Coming Home
It was dark by the time Willow pulled into Boston, and she was thankful that most of the construction and congestion seemed to have eased, and navigation did not have to be so thought-inducing, She was still worried about Xander. And Buffy. Other sadness too, but she was feeling unfinished, non-processed, and the thoughts were too far out of reach.
Thankful then, that she was going the one place she could get to in Boston without a map.
Kennedy's, and home. The sad and basic truth was, she had been too much on the road in the past year to call anywhere home. At least until tonight. But as each set of head lights that flashed migh grew successively brighter, and the minutes stretched longer, Willow became aware that it was exactly where she was going.
Home. To her.
They had done the parts they had to, and very rarely got to be where they wanted to. But it was the like Kennedy had always wanted, and the one Willow had chosen. So they seemed to accept the distance between them with something that almost resembled grace.
Or just maybe, perhaps, a cup of tea, made by Giles. Strong and steady, perhaps to sharp to ever become diluded. Or maybe just made that much more favored by a good, long soak. The ripples always traveled, from one end of the cup to the other. Always making it there. Always finding its destination.
No matter how long it took.
Willow? Was home.
She took the stairs two at a time.
((Open to Kennedy))
Thankful then, that she was going the one place she could get to in Boston without a map.
Kennedy's, and home. The sad and basic truth was, she had been too much on the road in the past year to call anywhere home. At least until tonight. But as each set of head lights that flashed migh grew successively brighter, and the minutes stretched longer, Willow became aware that it was exactly where she was going.
Home. To her.
They had done the parts they had to, and very rarely got to be where they wanted to. But it was the like Kennedy had always wanted, and the one Willow had chosen. So they seemed to accept the distance between them with something that almost resembled grace.
Or just maybe, perhaps, a cup of tea, made by Giles. Strong and steady, perhaps to sharp to ever become diluded. Or maybe just made that much more favored by a good, long soak. The ripples always traveled, from one end of the cup to the other. Always making it there. Always finding its destination.
No matter how long it took.
Willow? Was home.
She took the stairs two at a time.
((Open to Kennedy))