Willow had driven him to the airport, partly to spare him the cab fare, but mostly so they could spend another few minutes together before he had to leave. She’d followed him to the gate, and when they’d called for pre-boarding, and he’d stood up and reached for his carryon bag, she’d jumped up as well, and hugged him. Not a quick, desperate hug. Just a slow, easy hug, the kind where you moved together as though drawn by gravity, and your arms wrapped tight around each other, and your bodies seemed to melt together into one being. And then she’d just held him, and he’d held her, there at gate A3, with the rest of the LA-bound crowd flowing around them, a distant, unnoticed blur.
And instead of letting go, they just seemed to bond a little tighter with each passing minute. He could feel her heartbeat, her breathing. Her head was tucked under his chin, and he could just barely feel her breath, warm and damp, through his sweater. He inhaled deeply the scent of her hair, knowing full well how much he resembled an addict who knew his next fix may be a long time off.
She seemed to be doing the same thing.
Inhaling him. Absorbing him.
They called his row, and he just pulled her closer, feeling the warmth, the mass, the shape of her body, and memorizing it. Loving it. Just trying to get his fill of touching her for long enough to let go and board the damn plane.
They’d finally pulled apart when the last call came, and they were both a little unsteady on their feet. His eyes were a bit unfocused, and her pupils were widely dilated. There were no words he could stand to say, so he simply touched her cheek, and then finally picked up his bag and walked to the gate. The attendant gave him an inscrutable look, checked his boarding pass, and waved him on. He didn’t look back as he walked down the long, grey corridor to the plane. As he stepped onto the plane, he smiled and shook his head, amused at himself. It wasn’t as if he were leaving forever. He’d be back in a few days. And yet, leaving her, even for that long, was sweet agony.
He’d miss her. Her soft touch, her smile, her voice. He’d always adored her, but over the past week, he’d become completely besotted with her. She delighted him, amazed him, set fire to his body and spirit.
He was in love, and it was utterly thrilling.
Five hours later, though, the elation had long faded. He hadn’t even spared a thought to what it might be like to fly in his condition. All that had been on his mind was getting in touch with the blasted Council. Now though, after a rough takeoff and landing in a tiny puddle-jumper, and then another takeoff in a jet shortly thereafter, he was somewhere over Colorado, and all he was thinking about was...
Not. Throwing. Up.
The nausea had originally started a few months earlier. It was worst in the mornings, generally, and certain tastes and smells would set it off. It was bad, too. Not enough to be incapacitating, but more than enough to make him miserable. He’d assumed, though, that it was simply a very bad case of flu, and therefore, nothing a doctor could do anything about. He’d bucked up and dealt with it, drank plenty of fluids, ate mild, inoffensive foods, and tried to avoid even thinking about coffee.
It had mostly settled down recently. But now... now it was back. Oh, yes. The little parasite did *not* like flying, and it was making its feelings on the matter abundantly clear. He’d been clutching the little white airsick bag ever since they’d crossed the Nevada border.
A flight attendant had been hovering around since then, as well, half-sympathetic, half-annoyed. Her early attempts at conversation had only made things worse, so she would just silently walk by every few minutes. His seatmate was shooting him constant nervous glances, and had turned her body until her little glowing laptop was as far away from him as possible.
Willow had mentioned that the nausea would settle down, he realized. And then he’d snapped at her. Because if a website could tell him what he would be feeling, it meant that this was... essentially normal. And that was a thought that was quite unacceptable.
But now he was wondering. It occurred to him that he hadn’t felt any movement since takeoff in Sunnydale. This wasn’t normal. The little thing was generally active. Hyperactive, even, bouncing around like a teeny-tiny billiard ball in there. Personally, Giles thought that its ultimate goal was to cause him as much discomfort as possible in however much time it had.
He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat, praying sleep would find him before the plane hit another patch of turbulence.
He could barely even keep his eyes closed for a second. Sleep didn’t appear to be an option.
He risked a glance over at his seatmate and noted her laptop was a PC running Windows. An instinctive little twist of distaste stirred in him, and even through the nausea, he had to smile a little. Between Willow and Jenny, he’d apparently inherited a distinct side in the Mac/PC debate. Jenny had once spent nearly an hour trying to explain all the ways that Macintosh computers were apparently superior to Windows machines. Almost everything she’d said had been utterly lost on him, but it had implanted some kind of seed, apparently. Then, of course, there was the conditioned association between the little glowing apple logo and Willow, and that alone was enough to make him partial to the brand.
She was *in* him, deeply and irrevocably. If he lost her, it would hurt. It was a danger. A liability. And yet... he believed she was worth the risk. He knew she was worth the risk. The elation, the joy that she stirred in him... that alone was worth it. That she’d given him herself, let him touch her... that was a gift he’d never expected to receive.
Now his eyes closed smoothly, his body relaxed, as much as it could, into the seat. Willow. Sweet Willow. Big green eyes and soft red hair. Small perfect breasts. She wasn’t his type, really. He’d always gone for dark hair and eyes. But she defied type. He loved her small body, loved that he could pick her up, hold her down, loved that she let him.
