(Title from Edwin McCain's Life in the Storm.)

Special thanks to Selene for the stunning artwork for this story.

-Nominations Received-

-Awards Received-

This story has also been the recipient of the (Runner-Up) Best Angst Award at the Primordial Souls Awards (banner pending).

“I was willin’ to back her up too, you know.  Didn’t have to do it alone.” 

Spike’s voice caught her by surprise as she stared out the dining room window, looking out into the world none of them could reach.  She hadn’t heard him come back in.  When the confrontation had ended, and she’d been left alone to regroup, she’d instinctively sought comfort in the cool of the glass, the darkness of the room masking her reflection and leaving her with a blank slate upon which to rest her head.  Her fingers traced the outlines of the trees discernible at the fringes of the yard, longing to touch the bark, the leaves, hungry for contact with anything but cold glass or plaster.  Strange how even the darkness that could be so threatening in Sunnydale could look so alluring when the bleakness of your own spirit was your only option for company.

“I know.”  Tara turned to him as she answered, offering him a small half-smile.  “And thank you.”

He looked surprised by the expression of gratitude, and she realized just how rarely—if ever—he heard those words.  How often had they taken his help with no thanks, had they dismissed everything but his labor and his brute strength during that nightmarish, surreal summer when Buffy had been gone?  How many times before that?

He looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to say something, was trying to reach out but wasn’t sure how, and Tara thought that she could at least make this easier for him—fill up the silence, find a way to let him say what he wanted to say.  It seemed the least she could do, given that he had been willing to try to make her life simpler, to take some of the weight from her shoulders.  She also wanted the company, wanted something in which she could lose herself that didn’t involve the incessant swirling of her own thoughts.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said quietly, pulling out one of the dining room chairs and sitting.  “It’s just—how much time have we spent together over the years?  And one night when we can’t get away… one night is all it took, Spike.  Four hours and we’re acting out Sartre.”

“Hell is other people?” he asked, smiling when she looked a bit surprised that he had caught the reference.  “’ve lived a long time, pet.  Picked up a book or two along the way.”

“O-of course… I didn’t mean—” Tara stammered, embarrassed by the thought that she might have inadvertently offended him.

“I know you didn’t,” he said, brushing her words away with a slight wave of his hand.  “You’re ‘bout the only one who doesn’t think I’m barely a half-step above a slaverin’ fledge.”

“That’s not—” Tara began, only to pause at both his look and her own reluctant acknowledgement that he wasn’t entirely wrong.  “Spike…”

“’s all right, Glinda.”

“It’s really not.”  Three tiny words broke down walls—it was like she could watch them crumbling.  Spike’s posture relaxed, his fingers uncurled from the fist they had unconsciously made in his frustration… even his face looked younger, less hard and angular, as he allowed himself to step out from behind his guard.  He didn’t offer thanks, but then again, he didn’t need to—not when every aspect of his being was laid bare before her.  She didn’t need to hear the words.

“So what do you think all this is about, then?”  Spike finally spoke, breaking the silence and gesturing towards the windows with a wave of his hand.  “If it isn’t outside mojo, then…”

“Then it’s coming from one of us.”  Tara sighed heavily, twisting a strand of her hair nervously around her fingers.  “But how to know which one?  The best we can do is ask and hope that we’re all being honest with each other.”

“An’ that’s not somethin’ that anyone’s gonna be winning any awards for anytime soon.”  This time the sigh was Spike’s, and Tara noticed as he sat down how weary he looked, how beaten—emotionally as well as physically.

“Can it start with us?” she asked hesitantly, watching his face for any sign that he might be withdrawing again.

“Can what start with us?” Spike asked as he turned to face her.

“The honesty.”

Spike looked at her for a long moment, sizing her up carefully.  He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, or from where the wisdom behind the guileless eyes came, but as he turned away, he was certain that whatever was happening between he and Tara wasn’t malicious.  Quite the opposite, in fact—which only served to make him anxious.  “All right,” he answered, clearly on edge.

