMMARY: Willow dreams in black and white except when it counts. Feedback: Is like air, highly necessary. Constructive Criticism also welcome. THANKS: To my amazing betas: Moonwhip and Arrie. DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, UPN, Sandollar, Mutant Enemy, et al. I’m just taking the out for a little exercise. Insomnium Are you dreaming me? “What?” She remembers that she has traveled far to get here; a difficult journey through deserted, dark places that lead into the light. Soft light, centered in shadow, not quite yellow and not quite bright enough. Willow dreams in black and white except when it counts, dark over everything so that she can’t see the landscape. Are you dreaming me, she asks again. I remember. I died. Willow recognizes the sweet, hesitant, shy-girl voice. Remembers the beautiful, soft, full girl it belong to. Sometimes they will forget, the others: White Hats one and all, and Willow will have to remind them that she was there, too. Mother, Lover, Friend. When it mattered. When they forget that she ever was, Willow will remind them. “I don’t remember,” Willow replies. “When did that happen?” She can just see a figure caressed by shadows. There is whispering, there, all around. Sound like the quivering hush of rustling silk, a kiss of near-silence just at the edge of hearing. You will. Remember, that is. It’s too bright just now so you’ve forgotten. But don’t worry, you’ll remember. “You can’t be dead.” There are things in the world that make sense. Then there are things, like this, that have no place in the universe as constructed by Willow. She can see that there are two of them now. Wasn’t it always this way? Never one without the other? But that isn’t right either. Somewhere things had gotten mixed up. There is a girl where there should have been a boy, a rose darker than blood pinned to her breast. This part she understands. She knows the delicacies of male parts, but women bleed. Suffering seems innate. “Why is it always about blood?” Willow asks, although she is sure she knows the answer if only she could remember. She can see Oz standing just beyond Tara in the shadowed light, soft light centered in shadow. He is bare of chest and feet, olive cargo pants rest threateningly low on his hips. When has it ever been about anything else, he replies. “There are other things.” She knows this like she knows that there are sixty-four colors in the jumbo size box of crayons. “What about fire engines and-and candy apples? Why is everything always red like blood?” Willow can see Oz’s lips move in response, but there is no sound, only the whisper of rustling silk. He’s almost out of sync and she can’t be bothered to pay attention. Besides, Willow knows that Veruca is there in the shadows to catch him when he falls. “You’re not stuttering.” Her eyes re-focus on Tara. Tara only. Only. Always. Words that mean forever don’t hold a candle to the real thing. “You stutter when you’re nervous. If you’re dead? I mean, wouldn’t you be...” She is reminded of the Willow-that-was: hesitant, unsure and almost shy. She can remember, when she wants to, that this is a disguise, although her hair should always be red. Willow has seldom lived her life out of costume. Tara smiles gently, her sleepy eyes shining. When you’re dead there’s nothing to make you nervous. I’m finished. You’re finished. “I’m finished? Am I dead, too?” Willow can hear her voice shattering on a high note, quaking in surprise that could turn to shock if the answers are wrong. “I don’t remember that either.” No. The dead girl’s smile widens, shoulders hunching, body collapsing with humor. Almost, but not quite. Willow wonders if the truth is a secret they forgot to tell her. Tara’s smile melts and her brow crinkles, perplexed; blond hair unravels from where it’s pinned on top of her head. The cool, silky locks fall to the floor, long enough to climb should escape become necessary. Your hands. They’re bleeding. Did you hurt yourself? Tara reaches out as if to touch but there are miles to go and they never meet in the middle. Willow can see the red welling in her palms. She knows that she must be careful. It isn’t hers to waste. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Can’t? Or won’t? Willow flinches away from quick, sharp words that bite. Somewhere in the dark Oz has found his lost voice. “Can’t,” Willow answers, puzzled but sure. “Why wouldn’t I want to remember?” It-It’ll get all over the car-pet if you’re not careful. Gentler. Softer. Feminine. Not Oz voice. Willow drags her eyes away from Oz’s intense gaze. Green eyes like fire. Fire. Red. Blood-red. “You stuttered. Are you nervous?” Afraid. Worried. If you’re hurt. Willow remembers that earnest voice. Earth mother. Tara’s face twists; sad eyes gaze out of her pale, icy face. This girl isn’t breathing. She’s still and marble and there’s no breath. Why did you kill him? The question startles her, a voice in the dark issuing from Tara’s soft pout. Borrowed. Willow remembers this happened once before - a marionette without strings. It’s me. Tara’s voice grates against the rustling of silk. My words. Only you never wanted to hear. Whispers ricochet off the darkness, bleeding into the light. It frightens me. You frighten me. Why did you kill him? Point blank. Ducks in a row. Set ‘em up and knock ‘em down. She is not a carnival. “How can you know that? You’re dead.” Only Willow isn’t supposed to remember. But why? Wh-Why would you do su-such a terrible thing? “I-I didn’t . . . I don’t remember.” She lies desperately. Somewhere she knows these things are better left alone. Willow, I can see the blood on your hands. Willow is astonished to find the blood slick down her fingers to drip onto the floor. She forgot to keep her palm cupped and now she has lost what was never hers in the first place. “But there wasn’t any blood,” she whispers. “There was never any blood. Not like this.” Even to her own ears her voice sounds distracted, hollow and uncaring. Although that’s not true either. Somewhere beyond the dream she cares. Shouldn’t she care? Tara blinks slowly, pale lashes flashing against paler cheeks. She tilts her head to the side as if in thought. There was my blood. On your shirt. On your collarbone. And his. Not where you could see it, but there, where it counts. There was. Only you didn’t want to see. She blinks again. Why did you kill him? “I didn’t. I-I don’t remember.” Only that isn’t strictly true. There are things dressed in gray that nibble at the back of her memory. Fish picking at the fingers that feed them. They’re monochrome now, buried half in shadow. Willow can see bits, flickering like the light from a projector. She knows that Tara can see them too, memories flitting in the dark, sparking against each other in passing. They won’t stay that way, you know. That way. Not for long. You can’t just bury things. Xander wisdom is a surprise. They were so young then and Tara hadn’t known them. But this is Willow’s dream and there he is, lurking in the shadows as he was in their green, lanky and almost tall. “Will it hurt to remember?” More than you think. “But I don’t want to hurt. Not anymore.” I’m sorry, sweetie, Tara whispers. It can’t be helped. Dawn emerges from the shadows, called by name. Willow can hear her weeping uselessly in the distance, a soft kind of silence that burns. Willow looks down at her dripping hands, thoughtlessly wiping them against her legs. Nothing changes. Guilt still spills from the center of her palms, dark and thick; but the brightest color she’s ever seen where it escapes between her fingers. Tears form in the corners of her eyes and when she brushes them away they fall, emerald green, to the ground. But that’s all wrong. This is about blood and they become rubies. “Why does it always have to be so hard?” Tara doesn’t blink this time; her icy eyes reflect none of the shadowed light. Not always. Just sometimes. And this time it’s your fault. This isn’t the full, soft girl Willow remembers. She is harder. Sharper. Unforgiving. “But, I didn’t mean . . .” Of course you did. “I didn’t really. I didn’t . . .” It was done. I was done. But you wouldn’t let go. You never let go. The rose on Tara’s breast, round and burnt at the edges, begins to melt. Oz dips a finger into the splash of red, obscenely moist. “But I love you,” Willow whispers. Tara raises one awkward arm, limp at the wrist and somewhat broken, to press against the hole in her heart. It’s beginning to draw flies. Sometimes love isn’t enough. “But you came back. We were okay. We were going to be okay.” Somewhere Willow is surprised by the raw and broken sound of her voice. Maybe. I can’t see the future. And now it doesn’t matter. You’ve killed me. “No! No! It wasn’t me. I... It was Warren.” This is a truth branded on her heart. It was you. Gemini to the Raspberry Hats. “I didn’t. I loved you ... I love you.” Willow chokes on her innocence. She is so very sure. You brought me in. To the fold. To the circle. I didn’t know Slayers until you. I didn’t know anything until you. Willow can hear the desperation in her voice, distorted and crackled, like static on a radio. “But you were a witch before me. You knew.” Tara shakes her head in denial; a slow slide that disrupts the buzzing flies. There was a door, she says. I was stuck. There was a door that wouldn’t open. Until you. Over Tara’s shoulder Willow can still see Oz, canine flashing sharp white in the almost light as he licks what’s left on his fingers. When he smiles she sees Veruca staking her claim. “If I had any real power I could've made Oz stay with me.” She utters the words before she can think to stop. It’s almost an afterthought. And suddenly her