I was waiting. I feel like some part of me will always be waiting for you. Like if I'm old and blue-haired, and I turn the corner in Istanbul and there you are, I won't be surprised. Because... you're with me, you know?
Willow, New Moon Rising
Caracas. Cordoba. Sao Paulo. Sturdy, earthy names that sound solid on the tongue. Energetic crowds packed into hot, grimy cities; all very tangible, very sensory, very real. Willow is glad of the dirt and the smells and the crushing press of bodies. She likes having the outside world up close and personal; in her face. Likes having things - people - she can touch and feel as well as see. It anchors her, keeps her grounded.
She drifts so easily, these days.
*
They travel, and they search, and they ask questions. Questions about girls; girls with unusual strength, girls who had strange dreams, girls who'd changed in some terrifying, fundamental way that they couldn't explain.
Much like she had.
But no-one is searching for her.
When she thinks Kennedy isn't listening, she also asks questions about a boy (a man, really, he's at least twenty-three now, but she always remembers a boy) travelling alone, in a battered van. A boy with the moon in his eyes.
Sometimes, the people that they speak to have heard of the girls. Sometimes not.
None of them have heard of the boy.
*
"You're looking for him, aren't you? You're still in love with him."
Kennedy's tone is flat; it's a statement, not a question. But her eyes aren't as certain as her voice. Her eyes want to be contradicted. Tell me different, they say. Please, Willow. Make it right.
She could do that. Could re-assure Kennedy with words. "No," she could say. "I loved him once, but that's in the past. I'm with you now. You're the one I need." Maybe even, "I care about him, yes. I'd like to know that he's okay. But I don't want him back."
Could re-assure her even better with her body; could go to her and laugh, stroke her hair and show her with hands and tongues and pleasure that she's got it all wrong.
Could re-assure her completely with the magic that flows to Willow's fingertips as easily and automatically as blood. Forget...
But she's tired of making it right. So very, very tired.
So she stays where she is, and her hands remain dormant at her side. No caresses, no spells.
"I'm sorry," are the only words she uses.
*
Kennedy calls Andrew, and requests reassignment in a brusque, businesslike voice. Willow closes her eyes and wishes briefly that Buffy were here to see her Golden Rule in action: broken heart or not, you're still a Slayer.
Kennedy packs her bag in silence, but turns as she reaches the doorway of their room. "I'm going back to Cleveland. Training detail. Andrew says they still need help with all the new Slayers. He's probably fed up being used as a punchbag."
Willow nods. Tries to match the look, I can be civilised about this smile. It feels strangely uncomfortable on her lips. She hasn't felt civilised for a long time now.
"Well, I'd better be off. Trains, ferries and donkeys to catch, you know how it is."
"Be careful," says Willow, but Kennedy is already gone.
*
Dawn calls. "I'm okay," Willow says. "Really. These things happen, you know? Don't worry about me, you've got enough on your plate. Everything's under control."
Buffy calls. "Yes, it was horrible," she says. "But I had to do it. I can't keep making it right when it isn't supposed to be, you know? I won't do that. I learned better. I did, didn't I? Didn't I, Buffy?"
Xander calls, and she cries solidly for ten minutes. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'm out here on my own and I don't know where I am or what I'm doing and I think I'm going crazy."
Oz never calls. "I miss you," she says. "Oh, Oz. I miss you so goddamn much."
Giles calls. "Come home," he says.
*
Home. She likes the idea, likes the word. Says it out loud, and it sounds good. Home. She just doesn't know what it means.
Home as in the place where your house is situated? She doesn't have a house, now. She has a rucksack, which is currently resting on the floor of the hostel room. Is that home? She lies down beside it and puts her arms around it, but it doesn't make her feel any better.
Home as in the place where you were born? Not an option. Sunnydale simply doesn't exist any more. She's heard the crater does quite well as a tourist attraction, though. Do people get born in Disneyland, and call it home? She ponders that for a while. They get married there, don't they? She has a vague idea that they have a birthing pool at one of the hotels, but she thinks it might have been for dolphins.
Home as in where your family is? Birth family: also not an option - see previous answer. Chosen family: scattered. Can home be Italy, Africa, England and Cleveland, all at once? She doubts it.
Home as in where your heart is? Now that should have been the easy one. She's given her heart twice; Tara, and Oz. But has no way of reaching either.
So in lieu of going home, Willow goes on.
*
She heads for Mexico, although she has no idea whether there might be Slayers there or not. She hasn't downloaded any of Giles's maps and emails for a while now. Mexico, then Romania, Tibet, Istanbul; it feels like an itinerary, almost like a plan. That soothes her, gives her a sense of purpose.
She'll go where he went, and ask questions. Get information. She's good at that.
*
She throws her cellphone into a river, cuts her hair and gives over the last of her American money in exchange for a bass guitar. She likes the heavy, comforting weight of it; like a snail, she can just carry her home on her back.
She travels, and searches, and tries to learn how to play her guitar. It's doesn't come easy, but she has patience.
She can wait.
- End -
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