Rewiew @ wingedraksha

Summarize: Willow Rosenberg: vampire... lore student. All she needs is a dissertation, and some fieldwork. Who better to help than her mentor's mysterious Romanian-born friend, the dangerously attractive Tara MaClay

---

She was going to be late. It didn't matter that she'd left fifteen minutes early, or that she'd spent at least half an hour the night before looking up and memorizing the possible routes depending on time of departure. She was going to be late anyway, and why?

Because of that one time in middle school when she'd called Ms. Balway a witch.

Willow Rosenberg pulled her thin coat tighter around her slim frame and cursed her twelve-year-old self. Everybody had warned her that Ms. Balway wasn't to be trifled with, that she could turn you into a grasshopper for Biology class. Or, in Willow's case, make her never on time again. It was Ms. Balway's fault. She was sure of it.

Or, Willow's adult mind muttered ruefully, it was that pastry shop down the street's fault. Stupid cupcakes in the stupid window display with their stupid deliciousness. So maybe she had stopped in to get a treat, and maybe she had taken a little longer savoring it than she should have. And now, Ms. Balway or the pastry shop regardless, she was going to be late.

It was almost dark already, the night sky stained an unattractive orange by the millions of city lights. The street was empty save for a few shadowed cars, the cool air snapping lightly at Willow's cheeks. It was the end of March, nearly April, and the days were beginning to warm. The Cleveland nights, however, stayed chilly. Willow quickened her pace, glancing at her watch. It was just past 7:00. She had five or ten minutes before society dictated she was actually late, as opposed to just a bit rushed. Thankfully, however, if Googlemaps wasn't lying to her, the house was supposed to be just two more streets away.

Willow turned onto Talbot St. and shivered as a sudden breeze tossed her shoulder-length red hair lightly against her neck. She couldn't tell for sure, but it definitely seemed colder now.

Just that breeze, she thought, and shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. Soon she would be warm inside the home of Professor Rupert Giles, her mentor and friend. It was the first time she'd visited him at home, but considering the amount of guidance he was giving her in the start of her dissertation, she'd finally given into his repeated invitations to dinner with his wife and son. She'd met them both before at a faculty function, but only briefly. Willow had never been comfortable accepting kindnesses, but Giles had been insistent… and now she was going to repay that kindness by showing up late and harried, with pastry crumbs on her shirt.

Great.

Willow peered at the not-terribly-well-lit street before her, searching for Sunnydale Ave.

"Come on," she murmured aloud. "All I need is a street sign."

"You need a little more than that, sweetheart," came a low voice from behind and to her left. Willow jolted, spinning around. She hadn't heard any footsteps, not a one. The man standing behind her grinned, his white teeth glinting in the lamplight.

"Stay away from me," she said, gripping her keys in her right hand without taking it out of her pocket. She'd heard that you could severely damage someone's face if you held your keys between your knuckles and hit them hard enough… not that she'd ever tried it. "I don't want any trouble."

"Then don't make any," he countered, stepping closer. His hand moved, and her eyes darted down to what he held. It took a second before her brain registered what her eyes were seeing, and then, her breath halted somewhere in the back of her throat.

It was a gun.

"I don't have any money," Willow stammered, her mighty key-weapon suddenly seeming even more pathetic. The man tilted his head. His face was narrow, thin, his dark eyes very deepset. He reached for her with his free hand, fingers closing around her left bicep. She jerked backwards, turning to run.

"Hey," he grunted, scrabbling for her, and Willow's mind went animal-blank with panic when he grabbed her by the collar of her jacket and yanked her towards him. She felt the barrel of the pistol shove up against her ribcage, angled up, and held back scared, angry tears as she forced herself to become absolutely still. She was trembling, tense, every nerve ending in her body focused on the point at which the gun met her side.

And then there was a sharp, shocking CRACK and a cry, and the man's grip tore roughly away. Willow stumbled forward, wincing with imagined pain, her heart pounding. Behind her was a brief series of thuds. By the time Willow caught her balance and spun, the man with the gun was on the ground, his face white with pain, cradling his gun-hand to his chest. The weapon itself was on the pavement a few feet away.

Willow stared at the fallen man for an instant, utterly confused, and then something moved in the corner of her vision. Gasping, she straightened with a jerk and sent her wide-eyed gaze to the road.

