Three days after he’d made his decision, and things were the same, and were different, than they’d always been. The world went on around him, unchanging, in that way life always had of not marking major events. Rain on a wedding day, sunshine at a funeral. The damn bell still jingled merrily over the door to the shop, Anya still chattered brightly about money.
But things were different. Every time he sat down to a meal, there was suddenly a nagging presence in his mind asking if it was good for the baby. Every time he reached for a drink and stopped himself, it was suddenly because it would harm the baby, not because it would unsettle his stomach. Every time he laid down to sleep at night, he suddenly wondered if sleeping in certain positions was better than others.
It was driving him around the bend.
And he’d hardly seen Willow since.
Which, of course, only made things that much worse. And the fact that most of the time he did see her, she was with Tara... well, none of this boded well.
Like now, he was organizing a new shipment of charms, and they were over at the table, chattering and giggling... sitting close together, touching hands, ducking their heads together conspiratorially. Some men, he supposed, or even most, perhaps, would not see this as a hindrance. A woman, bisexual, with a female lover. The thought would be arousing, the sight of them, more so.
But Willow and Tara... the only heat they raised in him was anger. Futile, unjustified, impotent wrath. Because what the hell could he do? What ground did he have to stand on?
Nothing.
Tara couldn’t steal something that had never been his to begin with.
Couldn’t turn the anger on them. Could easily turn it on himself, though. Idiotic old fool that he was, thinking she’d ever... his fault. All his fault. He’d started it, he’d kept it going, always made the first move. Swept her along in something... something she’d maybe never even really wanted. Buried himself in her, mind and heart and soul. Used her.
He couldn’t stop a soft sound of disgust as he turned back to the shelf after glancing over his shoulder at them yet again.
He was-
“We both know what they’ve been up to, eh, Rupes?”
Startled at Spike’s voice, as he appeared out of nowhere beside him. Hated himself for the show of weakness, for the moment off-guard as Spike chuckled at his expense.
“Surprised *you* can’t smell it on them,” Spike continued, leaning against the shelf, boxing Giles in, deep inside his personal space.
“Do shut up, Spike,” he said, in a tone pleasant enough to reek of threat.
“Heh. You wish, Rupert. Gonna take more than that to keep me quiet.”
A small alarm bell tinkled in the back of Giles’s mind.
“And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?” he said, gently setting down an amulet, and then leaving his hand there, on the shelf, not moving a muscle of his body.
“Come on, now. You’re a Watcher. You know all about us vampires and our... gifts.”
Spike leaned in even closer, undead breath cool on Giles’s ear.
“I know Glinda’s not the only one been dipping into that particular honeypot.”
Giles’s breath caught in his throat, even as Spike pulled infinitesimally away.
“Also know you’re preggers. Can’t quite figure that one, but I’ll say this: no such thing as safe sex with a Wicca, mate.”
“That wasn’t Willow,” Giles said, before he could stop himself.
Spike tossed his head unconcernedly.
“Yeah, well, here’s the thing--”
Giles glared.
“Go away, Spike.”
“The thing is,” Spike continued, blithely unconcerned, “Way I see it, I have some information here. Information that certain other parties--say, a certain girly witch type--don’t have. Information you don’t want certain other parties to have.”
And suddenly, he was fighting off a laugh. He forced a (mostly) straight face, held up a hand, and said, “Hold off, just a moment, are you *blackmailing* me?”
Spike looked a bit derailed.
“Uh. Well, yeah.”
“By threatening to tell Tara that Willow and I are involved.”
”Um. Yeah. That’s the plan.”
Giles just turned towards him, crossed his arms and looked at him. Watched as understanding slowly began to dawn in Spike’s eyes.
“Oh. Oh! Oh... How ‘bout this then? You do what I want... I tell the witch for you... everybody wins.” He paused, frowned, then said, “Well, ‘cept the witch. Guess she kinda loses.”
“No, thank you,” Giles said, drily, turning back to continue organizing the shelf, feeling the threat passing.
“Hey, hold up, then. That won’t work, then how ‘bout this. You do what I want, or I tell the Slayer ‘bout your little indiscretions. How about that?”
In an instant, his blood ran cold. Dear god. Buffy. In all honesty, he had truly not spared a thought to her reaction. True, they’d been as discreet as they could, mostly, in his mind, for Tara’s sake. But Buffy? Knowing?
That was terrifying.
He knew he should have said, “be my guest,” should have blown it off. But he also knew that now was far too late, and knew that Spike had seen the way his body had drawn tight.
“What do you want?” he finally said, softly, admitting defeat and hating it.
“Ah, that’s more like it then,” Spike said, and his cheery tone grated hard on Giles’s nerves, and he felt his fist curl.
“Just tell me, Spike.”
