BtVS fic: "A Sip of Tea"
Nov. 16th, 2004 05:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wisdomeagleTitle: "A Sip of Tea"
Pairing: WillowTara/Joyce
Rating: R/NC-17
Spoilers: "Band Candy" and "Who Are You?" and "Buffy v. Drac" and "Real Me" and "The Body" and "Bargaining".
Summary: One night while Buffy is patrolling, they think the things that no one ever bothers to wonder about.
A Sip of Tea
One year before they will become the matriarchs of the Summers clan for an entirely too long summer, Willow takes Tara to 1630 Revello Drive for the first time. Ostensibly to see Buffy, as Willow has devoted this summer to making all her friends adore Tara as much as she does, but it isn't really fair to expect Buffy to be home when she could be out with Riley. It is late, past nine, and they will be on patrol. That's what Buffy and Riley do.
Joyce shouldn't be awake at nine; it's too late, too dark out. Mysterious things lurk in nine o'clocks, like prime time television and phone calls that aren't really about homework and vampires and witches. The two witches on Joyce's doorstop are so adorable she almost gives them Halloween candy and pinches their cheeks. Instead she offers them tea and they sit and sip from delicate cups. Joyce's legs are crossed carefully at the ankle, and Willow, wearing black slacks, sits with her feet apart, but Tara has tucked herself into the couch, sliding further and further into the cushions, until Willow grabs her hand to stop her from falling through the cracks entirely.
Joyce looks at them under lowered eyelids and drinks her tea and absorbs everything. The next drink she pours herself is red wine, though she gives the girls more herbal tea and says, "Tell me about yourself."
They do, or Willow does, speaking for herself and for Tara, her words slipping out easily, like honey, liquid and soothing. "Tara is a Wicca. Tara comes from south of here. Tara is good at school and is going to be an English major. Tara speaks a little bit of French, mostly for spells. Tara Tara Tara is my life."
Joyce sips her wine carefully and fluffs the pillow she has been sitting on. The girls, on the couch, are all smiles and innocence. Tara might venture to say a word or two later in the evening. The wine slips and slides in rippling patterns across the wineglass.
Tara's long skirt is pink with delicate white flowers on it. Normally Willow would not be dressed this butch, but she is trying to prove a point to Buffy's mother. The point is past proven, though, and tastes of sweetness and impossibilities. Joyce's speech will not slur, not this evening. But she sinks into the softness of her chair and loosens her blouse, quietly, so that they don't notice.
Tara notices everything, says nothing, but moves closer to Willow, which is closer to Joyce, and rests her hand on Willow's leg, slowly massaging feeling into it.
"You girls are..."
"Yes," says Tara, the first word she utters to Buffy's mother. Yesyesyes. She has not read Ulysses but knows how it ends. Willow only knows how things begin. Carpe diem.
No one ever asks what Joyce knows. Many things, of cupcakes and brownies and handcuffs and stevedores. So many things that Joyce knows, and no one ever asks.
The answer is yes. The answer for them will always be yes. Soft yeses on Willow's new bought black pants, and strange yeses in the ebb of Joyce's wineglass, and new yeses, that none of them had dreamed of in philosophy class.
Willow talks about absurdist painting and the square root of infinity. Tara and Joyce share a look that Willow misses entirely. This will bring Willow back to Earth. Magic will never ground Willow. Tara is her starting point and her stopping point and her every point.
"Come here," says Joyce, and Willow's eyes widen, with innocence, with fear, with desire. Joyce's voice has never been sultry before, not even her dreams. Then her tone changes, as subtle as the passing seasons in California, a half a note higher, and just as soft. "Let me take care of you."
They have no mothers, none of them. They are each other's mothers, all of them. But Joyce first, since Joyce is the one who began it all, with her carefully curled hair and her hard hands that miraculously soften when little girls need comforting.
Joyce has a lot to teach them about taking care, but they have a lot to teach her too. There is so much learning and so little time. Buffy will be home soon, for loud, terrible sex with Riley. Joyce doesn't like to allow it but sometimes doesn't have a choice.
She learns the inner folds of Tara's labia with Willow's fingers guiding her, the taste of Willow's breasts with Tara as her mentor. She holds them each in a long embrace that melts into a kiss that slides into the bedroom and onto her bed. They need a bed this big to share all of each other, and somethings new are Joyce's breasts, full and round and nothing perfect, nothing perky. Willow wonders how long it takes to be that sensual, to be less sexual.
