Tara does her best to tamp down on her anger, when it springs up. She’d made herself a promise back when she was still living at her father’s house that she would be thoughtful and cautious about blowing up, trying her best to break the cycle of violence that had plagued her family. It’s often easier said than done.
Sometimes, especially lately, everything just piles up— non-stop frustrations that make Tara want to scream.
For one thing, the reveal that Willow had been keeping extra magic supplies hit her hard. It’s jarring to think of her sweet girl—ex-girlfriend lying to them all, ingredients hidden under her bed or in her closet or wherever the hell Willow’d kept them. Just in case, Tara thinks to herself, scoffing internally at the idea. She knew Willow had some issues with understanding the repercussions of her actions, but this isn’t just that. Not that there’s much just about that, Tara has to admit, but still. This is knowing what she’s doing is wrong, feeling the fear of being discovered, and still defending her actions when it all comes inevitably crashing down.
And then there’d been Anya, of course. Tara loves the ex-demon, she really does, but goddess if she doesn’t get under her skin sometimes. Willow had done the smart thing— the right thing— and realized if she started using again, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and Anya had tried to completely crush that meaningful step forward. Tara can admit she got a little visibly upset then. She said no! Sue her, Tara gets feisty when you endanger the people she loves.
And Spike. He’s so confusing to Tara sometimes, a man who wants to do better, who cares so deeply for the Summers women (and all of them, in his own way), and who still seems completely unaware of what he’s doing to Buffy. But Tara respects Buffy too much to call him out in front of the rest of the Scoobies, can’t do that when Buffy broke down to her in tears for fear of what everyone else might think. More than anything, Tara wanted Spike to understand that she knew, that Buffy had refused to stay completely silent, that he ought to be careful where he put those hands of his when Tara was around.
They hadn’t had time for Tara to really pull Buffy aside after the whole fiasco, not with Buffy’s energy being focused on Dawn post-Halfrek and Tara’s energy being focused on Willow post-spellcasting. Still, it feels important to say… well, something, at least.
“Do you wanna grab coffee?” Tara asks, catching Buffy gently by the arm as they leave The Magic Box a few days later. By sheer dumb luck, neither Xander nor Willow is around to drag Buffy’s attention away. “I— I mean, if you’re free.”
There must be something in Tara’s expression, because as Buffy lifts her eyes to meet hers, that permanently anxious look she wears half-settles in Buffy’s face. Tara can’t help but smile at the sight, at the reminder that her friend trusts her. Skittish as she is nowadays, Tara treasures these moments when they come.
“Yeah,” Buffy replies, soft and serious, and Tara wishes she’d make a joke or a pun, say something silly about Anya’s latest business venture by the registers. The girl Tara met back at UC Sunnydale would’ve. But the shortness serves as a reminder— Buffy isn’t eighteen anymore. She’s reckoning with being pulled out of Heaven and thrust back into the nonstop battle of slayerhood, and, most pertinently for this conversation, with feeling like she’s somehow sub-human for struggling.
They lapse into quiet again, the two of them falling into step as they head toward the Espresso Pump.
“I’m buying,” Tara says, when Buffy pulls open the door for her, and Buffy chuckles.
“You won’t hear any complaints from me,” she replies, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “A cappuccino, please?”
Tara nods, gives a dorky little salute that she wants to wince at herself for but that manages to drag another little grin out of Buffy.
By the time she’s retrieved both their drinks and enough napkins for a small family of five, Buffy is tucked into a booth toward the back of the cafe, facing the door. It hurts something in Tara’s heart to see the tension in her body. Still, she steps closer, slides Buffy’s coffee carefully across the table and takes a seat on the other side of the booth. She’s rewarded with a tiny smile and a thank you.
“Buffy,” Tara begins, taking a long sip of coffee to slow her roll and approaching her friend like a kind of startled deer, “how’re you doing?”
It feels like a safe enough question, considering. She’d asked it at Buffy’s birthday party and received a semi-truthful answer.
“Okay,” she gets this time, as Buffy cradles the warm to-go cup to her chest. “Sorta.”