A figure stood to the left of the gun, the white caps and laces of chucks disappearing beneath tight black jeans. Willow followed the long legs up to the hem of a navy pea coat. Above that, slender pale neck and dark knit cap that covered any and all hair. A woman, though. Mid-20s?

"You okay?" the stranger asked, taking a step towards the gun and bending down to pick it up. Without pausing, she deftly removed the bullets and pocketed them before slipping the gun into the other pocket of her coat. Willow blinked, swallowing to give some moisture to the too-dry column of her throat.

"Um, yeah," she replied, embarrassed by the slight shaking of her voice. "Thank you." The woman nodded, glancing dispassionately at the would-be-mugger, who was still curled on the sidewalk.

"No problem. I hate trash like that." She went down on the balls of her feet, one arm slung across her knees, and prodded the man in the arm that Willow was betting had been broken. He moaned. "You should get that looked at," she said coolly before straightening to her feet.

"What- what did you do to him?" Willow asked, eyes going from the man on the ground to the woman standing over him.

"I dislocated his elbow," she replied. "And possibly his shoulder." She looked back at Willow, light eyes unreadable. "Where are you headed?"

"Just down the street a bit," Willow said, smoothing her coat. She gave a nervous laugh, adrenaline still pumping through her. "Gods, that has never happened to me before. It's only 7PM!"

"Come on, I'll walk you," the woman said, gesturing for Willow to precede her. "I don't know what kind of drugs he was on to make him think that was a good idea, but I don't want to be on this street much longer just the same." She gave Willow a slight smile, and Willow realized for the first time that her unexpected rescuer was… well, a babe.

"Thanks," she said again, praying that she hadn't just blushed. "I'm looking for Sunnydale Avenue?" The woman's brow furrowed ever so slightly.

"That's just down here," she said, nodding to the next street. The sign was concealed by an overgrown bush lining the sidewalk. "What house?" Willow told her, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. They reached the intersection. As they turned, Willow glanced back. The street was empty. Her attacker was gone.

The two women walked the short distance to Giles' house in silence. When Willow approached the steps leading to his front door, the stranger stayed beside her. Willow smiled, vaguely uneasy, and gestured at the door.

"This is me." The woman looked at her, opening her mouth to speak. Before she could, the door swung open. Giles stood in the frame, one hand on the doorknob, the other swinging back behind him in a gesture of welcome.

"Willow," he said, sounding pleased. His eyes went to the woman beside her. "Tara. I'm so glad you could both make it."

Willow sat awkwardly at the dining table between Giles' teenaged son, Sam, and Giles himself at the head. At the other end, Giles' wife Jenny offered a salad bowl to her son with a smile that held both a tinge of nerves and a lot more than a tinge of genuine goodwill.

And across from Willow, tucking into her spaghetti with neat enthusiasm, sat Tara MaClay.

Without the knit cap, her blond hair fell down past her shoulders in what must have been thousands of tiny braids. Her eyes, which Willow had only been able to tell were light in color, were a very clear blue. And her face…

Just because she's a goddess doesn't mean I have to be this nervous, Willow told herself in irritation, and focused on her food with new interest.

When the silence had gone on long enough to lose its comfort, Giles cleared his throat. Everyone at the table looked up, startled, and he gave them his trademarked crinkled, crooked smile.

"I'm sorry I didn't mention that Tara would be joining us," he said to Willow, his voice customarily slow. "I wasn't entirely sure if she would be able to make it, to tell the truth." He gestured at Tara with his fork, a piece of lettuce speared upon it. "I don't know why you find it so difficult to pick up a telephone, my dear." Willow's eyes moved hesitantly from her mentor to the woman across the table. He spoke to her with the same fond familiarity as he did Willow, but Willow had never even heard of this… this Tara MaClay. Who was she? What was she doing here? Why had Giles invited her?

"That's okay," Willow said, instead of voicing any of her doubts. She smiled at Tara, ignoring the spike of nerves in her belly. "It's a good thing she did, actually. She kind of saved me from a mugger on the way here."

Giles went still.

Jenny gasped, and Sam shot her a worried look. Tara kept eating, perfectly calm.