Tara took a deep breath, weighing her next words carefully.  One wrong word… his whole body was tensed as if he was ready to flee, jaw tightened until his cheekbones stood out in harsh relief… all it would take would be one faulty choice of phrase on her part, and he’d be off.  He couldn’t leave the house, but he could retreat behind the formidable walls that had surrounded him for as long as she’d known him, and which she suspected had been a part of him for long decades before.  And if leaving the house seemed impossible… pulling Spike back out of hiding would be a nearly Sisyphean task. 

What could she say?  ‘I know about you and Buffy’?  ‘You were right—there is something wrong with her’?  ‘She’s tearing herself apart, and she’s taking you down with her’?  ‘The two of you can’t go on like this’?  Everything sounded so harsh; it all sounded like judgment.  Judgment that she didn’t feel; however, she knew that the Scoobies would be coloring her words to Spike in his mind, morphing them into something that put all the blame for the wrong in Buffy squarely on his shoulders.  But then again, Tara thought, looking at the bruising that still mottled his face, the slight air of defeat that slumped shoulders generally held proudly erect, it wasn’t so hard to see that Spike might believe that as well.  If he believed that Buffy was wrong, was damaged, because he wasn’t strong enough to fix her… then that would explain so much.  So much of what Buffy couldn’t force out around her tears, so much of what Tara could see written on Spike’s face in black and blue, so much of what was hidden behind his eyes.

In the end, it seemed easier to edge towards the topic, to start somewhere else, to let the conversation flow in the hopes that it would wend its way towards someplace in which she could offer some sort of counsel.  She just hoped that, if the opportunity came, the words would be there waiting for her.

“W-what do you think about Willow?” she asked quietly, her eyes flicking to the doorway.  “Do… do you think she’s going to be strong enough to let the magic go?”

Spike remained silent for a minute, eyes closed, expression thoughtful.  “Honest opinion, yeah?” he asked finally, opening his eyes and giving her a sidelong glance, catching her nod of agreement.  “Don’t really know, luv,” he answered, taking a deep breath before continuing.  “This magic—‘s just reached out to somethin’ inside her, yeah?  But ‘s like anything else—there’s got to be somethin’ for it to hold on to.  Little girl spendin’ years all but invisible, teased mercilessly, not fittin’ in…”  Spike’s gaze seemed far away to Tara, and to Spike as well—although only one of them knew exactly how long ago the scenes upon which his mind was focused had taken place.  Only one of them knew just how well he understood Willow, how familiar he was with the story he was telling.  “Girl like that—anyone like that—power an’ strength are gonna run through them like lightning.  It’s intoxicating—to be so strong, so powerful, so above everyone who’s looked down on you…”  Clearing his throat and shaking himself from his memories, Spike turned his head to meet Tara’s intrigued stare.  “All depends on whether she’s strong enough to face the fall.  Whether she can risk goin’ back to what she used to be—what she hated bein’—in order to figure out what she oughta be, where she oughta fit.  Don’ know that Red’s got it in her… least, don’t know if she’s got it in her yet.”

“What will it take?” Tara asked, knowing he didn’t have the answer, knowing no one but Willow possibly could, but needing to hear something, anything, that would feed her shaky hopes.

“Don’ know, luv.  ‘s different for everyone, I’d imagine.  But Harris not understandin’ what she’s dealin’ with and thinkin’ she’ll always be able to come back from it isn’t helping.”  Spike’s hand twitched over his duster pocket as he fought to keep from taking out his cigarettes.  Not in the house—that was the rule.  Even if Buffy couldn’t kick him out in present circumstances, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t mind house rules; it didn’t mean he didn’t want, with everything he was, to be invited back.

“He just… he doesn’t understand,” Tara agreed quietly.  “Willow now isn’t the Willow he knew growing up; he can’t see that yet.”  Spike nodded in agreement; emboldened, she continued.  “I’m going to ask something… and if I’m wrong, you can tell me…” she began, carefully watching her companion’s face for any sign that she should back down.  Reassured by the relative openness of his expression, she continued.  “It’s just… it sounds like you know… like you understand.  Willow, I mean.  And I guess I’m just thinking… you came back from it.”  The shock registering behind Spike’s eyes gave her a moment’s pause, but as soon as she recognized the emotion for what it was—him being stunned that someone had recognized his changes, that someone was willing to acknowledge them—she began speaking anew.  “You were evil—lost to it.  And you came back from it.  So I’m just wondering…”

