Icarus, tethered to a kite string - fic
Nov. 7th, 2019 08:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deird1This fic has been bouncing around in my head for a long time. Here it is, at last.
Title: Icarus, tethered to a kite string
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2463
Pairing: Willow/Kennedy
Summary: impending motherhood, and other issues
Icarus, tethered to a kite string
June
It’s just an idle conversation, one morning when the air feels light and fresh, and breakfast isn’t nearly enticing enough to get up for. Willow notices the crack wending its way across the ceiling and points out “It’s sort of like a lion. See, that bit’s the feet, and then up along the back, and the wobbly bit’s the mane.”
“Oh, yeah, I see,” Kennedy nods. “You know, we really ought to repaint.”
“Cream? Or maybe blue?”
“Or just go totally wild with hot pink.”
“…no.”
“No. You’re right. Let’s be boring and have cream. Fit right in with the whole Seattle vibe.”
And then the talk dies down for a few minutes, until Kennedy rolls over and says “Really, we should paint the whole apartment. I mean, we’ve been here, what? Seven months already?” She tends to get energetic about projects.
“Mmm.”
“And put up shelves.”
“Yep.”
“And organise the suitcase room.”
Willow wrinkles her forehead. “The… what?”
Kennedy grins. “Well, it is kinda full of suitcase-y junk. What else do you want to call it? What is that room even for?”
It’s a smallish room with a closet and (very faded) light blue drapes. “I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be a nursery.”
“Oh. Right.”
And they go quiet again.
Several minutes later, Kennedy says thoughtfully, “You know, that’d be kinda cute. Can you imagine a mini version of us running around the place?”
“Playing with dolls?”
“Making pillow forts.”
“Reading the books…”
“Drawing all over the hot pink walls…”
“No. Cream.”
“Cream,” Kennedy agrees. And they leave it there.
July
“I think it might be possible.”
“What?”
“Possible! Because we could – I’m pretty sure. I’ve figured it out, and—”
“Wait, Will – what are you talking about?”
So she backtracks, and clarifies. Because it’s just biology, really, once you kickstart the process with a whole load of magic. And sure, it’s kinda breaking the laws of reality, but she’s done that before – heck, that’s basically what magic is, if you think about it, and she has been, thinking, that is. And sure, they might need to think on their feet, but it’s possible, it really is, and they could, and if all else fails there’s at least one muse that owes her a favour, so—
“WILL.” Kennedy interrupts, hard. “Figjam. Seriously.”
Normal couples use safety words for fun sexy times. Not her.
August
The planet turns, and she meditates, feeling the ground beneath her hands. Breathing deep, collecting her thoughts, calming and taming them, breathing, breathing. The planet turns, the wind moves, and she sits and is Willow again. Breathing.
As the days continue, Willow keeps herself grounded, studying, talking to Althenea, and meditating every sunset. The massive thread of excited overwhelming half-thoughts is stopped in its tracks – but not buried and left to fester. Instead, Willow takes hold of them one by one, and works through each thought, one by one by one, slowly, carefully, until she is done and her mind is clear once again.
And still she sits.
The planet turns.
Some time later, Kennedy sits down next to her, takes a deep breath and says, carefully, “So… when you say ‘possible’…”
September
The ritual itself is… actually pretty sexy. Kennedy and Willow are both sky-clad, sitting within a ring of lit candles, with the scent of burnt rosemary and lavender filling the air.
Willow draws on the earth for strength, closes her eyes, and begins to weave a tiny orb – made of light and love and longing – to contain their essences, hers and Kennedy’s, and form them into one whole. Then she lays her hands on Kennedy’s belly, and chants, feeling Kennedy’s skin grow hot beneath her fingertips.
And, so simply, so quietly, a life begins.
October
Something is wrong, and Kennedy is ashen and can’t stand.
Willow calls the Council’s med-team, panicked. And paces the floor, freaked beyond freaked, until they tell her that everything’s fine – normal, even. “She’ll need strong anti-nausea medication. Call us if she can’t keep water down. You can expect her condition to improve in about seven weeks.” And that’s it.