“Well, it’s— you know, it’s okay if you’re not okay.” Tara picks up a napkin for want of anything else to do with her hands, begins tearing it into increasingly smaller and smaller pieces. Buffy levels her with a look that reminds Tara of what she told her when her mother died. I know it’s different for you, she’d said, because it’s always different. She should know better, Tara thinks to herself, chastising. Of course it’s different here too.
Still, she half-smiles at Tara. “I appreciate that you want that to be true,” Buffy says, and Tara huffs out a quiet laugh. “It’s just… I’m so tired, y’know?”
Tara nods. “Yeah, I know. I can’t even imagine, sweetie.”
She pauses for a moment, tries to figure out if it’s smarter to let Buffy lead the conversation or just cut to the meat of what she wants to say. Buffy’s never been great at reading the room, and her time post-resurrection has only made her less tolerant of hemming and hawing. It’s enough to make Tara’s decision for her.
“With Spike, and the whole…” Tara shifts the napkin to her other hand, tears another piece. “Boundaries thing,” she finishes, semi-charitably. “I wanted you to know I’m here to listen when you need something. I’m not— I know he loves you, in his own way, but the whole cornering you in the kitchen thing, it— it rubbed me the wrong way. I wanted you to know you have somebody who lets you make a choice.“
Something surprised but not displeased flits across Buffy’s face then, her mouth dropping into a sweet little o. “I think I’m misunderstanding,” she says, placing her coffee on the table in front of her and leaning forward to hush their conversation.
Tara follows her lead, lowers her own voice. “I mean… I didn’t exactly mean like with Spike,” she says, a little coyness fitting into the corner of her lips, “but it’s good to know that’s where your brain is.” The blush it draws from Buffy is more than worth it, the slayer forever bashful at the mere suggestion of sex. “Sweetie,” Tara says, soft but determined, waiting to continue until Buffy is looking back up at her. “You’re so nervous around even the most basic of touches nowadays. I just want you to know that you’re allowed to call the shots.”
Buffy’s still leaning forward, so Tara takes the opportunity to curl her hand around Buffy’s elbow where it sits on the table, just a light touch. The startle is slight, so small Tara thinks she might’ve missed it if she weren’t used to flinching at touch herself. She goes to move her hand, to demonstrate her point, but Buffy’s other hand jumps over to keep Tara where she is.
Buffy’s eyes narrow in consideration. “What about what you want?”
Tara shrugs, though the thoughtfulness of the question knocks her off-balance. How long has it been since someone asked Tara what it was she wanted? “I want to help,” she says, truthfully.
“But besides that,” Buffy says, prying at the edges of the offer to find where it’s loosest. “What good is this for you?”
Tara sighs, lays her hand palm-up on the tabletop and waits to see if Buffy reacts. After a moment, Buffy reaches down, laces her fingers with Tara’s.
Tara weighs the pros and cons of honesty. At her core, she’s never liked to lie, so she looks Buffy in the eye and says, “I miss having a person. Willow is always going to be in my heart, but she… we’re not good for each other, not anymore. So maybe there’s some small, selfish part of me that just wants to pretend.”
Buffy’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t think that’s selfish,” she disagrees, testing the waters by flexing her fingers in Tara’s hold. “I get it.”
She does, doesn’t she? Buffy, so horrified to think she might be using Spike, would be the person to understand Tara’s sneaking fear that enjoying company and touch is somehow greedy. Taking something that isn’t hers.
Buffy hums, considering for a moment. All her cards on the table, Tara simply sits in the quiet and lets her gather her thoughts.
“I think,” Buffy says after a moment, “that I’d really like that.”
The first time they really play with their new boundaries is after patrol one night— Buffy finds Tara on the couch, tucked under a quilt, reruns of an old cartoon Dawn likes playing quietly on the television. Tara lifts one hand to wave, expecting Buffy to trudge past her with only the loosest of greetings, but the slayer surprises her.
Buffy sheds her jacket and her shoes and tucks herself between Tara’s feet and the arm of the couch. Her touch is warm through the blanket, though the tension of her muscles is immediately evident.
“Rough night?” Tara asks quietly, keeping carefully still.
