Chapter Text
It was a bright Saturday morning and Willow and Tara were standing on the corner of a small residential street containing a dozen or so average middle classes houses.
It was the first day the two were spending campaigning for Willow’s election as the Member of Parliament for Glastonbury and Somerton, the seat Tara had vacated following her recent elevation to the House of Lords.
Tara had put a pin in a large wall map at their campaign office and opted on the village of Castle Cary for their first day of canvassing. A handful of supporters were fanning out around the small settlement leaving the couple to campaign together.
Tara looked at her fiancé with an encouraging smile and took her hand leading her to the first house. Looking at Tara again for encouragement, Willow finally broke her hand from Tara’s with an obvious show of reluctance and knocked at the door.
An older man opened it after a moment’s pause. “Yes”, he said coldly, clearly annoyed at having been disturbed.
“Hello”, said Willow with a pleasant smile, “I’m standing to be your Member of Parliament.”
The man eyed the pair suspiciously, looking very closely at Tara. “Aren’t you that high ranking witch?”, he asked, his voice full of resentment and anger.
Tara’s eyes narrowed slightly, knowing he expected to unsettle her. She straightened, giving him her most diplomatic smile. “I am the Minister for Supernatural Affairs if that’s what you mean.”
The man glared. “You think you can just come into our village and expect our support witch?”
“I know it will take time to earn your trust,” Willow said softly. “We just want the opportunity to speak with you.”
“If you’ll even listen!” the man spat. “Evil’s got a grip on the Government and you’re right in the middle of it.” He slammed the door, the sound echoing in the quiet street like a gunshot.
Willow looked at Tara, blinking back the beginnings of frustration.
“Not everyone will be that friendly,” Tara said gently, squeezing Willow's shoulder. “Ready for the next one?”
They moved on, house to house, each encounter a variation on the same theme. Some doors stayed shut. Some opened just enough for a scowling face to express skepticism, derision, fear. Mixed in were occasional glimmers of civility—a young mother with polite nods, quickly closing a door as her baby screamed. Willow’s sunny optimism was becoming increasingly brittle.
“I told Giles it was going to be like this,” she said, stepping back from one particularly unpleasant incident.
“What can you expect? He’s British.” Tara laughed lightly, hoping to keep the mood from souring completely. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”
“More like stiff lower door,” Willow said, managing a smile in spite of the poor responses the two had received.
They finished one side of the street and doubled back. The sun was higher now, burning away the cool morning mist and making the unshaded road uncomfortably warm.
When they reached the last address, an older woman stood outside tending her rose bush. She looked up, shading her eyes with a gnarled hand. “What’re you peddling?” Her voice was cracked with age but not unkind.
Before Willow could answer, Tara spoke. “Our ideas, mostly…”
“You’re the witches,” the woman interrupted, sounding almost amused.
Tara nodded, smiling. “We are.”
“Not much good that’s done you, has it?”
“Part of what we’re trying to change,” Willow said, a hint of fire in her voice.
“I’m for you,” the woman said, unexpectedly, startling them both. “This place needs a good shake up, evil or no. Good luck to you, dears.”
They turned back toward the street, the woman’s words a small but treasured victory. They stood for a moment on the pavement, breathing in the humid air.
“Let’s grab lunch and regroup,” Tara suggested. “I think we earned a break.”
“We did, didn’t we?” Willow said with renewed enthusiasm, before casting a wary glance down the street. “But maybe not at the pub. I’d rather not face an angry mob before I’ve had a sandwich.”
Tara laughed. “We’ll find somewhere out of the way”.
The village center had a sleepy charm about it. Narrow lanes wound around stone cottages and small shops with cluttered windows. They found a cafe that advertised fresh sandwiches and squeezed into a small table in the corner, unpinning campaign badges and setting them on the table between them.
“I think we’ll come out ahead in the end,” Tara said, as they picked through their order.