She hasn’t screwed up. She hasn’t over-reached.
She sinks to the floor, breathing out two hours’ worth of worry. Kennedy’s fingers find her hair, and tease through it gently.
“Okay there, Red?”
Willow nods.
“You know, if it’d make you feel better, we can switch places,” Kennedy offers. “I’ll take the witchy god complex, and you can puke on our carpet.”
And just like that, she knows it’ll be fine. They’ll be fine. Probably.
November
Pregnancy sucks donkey’s balls, according to Kennedy. She’s spent the last month lying on the sofa watching tv, spewing up everything she eats, and groaning every time Willow comes near her.
“Can you go away, you still smell like breakfast cereal.”
Or “I can’t. I’m sure it’s nutritious, but – no. No. Can you just get me more water?”
Or “You smell like— your hair, it just— no, it’s— just, please Willow, please go somewhere else and stop… existing at me.”
Willow really wants to ring up her best friend and gripe about her girlfriend – but she can’t, because that wouldn’t really be fair. And plus, she hasn’t actually told Buffy what’s going on in the first place. Which… actually she probably should.
Phone calls are made.
Xander is baffled, but tries to be congratulatory. Giles says “Dear Lord” eight times in a single conversation. Dawn hears that Kennedy is pregnant and starts swearing blood vengeance and pain for several minutes before Willow can get across that it’s due to magic and not cheating, and a good thing.
Buffy just takes one long, deep breath, and then says “Okay. Wow.” Which pretty much covers it.
December
Everyone flies in for Hannukah, and squeezes into their tiny apartment to cook a chaotic attempt at a roast dinner.
Xander gives her a great big Xander-ish hug, and then lets her go, and looks at Kennedy. He nods slowly – and pulls her in for a hug too. This is new.
Dawn greets them both with squeals of delight, and a bag full of baby jumpsuits, all different colours. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a mom!” she grins, leaping in for another hug.
Giles quietly hands over a card, along with a gift certificate for Baby&Co, and a flyer outlining the Council’s childcare services. “It’s coming along nicely,” he acknowledges, “what with Faith leading the charge for Slayer daycare. You shouldn’t have any complaints.”
Buffy presents them with a delicate bonnet stitched in white lace. “Spike picked it out. Apparently they were all the rage in the 1890s.” She doesn’t ask any questions about magical pregnancies and their limitations – but Willow can see them being carefully left unsaid.
As he’s leaving, Xander hands over his present: a copy of Fantastic Mr Fox. “I used to love this as a kid,” he says. “I hope your little girl will love it too.”
And that’s the moment it hits Willow: she’s having a little girl. An actual little girl.
January
A baby. A little baby girl. Who is going to grow up and be a little girl, probably with pigtails.
And there will be diapers, and onesies, and strollers, and toilet training, and teething rusks, and formula, and pacifiers – but do kids even use pacifiers these days? or are they bad for your teeth? – and this is the thing, because Tara was supposed to be here to know this stuff.
It was supposed to be Tara being the soothy, comforty, peaceful one, who knew all the right things to do to be a perfect mother. And Willow being the fun, cool one who would teach the kids about science and take them on interesting trips to museums and stuff.
Kennedy is determined, and loyal, and steadfast. She’s not gentle or soothing. And Willow has never changed a diaper in her life.
She panics in Kennedy’s direction.
“How does naptime even work? Do we have some sort of timetable to stick to? Or are we just supposed to magically know when she’s going to get tired, and for how long? Maybe that’s it – magic! We could magic her to sleep, and then magic her awake. Perfect. And, come to think of it, if we magic her poop away we can save a fortune on diapers. That’d work, right?”
She turns. Kennedy is watching her, thoughtfully.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“I’m going off the deep end! Aren’t you going to stop me?!”
Kennedy shakes her head. “No. This isn’t that. This is something else.”
Willow tries to deny it, but Kennedy knows her very well. “Come on, Red. What’s really going on?”