How long? Nine months, Joyce would say. It takes nine months and a single hour to stop being young forever.
Willow is impatient. She doesn't realize that Tara waited for her for very long, for months of long, longing, always. She doesn't realize that between Hank and RupertRipperGilesMr.Giles, Joyce bled and broke and cried and was happy all alone, all alone never sharing. Willow wants to tell Joyce everything all at once, all the things they can do together, and Tara smiles and says, "Sweetie, slow down." Someone should tell Tara that never works, tell her before it's too late.
At an hour this late, Buffy should be home. Joyce worries. How can Joyce worry while the quilt slides off the bed and Willow slides into her and Tara smiles a sly smile that means "I like this. Do that again"? Joyce is used to multitasking. She carried a child on her hips (which is why they are so wide) and stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce and talked to a telemarketer and yet she is not the superhero. Her daughter is. You might think it takes a superhero, a stud, a real playboy, to pleasure two girls at once. The key, Joyce knows, is to allow some things to take care of themselves. Willow kisses Tara, a deep, demanding kiss, and Joyce allows herself a minute to check the clock and worry.
If Joyce stopped worrying about any of them, even for only a day, something terrible would happen. It is this knowledge that keeps Joyce fighting.
They drip and slip and hug and taste and Buffy never knows.
Buffy would say, "My God, Mom, why don't you just sleep with all my friends and have it done with? It's so wrong. Mom. Ew. Honestly."
But Buffy never knows.
Joyce says, months later, that she's thinking of giving up on men. She says that Willow and Tara are too young to understand and they look at each other, knowingly, like she didn't understand what they did in May. As if May were too much for her to grasp, too undignified and unMomlike.
But they are the ones who don't understand. Joyce remembers, and Joyce knows, and Joyce understands more than she ever lets on, because that's what mothers are supposed to do.
They all forget. Not on purpose, for they all swore to remember, and wrote it down in their diaries and books of days and reminded each other whenever they met, with shy winks and more caution than anyone thinks any of them are capable of. When you never tell a lie in your life, your first is sweet and believable.
They all forget. Not because they are ashamed, or afraid, or because they want it to happen again, or because they didn't want it to happen at all, but because of something so prosy, so awful, that they won't even remember that there's anything they've forgotten.
They forget because of Dawn.
Because they all remember Joyce allowing Dawn to stay up late to drink tea with them, and then Willow and Tara remember walking home under the stars, holding hands in the clear air.
There is never any hint that something is missing, until Joyce dies, and her absence is a hole too big for Tara to understand. Slightly too large, slightly off, something not quite right.
But that is all grief, not just theirs. That is all sorrow, not just lovers'. Joyce would know what it meant. But Joyce isn't around to tell them, so they work out their own explanations, and drink their own tea, and imagine themselves too selfish to have shared their love with anyone.
Pairing: WillowTara/Joyce
Rating: R/NC-17
Spoilers: "Band Candy" and "Who Are You?" and "Buffy v. Drac" and "Real Me" and "The Body" and "Bargaining".
Summary: One night while Buffy is patrolling, they think the things that no one ever bothers to wonder about.
A Sip of Tea
One year before they will become the matriarchs of the Summers clan for an entirely too long summer, Willow takes Tara to 1630 Revello Drive for the first time. Ostensibly to see Buffy, as Willow has devoted this summer to making all her friends adore Tara as much as she does, but it isn't really fair to expect Buffy to be home when she could be out with Riley. It is late, past nine, and they will be on patrol. That's what Buffy and Riley do.
Joyce shouldn't be awake at nine; it's too late, too dark out. Mysterious things lurk in nine o'clocks, like prime time television and phone calls that aren't really about homework and vampires and witches. The two witches on Joyce's doorstop are so adorable she almost gives them Halloween candy and pinches their cheeks. Instead she offers them tea and they sit and sip from delicate cups. Joyce's legs are crossed carefully at the ankle, and Willow, wearing black slacks, sits with her feet apart, but Tara has tucked herself into the couch, sliding further and further into the cushions, until Willow grabs her hand to stop her from falling through the cracks entirely.
Joyce looks at them under lowered eyelids and drinks her tea and absorbs everything. The next drink she pours herself is red wine, though she gives the girls more herbal tea and says, "Tell me about yourself."