“How?” Spike asked, offering a half-smile in response to Tara’s nod.  “Not a simple question, that.  Not a path we want anyone else followin’ either, I’d expect.  Don’t know that I’d even wish it on them.”  To anyone else, Spike’s short laugh might’ve seemed bitter, but Tara had the strange feeling that it wasn’t—bemused, perhaps, but strangely free of the hard edge that probably should have been present.  “For me, it took bein’ as low as I could ever imagine being, an’ tryin’ to find my way back up.  Havin’ to show up starvin’ on my sworn enemy’s doorstep an’ eat enough gravy to make up for the blood I couldn’t get any other way.  Throwin’ in with the only side I could help without fryin’ my brain… and then fallin’ in love.”  A moment’s silence, and then a whispered confession, so low that Tara barely managed to hear.  “Don’t know which part of it was the worst, some days.”

She didn’t know what to say—what felt like her moment, her chance, and yet it was offered up with such pain that she couldn’t bring herself to aggravate the wound.  Not when he was already bearing wounds enough.

As if he sensed her sudden verbal paralysis, he glanced over at her and smiled, the gesture both haunted and somehow admiring.  “Want you to know… Don’ know that it matters, but I think you’re doin’ right by Red.  I know that it takes a lot, takin’ up for her like that, watchin’ her try to bring herself back.” 

“S-sometimes I get tired of it,” Tara confessed softly, the words surprising her with their bluntness even as emotions brought back speech patterns she’d long since thought that she had left behind.  “Sometimes, it’s too much… I just get so tired, and I want to be the weak one.  But then I look at her, and I see what happens when I’m not here, when I drop my guard… ”

“You need a moment of weakness, you come to me.”  The offer was plainspoken, no trace of derision or judgment or anything other than a sort of quiet admiration and empathy coloring Spike’s tone.  “I am the muscle, remember?” he added self-deprecatingly, ducking his head in embarrassment as he took in the gratitude in her eyes, the faint blush staining her cheeks.

Tara hadn’t spent years as the shy girl to not know the signs of someone with a similar bent—no matter how well he managed to hide it.  And the offer of shelter, the fact that he cared, that he stepped outside himself and his comfort zone and made the offer… well, it meant more than she would have thought possible.  It also made it possible for her to meet him halfway, to step out of her own shell and into the tentative friendship that his words had created.  “I-if you need a minute to get it together, Spike… to get your bearings again in the middle of it all…” she began, biting her lip as her own nerves caught up to her offer, “I can be there.” 

She had left the offer vague purposely, unsure as to how to bring Buffy into the discussion, but even so, Spike seemed to understand.  His eyes widened, and for a moment Tara was certain that they began to glisten suspiciously, that he was blinking back tears.  He gave her a smile much like one of his cockiest—biting his lower lip, sharp cheekbones enhanced by the tension of his jaw and the curve of his lips—but this time, it didn’t seem smug.  It seemed—sweet, boyish, like she’d just offered a world of treasure to a destitute man.  It was an offer that she was thankful she had made, an olive branch she felt the richer for having extended.

Smile fading slowly, Spike took a long, slow breath, dropping his eyes back to the floor.  “Don’t know how you do it sometimes, you know?  Watch you trying, wearin’ yourself out layin’ the trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow… can see the hurt in you from it, an’ I just don’t know how you do it.”

And just like that, Tara suddenly had the words for what she’d been longing to say.  “I can do it because I know that you’re right.  I wish that it could be different—every day, I wish it—but I have to let her bring herself back, Spike,” Tara answered gently.  “I know that I can’t force her to be the Willow she used to be again—that has to be her choice.  She’s going through something so dark that I can’t even see inside it, and as much as I want to be the one to fix it, to help her… deep down, I know you’re right.  It has to be her, Spike… she has to be the one to find the light again.”

Her hand brushing his stunned him, and he looked up from the study of his boot tips to meet her eyes.  One look at her, and the suspicions that had been building in his mind all night were confirmed—she may not fully understand what was going on between he and Buffy, but she had a good idea.

“Still talkin’ ‘bout Willow?” he asked hoarsely, shooting a glance at the door to make certain that the kitchen was still vacant.