"A mugger?" Giles repeated, the moment of dead silence broken almost instantly. "What happened?" The question was directed at Willow, but his eyes stayed locked on Tara. Before Willow could elaborate, her mind delayed with confusion, Tara put down her fork.

"Some guy," she said with that same cool tone that she'd used with the man himself, "sneaking around with a gun. On Talbot. I messed up his arm a little."

"My god, are you okay?" asked Jenny, her eyes wide. She looked from Giles to Tara to Willow, one hand toying with the pendant around her neck. Willow, her uneasiness far from gone, blinked at her.

"I'm fine," she said slowly. "He didn't hurt me."

"Did he run off?" Sam asked, glancing from Willow to Tara.

"I'm sure," Tara answered, and then she looked to Giles. "Maybe you should tell Willow why I'm here, now that we've established my heroism." There was a wry humor in her voice, but Willow saw barely a reflection of it in her face. She frowned again, staring at her mentor. He was acting perfectly normal now, but something had definitely been wrong only moments ago. What the hell was going on?

Giles cleared his throat.

"Yes, of course. Willow, dear, Tara is a good friend of mine, and an occasional… assistant, you might say. She's very well-versed in folklore." Willow eyed Tara, doubtful.

"In folklore?" she repeated, remembering the uncompromising look in the blond's eyes as she prodded the ruined arm of the would-be mugger. She didn't seem like any academic Willow knew… then again, even Giles had moments when his scholarly appearance seemed to slip. Willow had spent her years working with him collecting not only experience but stories, unexpectedly thrilling stories of his days as a field anthropologist in Russia and Italy. If he could turn out to be the tweed-wearing, tea-drinking man she knew today, could Tara MaClay be the same?

"I can vouch for her expertise," Giles said firmly. Tara only glanced up, meeting Willow's curious stare. Her blue eyes were crystalline, the color of polished cut sapphire on dark velvet. They were not flat or cold, but cool, calm, utterly unaffected by Willow's scrutiny.

"I've known Giles for years," Tara said, her quiet voice startling the whole table. Willow felt her gaze home in on Tara's, the people to either side of her fading away until there was only blue. Still, she felt as though some kind of challenge had been issued.

"So have I," she responded as lightly as she could. Her heartbeat had sped up a tad, her face felt warm. What was happening? Willow couldn't tell what exactly her reaction was. Nerves? Attraction? Mistrust? Some kind of mix of the three?

"I was hoping that Tara might be able to help you with your study," Giles said, interrupting the not-quite-tense silence that had fallen. "She was born here in America but grew up in Romania, and later lived for quite some time in Bulgaria before coming back to the States. Her specialty is in vampire mythology." Beside Willow, Sam grinned.

"And when she's not being all shy, she's pretty cool company," he added. Tara gave him a sharp look, but there was a hint of fondness there. Willow felt the layers of confusion grow. So Tara was a friend of the family, as well as just of Giles'? And she'd clearly known them for a long time. But she couldn't be older than 27 or 28, and even that seemed to be pushing it… Also, if this was Tara being shy, what was Tara being normal?

"So… you're here to tell me all about Romanian vamps?" Willow asked, half-joking, her meal forgotten.

"No," Tara said, quirking her lips in a dry, sardonic smile. "I'm here to take you there."

Willow didn't get a chance to talk to Giles alone, naturally, until after the dinner was over. When the group had retired to the living room for something like comfortable chitchat (right), Willow had leaped at the chance to follow her mentor back into the kitchen to 'help' him make tea. As soon as they were out of earshot, she ran a hand through her red hair.

"What is going on?" she asked, without preamble. "You hired someone to take me- to Romania?" Giles filled his tea kettle and set it on the stove, calm as ever.

"Not hired, dear," he corrected her blithely, reaching for a stack of cardboard boxes full of teabags. "As I mentioned at dinner, Tara is an old friend of the family. She also works with me, occasionally. It was no trouble to ask her to assist in this case."

"This case," Willow replied, voice low, automatically taking the mugs that Giles was handing her and setting them on the counter one by one, "is my dissertation. Which I was not planning on writing from Western Europe."

"But come, now," Giles said, smiling at her as he inspected the boxes of tea. "What better way to gather the information you need? Fieldwork is a necessity for anthropologists to get anywhere in this society..." Willow grimaced. He was right. He was completely and totally right.