And so she gives up and tells her how she’d talked with Tara about maybe adopting some day, and it would have been so great, because Tara was so good with kids, and Willow would never be that good with kids, so it would never be just like she’d pictured it, and Tara, she was supposed to be doing this with Tara…
And she talks on and on, getting out all the worry, telling everything to her steadfast, rock-strong girlfriend, and worrying, and mourning, and wishing – until she finally looks at the expression on Kennedy’s face.
Kennedy is hurt. Like… hurt.
Willow stops talking. But she’s already said a lot.
February
Willow is sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to study, when Kennedy sits down, takes a deep breath, and begins. “So I guess we need to talk.”
They’ve spent the last three weeks tiptoeing around each other, having stilted conversations about medical appointments and groceries. Which – given the absolute minefield of hurt feelings and grief that exploded on them during their last real talk – is reasonable. Willow was kinda hoping they could just not address it ever again, but she nods.
“There are just some important decisions that we need to make. As soon as possible.”
Another nod.
Kennedy takes another deep breath, looks Willow right in the eyes, and says, “Ballet lessons.”
Willow blinks. “Um… what?”
“I mean – she’s a girl, so it’s gonna come up, right? And I’ve heard ballet can really screw up your feet. So, do we let her, or not?”
She’s honestly not sure what to say – and is still figuring it out when Kennedy continues, deadpan.
“Also, I was wondering about allowance. Do you think we should tie it to chores, or should she get it no matter what?”
It’s out of nowhere, totally trivial… and absolutely, completely, exactly the way Kennedy would start the conversation, because of course Kennedy – now raising an eyebrow at her and trying to look innocent – would do it like this.
“Really? We’re going to talk about ballet?”
“Why not? It seems pretty important.”
And Kennedy knows damn well what she’s doing, and she’s going to make Willow do all the hard bits, and just sit there being annoyingly indirect when she knows how crazy-making it is. Willow wants to find the perfect thing to say, but settles on a disbelieving “Ballet? Seriously?”
“Is there something else we need to talk about instead?”
They haven’t talked about anything for weeks. “I can’t–” Willow starts again. “You–”
“I what?”
“I really hurt you and said you weren’t as good as Tara!”
There it is.
Kennedy is still sitting there, watching her. Willow bites her lip. A moment, and then she tries again.
“I really hurt you.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I want Tara to be alive again.”
“I know.”
“I really wanted to be doing all this with her.”
Kennedy just nods.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
A hand is reached out, caught, held. They cling to each other, and keep talking.
“I’m not her, Red. I’m me.”
“I know.”
“One way or another, we’re going to have a baby together. And we’ll have to deal with all this crap – ballet lessons and all.”
“No ballet lessons. They reinforce patriarchal notions of femininity. She can do jazz dance.”
“Okay. Deal.”
Willow holds Kennedy’s hand tightly, looks her in the eyes, and asks the important question. “Are we in over our heads?”
March
“Are we in over our heads?”
She’s called Faith, who doesn’t even hesitate. “Hell yes.”
This is not the reassuring answer Willow was expecting. “We are?” After all, they’ve got an apartment and a steady income, and they’ve been reading all the books. “But… really? You think we are?”
“Welcome to parenthood.”
There are far too many things that parents need to know, and Willow’s been researching and trying to format her parenting philosophy, but she still has questions. She starts to explain, but Faith interrupts.
“Fuck that. Relax.”
“But–”
“Keep him clean, keep him fed, and make sure he smiles more than he screams. Everything else is psychological bullshit.”
“Her. She’s a girl.”
“Then same goes, but she probably won’t pee in your face during diaper changes. Congrats.”
April
They go for a walk – or, in Kennedy’s case, a waddle – through Volunteer Park, enjoying the gorgeous spring weather. The koi pond is sparkling, the views are spectacular, and the flower beds are blooming with daffodils, tulips, and violets.
The violets are still blooming. Because of course they are.
It’s not really a big thing – but the memory of Tara handing her violets will always be a part of her, every spring, and Willow needs a moment just to sit. She finds a park bench.
