Anya/Tara for the femmeficathon.

Glass House

(Bargaining, Season Six)

Tara walked Anya home after dinner. It was one of their little rituals, like Buffy, Willow, and Xander's Oreo-and-popcorn movie night, or Dawn reshelving books every Saturday from the unsteady towering piles they ended up in throughout the week. Unspoken, but necessary for the stability of their world. Tara and Anya began it shortly after they'd both been left to twiddle their thumbs for the umpteenth time while the others took care of some crazy thing.

They'd spent the evening eating bruchetta and delicate clam linguini, talking about the summer and how things had changed the past three months. More and more they found themselves talking about Willow and Xander, how invested they were in this plan and the possibility of ruining the delicate balance they'd all achieved over the summer.

As they walked, they overheard a loud couple talking about their sex life, and the irate boyfriend yelling, "Sex is like Chinese food! An hour later you can always do with more!" They both burst into giggles and had to sit down to hold their sides.

Later Tara would think about how great it was that Anya finally got the jokes, was beginning to understand humanity again after being so detached from it for thousands of years, but at the time they just leaned against each other to hold up their weight and looked out on the peaceful Sunnydale night.

For some reason Sunnydale was always easy in the summer, less strained with the burden of its destiny. It was as though it knew, come fall there would be an overflow of craziness and evil, and took some measure to just calm down.

The result was that people were friendly and open, willing to share hellos and help strangers on the street. Even those lucky few in ever-constant denial seemed touched by the feeling as well, and smiles were brighter and shoe sales more frequent.

The heat was clear and dry, and their fingers brushed as they ambled home. They were unlikely friends, made less so by the positions they were put into by their lovers. Bonds were easily formed and strengthened in Sunnydale, where the collective terror of just living hung over the town like a shroud, and they both knew what they had, even if they never spoke of it.

When they walked past the Espresso Pump the smell was too tempting to avoid, so they slipped onto the high stools in a corner of the open area and listened to the live musicians weave violin and guitar together, perfectly complementing the night. They ordered frosted mochas and talked about the small things that had happened throughout the week: a new shipment of books from England, a guy slipping while playing hackysack at the college, the new secular bookstore that opened down the street.

Tara saw a guy from her women's studies class and spent a few minutes talking to him while Anya watched on, sipping her mocha and tracing the pattern of the tile on the table. He made some joke about the Lord of the Rings movie, and Tara laughed, high and sweet, when Anya's head shot up at the mention of Legolas.

The guy left, and they finished their mochas in companionable silence, listening to the music and commenting lowly on occasion about passerbys or the new movie at the theater.

When they left, it was late, and Anya offered to walk Tara back to Revello first, taking a cab home, but Tara declined, saying she wanted to enjoy the evening before they all disappeared.

The walk was easy--Xander's apartment building was close to town, and the subdivisions not much further from it.

They got to the door and hugged warmly, Tara pressing a soft kiss to Anya's lips. She waited on the stairs until Anya was safely inside, turning to go back down.

Loose thoughts flowed through Tara's head as she walked home. Three months made such a difference. How strange was it that she could not pinpoint a happier time in her life than after the loss of Buffy? It was almost macabre, she knew, but she saw more and more how her death had served to pull the rest of them together, move past their annoyances and troubled relationships to be a family.

Tara felt that, now, she had a family--though she'd considered the Summers and Xander so for a long time. She had Willow, too, the love of her life. What they had was forever, she knew it in her bones. But even more than that, she had a friend. Anya filled that last part of her dream, and there were times when she felt so overcome with joy she would sit curled in a chair for hours, staring at nothing but reveling at the amazing turn her life had taken.

Where she was now was because of Buffy, in more ways than one, and every day she thought of her and wished her peace--she found it hard to believe that Buffy's sacrifice would be rewarded with torment, despite Willow's insistence and Xander's blind belief.

The whole plan disturbed Tara more and more, and though she knew it was deeply selfish, she feared that any attempts at changing the outcome of the events of last May would destroy them all, destroy what she had so stumblingly acquired.

When she came home, she found Willow's things strewn across the kitchen table in a quiet house. Her computer was still on, parts of the translated spell littering the screen. Tara's fingers danced across the screen, following the words, and her hand fell to lie on the keyboard.

Before she quite realized what she was doing, she felt heat on her hand and a crackling strength pulling through her body from her toes to her forehead. A quiet, powerful ball of energy hit the computer, shorting it out.

She stepped back, looking at her hand with surprise. Then she carefully stepped over the cords on the floor to reach into the kitchen and turn off the light, going up the stairs to sleep at Willow's side.

Nice, SA. I really like that. It makes Tara less the perfect victim. I always disliked that Tara never seemed to make a mistake, didn't seem to have human impulses.

One thing:

lowly on occasion about passerbys

Lowly made me think of low company rather than quiet conversation and the last word should be passersby.

Ah. I have a different connotation for lowly, and now that I think about it, passerby is plural, isn't it?

(Psst, missy, I know your beta check should have had it as passersby.)

you corrected it but didn't point it out.

:P Okay, fair cop.

But you did say a *hurried* beta.

My entry
More Than This
Requirements were Lilah/Jenny, sarcasm and smut.

It's a cold day in Hell, and that's nothing new.

No matter what they tell you in Sunday school, Hell's always a little chilly.