"That doesn't mean I want to travel across the Atlantic with a stranger," she muttered, knowing she sounded petty now.

"Tara's not a stranger. You've just met." Willow rolled her eyes, unable as usual to tell whether or not Giles was serious, or mocking her. "Besides," the older man went on, more gentle now, "I would not only trust Tara with my life... I would trust her with yours." Willow glanced up at him, and found her eyes caught by his gaze, suddenly intent. She wanted to blink. She couldn't.

"Who is she, Giles?" she asked softly, and with the question felt an odd chill. The hairs on her arms tingled. Giles handed her a mug of tea. She hadn't even noticed the kettle had boiled.

"She can help you," Giles replied simply. Then he smiled again. "And give you the time of your life. How long has it been since you've ducked out of academia and into the sun?" Willow chuckled against her will.

"Probably as long as it's been since you have." Giles shuddered, handing her a second mug and taking two himself.

"Good heavens," he said in mock-horror, and led the way into the living room.

Tara MaClay lounged in the corner of the Giles' unspeakably comfortable sofa, her legs tucked up beneath her, one elbow resting on the sofa arm, her hand supporting her chin. She smiled as Jenny told an amusing story about one of her students and his inability to use Firefox without causing ten thousand porn ads to pop up, eyes sliding from Giles' pretty wife to his teenaged son. Sam wouldn't be hanging around for long; he was just being polite. And taking advantage of the chance to watch her, Tara imagined. The crush the boy had on her was sweet, obvious and impossible. Still, while she didn't encourage the way Sam looked at her, nor did she confront him or demean him for it. After all, Tara understood the urge to want what you cannot have very, very well.

As Tara gifted Sam with the unpracticed quirk of her lips that meant she was genuinely at ease with a person, footsteps interrupted Jenny's smooth voice. Tara's eyes moved to the doorframe, where Giles was just stepping aside to allow his young protege through. Tara took in the slim, fragile-looking frame in an instant, her gaze lingering on the delicate wrists and the small, naturally-curving lips. Mmm. Speaking of things you can't have.Willow Rosenberg was cute. Very cute. She was also Giles' student. Off limits. She was also, apparently, Tara's own client. Even more off limits. Wanting her wasn't just unethical, it was... well, kind of rude. Right?

But the main issue, Tara reflected, had nothing to do with Giles or with Willow herself. The main issue involved something else entirely, and if she was going to be taking Willow through the darker corners of Romania, complications was the last thing Tara needed in their relationship.

"Tea?" Willow asked, and Tara realized that she was offering one of the two mugs in her hands.

"Thanks," she said, and took it, making an effort not to touch Willow's fingers or put anything more than bland gratitude in her expression. It was almost funny; when she'd seen Willow accosted and had stepped in to rescue her, Tara had been planning on taking the redhead home and telling Giles that, so sorry, something came up, couldn't make it. But upon finding out that Willow was in fact the girl Giles had so wanted her to meet... well, Tara wasn't all that used to not getting what she wanted in terms of women, but by gods she was good at restraint. So although it irked her, and triggered the somewhat predatory instincts she couldn't even help, Tara had given away none of the thoughts that lurked beneath her quiet, cool mask. Willow glanced around the room, assessed the fact that the only free seat was on the sofa beside Tara, and sat down. She was slightly stiff, obviously uncomfortable, though she sank into the sofa just like Tara had done. Give me ten minutes, Tara thought, sipping her tea, and I could have you screaming my name, propriety or no propriety.

"Mm," she said aloud, detecting only the slightest note of huskiness. "This is good. Vanilla." Giles nodded.

"Well," he said, sipping his own tea. "Let's talk about Romania." Willow swallowed, loudly enough that Tara heard it on the other end of the couch. That's right. Be nervous. Tara felt a thrill of power, something that still sent jolts of pleasure and relief through her even after all these years. She berated herself for enjoying the intimidation factor, and gave Willow a smile, making sure there was actual kindness in it.

"So you're studying vampire lore?" she asked, unnecessarily. "I guess you've been told how cliché it is to focus on Romania for that." To her surprise, Willow shot her a thin smile in response.

"Not as much as you have, I'm sure," she replied. "You're actually Romanian."

"Not on my passport."