Willow nodded, her optimism now slowly puffing back into shape. “Giles was really sure I’d win, even with all the extra demon support for the other side. But he was probably just being Giles. You know, very British about it and not wanting to stress me out.”
“Giles is usually right,” Tara said, with the type of faith that always made Willow feel simultaneously more confident and a little guilty.
“If we can just get people to listen…”
Tara took her hand, bringing it to her lips for a light kiss. “We’ve got time. We’ve got this.”
They lingered over lunch, watching village life unfold through the cafe window.
A morose teenager sat on a bench outside, permanently attached to her phone. A few older women, deep in gossip, walked by and glanced at the booth with disapproval. Someone from their team had left a stack of flyers on the opposite corner, pages fluttering like abandoned birds in the breeze.
“I think this is ours,” Willow said, pointing. “At least we’ll get some attention.”
Tara smiled. “Or we’ll be fined for littering,” she teased.
Willow pulled a pen from her bag and flipped a napkin over, jotting down notes. “We need to make sure we’re covering all the outlying villages. And maybe a sweep of the local papers? They’re probably running the scare stories without any counterpoint.” She paused, tapping the pen against her lips. “Focus on the young voters?”
Tara nodded. “And maybe reframe the message, so it doesn’t feel so… London?”
“Like, ‘Cornish pasties for everyone! Witches can’t be all bad.”
“They might not hate that,” Tara said, laughing.
Willow leaned back in her seat, trying to let the tension wash away. “They’re going to need a lot of convincing.”
“We can do that,” Tara insisted. “We've got the truth, and sooner or later they'll see it.”
Willow looked at her, eyes brightening. “Even if we have to knock on every door in the constituency?”
“Especially if we have to,” Tara said, her smile gentle and assured.
“Okay,” Willow said softly. “Today’s the last time I let it get me down.”
They stepped out of the cafe into the slower rhythm of early afternoon. Nothing moved too fast here, except, perhaps, the clouds above them that gathered, dark and heavy, as if mirroring Willow’s anxieties. They decided to leave their car parked, and taking a walk through the quieter parts of the village. They wandered through the churchyard’s tilted gravestones and along a path by the small river, listening to its quiet persistence.
“Are you thinking of crossing over to the enemy and retiring to the countryside?” Willow asked.
“Maybe our next gig,” Tara mused. “There’s an appeal, you have to admit.”
“It might not be bad,” Willow said. “If we survive this one.”
The sky grumbled softly. The first drops of rain caught them as they got back to the village center.
“Never rained like this back home,” Willow said, still marveling at the weather’s whimsy after all these months.
“Are you sure?” Tara teased, unlocking the car. “My memories of Sunnydale are mostly wet and full of vampires.”
Willow’s nose wrinkled at the memory. “Wet with demon guts. But this is definitely colder.”
They drove toward their rented cottage, past fields that wavered with curtains of rain. The exhilaration of the morning slowly gave way to exhaustion. Willow flicked on the radio, hoping for news from London, but got only static and faint local call-ins complaining about the weather and the state of the roads.
“We need a bit of good news,” Willow said, turning it off.
“Just wait until tonight,” Tara assured. “They're interviewing Giles. You know he always sounds so annoyingly competent.”
It was late afternoon by the time they reached the cottage, a small stone affair just off the main road. Willow pushed open the door and paused, looking around the small, cluttered living room with satisfaction. It wasn’t home but it was theirs, for now, and it already smelled comfortingly of old books and fresh coffee.
Tara kicked off her shoes. “Want something hot?”
“Coffee me,” Willow said, sinking into the lumpy sofa. She closed her eyes and allowed a sense of warmth to spread through her. They were doing this. Really doing this. She heard the familiar clink of mugs and a soft thud on the kitchen table.
“Let’s break out the good stuff,” Tara said, carrying the drinks and a plate of cookies into the living room.
“I thought you were saving these for emergencies!” Willow protested, eyeing the imported American treats.
