He’d bought her daisies. When he’d gone into the shop, he’d fully intended to buy her red roses. The past was the past, after all, and it was silly to let it continue to affect him so deeply. But the moment he’d stepped in the door and the scent of them hit him, it was like he was living it again. The horror was fresh as yesterday.
The air outside had been a sweet blessing, clear and cool and three years removed from the day he’d found his lover murdered. He’d gone home, and called in an order.
The daisies were on the table now, the one he’d wrestled out of storage and shoved the desk aside to make room for. They were lying between the good china plates and the wine glasses, petals brilliantly white in the half-light of candles.
Their message of absolution was too strong and he half-regretted them, but he had them now, and he would give them to her. Partly because at least some of their symbolic purity was telling the truth, and partly because this time, he was--*they* were--doing this right. No more hiding in the dark. Doing it right, or not at all.
Because they couldn’t be friends now. Not when every time he touched her, he could *feel* her.
He knew he was too solemn as he pulled the chicken out of the oven, but the weight of thoughts on his mind was too heavy, and the burden was spilling over into his heart. So much could go wrong.
He shut his eyes, and breathed in deeply, pushing aside the doubt, and the tears that were too close to the surface. Told himself not to count the battle lost until it had actually been fought. Then he carried the chicken and the vegetables out to the table.
Checked the clock and saw it was still early. But if he knew Willow...
Sure enough, before the minute hand had even moved to the next tic mark, the door rattled and swung open. Something inside him leapt like a startled rabbit, and a distant part of himself was still calm enough to be embarrassed that he was more nervous now than he had been before a few apocalypses he could recall.
She stepped inside. Stopped. And gaped.
And he smiled and, just like that, was perfectly relaxed. Because this was Willow, and she was here, and they could make this work. He *knew* it, deep inside, even as he was still perfectly aware of the obstacles.
She finally managed to speak, then, saying his name, so choked full of emotions none of them came through quite clearly.
He fell apart again, suddenly not knowing what he was doing, what he was thinking. Throwing together this Hallmark card romance. Being fool enough to think that flowers and candles and all of this meant anything. This... this was not the sort of thing he should have sprung on her. It was unfair. Manipulative, really. Forcing her, perhaps, into something she maybe didn’t even want...
Or worse, something he might not even be able to offer her, because what had happened a month ago was not so easy to forget. Was not something that should be forgotten.
But then he saw tears in her eyes, and the panic eased like a shadow before dawn, and he reached for the flowers and walked to her. Pressed them into her hands, white blossoms saying everything that needed to be said. She fell against him, the flowers just out of the way enough to avoid being crushed, her face against his chest. When he hugged her, tightly, he could feel her tears in the shaky breaths expanding her chest and pushing out against his arms. He ducked his head down and inhaled the scent of her again.
They held each other.
Then she looked up at him, with red eyes and tears in her lashes, and laughed a very small laugh, and he smiled down at her and pushed her hair back behind her ear. So soft. Thin strands tingling against his knuckles.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” he said, and her shaky smile grew a little stronger and a light danced behind the sheen of tears.
“Maybe a few times,” she said.
They were kissing, again, finally. She was really here. In his home, in his arms. The kiss tasted like tears and relief.
Then she giggled, interrupting them. When he opened his eyes he found her looking down at his stomach between them, where it bumped up against hers.
“Wow, he’s getting big, huh?” Willow said, still looking. He didn’t let go of her, even as she wriggled her hand between them to lay flat over his stomach.
“He should be weighing about a pound this week,” he said.
Having another person’s hand there didn’t feel so strange now, since Buffy and Dawn had hardly let him alone at all the past couple of weeks, but it was still strange having *her* hand there. This girl, this woman, who might, maybe, someday, if things went exactly right, which they seldom to never did... be this child’s mother one day.
Even having that thought now, though, was enough to kick up another flurry of doubt, and he gently pulled away from her, said that the food might be getting cold, suggested they eat.
It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair to her, or himself, to be thinking that far ahead. Especially not right now.
So instead of thinking, he served the food, and blushed appropriately at Willow’s jokes about his ability to cook and how this somehow made him the perfect man, which set the tone for the rest of the meal. They shared lighthearted banter, not touching on any of the heavier issues between them. Simply talking and even laughing, and... god, she was perfect by candlelight.
When they’d both finished, though, the mood shifted as she slipped her fingers between his on the table. Their skin was pale against the dark grain, and in the flickering half-light, it was hard to see where she left off and he began. Just two hands, interlaced, flowing together.
“Willow, I can’t just forget what’s happened.”
“I know,” she said.