Buffy smiles ruefully. “It’s starting to feel like I’ve got nothing but rough nights,” she replies.
“Just starting to?” Tara teases, watching the breath go out of Buffy like a balloon, half laugh and half sigh. She’s still not settled, Tara would be shocked if that had done it, but they’re moving in the right direction.
Buffy’s eyes remain stuck on the shapes of the television screen, like she might be able to sneak up on Tara if she seems unaffected by the whole thing, as she carefully lifts Tara’s legs, settles their weight in her lap. Tara stays wisely quiet.
“Thank you,” Buffy says, after a long moment, “for watching Dawn tonight.”
“Always,” Tara replies, instant. “I’m happy to, you know that.”
Buffy’s lips quirk into a tiny smile. “I do. But still.”
Tara hums. “But still,” she echoes, watching for the way Buffy ducks to hide her quiet laughter. There’s a slow, quiet moment before Buffy’s grip adjusts, her fingers wrapping around the bones of Tara’s ankle.
Buffy isn’t anywhere near calm, not yet, but they’re moving in the right direction. The simple press of skin to fabric, the quiet of their breaths intermingling in the dark.
“How do you do it?” Buffy asks, after a moment of silence so long Tara has begun to assume their conversation is over.
She’s not quite sure what Buffy means, so Tara elects to punt. “Dawn? She’s really not as much trouble as she seems, promise.”
Buffy’s grip flexes against Tara’s ankle in response. “The trusting people thing,” she corrects, something vulnerable in her voice. “When people have treated you like such crap.”
“Well,” Tara begins slowly, feeling out the thoughts as she speaks, “the people who treated me poorly aren’t the people I extend my kindness to, not really. Though I guess I try to extend it to everyone, so it’s— the people who’ve hurt me, those are the ones who don’t get my trust.”
Buffy considers this. “So with Willow,” she begins, and Tara’s hackles raise, just a little. She knows how deeply-knit the bond between Buffy and Willow is, can’t help but get nervous that Buffy might be about to vouch for her best friend’s momentary lapse in judgement.
“I will always care very deeply for Willow,” Tara interrupts, afraid to let Buffy complete the sentence. “But she knows that I was worried about her magic use even before things went south, and after Glory…” She trails off, exhaustion suddenly catching up with her.
“So with Willow,” Buffy repeats, slower this time, running her thumb soothingly along the inside of Tara’s leg, “don’t you feel… betrayed?”
Tara is reminded once again of the similarities between herself and Buffy, the way the slayer is using Tara as a lens through which to understand her own humanity.
“Yes,” Tara replies, “and no. It’s a difficult needle to thread when it’s someone who’s been so important to you— you know, when it’s not black and white. So I’m always going to be a little betrayed by Willow for doing what she did, but that feeling doesn’t have to eclipse my caring for her. It certainly isn’t going away, I’m not going to be able to put it behind us and have the same relationship we did before, but… I can’t hate her, you know?”
Buffy hums, mulling over Tara’s words. “It’s not— I don’t want to hate her,” Buffy says, as though she’s worried that’s the fear Tara has.
“I know, sweetie.”
“But it hurts.” Out of the corner of her eye, Tara can see tears streaming quietly down Buffy’s cheeks. “She wants it to be the same, but it’s not the same.”
Tara pulls her knees against her chest, using the motion to drag herself closer to Buffy. She draws little circles on Buffy’s back with her fingers. “No, it’s not.” She pauses, for a moment, then adds, “but that doesn’t mean you can never trust her again.”
It hurts to see Buffy looking so lost, the way she finally makes eye contact once Tara says the words. “I want to,” she says, quiet and soft in a way Tara rarely associates with the slayer. Maybe she should start to.
“That’s okay,” Tara encourages, letting Buffy guide the flow of the conversation. “You get to decide what that relationship looks like now, Buffy, okay?” She pauses, searches blindly for what the hell is helpful to say here. “Like this,” Tara says finally, sliding her fingers up the line of Buffy’s back until they sit gently, cautiously against her neck. It’s a dangerous, touchy spot for Buffy. “Remember how I said I wanted you to have the power in this situation? The ability to say that anything, anytime, was not okay, no matter what?”
