Title: Memory } Recall
Author: snowpuppies
Fandom: BtVS
Character/Pairing: Tara/Buffy
Genre: Angst/Hurt-Comfort
Rating: R
Highlight for Warnings: ** non-explicit sex**
Disclaimer & Distribution: Recognizable things aren't mine but the fic is. Please don't archive or distribute without asking.
Summary: Buffy turns to Tara for comfort. AU after 6.08 - Tabula Rasa.
Word Count: 500 (5 x 100)
x-posted to: TBA

A/N: for femslash_minis for aaronlisa who asked for: Set during Season Six, Instead of Spike, Buffy turns to Tara, comfort
A/N2: for fan_flashworks - #26 School
A/N3: Why, yes. This is backwards, chronologically.

Beta'd by velvetwhip




Memory } Recall


v.

She studies the tangle of hair on the pillow, her own honey-blonde strands mixing with Buffy's golden. It's funny how—after everything—this is the thing that strikes her as so wrong.

A surge of guilt swells in her stomach, tangling with the mixture of grief and betrayal she's carried for a week.

She cheated on Willow.

Willow violated her mind.

She's in bed with Buffy.

More than anything, she wants to roll over and find kiss-bruised lips, sink into the bedsheet-cave and lick and suck until her only thoughts are yes, more, and please.

She slips from the bed.



iv.

Buffy's mouth is hungry, lips tugging, teeth nibbling, and tongue filling every hidden place in her mouth; she whimpers at the possession, hands fisting in Buffy's red sweater as she grasps and pulls and tugs until Buffy slots into place over her body.

Neat, compact muscles press into her curves as her hands wander, cupping high, small breasts and kneading as Buffy plucks at the buttons on her shirt.

Buffy whimpergroans, and Tara gasps as one of her hands is seized and shoved down, down, into the juncture between Buffy's thighs.

Fumbling her way through the denim, she presses in.



iii.

I can't.

Buffy's face falls and sobs hiccup forth from her mouth, filling the tiny space and likely waking the neighbors—serves them right for being hung-over.

Sympathetic pain bubbles in her chest and she slides onto the bed, curling an arm around Buffy.

The sleeve of her shirt grows damp as Buffy burrows closer, pressing her face into the curve of Tara's neck.

A charge shoots to her scalp as moist lips graze her sensitive skin.

We shouldn't.

A token protest at best; she might need this as much as Buffy.

I just need to feel.

Yes.

She does.



ii.

She stares, breath lodged in her throat, heart alternately thundering and squeezing shut, the blood nearly stilling in her veins as she watches Buffy curl into a tiny ball against the headboard.

Buffy's eyes are brimming with tears, black smudges—mascara and insomnia—adorn her cheeks; she looks like the world is ending.

Tara thinks perhaps it is—it must be, if the words echoing in her head are real.

You can undo it. You can put me back.

The wrongness of the request slithers up her spine.

I was in heaven, and everything hurts, now.

Her stomach roils.

Please.



i.

The knock comes at a little after two in the morning, but Tara's not disturbed. She hasn't been able to sleep since she left; the sting of betrayal and the sight of Willow's tear-streaked face mixing and churning in her gut.

It's Buffy, pale and shaking, eyes stress-bruised and watery; she looks like Tara feels.

She doesn't know why Buffy's at her dorm instead of home, but it doesn't matter. She's grateful for the company, either way.

For moments, they stare, shared pain filling the room.

Moving, they curl together like lost, motherless puppies under the sheets, silent tears falling.











FIN.










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