They slept, and she woke before him, got up, and read for awhile, then ordered them something to eat around two and woke him when it came. They ate dinner in his bed, with her wrapped in his too-large robe, and him sitting across from her, cross-legged, naked but for his glasses. They were close, her knee pressed against his. They couldn’t seem to exist without touching each other in some way: a hand on an arm, fingers brushing lips... halfway through the meal, he untied the robe, let it fall open, and reached inside, laid his hand between her breasts, over her heart. She held still, on the outside, but inside her body was flying into motion. She’d read all the books recommended for outside reading in psychology, and she knew: love was real, was physical. Fast heartbeat, rising temperature, flushed skin, shaking. Estrogen, testosterone, endorphins, adrenaline. Fever, love bug. Not so far off, chemically speaking.
Which was utterly ridiculous, because nothing, just nothing, was anything like this.
She closed her eyes, and felt the tips of his fingers on her breast, circling her nipple. Felt it draw taut and hard. Felt heat, and love, and want.
His hand dropped away and they continued to eat, not speaking. What they had done, earlier, still lingered between them. She felt connected to him, like a cable hooked somewhere behind her heart, binding her to him. And him to her.
And gradually, their casual touches lingered a little longer, came a little more often, until the food was done and set aside, and there was nothing but each other. They were sitting directly across from each other, her on her knees, him still cross-legged, and looking into each other’s eyes, and his hands were running over her slowly under the robe: up and down her sides, around her back, her shoulders; always moving, touching her, learning her. She curled her own hand around the nape of his neck, felt the fringes of his hair tickle her skin, and pulled him closer, and pressed her lips to his, and he wrapped his arms around her back, kissed her hard.
Then suddenly, she turned her head aside, tucked her forehead in his shoulder.
Her heart clenched with some feeling, so powerful, she couldn’t tell if it was joy or grief, all she could feel was just a massive Something.
When she looked up again, she saw him through burning tears.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” she said, even though she hadn’t really known she was going to speak at all.
“Oh, Willow,” he said, gently, “I’m not-”
“You are,” she said, because he was, she knew it, she’d seen the way he reacted in the car when she’d told him that she hadn’t told Tara.
“It’s just... I love you, and I love her, and I want to be with you, but I don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t know what to say-”
But then she had to laugh a little because he was literally kissing the tears off her cheeks, and she’d only ever read about anyone doing that. She felt his lips smile against her skin.
“Hush, precious,” he murmured.
She sniffled, and then said, “I do, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“Love you.”
And then, suddenly, she was alone.
But only because, as it turned out, he was going for a condom, and she thought to herself, even as she admired his sleek back and nice ass through the fading blur of tears, that she really should just get on the pill.
Then he was back with her, kissing her, pulling her into his lap, and soon, all she was thinking about was his cock, moving inside her as she slowly undulated against him. His stomach, rubbing against hers. His powerful shoulders, his hazy eyes, his gentle smile.
The robe curled around them both, soft and warm.
It was dark in the bedroom, and they were alone. She loved him, he loved her, and at that moment, that was all that mattered. Nothing bad could enter here: not confusion, not guilt, not doubts.
By the end of it, she was on her back and he was over her, driving into her, and they were both lost in it, in each other. She came, and he followed, and they held each other for a little while.
Afterwards, they got up, and they showered together, got dressed, and then settled down in the living room with sandwiches and tea and a game of Scrabble. At eight, he dropped her off in front of the student union on campus.
Kissing him goodbye felt deeply wrong.
She watched his taillights until he turned out of sight. Her arms were crossed against the light chill of the night as she started walking, slowly, back towards her dorm. As she walked, her mind toyed with conversation openers.
‘Hi Tara, we need to talk.’ ‘Sure, sweetie. About what?’ ‘I’ve been sleeping with Giles.’
No. Too abrupt, clearly.
‘Tara, you know I love you, right?’
No. Maybe... ‘Tara, you know I care about you...’
Willow sighed.
‘Tara, I have a confession to make. And it... it’s bad. Very bad.’ ‘O-ok...’ ‘See, lately I’ve... I’ve been... doing something bad. The kind of bad that’s... bad.’
Ok, that was leading nowhere fast.
‘Tara, I think maybe I need some... space.’
No. Way too generic. Plus, again with the way-too-abrupt.
Willow sighed again, more forcefully. How about just: ‘Hi, Tara, wouldja please hold still for a second so I can just rip your heart out and tear it into a million pieces and maybe stomp on it a few times, too? Thanks. Oh, and by the way, I’ve been shagging Giles for about two weeks now.’
Yeah, really, that was looking like the best of the bunch.
She remembered the betrayal in Oz’s eyes. And she remembered how her world had crumbled when she’d realized that the one person who made her feel special, made her feel *wanted*, had apparently traded her in for a better model.
What on earth could she say?
She still didn’t know by the time she reached her dorm. So she set it aside, wrapped up in a nice little coat of denial on a back shelf in her mind.
Tara was at her desk when she came in, and she looked up.
“Hey, Willow,” she said, softly.
“Hey,” Willow said, pushing a smile onto her face. “How was your day?”
She set her backpack over by her desk, and when she turned back around, Tara was standing up, with her hands clasped in front of her, looking down at the carpet.
“Hey, Willow?”
“Yeah?” Willow said, feeling a trickle of cold fear begin to run down her spine.
“I- Is everything all right? B- Because lately, you’ve... you’ve been a little... distracted. Like, like maybe you’re working a little too hard or... or something, you know?”
It was the perfect opening.
This was her chance.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, what she said was:
“What? No! No, everything’s fine!”
“You know, you can tell me anything, right? I mean... if something’s wrong... if... if *I’m* doing something... something that’s bothering you? Please, I want to know. I’d really rather you told me.”
She looked so sad, so.... afraid. Going to her, putting her arms around her, melting into her embrace was so easy, so natural. Hurting her... that was unnatural.
“Oh, Tara, baby, of course not. I’ve just been... you know, school and stuff, that’s all. I’m sorry.”
But even as she felt the relief in Tara’s body, a part of her mind was screaming at her. Because this... this was just going to make things worse. But that thought seemed far away as Tara kissed her throat, and hugged her a little tighter. Her body twitched in tired protest, but she still let Tara lead her over to the bed, helped her get them both out of their clothes.
Then she took over, pressing Tara down on her back, and kissing her, touching her, going over every sensitive spot she’d found on her lover’s body over the past year or so.
And when Tara looked over at her, later, her eyelids heavy with satiation, and said, “You never-” Willow just smiled and said, “I’m fine, go to sleep, hon,” and held her until she did.
As she was lying there, with Tara beside her, she happened to look over at the bookcase, and something caught her eye.
It was an old book, bound in cracked, dry leather. She slipped out of bed quietly and pulled it off the shelf, let it fall open in her lap. It had once belonged to Jenny Calendar. Willow had sorted all of her things after she’d died, and no one had ever asked for them back. So, now they were hers.
This one was a book on magic and midwifery, passed down through many years and generations, handwritten in many different hands and languages. Willow flipped past the Rumanian and German sections, but stopped when she got to a part written in French.
Mostly, it was simple things, like charms to ensure the unborn child’s health and long life. A couple of spells to determine paternity and legitimacy. Many, many potions to help ease the more unpleasant side effects of pregnancy.
And then, she found it.
It was a dark spell, the kind that called for blood and ash and some minor dealings with some minor demons.
But it would do what Giles wanted. It would end it. Give him back his life, some trace of normalcy. No surgery, no risk of unwanted publicity.
She slipped a piece of paper between the pages. She’d show him the spell at the Magic Box tomorrow after class.
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