Although here and now, it felt like he could. Felt like he nearly *had*, already. He stared as she traced their woven fingers with her other hand, and felt the need to ask what they were talking about.
Then shook himself, lifted her teasing hand away, and said, “No more lying. Hiding what we had... it was killing me...”
“I know,” she said, again, and was pulling her hand away, folding it away in her lap and drawing inside herself again. “I mean, I knew. And... I’m so--”
He touched her lips to quiet her, said, “Don’t. Don’t. Not tonight. That’s over.”
And then, oh, his fingers were still on her lower lip, touching lightly, warm damp skin, and she was looking up at him through her lashes with wide tragic eyes, and all he could do was lean in and kiss her. He just touched his lips to hers, and pulled away, just slightly, still close enough to taste the champagne on her breath.
Felt her hand curl around his shoulder. Saw her close her eyes, and closed his own. Felt her cheek brush up next to his, felt her turn her face into his neck, her breath tickling him.
A cold teardrop rolled from her to him, curled down around his jaw.
Her scent was working its way through him, making him feel more alive, more aware, than he had in a month. Sweet perfume, shampoo. And her magic, still so much a part of her. Technically, not a scent, but somehow that was the easiest way to define it.
Strawberries.
Which reminded him...
He sat back in his chair and said, “Dessert?” as she blinked at him.
He smiled when she smiled.
“Whatcha got?”
“Go sit down,” he said, inclining his head towards the living room. Already his body was warming in anticipation, his blood gathering in his groin. He took the plates into the kitchen and left them to soak in the sink, and then picked up the wine glasses and the half-empty champagne bottle in one hand, and the pièce de résistance, a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries, in the other.
In the living room, Willow had caught onto the plan already, sitting with her legs tucked up under her on the nest of bedding he’d arranged in front of the hearth and leaning in to light the logs in the fireplace. He paused for a moment there, beside the couch, with his breath caught in his throat. Struck again by how gorgeous she was as she sat back, tucking her hair behind her ear and watching the fire catch.
His Willow. His. No more lying awake at night, knowing she was in someone else’s arms. No more fretting that they’d be found out, no more waiting, wondering, who would win her.
She looked up and saw him, and warm affection changed her face and her posture.
“Y’know, technically, you giving me alcohol is illegal. Which is fairly ironic when you think about it, what with all we’ve done that’s not actually illegal.”
He laughed softly and set everything down on the coffee table, and then carefully eased himself down onto the floor. He wasn’t quite to the point where things were physically difficult, but the added weight and changing center of gravity did make things different enough as to be noticeable. The moment he’d gotten himself seated, cross-legged on the blankets, she flowed up to him, curling her arms around him and settling herself against his side. Her nearness sent a thrill through him. Then she peered back over his shoulder.
“So what is-- Oh. Wow. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Giles, if I wasn’t in love before--”
She jostled around and a moment later she was back beside him and the tray was on the blankets in front of his knee. He stopped her hand before she could reach for one, then picked one up himself. Cool, damp, fuzzy stem an interesting sensation between his fingers. His arm was around her back, and she was a warm solid presence against his side as he lifted it up to her. Could not tear his gaze away as her eyes drifted closed, her lips folded around the fruit. A drop of juice caught on her lipgloss in a perfect hemisphere and glistened in the firelight.
He tasted that drop and chocolate as he kissed her deep and slow. She moaned and moved against him, her hand on his leg shifting, sending small sparks up his thigh. Her breast brushed against his ribs, and he groaned softly. Aching, but in the best ways.
“Oh,” she said, as their lips slipped apart. Her eyes were so dark. He felt a rush of heat, hard want.
Her hand moved from his thigh to his chest, rubbed him there as she kissed his cheek, his jaw. Then she reached down, and a moment later, cool chocolate was pressed to his lips. He reached for it, but she pulled it back at the last moment, teasing him with just a hint of sweetness on the tip of his tongue. Caught up in the moment, a sound of frustration escaped him and she laughed softly and relented, letting him catch it with his teeth. Sweet dark chocolate and cool juice on his tongue.
And then her hot mouth was on his, just as sweet, twice as powerful, especially as she got up over him on her knees, as much in his lap as she could get now. He held her, supporting her, his hands on her small waist, her sweater soft under his palms. Loved her. Wanted her. Couldn’t move in this position and already was nearly desperate from it.
He gasped her name, and she sat back on her heels, started unbuttoning his shirt. He let her unbutton it, push it off, peel off his undershirt next. The heat from the fire, burning well now, played across his bare skin but her eyes taking him in made him hotter. So amazing to have her looking at him like this. Never thought he’d really have her. Never thought he’d have her again. But he did.