“All right, then. Very simple really. Just a small thing.”
Giles waited, agitation growing.
“Put in a good word for me.”
“What?”
“With the Slayer.”
Giles blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Put in a good word for me with the Slayer. Tell her what an all right kinda guy I am. Give her that speech, you know? The one you gave me a while back about how maybe I’m destined for great things and all.”
“You blew me off after I made ‘that speech,’ Spike.”
”Yeah, well, don’t tell her that part. Besides. I’ve changed.”
This was all far too bizarre for Giles’s taste, but it seemed harmless enough. Buffy would simply not listen to him, as she always did, and everyone could move on with their lives unmolested.
“All right,” he said, finally.
Spike smiled.
“Right then. Great.”
Then, he didn’t leave. After a moment, Giles had to ask, “Why are you still here?”
Spike looked wounded.
“I’m making conversation. Hey, by the way. You and the witch. What exactly do you think is going on there? I mean, do you really think you’re gonna win her back to our side of the fence with, what, the magical powers of your prick?” Spike paused, looked thoughtful, and then poked Giles’s stomach, “Or maybe she’s just attracted to the whole androgynous deal.”
Ok. One step too far.
Well, actually, as usual, Spike had gone many steps too far, but that was the proverbial straw.
“Out of my shop,” he said, pouring every bit of malice he possessed into the words.
And Spike went.
And sadly, the main thing he felt was a burst of relief that at least some level of his masculinity was still intact.
He looked over to the table, and was suddenly sure that Willow and Tara had heard every word, but the two girls were still conversing quietly.
He watched them for a moment, as Willow was speaking and gesturing at something in the book they were looking at. She was so beautiful. Always. Her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, her whole body infused with it, every movement so joyful and alive. As always, she called to him, drew him.
He stopped resisting, and went to her, and when she and Tara both looked up, eyes still bright with laughter from some private joke, he found himself spinning some fantasy to them about needing Willow’s help setting up the old laptop she’d left at his apartment.
Bold move, snatching her right out from under her girlfriend’s nose. Stupid move. Desperate move.
But Willow was agreeing, was telling Tara that it would be dull, best that she just head back to the dorm, reminding her of her evening lab, asking him if it was all right if she stayed and studied a bit at his place afterwards, where it was quieter than the dorm.
All he had to do was call down to Anya that he was leaving, that she could count out the cash register. His hands trembled a little as he turned the sign to closed. His palms slipped a little on the steering wheel, warm and soft with a hint of sweat. He dropped off Tara, pretended he didn’t see their goodbye kiss, and drove himself and Willow back to his place, amazing himself by managing not to run any red lights or stop signs or speed.
He had her in his arms, had his lips on hers, the moment they were in the door. Finally. God, too long. Her arms were under his jacket, holding him. Her hands on his back. Her tongue, pressing his.
Hitched her up the door, held her there, kissing desperately, like drowning. Her small whimper was like a spark of bright sunlight, shining on water. Her voice, gasping his name as he kissed down her neck, smelled her hair, tasted her skin. God, he was so hard. Wanted her so bad.
Wondered, suddenly, if sex would hurt the baby.
“Bloody hell,” he spat, suddenly shoving away from the door, from her, from everything. Buried his face in his hands and silently screamed, “SHUT UP!”
“Giles?” Willow’s voice said, breaking through the haze. “Giles? What? Did- did I-”
He dropped his hands away, and his shoulders slumped.
“No, no. Not you,” he said, then pulled out the desk chair and sank down into it.
“Uh... what then?”
She was approaching him cautiously.
“Giles?”
She touched his shoulder, shyly, and he reached up and laid his hand over hers, felt her relax a little.
“I just- it seems ever since I decided to... er, to carry this... um... to term... all I’ve bloody been able to think about is, uh, what’s good for it. And, what’s not. And, uh. I’m not entirely sure which is which.”
“Huh?”
“Everything I eat, everything I do, I keep thinking, ‘is this good for... for...’ well, you know.”
“The baby?”
“Right. Yes.”
“Uh. Well, I can hook you up with some websites, if you want? And, and we can call Ben back and ask him, too.”
Two excellent suggestions. Also, frightening. Facing up to this as a reality. As something that there were websites on, and that doctors had pamphlets about. It was somehow easier to face it as a great unknown, as something no one had dealt with before. Because that was how it felt. In a way, that was truly what it was.
But, his reason was stronger than his subconscious in this case. Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.
“Yes, of course. That would be wonderful.”
She reached up with her free hand and touched his cheek.
“We could, you know, actually set up that laptop, if you want.”
He shut his eyes and turned into her hand, kissed her palm, smelling the faint scent of sweat there. With a solution in sight, his panic was easing away, leaving behind only want.