Tara sat beside her, curling into her side. “I think today qualifies.”
They sipped the hot coffee, letting the steam envelop them. The rain drummed steadily on the roof as if reminding them of its promise to never stop. Tara reached for a cookie and then for Willow’s hand, tracing gentle circles on her palm. It was a small gesture, but it melted the residual frustration from the day’s encounters.
“Giles thinks those demon groups have a good chance now that they’ve stirred everyone up,” Willow said, her voice edged with concern. “Even if we win, it’s going to be close.”
“It’s enough if we win.”
“Easy for you to say, Lady MacWhitefish,” Willow said, playfully. “You’ve already got a seat in the House of Lords.”
Tara laughed. “You’ll join me in Westminster soon enough. Isn’t that what we’re out here for?”
“To spread the witchy gospel. Convince the masses.” Willow put down her mug. “Does it feel a little weird to you? Trying this hard to be legit?”
Tara thought about that, her face softening in that way Willow both loved and envied. “It’s just another kind of fight. Winning it means something. For all of us.”
“You mean Faith and Buffy?”
Tara found Willow’s eyes, her own steady and full of a recognition that made Willow look away. “All of us,” she repeated.
Willow curled back onto the sofa, careful not to spill her coffee. “They’re a mess.”
“Maybe. But if this works out, maybe having a little less pressure will give them space to… figure things out?”
“We’ve got to win big, then,” Willow said, stretching against Tara, her doubts evaporating again into hope.
“We will.” Tara’s voice was quiet but certain.
They were silent for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of rain on leaves, of things growing in unseen ways.
Tara set her mug down and let it rest half-emptied. “We should get some sleep while we can. Tomorrow will be another long day.”
Willow yawned, the room already taking on a gentle blur. “I meant what I said,” she murmured. “Today was the last time I let this get to me.”
Tara’s answer was a kiss on Willow’s cheek, soft and full of the trust that Willow sometimes found overwhelming.
Willow sighed, pressing close as if to say don’t ever let me go. “I just want to… do it right.”
“You will,” Tara whispered. “We will.”
They drifted into a quiet, easy rest, the kind only found beside each other.
When Willow woke, the sky was growing dark. Thunder rumbled like rearranging furniture, and Tara was still nestled at her side. She lay still, not wanting to disturb this fragile peace. Tomorrow they would face everything again—the uphill battle, the suspicion, the doors shutting like lines of retreat in a war. She felt the storm setting in, rattling the cottage, testing its seams.
Tara stirred, her eyes fluttering open. “What time is it?”
Willow checked her watch. “Almost seven. You still think Giles is on yet?”
“He should be on soon. We should set up the TV.”
They settled in front of the small screen, vintage and grainy but oddly comforting. Willow fiddled with the knobs, hunting for the right channel. Tara draped a blanket over their legs, and they sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting for the picture to stabilize.
A local politician was being interviewed. “Today in Somerset, witches were walking the streets in broad daylight asking for your vote”, said an angry councillor.
Willow rolled her eyes. “Definitely not the right channel.”
Tara flipped the station. Black and white lines danced frantically, slowly resolving into an image of Giles. He looked impeccable, suited and poised, speaking to the camera with the kind of calm authority only he could muster.
Willow’s fingers clutched Tara’s arm. “There he is!”
Giles’ voice filled the room, steady and sure. “We’ve never underestimated the challenge. But we believe deeply that this integration is necessary, and beneficial, for everyone.”
“—greater security and unprecedented opportunity for those willing to embrace change, rather than fear it,” Giles continued.
The scene cut to footage of protests, angry signs, people shouting.
Tara winced. “It’s really taken off.”
“You mean gotten worse", Willow said grimly.
“We’re giving people a choice, another option. That’s worth something”, Tara replied giving her a determined smile.
“Yeah we are”, Willow found herself cheering up a little, “we’ll just have to try our best and see what happens.”