weakness is laid on the floor at her feet. The truth glittering rose gold. A basket of apples, lushly red. Oz stares, green fire in his eyes. It wasn’t your decision. Willow swallows hard. She remembers that the waking world once drowned in the blood of her tears. Breathing is not impossible. “But I loved you. We were together. I don’t understand.” He watches her beneath pale, sly lashes. It wasn’t your decision. “But I should have been able to keep...” No, he says and the word denies her protest. “Tara?” Her lover’s name is nearly a song, a melody sad enough to break all hearts. But Tara stands mute. Still. Her face nearly devoured by the flies. “Tara! Baby?” Willow steps forward to touch, arm outstretched to aid, and save her lover before the world shatters, again. Oz takes a step. A second. A running leap forward and Willow can see his canine bared. His head elongates, his body sleeks into gray and silver as he reaches for her throat. “Oz?” She sighs his name longingly. Willow remembers that he was her lover, too. Willow closes her eyes tight and feels the sharp prick of emeralds squeezing between her lids to slide down ivory cheeks. In her heart of hearts she says a prayer for an end. Any end that isn’t the forever kind of pain that eats a hole in her stomach and blackens her eyes into pitch. A rush of air and the gentlest of caresses across her hair and down her cheek. Willow opens her eyes to see Oz sprawled at her feet, Tara’s flies ecstatic at the offering of more. They hover over the stake buried in the center of his chest. “Oz?” she whispers. She can feel the shift and crack of her mended heart re-fracturing along a network of older lines. The apples will rot if you don’t eat them. Tara has lost most of the flies, abandoned for the warmer wine of Oz. But there are still cracks in the mask of her face, fine lines of diamond that sparkle and glint. Buffy stands beside her, crossbow in hand, her finger resting where it counts. “You killed him?” The apples are rotten if you don’t eat them. I am the Slayer. The only girl in all the world. Death is my gift. Buffy raises the crossbow; tears sliding down the mirror of her face. Willow can see her pain reflected a thousand times so bright that it hurts to look. I’m sorry, Will. Tara shakes her head, aggravating the fractures that divide her skin. This time it’s your fault. Willow tries to swallow her tears but they sting like nettles on the way down. Too many to save and the ones that escape fall heedlessly to the floor, soaking into Oz at her feet. “Buffy?” Willow sobs; her cracked voice lacerates the light like pain squeezing the heart. Buffy smiles are tragic. One girl in all the world. She blinks and the tears continue to fall. Witches to reap. Tara is getting brighter, light seeping through the cracks to infect her pores. This time it’s your fault. Willow holds herself tight. Her arms are a truss to hold in the rage. She blinks back tears, black-eyed, and the taste is bitter. “I’m dreaming,” Willow cries. “Dreaming.” Her knees buckle and she can feel the sting against her shins as she hits the ground. Tara sources the light and her smile is gentle, but cold, radiant and broken. Beams of stars strain to shine through the cracks in her mask. Buffy stands beside her. Don’t worry about it, she says. Close your eyes. I love you. Willow watches as the world freezes. For a moment, a pause to balance and to make sure that the lesson is learned and understood. She watches as Tara shatters, glory too much for the skin to contain. Light, brighter than sun, scatters into the empty corners that stretch into forever. Willow freezes as the world watches. A pause, for a moment to sharpen and make sure that the lesson is understood and learned. She watches as Buffy tightens her finger on the trigger, Giles at her shoulder: Remember to squeeze. Don’t pull. When the world begins again, dressed in light too bright to see by and bathed in lies dressed as truth, Willow feels the searing sharp of wood where her heart was shattered. Once. The sky that isn’t darkens and she can’t see the figures caressed by shadows. But there is whispering there, all around. The cooing rustle of silk mourning the loss. In the morning it will be the same: a dream that isn’t, beneath an echo of almost light. Soft light, centered in shadow, not quite yellow and not quite bright enough. A prison decorated in black and white Willow-dreams except when it counts; dark over everything so that she can’t see the exits. And sometimes she will feel a rush of air and the gentlest of caresses across her hair and down her cheek. A kiss on her forehead to warn her. But she never remembers, of that they make sure. It is a prison. A spell to contain. Willow dreams in black and white except when it counts. They worry about what will happen when she begins to dream in color. end