Ever so slightly, Buffy nods. Tara can feel the stretch of the muscle underneath her fingertips.
There’s quiet for a long moment, tense enough that Tara feels it necessary to prompt her again. “Sweetie? Is this okay?”
“Maybe not right now,” Buffy says, and Tara smiles and shifts her hand immediately.
“Thank you, Buffy,” she replies, biting down only barely on the instinct to say good girl. “You get to decide what things look like,” Tara says, recovering after a longer pause than she anticipated, “with me, but with everyone else too.”
Buffy laughs dryly. “It’s a nice theory,” she says, and Tara bumps up against her shoulder, light and chastising.
“I mean it,” she says. “There are some things you have to do, but letting people pretend you’re not allowed to be human isn’t one of them.”
Buffy goes quiet again, wraps both hands around Tara’s arm as if to draw them even closer to each other, the odd angles and knees poking into shoulders more an afterthought than anything else.
After a long moment, she speaks again. “I’m tired,” Buffy says, and Tara nods, leans her cheek against the soft warmth of Buffy’s head.
“I know,” Tara replies. And then, for good measure, “me too.”
Buffy hums, thoughtful. Tara can feel the vibration of it through her skull.
“You can have human feelings too,” Buffy adds, squeezing Tara’s arm comfortingly. “I don’t think—“ She cuts herself off, considers. Tara waits her out. “I don’t think we let you have those, a lot of the time? I think it’s usually, like, oh, there’s Tara, she’s all wise and kind and she’s always gonna be there to catch everybody else when they fall. And I don’t think that’s fair to you.”
Tara thinks about them, the non-stop frustrations that she’s been stepping on and crushing beneath the heel of her boots in hopes of never making anyone uncomfortable, the way no one has noticed, the way Willow had seen her carefully locked doors and thought they were an invitation to ram them down.
She peers down at Buffy, clinging to her arm, staring the blanket piled between them (half on the floor), and thinks about the consideration she’s being given here. There’s a feeling in her stomach she doesn’t want to untangle.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she says instead, “I appreciate that more than you know.”
They tend to gravitate toward each other after that. Not so much that anyone notices, she hopes, or at least not so much that anyone says anything, but it certainly gives Tara herself pause. She keeps ruminating on what Buffy said, that permission to have her own feelings, taking it out and twisting it around to stare at it every so often like a trinket.
She’s not quite sure what to do with the sensation.
A few weeks later, she finds Buffy alone again, sitting at the kitchen island. She’s got a cup of apple juice and a bowl of cereal, neither with much of a dent made, and she’s staring at the newspaper with something of a frown on her face. Her eyebrows are furrowed together and Tara finds her fingers itching to smooth the crease between them.
At the shuffle of Tara’s slippered feet, Buffy turns her head ever so slightly, meets Tara’s gaze. Her expression clears a little, but not so much that the remnants of annoyance don’t stay stamped across her face. Tara can’t stop staring.
To be fair, it’s not just the expression. It’s a little bit that, because Tara is enamored with the way Buffy Summers’s face twists and turns around emotion, the way she wears her heart on her sleeve even through the layers of depression and exhaustion. But it’s also the pair of drugstore readers she’s got perched on her nose, hot pink and adorable.
Buffy seems to misinterpret Tara’s staring, her hand flying to her face to pull her frames off. “Ugh, old lady alert,” she says, rolling her eyes at herself.
Tara stops her in her tracks. She catches Buffy’s wrist lightly, watches the tiny movement of Buffy’s jaw dropping ever so slightly in surprise. “They’re cute,” she murmurs, hyperaware of how close they’re standing.
“Thanks,” Buffy replies, soft, matching her tone, like she’s afraid to speak any louder.
There’s a long moment of quiet and Tara just stands there like an idiot, her hand wrapped around Buffy’s wrist, but the thing is, the thing is, Buffy hasn’t made any move to get away. The air is electric with something Tara is hesitant to interrupt. She doesn’t speak.
