Subject: [BA_Gutter] Fic Colors
Date: Mon, 02 Feb 2004 18:22:48 -0000
From: "littleflame2003" <littleflame2003@msn.com>


Title colors
Author Needfire
Pairing Spike Tara friendship
Spoilers. Summer Post Gift.
Rating, PG
Disclaimer. All Joss. All dark. No money just lint in these pockets.
This was part of a challenge in LJ land.

She was used to seeing the world differently from others. In truth,
behind the humility she had a guilty pride in her ability to see
what others couldn't. Watching the flare and whisper of aura
revealing secrets that even Willow in her power couldn't broach
without preparation. She could glimpse between the curtains of
facade from one blink to the next, schooling the guilty warmth of
voyeur behind a mask moulded in the necessity of youth.

It was her special power, her early warning system, giving her time
to react to the possibility of danger. It was also her bride gift
from her mother, something that set her apart from the rest of her
family and she clutched it closer than any heirloom, unwilling to
share the skill even with Willow, with whom she would happily share
her soul.

She didn't want Willow to see her that well; she didn't want the
calm shroud of wisdom to be revealed as a cheat.

She hid the small flutter of superiority that made the seeking a
little more exciting, ignored it, drowned out the murmurs of concern
under the chant of do no harm. She knew that it was a small sin, if
a sin at all, but she couldn't put aside the sense of wrongness. She
couldn't put aside the pleasure of the implied infraction. Which is
probably why a part of her felt that she deserved what Glory had
done; that it was apt and ironic punishment, robbing her of her
reflection for following too close in the steps of Lot's wife,
turning once too often to watch that which she was not given
permission to see.

Now she acted as monitor, watching over those she loved, making sure
the blues and browns of healthy mourning didn't become something
darker, a precursor shade of despair, which could lead to actions
irreversible.  She still wondered at night, if she had been herself
before the battle, what Buffy's shades would have been; whether the
foreknowledge would have changed things. She hoped that the bright
gleaming that surrounded the girl hadn't dimmed as she left.

The days following the fall found them huddled together, hiding
under one roof, rallying round to comfort the youngest of them,
unwilling to be apart for too long, needing the reassurance of sight
and touch to get from one day to the next. She remembered this from
the days of her mother's departure, trying to hold on to those
around her as they rebalanced the structure of their lives to
accommodate the gap. She huddled as close as the others, needing the
head count herself and appreciating how much easier the proximity
made her role. She could read them all daily, watching the dye of
their spirits, taking solace from the tones that shadowed each of
them; relieved that even though they were in pain, none showed sign
of being tarnished forever. They would heal in time, gradually
return to the shades and tones that were their signatures as clearly
as any fingerprint.
She could read them all…except one.

She had thought at first that the lack of colour was because he was
a vampire; that his death had taken his shade and tones in return
for the demon that gifted eternity. But then, as she spent time with
the Scoobies, she had seen that demons have their own colours even
if the shades are alien and murky to her eyes. She had been
fascinated by this, her curiosity leading her to wonder what he
looked like, what secrets would be revealed in his century of
experience when those stumbling with grave dirt still clogging their
eyelashes revealed glimpses that intrigued her enough to override
her intrinsic fear of them, if only for a little while. She had
begun to study him, watching him bluster and scowl, bouncing from
one topic to the next, sharp tongued and frizzling with energy that
seemed too much for such a small frame. As if someone had put a
Porsche engine in a toy car then left the on switch jammed.

Her curiosity had peaked one night, sitting quietly beside Willow on
Giles' couch; over confident, accepting the contempt that the others
accorded him she had prodded, hoping for a peek, only to come up
against a wall that became a web, holding her just long enough to
let her know that he could keep her there as long as he wanted
before letting her go. She had come back to herself with a gasp,
which had drawn Willow's concern. Stuttering out excuses of a
headache she had allowed Willow to take her home, smiling wanly at
the murmurs of sympathy, feeling her stomach churn at his expression
of bland indifference, knowing that he knew very well why she was
leaving.

That night, cuddled close, she had asked Willow about him and,
listening to the stories of the Judge and Drusilla recited in such
blasé tones, had realised that none of them knew him; that they had
no real idea of who or what he was.

He became her project. Under the guise of protecting herself and the
others she began to read about him and his line, telling herself
that the reason she was keeping her investigations secret was
because she didn't want to cause alarm if there was nothing to worry
about. The fact that she would have to reveal her own secret in
order to reveal his was something she worked very hard to ignore.
She would call into the Magic Box when she knew only Anya was
working, ruffling through indexes and tomes, trying to garner
information that would expose his secrets in other ways. The
stubborn rebellious streak in her needing to shed light on the
monster under the bed. Finding little of real use until the day that
Anya had given her a book that stank of darkness, stating sharply
that the sooner she found what she was looking for the sooner she
would stop hanging about the shop not buying anything. Looking at
the too-knowing eyes, she had been humbled and again startled at the
arrogance of the others in their treatment of the oldest in their
village.

The book told her more than she needed to know of the deposed
royalty from a line older than gods, who held the membership of
seers and practiced mages in their ranks as casually as she held a
pen in her hand. She returned the book to Anya that evening with
quiet thanks and left him his privacy. Allowing him his secrets as
he left her hers, content in the fact that she still knew more about
him than most of the others. She knew why his smile had that 'I know
something you don't know' arrogance that so annoyed the others, and
it held no power over her. In her way she had the same smile.

As she watched the others heal and rage, she watched him with eyes
that felt half blind, wondering if he would leave, attempt to follow
the marsh lights of lost love in the only way he could. His pain was
a low hum of sound that was not permitted acknowledgment by those
wearing the vestments of righteous mourning.  His compliancy
concerned her more than the louder expressions of the others. To see
one who had kicked and screamed his love in such flagrant sneering
at decorum, hide the weight of grief in silence that had barely been
broken since the sobs that had created a disquieting dirge `that
morning', created alarms that she knew only one other shared.

She became a shadow, watching every movement, taking note of every
clue, wondering if this was the morning she would need to run in the
pre-dawn to prevent immolation. They didn't know it, but the loss of
this one would crumble the shaky structure they had created for
themselves. In their arrogance they didn't see how much weight he
bore; how many he held upright. She was blinded to him but the
shades of the others in reaction to his presence and deeds were
clear to her.

So again he became her project. She didn't see that he knew what she
was doing as he embarked on her created quests, silently permitting
the use of his grief to help allay her own. The weight of one more
was no strain, and it kept his mind from thoughts of northern
lights. Her kindness was the only offered freely; in return he had
nothing more to give than himself, which he did in a simple brush of
fingers.

She stood absently watching as he carried the coffee-laced whiskey
from the kitchen. She could hear the others talking, the rise and
fall of their voices distant. He had accepted the cup from her with
a nod as he did every night then, in the brush of hand, he had
opened himself and let her see.

Her Pa said that it was Eve's inquisitiveness that had tossed them
from Eden, that woman had damned them with curiosity into a world of
toil and suffering.

Tara found she was content with the fee.