They do, or Willow does, speaking for herself and for Tara, her words slipping out easily, like honey, liquid and soothing. "Tara is a Wicca. Tara comes from south of here. Tara is good at school and is going to be an English major. Tara speaks a little bit of French, mostly for spells. Tara Tara Tara is my life."
Joyce sips her wine carefully and fluffs the pillow she has been sitting on. The girls, on the couch, are all smiles and innocence. Tara might venture to say a word or two later in the evening. The wine slips and slides in rippling patterns across the wineglass.
Tara's long skirt is pink with delicate white flowers on it. Normally Willow would not be dressed this butch, but she is trying to prove a point to Buffy's mother. The point is past proven, though, and tastes of sweetness and impossibilities. Joyce's speech will not slur, not this evening. But she sinks into the softness of her chair and loosens her blouse, quietly, so that they don't notice.
Tara notices everything, says nothing, but moves closer to Willow, which is closer to Joyce, and rests her hand on Willow's leg, slowly massaging feeling into it.
"You girls are..."
"Yes," says Tara, the first word she utters to Buffy's mother. Yesyesyes. She has not read Ulysses but knows how it ends. Willow only knows how things begin. Carpe diem.
No one ever asks what Joyce knows. Many things, of cupcakes and brownies and handcuffs and stevedores. So many things that Joyce knows, and no one ever asks.
The answer is yes. The answer for them will always be yes. Soft yeses on Willow's new bought black pants, and strange yeses in the ebb of Joyce's wineglass, and new yeses, that none of them had dreamed of in philosophy class.
Willow talks about absurdist painting and the square root of infinity. Tara and Joyce share a look that Willow misses entirely. This will bring Willow back to Earth. Magic will never ground Willow. Tara is her starting point and her stopping point and her every point.
"Come here," says Joyce, and Willow's eyes widen, with innocence, with fear, with desire. Joyce's voice has never been sultry before, not even her dreams. Then her tone changes, as subtle as the passing seasons in California, a half a note higher, and just as soft. "Let me take care of you."
They have no mothers, none of them. They are each other's mothers, all of them. But Joyce first, since Joyce is the one who began it all, with her carefully curled hair and her hard hands that miraculously soften when little girls need comforting.
Joyce has a lot to teach them about taking care, but they have a lot to teach her too. There is so much learning and so little time. Buffy will be home soon, for loud, terrible sex with Riley. Joyce doesn't like to allow it but sometimes doesn't have a choice.
She learns the inner folds of Tara's labia with Willow's fingers guiding her, the taste of Willow's breasts with Tara as her mentor. She holds them each in a long embrace that melts into a kiss that slides into the bedroom and onto her bed. They need a bed this big to share all of each other, and somethings new are Joyce's breasts, full and round and nothing perfect, nothing perky. Willow wonders how long it takes to be that sensual, to be less sexual.
How long? Nine months, Joyce would say. It takes nine months and a single hour to stop being young forever.
Willow is impatient. She doesn't realize that Tara waited for her for very long, for months of long, longing, always. She doesn't realize that between Hank and RupertRipperGilesMr.Giles, Joyce bled and broke and cried and was happy all alone, all alone never sharing. Willow wants to tell Joyce everything all at once, all the things they can do together, and Tara smiles and says, "Sweetie, slow down." Someone should tell Tara that never works, tell her before it's too late.
At an hour this late, Buffy should be home. Joyce worries. How can Joyce worry while the quilt slides off the bed and Willow slides into her and Tara smiles a sly smile that means "I like this. Do that again"? Joyce is used to multitasking. She carried a child on her hips (which is why they are so wide) and stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce and talked to a telemarketer and yet she is not the superhero. Her daughter is. You might think it takes a superhero, a stud, a real playboy, to pleasure two girls at once. The key, Joyce knows, is to allow some things to take care of themselves. Willow kisses Tara, a deep, demanding kiss, and Joyce allows herself a minute to check the clock and worry.
If Joyce stopped worrying about any of them, even for only a day, something terrible would happen. It is this knowledge that keeps Joyce fighting.
They drip and slip and hug and taste and Buffy never knows.
Buffy would say, "My God, Mom, why don't you just sleep with all my friends and have it done with? It's so wrong. Mom. Ew. Honestly."
