Tara knocks on Jonathan's door. They've decided to do therapy once a fortnight, rather than once a week, because it's really very emotionally draining for Tara and takes, zomg, so long to play out. The advantage - or perhaps the disadvantage - of that, is that she gets a chance to build her mental walls back up again, make sure her memories are locked firmly behind that iron door in her mind.
"Jonath..." His name is cut off by her sob, and she reaches out to him, trembling fingers resting on his chest as she lets him free her. All her attention is focussed on trying to regain control of her breathing, the air entering her lungs in loud, harsh whoops only to leave in rapid, shuddering exhales, as if a weight on her chest is forcing out the air.
She's beginning to hyperventilate, growing light headed, and she looks up at Jon with wild, wide-open eyes, latching onto him as the thread that will lead her out of the labyrinth of her own fear.
Think of him, don't think of Willow, don't think of what she did, and is she a puppet? How much of her life is hers? Her mind hasn't been her own, not since Glory's fingers forced their way inside, can't she even have her decisions?
Think of Jonathan. Let his eyes block out her thinking, the kindness in his face, his soft, soothing voice. Hold on to him.
He finishes untangling the scarf from her neck, unwinding it until it falls to the floor. He isn't liking the way she's breathing. Moving her towards the window, he never stops talking, "You can do this, you're okay. C'mon Tara, you're okay, no one but you and me here and I'll take care of you."
He opens the window and crips, fresh air wafts quickly in, "There we go Tara, you're fine, okay." He's holding her body against his own, almost but not quite a hug.
He doesn't even think about how little he minds having Tara touch him now. She... she belongs to him. Crowley and Angelus said so, it only made sense that he let her touch him.
Tara clutches onto Jon, her head arching away to take deep gulps of fresh air. It's easier to breathe now, the pressure around her neck gone, and his words gently guide her back.
He'll take care of her.
She's okay.
"No," she whispers again, her eyes shuddering closed, blocking out the glossy posters of guns from her vision, but against the backdrop of her eyelid is the Lethe's Bramble she found under her pillow, thinking it was a lover's token. Was there anything else, that day? Anything she missed? Is there any way of knowing?
She was so unlike herself that day, turning up in a leather jacket, and she'd never worn leather before, as if the almost indestructible material could shield her from the consequences of her choice.
"Black magic," she whispers. Black like her eyes, her hair, the wraith that rose when she fell.
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She's beginning to hyperventilate, growing light headed, and she looks up at Jon with wild, wide-open eyes, latching onto him as the thread that will lead her out of the labyrinth of her own fear.
Think of him, don't think of Willow, don't think of what she did, and is she a puppet? How much of her life is hers? Her mind hasn't been her own, not since Glory's fingers forced their way inside, can't she even have her decisions?
Think of Jonathan. Let his eyes block out her thinking, the kindness in his face, his soft, soothing voice. Hold on to him.
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He opens the window and crips, fresh air wafts quickly in, "There we go Tara, you're fine, okay." He's holding her body against his own, almost but not quite a hug.
He doesn't even think about how little he minds having Tara touch him now. She... she belongs to him. Crowley and Angelus said so, it only made sense that he let her touch him.
Reply
He'll take care of her.
She's okay.
"No," she whispers again, her eyes shuddering closed, blocking out the glossy posters of guns from her vision, but against the backdrop of her eyelid is the Lethe's Bramble she found under her pillow, thinking it was a lover's token. Was there anything else, that day? Anything she missed? Is there any way of knowing?
She was so unlike herself that day, turning up in a leather jacket, and she'd never worn leather before, as if the almost indestructible material could shield her from the consequences of her choice.
"Black magic," she whispers. Black like her eyes, her hair, the wraith that rose when she fell.
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