Except for the weather, Hell's not that different from Los Angeles: miserable traffic, beautiful people, air you wouldn't want to breathe. Sure, the food's always a little off, most stores are only open on Sundays, and what they have in the way of entertainment makes the unpaid overtime a blessing in disguise.

If they let you work it, that is. "Ms. Morgan?" the disembodied voice of the remote secretary comes through the speakers.

Lilah looks at her watch: 3:47. Just in time to catch the worst parts of rush hour. "Yes?"

"I've been instructed to tell you to take the rest of the day off. For your health. Don't forget you have a seven o' clock and a ten o' clock tomorrow, and that Mr. Manners would like you to prepare another post-mortem on the effectiveness of the L.A. office's emergency response." A click followed by static followed by silence.

Lilah grabs her briefcase and goes. Outside, it's grey and miserable, and she wishes she had a coat, all the while knowing it wouldn't help. The temperature automatically adjusts itself to two degrees below comfortable according to your wardrobe choices, after all. She adjusts her scarf and heads out into the wind.

The bar's a little too warm. Figures. "Scotch, rocks, as old as you've got." It tastes like Pine-Sol; it always does. As old as they've got is prohibition-era rotgut. All they've got is prohibition-era rotgut. She downs it and orders another.

"I can't believe you can drink that crap." It's the woman sitting next to her. Dark hair and eyes, fairly pretty. The woman smiles before she reaches up and rubs the back of her neck.

"It's better than the other choices. Sore neck?" Lilah asks, not caring.

"Broken."

Lilah sets down her drink and slowly unwinds the green silk from around her throat, letting one manicured finger trail across the damage before she covers it up again. "Beheaded."

The smile widens. "I'm impressed, but I get the feeling that's what you wanted. I'm Jenny."

"Lilah. So, Jenny, what are you in for?"

"Gin and tonic. But if you mean why am I in Hell, I've been told it's because I was a liar. You?"

"Lawyer." Lilah shrugs. "It was part of my contract."

Jenny raises an eyebrow at that. "That's one hell of a contract."

"Good benefits, great pay, and plenty of room for advancement even after death. Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"I'll keep it in mind if I decide I need a career change." She leans forward, catching the end of Lilah's scarf in her hand. "Nice scarf."

Lilah feels the cool brush of Jenny's fingers against the inside of her knee as the scarf drops, and sees the invitation in Jenny's eyes, and decides to accept it. "I have more back at my place, would you like to see them?"

She's rewarded with a wide, wicked grin. "Sure."

Lilah's place is too warm, just like the bar--every building in Hell shares central heating. For once, she doesn't care. She slips off her Lorenzis, sets her briefcase down, and leads Jenny to the bedroom, wincing a little as she looks at the familiar decor. Lilah hates her apartment; it's identical to Wesley's, down to the number on the door: 105. Hell's department of housing assignments has a sick since of humor.

Jenny's skin is soft and cool, and Lilah can taste the bathtub gin on her lips when they kiss. She slides her hands under the soft blue cashmere of Jenny's sweater, and feels the memory of heat flood her body, almost like the real thing. Jenny's fingers quickly slip buttons from their holes and Lilah's blouse slips off her shoulders and falls to the floor.

"That was quick," Lilah murmurs, her own fingers busy unhitching Jenny's bra.

Jenny shrugs before raising her arms to let Lilah pull the sweater and bra off together. "Last time I dawdled, I ended up dead before we could make it to home base. I'm not taking any chances." She moves her hands to the hidden zipper at the back of Lilah's skirt, parting the dark grey gabardine and pushing it down.

"Careful," Lilah puts her hands over Jenny's to slow them. "Don't want to wrinkle it. Do you know how hard it is to find a good dry cleaner in this town?" She guides the hands slowly over her hips, weaving their fingers together and showing Jenny where to linger. "Dawdling in small doses does have its advantages."

"Mmm. You have a point."

Lilah shows Jenny the advantages of dawdling after they get their clothes off, too. She lets her mouth float lazily down Jenny's stomach, teasing instead of insisting. Under Lilah's palms, Jenny's nipples are hard, and her chest's rising and falling with hurried breaths that match Lilah's own. Sure, neither of them need to breathe, but it's force of habit.

Under Lilah's lips, Jenny's skin feels almost warm, almost damp. Lilah slides one hand down to Jenny's thighs, slipping it between them to where the heat and moisture has gone from almost to actual. She lowers her head, stops teasing. There's something to be said for being quick, too.

Jenny's whole body jerks upwards. "Jesus!"

Lilah lifts her head and smiles. "Trust me, he has nothing to do with this. If he did, maybe this place wouldn't be so damn crowded."

"Or crowded with the damned." Jenny's words end on a gasp as Lilah lowers her head again.

They twist and tangle together for hours. At one point, Lilah brings out the promised scarves, and they take turns tying each other up. Exhausted, but not quite exhilarated, Lilah runs her hand over a back that should be slick with sweat, but isn't and watches Jenny sleep.

The clock says 4:15. She has to be back in the office in a little less than three hours.

The room's still two degrees too warm, outside is still two degrees too cold, and Lilah's still trying to find a way to make Hell a little more comfortable. Jenny curls a little closer.

Lilah lets her. What the hell, it's better than nothing.

great fic, Plei!

Anyone around? I pretty much need a quick and dirty beta. (xposted with fic)