Kennedy’s still standing, enjoying the view.
The violets are blooming, turning their tiny purple faces to the sky. Willow watches them, quietly, until someone sits down beside her.
“It’s okay that you miss her,” comes Kennedy’s voice, quietly. “I get that.”
“I do, but–” Willow pauses. “I don’t want to make you feel like a second choice.”
Kennedy laces her fingers through Willow’s. “I’m still here.”
May
…and then, one day, a normal day of teaching the basics of spell resonance to trainee witches turns into a phone call and Willow rushing home early.
…which turns into Kennedy pacing back and forth, swearing under her breath, and complaining that superstrength ought to come with a faster way to do this.
…which turns into fifteen minutes of intensity, scary and stressful in a way Willow hasn’t experienced for, oh, at least two years.
…which turns into magic.
Because Nicola Anne is there, and tiny, and new, and beautiful, and holding her finger. And Willow still hasn’t got the faintest clue how to be a mom, but right now she doesn’t care at all.
She looks up, and catches Kennedy watching them both with a happy, tired smile. “What do you think, Red?” she asks. “Will we be okay?”
Willow nods, and looks back down at her daughter. “We’ll be fine.”
Title: Icarus, tethered to a kite string
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2463
Pairing: Willow/Kennedy
Summary: impending motherhood, and other issues
Icarus, tethered to a kite string
June
It’s just an idle conversation, one morning when the air feels light and fresh, and breakfast isn’t nearly enticing enough to get up for. Willow notices the crack wending its way across the ceiling and points out “It’s sort of like a lion. See, that bit’s the feet, and then up along the back, and the wobbly bit’s the mane.”
“Oh, yeah, I see,” Kennedy nods. “You know, we really ought to repaint.”
“Cream? Or maybe blue?”
“Or just go totally wild with hot pink.”
“…no.”
“No. You’re right. Let’s be boring and have cream. Fit right in with the whole Seattle vibe.”
And then the talk dies down for a few minutes, until Kennedy rolls over and says “Really, we should paint the whole apartment. I mean, we’ve been here, what? Seven months already?” She tends to get energetic about projects.
“Mmm.”
“And put up shelves.”
“Yep.”
“And organise the suitcase room.”
Willow wrinkles her forehead. “The… what?”
Kennedy grins. “Well, it is kinda full of suitcase-y junk. What else do you want to call it? What is that room even for?”
It’s a smallish room with a closet and (very faded) light blue drapes. “I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be a nursery.”
“Oh. Right.”
And they go quiet again.
Several minutes later, Kennedy says thoughtfully, “You know, that’d be kinda cute. Can you imagine a mini version of us running around the place?”
“Playing with dolls?”
“Making pillow forts.”
“Reading the books…”
“Drawing all over the hot pink walls…”
“No. Cream.”
“Cream,” Kennedy agrees. And they leave it there.
July
“I think it might be possible.”
“What?”
“Possible! Because we could – I’m pretty sure. I’ve figured it out, and—”
“Wait, Will – what are you talking about?”
So she backtracks, and clarifies. Because it’s just biology, really, once you kickstart the process with a whole load of magic. And sure, it’s kinda breaking the laws of reality, but she’s done that before – heck, that’s basically what magic is, if you think about it, and she has been, thinking, that is. And sure, they might need to think on their feet, but it’s possible, it really is, and they could, and if all else fails there’s at least one muse that owes her a favour, so—
“WILL.” Kennedy interrupts, hard. “Figjam. Seriously.”
Normal couples use safety words for fun sexy times. Not her.
August
The planet turns, and she meditates, feeling the ground beneath her hands. Breathing deep, collecting her thoughts, calming and taming them, breathing, breathing. The planet turns, the wind moves, and she sits and is Willow again. Breathing.
As the days continue, Willow keeps herself grounded, studying, talking to Althenea, and meditating every sunset. The massive thread of excited overwhelming half-thoughts is stopped in its tracks – but not buried and left to fester. Instead, Willow takes hold of them one by one, and works through each thought, one by one by one, slowly, carefully, until she is done and her mind is clear once again.
