He was making no headway. Damn Glory, whatever she was. He turned the page of the book, but there was nothing but more frustration on the next page. He sighed and looked up.
It was dark in his apartment. Darker than usual. Darker than it should be. He stood up from his desk slowly, pushed the chair in and stepped away. The light from the desk lamp was a hazy golden halo in a dark mist, pushing weakly against the blackness. He looked around, and the angles were wrong, the stairway tilting off not-quite-right.
Something was there. Watching him. He could hear it. Feel it. It had a heartbeat, and it had magic, and it was out there, beyond the pitch black window panes. His own breath was loud in his ears as he backed slowly towards the kitchen, and then the wall was solid against his side, and he hung against it, feeling the slow, dumb terror of a hunted animal, feeling the pressure of the thing. Watching him. Waiting.
With a start, he pulled away from the wall, backing up again, down the hall, because to show his back to it would be the biggest mistake he could make.
Away from the desk lamp, in the shadows of the hall, the darkness was purer. Deeper. Like the gut of a dragon. The hall suddenly seemed miles long, and the only light was a faraway glimmer, hopelessly distant. He felt his heart beating harder, and it was cold, and he trembled.
It was closer now.
He fought monsters. He had fought them all his life.
But he had no weapons to fight this one. He reached out to touch the wall, and it seemed he was reaching through a deep cavern, feeling a cold cave-breeze on his arm. Then he felt it. The wall. But it was different. Cool and slick and smooth. He turned to it with a start, pulling his hand away.
Someone stared back at him.
He flailed away, panic crushing his chest.
And then realized he was seeing himself. A mirror.
Drawn, he stepped closer again. All was black now, everywhere around him, an infinity of dark space, except the mirror, glimmering faintly, and his own reflection, reaching up as he did to touch his fingers through the cold glass.
Then, behind him in the reflection, something moved in the darkness. It was like a deep-sea fish, moving sluggishly, blindly. It was pale, white on black, and fleshy, and it shifted and changed and pulsed softly, and he knew that was It. The Thing. He stared, in horror, and could not move, watching it. It was formless, and it was meant to be. But it didn’t want to be. It wanted to be something. And so it changed, slowly, like clay molding itself. First an arm. Then a foot. Then a head. Each of these in turn, as though it wanted to be human, but since it couldn’t see, it couldn’t understand what that was. Couldn’t grasp the totality.
He breathed out, slowly, and saw his breath as a white cloud in the cold.
It heard him.
There was no time to run. No way to stop it.
It started as warmth. Unthreatening, almost, if taken out of context. Just a solid curling of heat in his gut. But it grew. Slowly, slowly, the temperature rising, a painful shock against the chill of the air. He gasped harshly, and his hand, slick with sweat, skidded along the mirror.
He whispered denial into the darkness, but nothing answered. Nothing changed. The heat curled tighter inside of him, and he could feel it, settling in there, making a nest from his innards. His hand slipped from the mirror and he dropped to his knees, as it tugged something inside him, and the heat flared unbearably. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.
“NO!” he shouted.
And then its claws ripped him open from the inside out.
***
Giles awoke already half-sitting up, with one hand clutched to his stomach. The dream was still wrapped around him like the tangled sheets.
Slowly, his heartbeat began to slow, and his panting calmed to slow breaths.
His hand was still pressed to his abdomen.
Just before he pulled it away, he felt it.
Something inside of him moved.
***
Willow looked up at a sound, and startled at the sight of Giles coming down the stairs.
“Oh. Giles. Hey. Did I wake you?” she said, looking guiltily at her midnight (or more like 4 AM) snack of crackers and peanut butter. She’d only turned on the light over the kitchen sink. She didn’t think that was enough light to-
“No, no, not at all. I just. Um. Bad dream.”
He was in a T-shirt and boxers, practically naked by his usual standards, and she felt an uncomfortable twinge of interest, which was quickly superseded by concern. He looked out of sorts, and was rubbing his stomach with one hand in a less-than-idle manner. Funny, now that she knew, how obvious it was. She wondered how she’d missed it. Must be that good old Sunnydale repression at work.
“Uh. Can I get you anything?”
He turned on the desk lamp. Then the lamp by the couch.
“No, that’s quite all-”
He stopped, mid-sentence, and held perfectly still, his head tilted slightly to one side, his hand motionless and pressed flat on his abdomen.
“Giles? You ok?” she asked.
He blinked, then moved his hand down to his side.
“Yes. I- I-” he paused, then said, “It’s... moving.”
“Oh wow! That’s so-” she stumbled to a quick halt, “So... strange?” she offered hopefully, and got a tiny smile in response.
“Very strange. One could even go so far as to say exceedingly strange.”
He sat down on the stool beside hers and cast a longing glance at the Scotch, but didn’t move to pour any.
“Peanut butter cracker?” she said, holding one in his direction.
He waved it off. For awhile, they sat beside each other quietly. He was staring at the countertop. She was staring at him.