“In part,” she answered, voice and gaze steady.  “And partly about another friend… two other friends… and what they’re going through.  Willow and I aren’t the only ones in the shadows right now.”

“Why do I think you’re not talkin’ ‘bout Harris and Anyanka?” Spike asked, chuckling nervously as he ran his free hand through his hair.  It felt like the realization of all he’d ever wanted, even as he could sense the roof caving in around him—one of Buffy’s clique knew about them.  He should be thrilled, should be overjoyed that she had obviously told, but somehow the fact that she had felt like a goodbye, made his chest hurt, made taking a breath and forming words difficult. 

“Because I’m not.”  Her point made, Tara didn’t see the need for circumspection any longer, particularly not when Spike was unconsciously gripping her hand with more force than she thought it should be able to endure.  As if he’d read her thought, he released his grip with a sheepish, mumbled apology and plunged his hand into his duster pocket, taking a cigarette from the retrieved pack and beginning to rotate it, unlit, repetitively between his thumb and forefinger.

“So you know, then.”  It wasn’t a question, and the broken tone of voice in which the words were spoken caused Tara’s heart to twist.  Spike wasn’t supposed to sound so shattered… he wasn’t supposed to be this lost.  “Suppose she told you.”

“She did.  She wanted me to research the spell, to see if anything had happened with it.”

“Because I told her that she came back wrong.”  Spike stood jerkily, hands fisting, crushing the cigarette he’d been mindlessly handling.

“She came back a bit different molecularly, but not wrong, Spike… and I told her that.  But the thing is… she’s convinced that she really did—that she’s not ‘right’ anymore.”

“It’s because of me.”  Spike blinked back tears, brought his fists to crush angrily against his eyes, wincing from the pain as bone struck bruised flesh but feeling as though he deserved it all the same.  “You don’t understand, Glinda… all this time… I told her she came back wrong, an’ now she believes it.  God, how could she think it?  How could I have said it?”  Tara merely watched as he stalked the perimeter of the room agitatedly, his lighter having appeared in his hand at some point, the top of it being flicked open and closed incessantly with his thumb.  “I saw her come down those stairs, Tara, and I swear… I haven’t believed in God in a hundred years, an’ all I could think to do was fall to my knees and thank him for sending her back.  How did it go from that to this?”

“I don’t know, Spike.  But I know that Buffy… she’s not ‘wrong,’ but she’s not ‘right,’ either.  She’s somewhere in the middle—we stranded her there.”  At the stricken look on Spike’s already devastated face, Tara hastened to clarify.  “We meaning Anya and Xander and Willow and I, Spike.  We pulled her out of heaven, thinking she was in hell.  We’ve left her in Purgatory all this time and just expected her to find her way out.  And when she couldn’t…”

“When she couldn’t, she came to me.  And…”

“And you did the best you could.”  Tara’s gentle interruption caught him off-guard, made him pause in his pacing to look at her incredulously.  “Not everyone was oblivious, Spike—I heard her sneak out and go to you.  I heard you come to the window to comfort her when she had the nightmares.  I saw you waiting in the yard to see if she needed you.  I knew—I knew something was wrong, and I knew that you were the only one she trusted.  I should’ve said something then… should’ve told her not to be ashamed.”  This time, it was Tara’s eyes that dropped, resting on her hands as they twisted in her lap.  “I know that I should’ve, but… you were helping, Spike.  Whether you saw it or not—whether she saw it or not—she was coming back to life because of you.  And I was afraid that if I said anything, it would ruin it—that even if Buffy stood up for what was happening, the others would find some reason to tear it down.  I… I wanted you to have a chance.”

“An’ look what I’ve done with it,” Spike chuckled bitterly, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth from the hole he’d bitten in his cheek.  “Gone an’ convinced her that she’s halfway to demon, that she’ll never be happy anywhere but the dark… ‘m not a fool, Tara.  I know it’s not true—never been as close to light and heaven as I am when she’s there.  But I just… I just...”