And still she sits.
The planet turns.
Some time later, Kennedy sits down next to her, takes a deep breath and says, carefully, “So… when you say ‘possible’…”
September
The ritual itself is… actually pretty sexy. Kennedy and Willow are both sky-clad, sitting within a ring of lit candles, with the scent of burnt rosemary and lavender filling the air.
Willow draws on the earth for strength, closes her eyes, and begins to weave a tiny orb – made of light and love and longing – to contain their essences, hers and Kennedy’s, and form them into one whole. Then she lays her hands on Kennedy’s belly, and chants, feeling Kennedy’s skin grow hot beneath her fingertips.
And, so simply, so quietly, a life begins.
October
Something is wrong, and Kennedy is ashen and can’t stand.
Willow calls the Council’s med-team, panicked. And paces the floor, freaked beyond freaked, until they tell her that everything’s fine – normal, even. “She’ll need strong anti-nausea medication. Call us if she can’t keep water down. You can expect her condition to improve in about seven weeks.” And that’s it.
She hasn’t screwed up. She hasn’t over-reached.
She sinks to the floor, breathing out two hours’ worth of worry. Kennedy’s fingers find her hair, and tease through it gently.
“Okay there, Red?”
Willow nods.
“You know, if it’d make you feel better, we can switch places,” Kennedy offers. “I’ll take the witchy god complex, and you can puke on our carpet.”
And just like that, she knows it’ll be fine. They’ll be fine. Probably.
November
Pregnancy sucks donkey’s balls, according to Kennedy. She’s spent the last month lying on the sofa watching tv, spewing up everything she eats, and groaning every time Willow comes near her.
“Can you go away, you still smell like breakfast cereal.”
Or “I can’t. I’m sure it’s nutritious, but – no. No. Can you just get me more water?”
Or “You smell like— your hair, it just— no, it’s— just, please Willow, please go somewhere else and stop… existing at me.”
Willow really wants to ring up her best friend and gripe about her girlfriend – but she can’t, because that wouldn’t really be fair. And plus, she hasn’t actually told Buffy what’s going on in the first place. Which… actually she probably should.
Phone calls are made.
Xander is baffled, but tries to be congratulatory. Giles says “Dear Lord” eight times in a single conversation. Dawn hears that Kennedy is pregnant and starts swearing blood vengeance and pain for several minutes before Willow can get across that it’s due to magic and not cheating, and a good thing.
Buffy just takes one long, deep breath, and then says “Okay. Wow.” Which pretty much covers it.
December
Everyone flies in for Hannukah, and squeezes into their tiny apartment to cook a chaotic attempt at a roast dinner.
Xander gives her a great big Xander-ish hug, and then lets her go, and looks at Kennedy. He nods slowly – and pulls her in for a hug too. This is new.
Dawn greets them both with squeals of delight, and a bag full of baby jumpsuits, all different colours. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a mom!” she grins, leaping in for another hug.
Giles quietly hands over a card, along with a gift certificate for Baby&Co, and a flyer outlining the Council’s childcare services. “It’s coming along nicely,” he acknowledges, “what with Faith leading the charge for Slayer daycare. You shouldn’t have any complaints.”
Buffy presents them with a delicate bonnet stitched in white lace. “Spike picked it out. Apparently they were all the rage in the 1890s.” She doesn’t ask any questions about magical pregnancies and their limitations – but Willow can see them being carefully left unsaid.
As he’s leaving, Xander hands over his present: a copy of Fantastic Mr Fox. “I used to love this as a kid,” he says. “I hope your little girl will love it too.”
And that’s the moment it hits Willow: she’s having a little girl. An actual little girl.
January
A baby. A little baby girl. Who is going to grow up and be a little girl, probably with pigtails.
And there will be diapers, and onesies, and strollers, and toilet training, and teething rusks, and formula, and pacifiers – but do kids even use pacifiers these days? or are they bad for your teeth? – and this is the thing, because Tara was supposed to be here to know this stuff.