“Later...” he said, softly.
“Yeah...” she said.
So they went upstairs, stripping each other gently along the way--with maybe a little help from Willow’s magic, he wasn’t sure-- and then they stood, naked and kissing, at the top of the stairs.
She always felt so good. Always sent warm shivers through him. Always pushed away the darkness, left behind only light, only pleasure. His cock brushed against her stomach... skin there so soft... he pushed closer, felt heat trickle up his body as his shaft slid against her.
“Oh, darling,” he whispered.
She pulled away from him, then, and backed up to the bed, sat down on the edge. Looked at him, and her gaze came to rest on his stomach. He shifted, self-consciously.
“Don’t,” she said, softly. “Don’t try to...”
He forced himself to hold still, although her gaze felt like an unscratched itch.
“You’re... beautiful,” she said, finally, and he had an uncomfortable moment wondering if maybe Spike hadn’t been so far off after all, but then she amended quickly, “But... but not in a girly way! Not at all. It’s... I dunno, maybe it’s the whole guy-with-a-baby thing, only more so. It’s like you... you’re so brave, Giles. And... and you’re... I dunno. I can’t... think of the words, really.”
He walked to her, and she put her hands on him, over the spot. First person to touch him there, like that, besides himself. He had to shut his eyes under the onslaught of emotion: passion, from the intimacy; fear, as the whole thing became ever that much more real; love, for Willow and her gentle hands; tenderness, and something like pride, for the child that was within him.
And then Willow’s hands slid down lower, both curling around his cock. He sighed, and opened his eyes as things got simpler, as the lust and the love took over.
“Sex is ok,” she said, as she let go of him and moved backwards to the middle of the bed.
“What?” he said, as his mind was still working on dealing with the sudden lack of her hands on him.
“For the baby,” she said.
He crawled on the bed over her.
“I checked,” she added.
“Ah,” he said, and he did feel relieved.
He kissed her as she continued speaking, sneaking words in as their lips parted briefly.
“I did hear that... high levels... of... ooo... testosterone... in the womb... might be... related to... homosexuality.”
He paused.
“Hmm. Really? That’s fascinating.”
She was flushed, and breathless, grinning up at him.
“Yeah. But... well, we’re probably not the best control group, y’know?”
He laughed softly, and kissed her some more, until they were both breathing heavy and moving against each other. A moment apart, and then he was on his back, and she was over him, sinking down on him, her eyes fluttering shut, her head rolling back. Beautiful, god, so beautiful. His breath rushed out in a shuddering gust, and he pressed up into her, feeling her, tight hot slick, around him, and so soft.
“Rupert,” she near-whispered, looking down at him as she rocked on him. He loved the way she said his name, how intimate it felt, spoken by her only in these moments, when they were together, alone, touching.
“Oh, my love,” he whispered back, mourning, for a moment, in the back of his mind, how hopelessly lost he was, and then found her hand and clasped it in his own.
Then they were quiet but for gasps and soft groans, moving together towards the fall, and then over it, with two soft cries in the darkened room.
They held each other afterwards, murmuring meaningless pillow talk to each other, until one of their stomachs rumbled, and they laughed and got up.
He put on his robe and she put on his T-shirt and they went downstairs and ordered Chinese, and then they settled down in the living room so Willow could work her mojo (of the non-magic variety) on the old laptop.
He couldn’t even express what a simple joy it was, sitting there together, cuddled close, just holding each other, talking and laughing softly as she attempted, patiently, to guide him through the intentionally unfamiliar world of computers and internet.
“... But what if it freezes up? It’s always freezing up for some reason or another.”
“Well, if it freezes, and you haven’t saved your work...”
“Yes?”
“You cry,” she said, with cheerful finality.
“Oh, wonderful. Thank you, Willow.”
“No, see, the moral of this story is save early and often.”
He smiled and kissed her hair.
“Ah, I see. A cautionary tale, then.”
“Yup. Heed well, my friend.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Ooo, food!” Willow said, bouncing up and down a little in a supremely distracting sort of way.
“Ah, yes. Keep doing that and we’re not going to be eating anytime soon.”
“Oh! Oops,” she said, grinning back at him unapologetically as she leaned forward and put the laptop on the coffee table. He quickly hopped up and skirted around the table before she could actually get him into a state unfit to answer the front door in. The fact that he was wearing nothing but a robe was quite bad enough.
She was a few steps behind him as he opened the door, carefully back out of the line-of-sight, given her state of dress, and he was half-turned towards her, about to comment on her lack of decorum.
But his comments died on his lips when he glanced briefly towards the delivery man.
Or, rather, the person at his door.
Who was not actually a delivery man.
“Oh god,” Willow gasped, after they’d all stared at each other for a bit, “Tara!”
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