*****
Buffy isn't sure how many times these headstones have been just backrests to her, as she waited for vamps to rise. At night, she doesn't even think twice as she sits, perched upon the large ones. Ignorant of the writing, the meaning, that lies beneath. Blatant disrespect was never her intention, but a feeling of guilt passes over her now as she kneels with Willow.
The redhead cries. Because even though there aren't enough tears, there is still an infinite supply. No such thing as crying too much, only exhaustion halts the sobs. And only for a little while. Buffy knows this as Willow's body jerks with jolts of grief, pale face leaving tears in Buffy's lap. Willow hasn't stopped. Always powerful, too powerful to admit defeat to something as trivial as fatigue. Exhaustion won't faze her. She'll cry in her sleep if she must. Buffy knows this too.
A low, sorrowful song can be heard in the summer breeze. Beneath the gasps, the breaks when Willow needs air. Buffy's small hand gently slides over Willow's hair, down her back, and up again. Soothing strokes. Such calming actions for the palms of Death. Deadly hands, relaxing their powers to heal a devastated child. Poor Willow, so much death. Poor Buffy.
Mom. Buffy feels guilt again, that her thoughts should leave Tara even for a moment. Joyce. It's natural, isn't it? To think of them both. Yes, she can do that. Think of them both. Joyce and Tara. It seem like Buffy isn't allowed to have someone keeping her strong, the Powers frown upon it. A Slayer must be her own device. But it's not fair.
Joyce gone. Tara gone. Despite all that Buffy has seen, the most brutal of picture's that hell can paint. Nothing is more soulbreaking than the image of someone you've loved, lying in a position of grotesque emptiness. Women once so full of memories, and laughter, and warm Christmas snuggles; suddenly lightless and lifeless. On the floor, jaw open, eyes wide, waiting for an answer. Gone.
Everyone leaves except Willow. Always at Buffy's side. And as they rock back and forth in their folded embrace above Tara's grave, it seems that this is how they will always be. Entwined, together, through life and death. When she was dead last summer, it must have been Tara that held Willow on the soft grass. And now Buffy realizes why she was brought back. She was back for Willow. Because neither can ever leave this place.
A pause from Willow. Buffy wonders if Willow can hear her thoughts. A silly notion, really. Without magick, Willow knows Buffy's mind. As much as anyone can know Buffy's mind. And at night, when they sleep in that large bed that always has a vacancy, they talk about these things. Connections, souls, knowing one another. Some nights they connect without the talking. Conversing in sounds of body and movement and sad lovemaking.
Tara means earth. Willow said this immediately after the ceremony. Buffy had watched as a weeping Willow drooped over Tara, the earth. Her shade falling on the stone that was the last semi-permanent thing of Tara MaClay. The declaration of her life and her death.
Willow sighs into Buffy's jeans. The sun is setting, turning the cemetery into the familiar workplace it has always been. Buffy continues the affectionate motions over and down Willow's back. Craning her neck upwards, large green eyes meet a compassionate hazel gaze. Home now, Willow says without speaking. Buffy nods and lifts her as they get to their feet. There will be more crying later.
At that moment, they are just girls again. Bonded by the anger of the world. Just sad, hugging girls. Neither slayer, nor witch. Not friends, not lovers. Willow is Willow. Buffy is Buffy. And the last good parts of them are buried beneath the sand, the soil, and the earth.
END