It was supposed to be Tara being the soothy, comforty, peaceful one, who knew all the right things to do to be a perfect mother. And Willow being the fun, cool one who would teach the kids about science and take them on interesting trips to museums and stuff.
Kennedy is determined, and loyal, and steadfast. She’s not gentle or soothing. And Willow has never changed a diaper in her life.
She panics in Kennedy’s direction.
“How does naptime even work? Do we have some sort of timetable to stick to? Or are we just supposed to magically know when she’s going to get tired, and for how long? Maybe that’s it – magic! We could magic her to sleep, and then magic her awake. Perfect. And, come to think of it, if we magic her poop away we can save a fortune on diapers. That’d work, right?”
She turns. Kennedy is watching her, thoughtfully.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“I’m going off the deep end! Aren’t you going to stop me?!”
Kennedy shakes her head. “No. This isn’t that. This is something else.”
Willow tries to deny it, but Kennedy knows her very well. “Come on, Red. What’s really going on?”
And so she gives up and tells her how she’d talked with Tara about maybe adopting some day, and it would have been so great, because Tara was so good with kids, and Willow would never be that good with kids, so it would never be just like she’d pictured it, and Tara, she was supposed to be doing this with Tara…
And she talks on and on, getting out all the worry, telling everything to her steadfast, rock-strong girlfriend, and worrying, and mourning, and wishing – until she finally looks at the expression on Kennedy’s face.
Kennedy is hurt. Like… hurt.
Willow stops talking. But she’s already said a lot.
February
Willow is sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to study, when Kennedy sits down, takes a deep breath, and begins. “So I guess we need to talk.”
They’ve spent the last three weeks tiptoeing around each other, having stilted conversations about medical appointments and groceries. Which – given the absolute minefield of hurt feelings and grief that exploded on them during their last real talk – is reasonable. Willow was kinda hoping they could just not address it ever again, but she nods.
“There are just some important decisions that we need to make. As soon as possible.”
Another nod.
Kennedy takes another deep breath, looks Willow right in the eyes, and says, “Ballet lessons.”
Willow blinks. “Um… what?”
“I mean – she’s a girl, so it’s gonna come up, right? And I’ve heard ballet can really screw up your feet. So, do we let her, or not?”
She’s honestly not sure what to say – and is still figuring it out when Kennedy continues, deadpan.
“Also, I was wondering about allowance. Do you think we should tie it to chores, or should she get it no matter what?”
It’s out of nowhere, totally trivial… and absolutely, completely, exactly the way Kennedy would start the conversation, because of course Kennedy – now raising an eyebrow at her and trying to look innocent – would do it like this.
“Really? We’re going to talk about ballet?”
“Why not? It seems pretty important.”
And Kennedy knows damn well what she’s doing, and she’s going to make Willow do all the hard bits, and just sit there being annoyingly indirect when she knows how crazy-making it is. Willow wants to find the perfect thing to say, but settles on a disbelieving “Ballet? Seriously?”
“Is there something else we need to talk about instead?”
They haven’t talked about anything for weeks. “I can’t–” Willow starts again. “You–”
“I what?”
“I really hurt you and said you weren’t as good as Tara!”
There it is.
Kennedy is still sitting there, watching her. Willow bites her lip. A moment, and then she tries again.
“I really hurt you.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I want Tara to be alive again.”
“I know.”
“I really wanted to be doing all this with her.”
Kennedy just nods.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
A hand is reached out, caught, held. They cling to each other, and keep talking.
“I’m not her, Red. I’m me.”
“I know.”
“One way or another, we’re going to have a baby together. And we’ll have to deal with all this crap – ballet lessons and all.”
“No ballet lessons. They reinforce patriarchal notions of femininity. She can do jazz dance.”
“Okay. Deal.”
Willow holds Kennedy’s hand tightly, looks her in the eyes, and asks the important question. “Are we in over our heads?”
March
“Are we in over our heads?”
She’s called Faith, who doesn’t even hesitate. “Hell yes.”