She wanted to touch him so much. Even just his arm, or his shoulder. Her crackers sat there, forgotten. He was so unclothed at the moment. Bare, pale arms, one resting on the counter, the other on his knee. Which was also bare. And fuzzy. And even his feet were bare, down there in the shadows. He had long, guy-like toes.
Just a whole lotta Giles skin, really. Right next to her. So close she could almost feel his heat. Smell a trace of his sweat. Sense the aura of his magic. It tasted like ozone and summer rain.
His jaw was stubbly.
“You think I’m making a mistake,” he said, softly, and his voice was a bit rough from sleep.
“Huh?” she said, snapping out of her reverie.
“A mistake. The wrong choice.”
Oh. About the baby.
Then it was only natural to reach out and lay her hand over his.
“I think you don’t need me judging you right now. You know what’s best for you, Giles.”
“Perhaps,” he said, not looking at her. He turned his hand over under hers and curled his fingers loosely, and his blunt nails traced tingling trails up from her wrist to her palm. She could feel her pulse in her throat as she mirrored his gesture, wrapping her fingers around his own, nesting them together like yin and yang. The underside of his arm was white under the fluorescent kitchen light, and his Eyghon tattoo was like a dark insect just beneath his elbow.
They were holding hands. This... this was not of the good. Not at all. But then, it was. Because he was so warm, and he was Giles, and the fifteen-year-old with a crush that still lived inside her was bouncing with giddy joy. Her current self was just getting quietly turned on.
She uncurled her hand again, and her fingertips brushed against his wrist. It was warm, and very soft, and, intrigued, she investigated it more, tracing circles and lines. He accepted this without protest. When she looked at his face, she saw his eyes were following her invisible hieroglyphs. And when she stopped moving, he took her wrist in his hand. Gently turned her palm up.
Cradling her hand in his own, he reached up with the other, and touched just one finger to her life line. Slowly dragged it from one end to the other. And back. Lit fire to every single one of the thousands of nerve endings along the way.
“Oh,” she tried to say, but her voice had left the building, so all that came out was a small exhalation.
His voice was still working though, because he spoke, with the rough tenor of a rumbling fire.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
Whoa. Whoa. That... she had not been expecting that.
“Uh... no... definitely no.”
“You are,” he breathed, and touched her heart line, followed its curve up to the sensitive skin between her index and middle fingers, then let his finger linger there, stroking between hers subtly, suggestively.
It sent a bolt of heat through her.
She jerked her hand away.
“Hey! This- this is all wrong! You’re not supposed to hit on me!”
“No?” he said. He was looking at her from under heavy lids, and that look alone was like a touch.
Her voice was shaking. She wanted it to be with indignation. But really, it was probably more like desire.
“No! You’re supposed to say, ‘we can’t do this, it would be wrong.’”
“I see,” he said.
Her body was heavy and time was slow. He touched her knee. Slid his hand up, just a little bit.
“I want you,” he said.
“I... I...”
It was bad. And wrong. But it was Giles. And she’d loved him for so long she couldn’t remember not loving him. And she’d never even hoped that she might actually have him someday. And she wanted him. So. Bad.
“Me too,” she said.
His eyes snapped up, and looked straight into her own.
“Ok,” she said.
And he leaned in, and then he was kissing her.
*Eyes open,* she thought. *I’m cheating on my girlfriend. There will be fallout.*
*I’ll deal with it in the morning.*
She was kissing him, too. This was...
“Whoa.”
“Mmm,” he said.
His eyes were closed, and his hand was splayed across her cheek, and his lips were still close enough to hers they were nearly touching. And then they *were* touching, and she decided to stop thinking. She let him lead her up the stairs, let him take off her clothes and his own, let him drape them both naked across his bed. Kissing all the while, touching. Heated skin against heated skin. Friction and softness.
He braced himself on one hand over her, held himself in the other. She was stretched out under him, with her arms laced behind her head, relaxed and wanting. His eyes burned down into hers, and for a moment, she felt his magic again, cool and silver-green and electric.
Then, he touched himself to her, pressed just the tip of his cock against her slick heat, and dragged it down and then up, and then back down. Teasing them both, if the look on his face was any indication. She arched her back and groaned, and he pulled back as she moved, no penetration, just continuing the slow, sliding motion.
“Rupert,” she moaned, her voice thick with arousal and frustration.
He smiled down at her. And then pushed into her.
She gasped. He laughed, a strangled, short sound. Already his hips had found a rhythm, and he was fucking her, slowly, shallowly, giving her time to readjust to the sensation. She cupped the back of his head in her hand, feeling his hair coil around her fingers, and pulled him down for another kiss.
“More,” she murmured. He complied, going deeper, harder. She wrapped her arms around his back and hugged him close. Struggled just to breathe against the pleasure, felt his own breath, wet and hot, against her ear.
Gave herself over to it, and came, gripping his hips hard between her thighs and bucking up, pressing herself against his pelvis.
Watched his face as he followed her over.
They collapsed into a tangle of limbs and hot, damp bodies on the wrinkled sheets, and then wriggled around just enough to get under the covers.
They slept the rest of the night, soundly and dreamlessl
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