"Your accent says differently." Tara blinked, surprised again. Twice in as many minutes. Her accent was so slight that most people didn't notice it at all, even after knowing about her formative years spent in Europe. Willow's smile gained a surprisingly endearing note of triumph as she took in her minor victory. She went on. "And the tattoo doesn't help, either." Her eyes dropped to Tara's throat, bare now that her head tilted to the side and her braids fell over her right shoulder, no doubt focusing on the two inky stars there, just over the jugular.

"You've got my accent down," Tara responded, catching Willow's green eyes. "What does my tattoo say?" As soon as she said it, she regretted it; her voice was low, intent, a hint of seduction turning the words heavier than they were. Willow's mouth opened, her eyes suddenly wide. She said nothing. Tara realized that no one in the room had touched their tea for several minutes, and the silence grew thick.

"Well," Sam said awkwardly, getting to his feet. "I'm going to- I have homework. I'll see you around, Tara. Willow." She could hear the hurt in his voice, despite his struggle to hide it; Sam knew she would never betray Giles' trust by showing an interest in his son, but he also knew that even if he were completely unrelated to the man, Tara would never want him. That didn't mean it was easy for him to watch her want someone else, Tara supposed. She said goodnight to him, and pretended to feel more guilty than she did.

Giles and Jenny engaged Willow in conversation as quickly as they could, giving Tara a moment to drink her tea and consider this situation she'd found herself in.

Well.

Let no one say life was boring.

The plane was a little more cramped than Willow would have liked. She had managed to snag the window seat, giving her a little more elbow room, but all that meant was that if she were to need to go to the bathroom during the eighteen hour flight, she'd have to squeeze past her neighbor not once but two times. Ordinarily that wouldn't have been a huge problem (Willow was nothing if not practical, and going to the bathroom topped social anxiety), but when her neighbor was Tara MaClay… things were different.

Not that different, she thought, irritated, ignoring the part where she made extra sure that her legs were as far from Tara's as possible. Of course, being that they were on a relatively small airplane, her right knee and Tara's left were touching. Not that that matters. She was lying to herself, of course, but what was the issue there? Everyone lied to themselves at one point or another, and at this particular point, Willow knew damn well it was for the best.

She wasn't quite ready to admit that the little twist of nerves in her belly that stirred whenever she thought of the woman sitting next to her – to say nothing of whenever she looked at her – was made partly of something other than trepidation, but Willow knew trouble when she saw it, and Tara MaClay was trouble. No one who could take down a man twice her size and then talk about folklore five minutes later wasn't. No one who had eyes as blue, as deep, as absolutely unreadable as hers wasn't. And especially no one who could make Willow's stomach clench and her pussy ache with nothing but a seductive half-smile. No, Tara was no one Willow wanted to spend any more time around than necessary, which made it all the more inconvenient that there was no way they were going to be apart for the next month.

Well, Willow thought, crossing her legs to remove the last bit of contact between them, if I can't avoid her, at least I can ignore her. Belying her thoughts, Willow glanced to her right. Tara had settled back into the seat, somehow managing to look comfortable, and appeared to be napping already. With a quiet sigh, Willow resolved to do the same. She closed her eyes as the plane began taxiing, and did her best to look asleep.

It took about an hour of fake-sleep before Willow slipped into the real thing, her legs going lax, her arms awkwardly pinned against the side of the plane in an effort to create some semblance of a pillow. Beside her, Tara's own eyes slid open, already looking in her companion's direction. She took in the cramped, uncomfortable-looking position Willow had jammed herself into, and shook her head slightly. When the flight attendant made his way down the isle, Tara flagged him and asked for a cup of red wine, thinking she might as well make the best of the trip. She'd barely had time to lift the plastic cup to her lips before Willow, with a small, incomprehensible noise, drew both legs up onto her seat. Due to the fact that the seats were barely large enough for a person to sit upright, this caused the redhead to slump sideways into Tara, her back pressing against Tara's shoulder and arm. The wine jumped in the cup and Tara downed it instinctively, dropping the cup and staring down at the girl who had continued her slump right down into Tara's lap.