This is not the reassuring answer Willow was expecting. “We are?” After all, they’ve got an apartment and a steady income, and they’ve been reading all the books. “But… really? You think we are?”
“Welcome to parenthood.”
There are far too many things that parents need to know, and Willow’s been researching and trying to format her parenting philosophy, but she still has questions. She starts to explain, but Faith interrupts.
“Fuck that. Relax.”
“But–”
“Keep him clean, keep him fed, and make sure he smiles more than he screams. Everything else is psychological bullshit.”
“Her. She’s a girl.”
“Then same goes, but she probably won’t pee in your face during diaper changes. Congrats.”
April
They go for a walk – or, in Kennedy’s case, a waddle – through Volunteer Park, enjoying the gorgeous spring weather. The koi pond is sparkling, the views are spectacular, and the flower beds are blooming with daffodils, tulips, and violets.
The violets are still blooming. Because of course they are.
It’s not really a big thing – but the memory of Tara handing her violets will always be a part of her, every spring, and Willow needs a moment just to sit. She finds a park bench.
Kennedy’s still standing, enjoying the view.
The violets are blooming, turning their tiny purple faces to the sky. Willow watches them, quietly, until someone sits down beside her.
“It’s okay that you miss her,” comes Kennedy’s voice, quietly. “I get that.”
“I do, but–” Willow pauses. “I don’t want to make you feel like a second choice.”
Kennedy laces her fingers through Willow’s. “I’m still here.”
May
…and then, one day, a normal day of teaching the basics of spell resonance to trainee witches turns into a phone call and Willow rushing home early.
…which turns into Kennedy pacing back and forth, swearing under her breath, and complaining that superstrength ought to come with a faster way to do this.
…which turns into fifteen minutes of intensity, scary and stressful in a way Willow hasn’t experienced for, oh, at least two years.
…which turns into magic.
Because Nicola Anne is there, and tiny, and new, and beautiful, and holding her finger. And Willow still hasn’t got the faintest clue how to be a mom, but right now she doesn’t care at all.
She looks up, and catches Kennedy watching them both with a happy, tired smile. “What do you think, Red?” she asks. “Will we be okay?”
Willow nods, and looks back down at her daughter. “We’ll be fine.”
no subject
Date: 2019-11-08 06:41 am (UTC)I love that you're keeping this ship sailing.
no subject
Date: 2019-11-08 07:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-11-16 08:56 am (UTC)“Drawing all over the hot pink walls…”
I like Kennedy's taste for chaos.
OMG, a safeword for rambling? Love it. :D
I love your description of how it feels to be meditating!! "The planet turns, the wind moves..."
D'aww. I liked the ritual!
Ohno it went wrong?! D: Someone help Kennedy!
"stop… existing at me"
:D oh dear
"Dawn hears that Kennedy is pregnant and starts swearing blood vengeance and pain for several minutes"
haha, sweet!
You get a Xander hug, and *you* get a Xander hug! \o/
"Faith leading the charge for Slayer daycare"
Great
"She doesn’t ask any questions about magical pregnancies and their limitations – but Willow can see them being carefully left unsaid."
omg, yes
I love how she's panicking because neither of them is a Tara
Ahh, how lovely that Kennedy knows her so well!
"Kennedy takes another deep breath, looks Willow right in the eyes, and says, “Ballet lessons.”"
Fantastic. *g*
“No ballet lessons. They reinforce patriarchal notions of femininity. She can do jazz dance.”
Solid. :)
“Then same goes, but she probably won’t pee in your face during diaper changes. Congrats.”
omg, that's a thing? Also, love the deadpan way Faith said it.
And again I say, d'awwww. :)) This was lovely!
no subject
Date: 2019-11-18 01:38 am (UTC)"Faith leading the charge for Slayer daycare"
Great
I love doing this kind of stuff with Faith. (I've got another fic about Faith and daycare - but in that one, Buffy already has kids...)
“Then same goes, but she probably won’t pee in your face during diaper changes. Congrats.”
omg, that's a thing?
That's totally a thing. Boys pee in your face; girls flood the change table. :)