Willow fic
Nov. 14th, 2007 01:20 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
confusedkayt.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
lateseasonloveTitle: Determination
Rating: PG, maybe
Timing: Right after Willow slays the deer during Bargaining
Author's note: I got to watching "Weight of the World" the other day and I think Willow's view of Buffy was fundamentally shifted there. I had penned a rather boring essay on it but realized I'm better at fictionalizing these things.
She can feel it staring at her back.
Now, after it’s done, she can feel an awful lot. Her hands are shaking, the grass she’s propped herself in is slippery, and someone, somewhere is revoking her vegetarian status.
She needs a deep breath, a centering breath. She needs to drown out the wimpy little voices that are screaming that Tara wouldn’t like it, Xander would be sick, danger, danger, danger little girl. They punch the bottom out of this little enterprise and she can’t give up, not now, not even for a second. Because, boy howdy, talk about danger. Forces roil around her, crackling up and down her skin just waiting for her to give in, just for a moment, She can see it, can’t she, the unwelcome flash animation Buffy stuffed in her head, and endless loop of bookshelves and broken eyes, I killed my sister, my power, myself because I gave up.
Her mouth feels dry, just a little, and she swallows with undue force. Resolve face, the one that never gives up and this time she’s thought of everything, checked and rechecked it and this would work. Deep breaths, meditation breaths. Can’t get too hepped up because it knows, the power, it’s ready as she is. This is exciting stuff, real magic, a change from hectic days of grunt work, the telepathy and floating stakes and playing nanny. Had this been what did it, ground Buffy down, this endless hack and slash, demon-torn sweaters, new evil popping up to take the place of old every damn day.
It’s crackling harder now. It should stop. She’s not mad, of course she’s not mad. Sad, of course, who wouldn’t be, but the gods don’t respond to grief, not like demons do. Hecate was silent and oh she’d screamed for her. Nothing, nothing but D’Hoffryn, grim at then end of her bedstead when she woke sweaty, her red head stuffed with Buffy’s nightmares. He’d looked older, his hoary hand lingering in her hair for an unwelcome second. So sorry, his mistake. The revenge was already finished here, but do call again, Miss Rosenberg, if you’ve the need. The inclination.
It’s not a good idea to stay here. The power’s getting restless and she can feel the body – no, not the body, the carcass, she’s not a full-fledged hippy yet – staring. Should she close its eyes before she goes? She reaches out but it’s too strong now, it jumps and burns and who know what will happen to the spell for this gesture of respect. Better to leave it, leave it out of her mind. She can’t give up now, not even for a second.
Rating: PG, maybe
Timing: Right after Willow slays the deer during Bargaining
Author's note: I got to watching "Weight of the World" the other day and I think Willow's view of Buffy was fundamentally shifted there. I had penned a rather boring essay on it but realized I'm better at fictionalizing these things.
She can feel it staring at her back.
Now, after it’s done, she can feel an awful lot. Her hands are shaking, the grass she’s propped herself in is slippery, and someone, somewhere is revoking her vegetarian status.
She needs a deep breath, a centering breath. She needs to drown out the wimpy little voices that are screaming that Tara wouldn’t like it, Xander would be sick, danger, danger, danger little girl. They punch the bottom out of this little enterprise and she can’t give up, not now, not even for a second. Because, boy howdy, talk about danger. Forces roil around her, crackling up and down her skin just waiting for her to give in, just for a moment, She can see it, can’t she, the unwelcome flash animation Buffy stuffed in her head, and endless loop of bookshelves and broken eyes, I killed my sister, my power, myself because I gave up.
Her mouth feels dry, just a little, and she swallows with undue force. Resolve face, the one that never gives up and this time she’s thought of everything, checked and rechecked it and this would work. Deep breaths, meditation breaths. Can’t get too hepped up because it knows, the power, it’s ready as she is. This is exciting stuff, real magic, a change from hectic days of grunt work, the telepathy and floating stakes and playing nanny. Had this been what did it, ground Buffy down, this endless hack and slash, demon-torn sweaters, new evil popping up to take the place of old every damn day.
It’s crackling harder now. It should stop. She’s not mad, of course she’s not mad. Sad, of course, who wouldn’t be, but the gods don’t respond to grief, not like demons do. Hecate was silent and oh she’d screamed for her. Nothing, nothing but D’Hoffryn, grim at then end of her bedstead when she woke sweaty, her red head stuffed with Buffy’s nightmares. He’d looked older, his hoary hand lingering in her hair for an unwelcome second. So sorry, his mistake. The revenge was already finished here, but do call again, Miss Rosenberg, if you’ve the need. The inclination.
It’s not a good idea to stay here. The power’s getting restless and she can feel the body – no, not the body, the carcass, she’s not a full-fledged hippy yet – staring. Should she close its eyes before she goes? She reaches out but it’s too strong now, it jumps and burns and who know what will happen to the spell for this gesture of respect. Better to leave it, leave it out of her mind. She can’t give up now, not even for a second.
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