Finally, Buffy lifts her free hand to Tara’s jaw, cradling it. It’s more intimate than anything they’ve done before. Have they been walking this line since the Espresso Pump? Before? Tara isn’t sure.
Buffy is leaning towards her, the string between them pulling taut, when Dawn starts down the stairs, the noise shattering any illusion the two of them had of being alone together. Dawn rounds the corner completely unaware, purse slung over one shoulder and outfit so strikingly Buffy it makes Tara’s lips quirk as she tries to hide a grin.
“Isn’t this early for you?” Buffy asks, leaning back against the countertop as though that had been the reason for her closeness to Tara all along. Dawn doesn’t even notice.
“I’ll get coffee,” Dawn huffs, “we’ve got a whole day planned. It’s nothing.”
It sure sounds like something, but Tara isn’t about to pick at the threads. Tara’s got her own something right here, and she’s kind of got her hands full. Buffy makes a little noise of consideration and lets it pass, drops back onto the stool with a swing of her legs as Dawn waves goodbye.
“Make good choices!” Buffy calls, doing her best to lean into her role of older sister, loud and overbearing and only half-teasing. “Don’t get eaten!” Dawn groans from the doorway and Tara laughs.
By the time the kitchen has quieted again, Tara feels out-of-step, uncertain with what to do next. She traces the line of Buffy’s hand with her eyes, watches the way she picks the paper back up halfheartedly, as if to give Tara an out.
Tara doesn’t want an out.
She steps closer to Buffy instead, places herself squarely between the jaws of her thighs. Tara’s careful not to trap Buffy, careful to leave all her exits open, and rather than tension, she sees something like curiosity fill Buffy’s features.
Buffy drops the newspaper against the counter with a quiet thwack and Tara smiles down at her. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by fondness watching Buffy. Her hand now free, she reaches gently for Tara’s waist and curls her fingers loosely around the curve of it.
Her eyes search Tara’s for a moment, considering— Tara wonders what she’s thinking. Buffy’s grip flexes, like she’s testing the waters.
“It’s okay,” Tara says, but that doesn’t seem to be what Buffy’s looking for. Her face twists into a sort of exasperation— with Tara or herself or the situation or what, Tara isn’t sure— and she drops her head with a sigh, low and heavy. Still, Buffy doesn’t move her hand.
Tara’s been learning the language of Buffy Summers for a while now, but she’s only been getting semi-fluent in it for a few months, so she tries to forgive herself the slowness.
“Buffy,” she course-corrects, lifting Buffy’s chin with a gentle knuckle, making careful eye contact, “please.”
It’s the right answer.
Something shifts in Buffy’s eyes, bright and thrilling, and the hand on Tara’s waist tightens its grip as it tugs her closer. Tara slides her own hand back along Buffy’s jaw, lets her fingers wind into her hair.
Buffy hesitates.
“Tara,” she murmurs, “now is the time to tell me if I’m being majorly dumb.”
Tara opens her eyes. She hadn’t realized she’d closed them. Buffy’s gaze is searching, pleading.
As easy as it is to read Buffy’s expressions, she so rarely actually says what’s on her mind. Tara wants so badly to peel back the layers, to know exactly what it is that’s made Buffy so nervous even though she’s the one boxing Tara up against the counter.
After a long moment, Buffy’s thumb rubbing tiny circles on Tara’s hip— so instinctive Tara thinks it must be to comfort Buffy herself— Buffy sighs again, quieter this time.
“I don’t want…” She trails off, pauses, as if looking for the right words. “To take advantage of this, of you.”
Tara hums. Something unlocks in her chest. Another piece of the puzzle fits together.
“You just wanted to help,” Buffy adds, and Tara realizes abruptly she isn’t done self-flagellating.
“Honey,” Tara tries to interject, but there’s no stopping Buffy now that she’s on a roll.
“This is what I was worried about,” she admits, frustration seeping through every pore. “I can’t even have normal friendships, I just have to ruin everything I touch. Classic Buffy. He was—“
Tara is 95% sure she’s about to say right and she doesn’t want to hear it. “Buffy,” she cuts in again, firmer this time, and the other woman’s eyes snap up to hers, a soldier used to taking orders. “Listen to me. Yes, I wanted to help— I want to help,” she amends, because it’s still true, it will always be true, “but you and I have talked about black and white before. The wanting to help and the being your friend does not preclude the other things, alright?”