“You want her by your side.”  Tara reached out and caught his hand, looking up and meeting tortured blue eyes.  “I understand that, Spike—I do.  But it’s selfish—you know that—and what you’re getting isn’t what you really want, any more than what I got from Willow when I just forgave and glossed over everything was what I wanted from her.  It’s not what you need, either.  You have to see, Spike—you have to realize.  It’s not just her worth, it’s your worth, and as long as you’re willing to take whatever she hands you, no matter how far down she goes, neither one of you will be able to come back up—no one’s going to catch their breath, and someone’s going to drown.  Right now… she’s lost, Spike.  Her head’s not in it, and her heart doesn’t know what she wants.  You’re going to have to be the one who draws the line.  It’s the only way we’re ever going to see Buffy be herself again.”

For some reason, the choked sob that escaped his throat didn’t embarrass him—not when the gentle eyes watching him understood so well, not when her heart was just as broken as was his.  “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this.”  Somehow the words made it through the constricted throat, surfaced through all of his pain and his fear and his doubt, took their residence in the air between he and Tara.

“You do, Spike.  You don’t have to let her go forever; you just have to let her find her way.”

“But everyone leaves her… I promised I wouldn’t.  Promised myself an’ her… not goin’ anywhere.  Can’t—god help me, Tara, I can’t let her fall again.”

“You don’t have to, Spike.  You don’t have to leave to let go.  I’m here, aren’t I?  Close enough that I can catch Willow, but far enough away that she can’t expect me to.  Far enough that she has to be her own first line of defense.”  Tara reached up, cupping his cheek as he shook his head brokenly.  “Buffy has to learn to catch herself, Spike—she’s forgotten how.  What she needs from you now is to teach her how to do it again.”

Spike crumpled into the dining room chair, head in his hands, tears coming fast but shielded from her view.  Tara scooted closer, her hand in his hair, on his shoulder, soothing, reassuring, anchoring him in his grief.  “I’ve never doubted that you love her, Spike,” she murmured quietly, hands never ceasing their comfort.  “I know that you do.  But you have to look… you have to see inside yourself, and you have to decide if you love her enough to be what she needs.  I believe that you do, Spike… I just want you to believe it, too.  Believe that you can be man enough for her—believe that you deserve the best of her.  Ask that of her—help her give it.  Give her the best of you in return.  That’s what she needs.”

The minutes slipped by as they sat, both grieving, grappling for hope.  Spike’s tears exhausted themselves, unnecessary breaths coming in shuddery gasps even as Tara ran her fingers through his hair, danced them along the supple leather that covered his shoulder.  His eyes, when they raised to hers, were rimmed in red, swollen, tired… and yet tinged with conviction.  Dancing around the edges, sparking through the irises, she could see it—his belief in his own strength, his faith in the power of his love, the tenacity and sheer will that had seen him through over a century of life had reawakened.  They exchanged a secretive smile, a smile that marked them as friends, as compatriots, as those who love from their very essence outwards.

“There’s somethin’ in you…” Spike whispered reverently, offering a crooked, almost shy smile to defuse the tinge of confusion that slid into her gaze as a result of his words.  “There’s something… don’t know what it is.  But ‘s what had your blood kin runnin’ scared, luv… strength like yours, a heart like yours, not many know how to handle.”  Tara’s head ducked shyly, but gentle fingers were under her chin before she could retreat behind the curtain of hair that served so often as a shield.  “What you did here, luv… don’ have the words to say thank you.”

“You don’t need to tell me, Spike,” Tara answered, smiling at him.  “Show me.  Show her.  Make her happy, Spike… help me atone.”

The thundering of feet down the staircase shattered the moment; Spike wiped at his eyes with the handkerchief Tara suddenly offered while Tara herself stood and leaned around the doorframe, watching as first Dawn, then Anya, then Buffy and Xander tore across the hallway and into the living room as another round of shouted recriminations began.  Spike’s hand at the base of her spine, a seconds-long gesture of camaraderie, somehow managed to both startle her and come as no surprise at all.  She gave a crooked smile in response to the sweet, tentative one he offered her, both of them steeling themselves for the colder, lonelier world waiting outside the dining room. 

“Once more into the breach?” Spike asked, nodding towards the hallway, down which came echoes of raised voices already reaching fever pitch.

“Looks that way,” Tara answered as they stepped from the dining room, walking shoulder-to-shoulder as they made their way down the hall. 

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