"Oh," Tara murmured to herself, carefully putting an arm around Willow's waist, "this is not going to be easy." Tara hated situations like this. It seemed simple; according to the very basic rules that governed her life, her plan of action should have been clear: she wanted Willow Rosenberg. She wanted her in a bed, up against a wall, splayed out on the goddamn floor. The point was that sex was uncomplicated. If Tara wanted it, and the girl wanted it, that was that. And the girl wanted it. Sure, she hadn't made a come-on or anything, but Tara knew just the same. She could practically smell it. Just as sure as she knew that Willow, prim, proper Willow, would never admit the attraction, especially after the affair at (and before) Giles' house. The redhead was afraid of Tara, and rightly so. Didn't mean a seduction wasn't in order, or it wouldn't ordinarily… but Willow was also Giles' protégé. Practically his daughter. He was entrusting her to Tara's care, her protection, and could Tara really justify sleeping with her knowing that?

Well. Yes.

But would she?

Tara sighed heavily. It was possible she'd gone too many years so overjoyed at not having to keep her libido in check that she'd forgotten how. She knew she could control herself, but it would be a lot easier and a lot more painless if she could just tamp down the attraction completely… That seemed unlikely, though. They were stuck together for a month, and even now, with Willow asleep and quite possibly drooling on Tara's thigh, her mind kept returning to the warm smooth feel of Willow's skin beneath her left palm where it rested lightly against the redhead's waist.

Go back to sleep, MaClay, she told herself. Sweet dreams.

---

Willow woke up with her entire right side contorted in a cramp like none other. For a moment, she was disoriented and confused, unable to tell why she would be in such pain. Then she realized that she was bent sideways, her arms folded on something soft. Something soft… and warm. And that there was an arm around her waist, hand on her hip. And that her right arm was being moved, ever so slightly, by a rhythmic pressure very much like someone else breathing.

The evidence added up. Willow opened her eyes, confirmed, winced.

She was sprawled across Tara's lap, her head resting against the other woman's stomach. Willow hazarded a glance up, awkwardly twisting her head around, and concluded that the blond was asleep. Profoundly grateful, Willow eased her way up, slowly lifting Tara's arm from around her back and placing it carefully back at her side, lips parted in concentration.

"Usually I don't let girls sneak out while I'm sleeping," Tara said, eyes still closed. Willow froze, her hand still on the other woman's wrist. Blue eyes slid lazily open, lips curling. "Impolite."

"I – " Willow broke off, unable to think of a single thing to say. Those eyes could make a good girl bad, and Willow had no intention of finding out how. She pulled her hand away and sat back, looking straight ahead. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"To sneak out? Don't worry, I won't hold it against you." Willow could feel herself blushing, and went hot with embarrassment.

"Not that," she snapped, figuring the easiest emotion to go with here was annoyance. "I didn't realize I'd – I'd fallen on you." She slid a sideways look at Tara, her chin jutting out proudly. The blond chuckled.

"It happens," she said lightly. "Next time, though, I won't be so forgiving."

"There won't be a next time," Willow asserted. "I'll make sure to face the window." Tara's smile went wicked.

"I wasn't talking about the sleeping. Well. Not entirely." It took her a second to understand, and when she did, Willow's mouth opened slightly in surprise. Then, she sniffed.

"I don't think that's appropriate behavior," she said sharply. "And there is no way I'd ever do that with you, anyway." She turned and looked out the window, her arms folded, expecting a retort. None came. When Willow used repositioning herself as an excuse to sneak a glance, Tara was reading one of the books she'd managed to stuff into her backpack, the only hint of a reaction a smug tilt to her mouth.

Fuck, Willow's brain went, and she thought that about summed it up.

---

When they finally landed in Bucharest, Willow was so sick of being on a plane that she didn't even care about letting Tara take the lead. Any trace of lewdness gone as if it had never been, the blond directed them to baggage claim for Willow's trunk and had them in a cab heading to the small flat they were renting in less than twenty minutes. It was almost as if, now that they were on Romanian soil, Tara had reverted to the version of herself that Willow had seen only briefly, when she'd handled the mugger: cool, collected, and blank as a stone wall.

When the cabbie dropped them off in front of a tall, ornate-looking stone building in a row of others just like it, Willow could only stare.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, taking in the way the sun glinted off the stonework, catching flecks of mica.

"It's home," Tara replied, jangling the keys. "For the next four weeks." They stood in silence for a moment, gazing up at the duplex style house, and then Tara lifted her pack more securely onto her

shoulder. "Let's go."

< Précédent		Suivant >