Buffy blinks, once, twice, like she’s rebooting. Tara keeps her face set sternly, like she’s telling Dawn she has to do the dishes tonight.
“Buffy,” Tara says, “you need to trust me, okay? You need to trust that when I say things, I mean them.” She gentles her grip in Buffy’s hair enough to run her thumb along the side of Buffy’s face, slow and easy. “We’re on steady ground here. I promise.”
The edges of Buffy’s lips curl into a small smile. “Okay,” she agrees, soft and pleased. “So, we can— so I—“ She cuts herself off, but not frustrated this time, just awkward. Uncertain. Getting in her own way.
Tara smirks. “Use your words, Buffy.”
Buffy shoots her a capital-L Look, curve of her lips going wry. She takes a deep breath. “Can I kiss you, Tara Maclay?”
Instead of nodding, Tara leans down into Buffy’s space, uses the hand holding her jaw to guide their lips to meet. Buffy stretches into her, flexing her hand against Tara’s hip and kissing her deeply.
When they pull apart, Tara manages to catch Buffy’s bottom lip between her teeth, doesn’t realize she’s even done it until it drags a delicious noise from the back of Buffy’s throat. Buffy’s other hand snakes up Tara’s side and meets its other half, Buffy interlacing her fingers at the small of Tara’s back. The weight of the touch is warm, centering, and it makes Tara smile.
“Just a heads up,” Buffy says, “I’m, like, super bad at this, so…”
“Kissing?” Tara teases, for the eye roll it earns her. “I wouldn’t say super bad.”
Buffy gasps, mock-offended, self-doubt briefly forgotten. “Are you saying I’m a bad kisser?”
“I think you’re saying you’re a bad kisser,” Tara corrects, “and I’m just agreeing to disagree.”
Buffy snorts. “I’m not…” She trails off, pauses for a moment to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know how to do this. The extent of my experience is like— it hurts because it’s supposed to hurt, y’know?”
Tara knows.
“But this,” Buffy adds, the words spilling out of her, “it’s like— you’re my friend. And I do trust you, even if trust and I are not, like, the bestest of buddies or whatever. And we’re moving at, like, a snail’s pace, which is so above my pay grade, it’s like…” Buffy makes a little exploding noise, and Tara gets the feeling if her hands weren’t busy, there would’ve been a matching mind blown mime to match.
“Do you remember what I told you?” Tara asks, half-smiling at the sound effect. “At the Espresso Pump?”
Buffy nods, but her monologue seems to have taken all the steam out of her. Tara doesn’t mind.
“I wanted you to be listened to,” Tara reminds her, “to have a choice. No matter what we are to each other, that’s always going to be true. So,” she takes a deep breath, makes careful eye contact with Buffy, “it doesn’t matter what your past has been like. Or mine.“
Buffy’s lips quirk into the tiniest of smiles. “We’re on steady ground?” She echoes, and Tara grins.
“Steady ground,” she affirms.
“So,” Buffy begins, “we can keep on going slow? You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Tara assures her.
Buffy hums. “Thank you,” she says, softly. “Promise me one more thing. This can’t just be about me, okay?“
Tara feels herself soften. “This is your Tara gets human feelings crusade again?”
Buffy laughs. “Yeah, a little, I guess. I just— I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
Maybe it’s that this is the second time she’s broached the topic in as many minutes, but Tara has the distinct feeling this is one of those deeply rooted fears Buffy isn’t going to let go of anytime soon. Tara isn’t about to let Buffy know how often she’s been thinking about this very offer herself— at least not yet— but she can plant the seeds for later.
“Deal,” Tara says. “Thank you, sweetie.” She presses a fleeting kiss to the top of Buffy’s head. She wants to say so much more, but the words get caught up in her throat. Instead, she sighs and just repeats herself. Hopes Buffy knows how much she means it. “Thank you.”