He reached for her, pulling off sweater and tank top, feeling skin against his forearms as he unclasped her bra. She shook it off and climbed over him again, kissing him. Her hair fell around them both, brushed his throat, and even that small thing was enough to tighten the grip of lust on him. Was enough to make him realize, all over again, that she was *here*, she was with him, and he wondered how he’d lived without her.
His hands went back to her waist at first, just wanting to touch her, be connected to her. Her skin was far softer than the fabric, and warm. After a moment, he slid one hand up her back, pressed between her shoulder blades, moved the other between their bodies, found the peak of one nipple, the soft weight of her breast. She made a small sound against his lips that went straight down his spine, straight to his cock.
Now he was fully hard, and when her hand dropped down into his lap and gripped him through his pants his whole body jolted with want and need.
“Oh, wow, baby,” she whispered, obviously feeling it, understanding it. How much he wanted her. She seemed about to move away, and that wouldn’t do, so he grabbed her arms, firmly and quickly, just above her elbows, held her close.
Saw her small gasp, saw her eyes change a little more. Saw in her face a dark appreciation that he never would have guessed existed in that shy high school girl. Never, at least, until he’d seen her turned; her raw essence, stripped of soul and humanity. Horrifying. Fascinating.
“Tell me you want me,” he said, feeling how rough his voice was, like waking up after a night of not enough sleep.
“I want you,” she said, softly, but with feeling, the words echoing in her eyes, in the way she was squirming just slightly in his tight grip. “I want you a *whole* *lot*.”
And what should have sounded childish just sounded unbearably good, and he let go of her, just for a moment, to move the strawberries up onto the coffee table and out of the way, then pushed her down on her back, into the piles of blankets and pillows. He lay half beside her and half on top of her, her right side pinned by his body, her left arm still held tight. She relaxed completely, and her willing submission made him that much harder. He pressed himself against her thigh as he whispered against her temple, “Say you love me.”
“I love you,” she said. Her arm flinched as she spoke, as though she wanted to reach for him.
But he didn’t let her.
Her body was too tempting in the firelight, all curves and shadows. Nipples dark and hard with desire. He kept holding her as he slid lower, leaned over her and found one nipple with his mouth, circling his tongue on her, tasting her skin. Feeling her tug against his hand, her leg brushing against his cock, teasingly light and unintentional as she arched her back, pressed up towards him.
Sighed his name.
***
“Rupert...” Felt so good, saying that name again, saying it like *this*, with his mouth on her, and his hand painfully, wonderfully tight on her arm. Torn between the pleasure of being restrained and the desire to touch him. She was dizzy, a little high on the feeling, his solid weight beside her all that grounded her, that reminded her that this was real.
His tongue flicked lightly against the side of her breast and she gasped and surged against him. His arm held her down. The feelings made her tremble, everything so mixed up and crazy inside of her. Love and loneliness and joy and sadness and oh, he felt so good, touching her like he’d found some kind of roadmap to her body, knew every place to stop, every place to touch, to kiss. Spent what had to be hours on her nipples and breasts, tongue and teeth on her skin, driving her out of her mind.
Her hips were rocking now, and she was wishing for his hand on her, between her legs. Couldn’t find the breath or redirect her concentration enough to ask, though.
He was hard, she could feel him through his pants as he subtly humped her leg. Ready for her, like she was ready for him. He nipped her, then, a little sharper than he had been, and the breath it forced out of her carried a word.
“Please.”
He looked up, the firelight playing over his face, highlighting cheekbones, jaw, catching on his eyes and making them glow. He was beautiful in that moment. Ethereal, and it stopped her breath, made her heart stumble as she was overwhelmed by the emotions of the night. She’d thought that, maybe, this would be her chance to make things up to him, to start to rebuild things. Instead, she’d found this waiting for her: flowers and candles and near-redemption. It was all so sudden. She was still half-expecting to wake up.
Still felt alone.
The tears came back suddenly, flooding her eyes before she could think to hold them back, and exasperation added itself to her mix of conflicting emotions. Tears, tears, so annoying, just getting in the way, she shouldn’t be *crying* now.
But it didn’t seem to phase him. He came up beside her again, and kissed her softly, and his hand moved down, unbuttoned, unzipped her pants. She kissed him back, even as the tears fell down her cheeks, got in her hair and her ears. Her arms were free now, so she wrapped them around him as he tried unsuccessfully to push her pants down one-handed. She just wanted to hold him.