But Buffy never knows.
Joyce says, months later, that she's thinking of giving up on men. She says that Willow and Tara are too young to understand and they look at each other, knowingly, like she didn't understand what they did in May. As if May were too much for her to grasp, too undignified and unMomlike.
But they are the ones who don't understand. Joyce remembers, and Joyce knows, and Joyce understands more than she ever lets on, because that's what mothers are supposed to do.
They all forget. Not on purpose, for they all swore to remember, and wrote it down in their diaries and books of days and reminded each other whenever they met, with shy winks and more caution than anyone thinks any of them are capable of. When you never tell a lie in your life, your first is sweet and believable.
They all forget. Not because they are ashamed, or afraid, or because they want it to happen again, or because they didn't want it to happen at all, but because of something so prosy, so awful, that they won't even remember that there's anything they've forgotten.
They forget because of Dawn.
Because they all remember Joyce allowing Dawn to stay up late to drink tea with them, and then Willow and Tara remember walking home under the stars, holding hands in the clear air.
There is never any hint that something is missing, until Joyce dies, and her absence is a hole too big for Tara to understand. Slightly too large, slightly off, something not quite right.
But that is all grief, not just theirs. That is all sorrow, not just lovers'. Joyce would know what it meant. But Joyce isn't around to tell them, so they work out their own explanations, and drink their own tea, and imagine themselves too selfish to have shared their love with anyone.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-26 10:09 pm (UTC)*is speechless*
*watches speech run around in circles, biting its own tail*
*eventually finds ability to reach down and grab speech before it devours itself and she's reduced to grunts and hand flapping for communication*
I... Oh... *flaps hands*
Joyce in a sexual context is one of those things that makes shake my head because I could never write her as a person. She's always been "Buffy's Mom" and in order to see her as sexual, she has to be her own person, you know? I mean, even in "Band Candy", Joyce was "Buffy's Mom on Drugs."
But this... is beautiful. Hauntingly wonderful. I'm especially in love with lines like "Mysterious things lurk in nine o'clocks, like prime time television and phone calls that aren't really about homework and vampires and witches" and "How long? Nine months, Joyce would say. It takes nine months and a single hour to stop being young forever." The flow (have you noticed I'm a big fan of flow? *grin*) and imagery are enchanting.
I'm pretty sure that, when rewatching BtVS, I still won't be able to shake the "Buffy's Mom" label I have for Joyce but you've managed to make me do it for this story. It's a disturbing sensation, but not a bad one.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-27 05:06 pm (UTC)But this... is beautiful. Hauntingly wonderful. [snip] The flow (have you noticed I'm a big fan of flow? *grin*) and imagery are enchanting.
Eee! Thanks so much!
But secondly and more generally, on the topic of Joyce (since meta=my favorite past time):
First of all, since I have a mommy!kink approximately the size of Manhatten, the fact that Joyce is a mom isn't really the kind of stumbling block I know it is for a lot of people. Also, I don't tend to identify with Buffy, so she's a mom, but not my mom, if that makes sense. If there is a character in all of fandom who's like my mom, it's Leanne Mars in Veronica Mars, and I think ficcing her sexually would be a lot harder for me than ficcing Joyce was here.
I guess with getting into Joyce's head... she *is* a mother. She will always be a mother. She has other interests and hobbies, sure, but first and foremost she will *always* be a mother. I think part of what I at least tried to do here was to eroticize motherhood? In the sense of Joyce can be and must be at the same time a mother and a sexual being, because she never stops being either.
And while it makes sense to me that we de-eroticize our own parents, it's weird that parents in general are desexualized since the act of becoming a parent is, at least biologically, sexual. And it's all so weird!
But yeah. I'm glad you enjoyed and commented, etc. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-27 08:31 pm (UTC)Anyway, I think the weirdness also comes with Willow being in the picture. Willow is Joyce's pseudo-daughter, whereas Tara isn't as closely connected to Joyce-as-Mother. Did that make any sense? Tara was brought into the fold much later on in the show whereas Willow was fed cookies and milk during high school. It's... bizarre.
Thank goodness you're a good writer. If you were a bad writer, I probably would have dismissed this weird feeling I'm getting as something induced by your inability to write decently instead of a real psychological phenomenon I can poke at in my spare time. *poke poke poke*
:)