miraculously, something written. like, by me.
Fic for nova25, as per her request at my 12 Fics of Christmas post. I cannot believe I've actually written something. Revel, my darlings. Revel. Or somethin'.
Tara likes to think that she knows things about Willow that other people don't.
Not anything big, exactly, or life-changing, but just small details. The things that shape a person. And there's something in this that feels sweet and personal, and she likes it. Because she isn't sure most of the time whether Willow looks at her the way she wishes she would -- the sort of way where she might almost stop breathing, just for a minute, at the sight of Tara's hair in the sunlight, or maybe sneak glances at her hands, the unknowingly graceful way they move, and wonder. Tara doesn't have graceful hands, really -- she always feels like she's stumbling, one way or another. But she likes to think sometimes that Willow doesn't see this part of her. Or does, maybe, and finds beauty in it.
Tara's always been like this: wishing for things, despite herself.
She watches Willow now, purusing her Psych textbook, and tries not to smile. She's decided that Willow must love books, the way some people love diamonds or crystal -- there's something in the way she turns the pages, like they're priceless and almost awe-inspiring. Tara imagines Willow in high school, wandering through stacks of books in the library and running her fingers over the spines, the faintest sparks of knowledge, or stories. The way she tells it, Willow doesn't exactly remember the Sunnydale High library with fondness, but Tara thinks this anyway. Maybe it's her own little story. (Something priceless.)
"What?"
She's caught off-guard, and Willow's looking up at her, amusement lighting her eyes. The corners of her mouth turn up in a slight smile.
"W-what?" Tara says, always stumbling, nervous for no reason, because it's not like Willow can read her mind. She's grateful for this sometimes. Others, when she feels more daring, she almost wishes that her thoughts could be spilled out into the open.
"You're all smiley," Willow announces. The warmth in her tone almost hurts, because it's at moments like these when Tara thinks she loves her and knows she shouldn't.
"Oh," she responds, stupidly. "O-oh, well, I was . . . I just . . ."
"I don't have something on my face, do I?" asks Willow, raising her hand and absently brushing it across her cheek. Tara shakes her head, and the hand is lowered. "Okay, good. 'Cause, ya know, potential embarrassment factor."
"I was just thinking," Tara tells her.
Willow smiles easily; it's almost disorienting. She thinks that maybe one expression shouldn't hold so much beauty. "About what?"
"You," Tara says, and realizes afterward that maybe this is the kind of thing that she isn't supposed to say. She almost expects some shadow to fall over Willow's eyes, some horrified comprehension to dawn on her face.
It doesn't. Instead, Willow grins and moves across the bed, a little closer. A lock of hair slips into her eyes when she does this, and Tara knows that she could reach over and brush it away. She won't, but the very idea that it isn't impossible is . . . nice.
"I'm smiley-thoughts-worthy?" inquires Willow. Tara nods, allowing a half-smile to fall across her face.
Willow is beaming, and she shifts a little to lean back across the bed. The sunlight catches her hair and it almost seems like fire as she closes her book, carefully. And then she's almost Tara's; at least for a little while.
Tara likes to think that she knows things about Willow that other people don't.
Not anything big, exactly, or life-changing, but just small details. The things that shape a person. And there's something in this that feels sweet and personal, and she likes it. Because she isn't sure most of the time whether Willow looks at her the way she wishes she would -- the sort of way where she might almost stop breathing, just for a minute, at the sight of Tara's hair in the sunlight, or maybe sneak glances at her hands, the unknowingly graceful way they move, and wonder. Tara doesn't have graceful hands, really -- she always feels like she's stumbling, one way or another. But she likes to think sometimes that Willow doesn't see this part of her. Or does, maybe, and finds beauty in it.
Tara's always been like this: wishing for things, despite herself.
She watches Willow now, purusing her Psych textbook, and tries not to smile. She's decided that Willow must love books, the way some people love diamonds or crystal -- there's something in the way she turns the pages, like they're priceless and almost awe-inspiring. Tara imagines Willow in high school, wandering through stacks of books in the library and running her fingers over the spines, the faintest sparks of knowledge, or stories. The way she tells it, Willow doesn't exactly remember the Sunnydale High library with fondness, but Tara thinks this anyway. Maybe it's her own little story. (Something priceless.)
"What?"
She's caught off-guard, and Willow's looking up at her, amusement lighting her eyes. The corners of her mouth turn up in a slight smile.
"W-what?" Tara says, always stumbling, nervous for no reason, because it's not like Willow can read her mind. She's grateful for this sometimes. Others, when she feels more daring, she almost wishes that her thoughts could be spilled out into the open.
"You're all smiley," Willow announces. The warmth in her tone almost hurts, because it's at moments like these when Tara thinks she loves her and knows she shouldn't.
"Oh," she responds, stupidly. "O-oh, well, I was . . . I just . . ."
"I don't have something on my face, do I?" asks Willow, raising her hand and absently brushing it across her cheek. Tara shakes her head, and the hand is lowered. "Okay, good. 'Cause, ya know, potential embarrassment factor."
"I was just thinking," Tara tells her.
Willow smiles easily; it's almost disorienting. She thinks that maybe one expression shouldn't hold so much beauty. "About what?"
"You," Tara says, and realizes afterward that maybe this is the kind of thing that she isn't supposed to say. She almost expects some shadow to fall over Willow's eyes, some horrified comprehension to dawn on her face.
It doesn't. Instead, Willow grins and moves across the bed, a little closer. A lock of hair slips into her eyes when she does this, and Tara knows that she could reach over and brush it away. She won't, but the very idea that it isn't impossible is . . . nice.
"I'm smiley-thoughts-worthy?" inquires Willow. Tara nods, allowing a half-smile to fall across her face.
Willow is beaming, and she shifts a little to lean back across the bed. The sunlight catches her hair and it almost seems like fire as she closes her book, carefully. And then she's almost Tara's; at least for a little while.