After a futile moment, he abandoned his efforts and put his arm around her, hugged her close. They were on their sides, and she tucked her face down between them, where it was warm from their bodies, damp from her breath. His scent was a powerful presence, tied to so much in her mind; everything from moments when he’d snatched her back from danger and she’d found herself briefly but tightly clasped against him, to that night when they’d first touched each other, when he’d first been inside her. The scent, his arms, his body, their bare flesh pressed together. She could feel him breathing, his chest slowly rising and falling, his breath moving her hair. Slowly, the reality of it began to seep in, as her tears ebbed and she relaxed by degrees against him, until she felt like she was a part of him, drifting on the rhythm of his breath and the warmth of their bodies and the fire. He was stroking her back, slow and even.
She flinched awake, and pulled back a little.
“Hush, love,” he murmured, “Sleep if you want to. We have time.”
But she didn’t want to. Not now. She rolled onto her back, and pushed off her pants and underwear. Turned her head to the side and saw him propped on his elbow, looking at her. Still so amazing in the firelight: shirtless, all skin and rumpled sexiness.
He reached across the space between them and touched her, palm flat and fingers spread. Ran his hand down her chest, over her belly, then edged a little closer so he could reach further. Slid his hand over her pubic hair and down, his fingers brushing along her labia. She laid her hand on his arm and watched his muscles shift as his fingers pressed into her. Yellow firelight on his smooth skin, where it was soft on the inside of his forearm. And, there, on his wrist, was the bracelet she’d made for him.
Woven by hand, as she’d chanted and watched American Idol. It wasn’t his style, this handmade earthy jewelry thing, but it seemed so... comfortable there on his wrist, moving with the slow rhythm of his hand inside her. She touched it, where it lay on his arm, feeling his skin and soft, broken-in hemp. She’d given it to him, and he was wearing it.
Somehow, that touched her even deeper than his hand. Did something funny to her insides. She watched his faced as she said, “Hey. If I bought you an earring, would you wear it?”
Trembling in anticipation of his answer, in pleasure as his thumb caressed her clit.
“Why?” he asked, but not in a way that said ‘no.’ He seemed intrigued.
She rolled up on her side, wrapped her leg over his. Her hand still on the bracelet.
“’Cause it would be sexy,” she said. Dead serious, so much so it made it kind of hard to breathe. “Really sexy.”
He smiled.
“I have earrings,” he said.
That wasn’t the same.
“I want you to wear mine,” she said. She knew, in the way his eyes flashed, in the way that he pressed deeper inside of her, rubbed her hard with his thumb, made her buck at the sudden pleasure, that his answer was yes.
“Giles,” she said, as he eased off again, just teasing her again, light quick strokes inside her, “Take off your pants already.”
He grinned, and did, and while he was still on his back she straddled him, dropped down on him. Quick enough to send a bolt through them both, heard his cry match her own. So good, so hard, so full. She panted, felt him touching her deep inside.
“Willow,” he gasped, a warning in his tone.
All she had to say was, “It’s ok. Got on the pill, finally, last month.” Even as she hated having to say that, to say anything, when all she wanted was to just feel him.
“Oh, god,” he said, relaxing, and then she began to move, and there was nothing else they had to say.
***
When it was over, they’d straightened up the place, just enough to feel they’d done something. Folded the covers, did a few dishes, made sure the fire was out, working together in quiet synchronicity. Then they’d gone up to his bedroom, settled down in his bed.
His body was still loose and content and his mind at ease. Perhaps that was why he was able to work up the nerve to say, “There’s a house I’ve been looking at. It’s near campus. Good neighborhood. I was thinking, perhaps, if you wanted--I know this is rather sudden, and, feel free to say no, it’s really just an offer--you and I could possibly--”
She sat partway up.
“Giles!”
Shit. And things had been going so well.
“Sorry, I--”
“Are you asking me to live with you?”
“You don’t... we don’t have to...”
But he let his voice trail into silence, because she was bouncing a little on the bed, kind of quivering, and her eyes were bright, and she was talking fast, saying, “Wow. I mean, I’d love to. That would be just... the most amazing thing *ever*. I mean, if you want me to. Wow.”
His heart surged with joy as she dropped back down on the bed and hugged him.
“I want you to. Very, very much.”
Then, he had to add, “We have to tell Buffy, and the others. As soon as possible. Tomorrow.”
“Ok,” Willow said, quickly, still maybe distracted, because she kept talking, saying, “Wow. A house. That’s... that’s so cool, Giles.”
He kissed her.
“I missed you. I love you.”
“Me too,” she murmured against his chest. He let himself think that everything would be all right, and slept better that night than he had in years.
But the best thing of all was waking up the next morning with her beside him.
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