Her kisses were so honest. Open. She never hid her desires. Her tongue against his said things she couldn’t vocalize. They’d had whole conversation that way, wrapped around each other naked, or half-naked or fully clothed, just kissing each other, deep and slow or hard and fast.
Her hands... small hands... but amazing. She was surprisingly confident. She liked touching him. He knew, partly because she’d said it, but mostly because she did it, as much as she could. Little things sometimes, like brushing against him in the Magic Box, or touching his hand or his arm or his back or his shoulder to get his attention or emphasize a point. She’d sit near enough to him as they researched to let her knee brush against his whenever she moved, to turn the page, or lean in to see an illustration, or sometimes just so that their knees would touch.
When they made love, her hands were always on him. She would card them through his chest hair, or trace his jawbone. She’d touch his lips, let him suck on her fingers. She’d curl her hand around his cock, cup his balls. When he was inside her, she would have her hands on his shoulders, or a sweaty palm resting on his ribs, or both hands gripping his ass, and once, she’d reached down between them, touched his cock, slick with her own juices, felt the place where their bodies joined, and got such an amazed look on her face. It drove him out of his mind, sometimes, but only in the best ways.
He knew her fascination with his body stemmed at least partly from confusion. He understood her feelings, on a very personal level. He’d found men around the same age she had found women. He’d found that he still loved women as well a few years later. He knew that feeling well, and knew that the best thing to do was let her figure things out for herself. And he was, of course, perfectly content to be her guinea pig.
A few days ago, they’d gone back to his place during lunch hour, and ended up in his bed. He was naked, but she was still dressed from the waist up. He couldn’t quite remember exactly how that had happened, and it wasn’t really important. She had pressed him onto his back, kicked away all of the covers, left him completely bare, spread out across the sheet. Then, apparently satisfied that she had him where she wanted him (and he certainly wasn’t about to complain) she’d straddled his thighs.
Her expression had been a mask of studious concentration, and she’d leaned forward a little, and touched his face. She started with his eyebrows, then his nose, and his cheekbones, his jaw and his hairline, walking her fingers over him like she was blind and he was Braille. He’d shut his eyes, and her fingertips had grazed his eyelashes, touched his eyelids, and the corners of his eyes, where he knew his skin crinkled when he smiled. She ran her hands through his hair, and then fingered the whorls of his ears. One fingertip lingered for a moment at his piercing, and he’d shuddered at the sensitive, questing touch.
She’d continued her exploration, touching the cleft in his chin, the skin of his throat, pressing hard enough to feel his pulse, feel his windpipe, hell, even feel his lymph nodes. This was Willow. She was thorough.
He’d shivered when she reached his collarbone, and she’d noticed, and paused there, drawing her fingers back and forth along the circlet of bone there, just lightly enough to be felt, sending fiery tingles all over his body. And then she’d moved on, touching the muscles in his shoulder, maybe silently naming each one. He’d gasped in a deep, shuddering breath, clenched his hands into fists, and he’d wanted so badly to grab her, roll them over, slam himself balls-deep inside of her and fuck her until they were both raw. But he didn’t. He resisted, lay still and let her look, let her touch. But he couldn’t stop his breath from quickening, could stop the sheen of sweat that cropped up on his skin, or the goosebumps that followed.
She’d pushed his right arm up, about 20 degrees above his shoulder joint, and leaned in a little closer. Ruffled the hair in his armpit, and then dragged all her fingers up the underside of his upper arm, leaving sensitive skin burning in her wake. When she’d reached the inside of his elbow joint, she’d paused, lingered over the thin skin there. It would be warm in that spot, he knew, and a little bit tacky with sweat right now. The difference seemed to intrigue her. Her fingertips caught on the sticky skin, and staggered a little. Then she moved on, up his arm to his wrist, then to his hand.
His hand. Dear god. She’d started out simply touching it, as she had been, with her fingertips. Traced its outline, up and down his fingers, and then doodled across his palm, and then across his knuckles. Then she leaned forward, on her knees and one hand, and she’d pulled his hand to her lips, kissed his palm. First, just a dry, soft kiss. Then several. Then her mouth had opened and her tongue had poked out, a small, sharp point, tracing the shape of his hand, the lines on his palm. And then she kissed the center of his palm, deeply, mouth open wide, tongue pressed flat over his sweaty skin. She’d made a soft sound then, and licked up along his fingers. Then tickled his own fingertips with the tip of her tongue, feather-light, teasing. He’d groaned, deeply, desperately, and then she slid his middle finger into her mouth, as deep as it could go. Hot, slick, wet. Her tongue had curled around his finger like a cat, and he’d actually cried out, softly. She’d sucked, strong and hard, he could feel the ligaments pulling just a little, feel the pressure. Then she’d pulled back, and then gone back down again, three of his fingers in her mouth now, her hands gripping his wrist, holding him where she wanted him. Sucked on him again. Pressure, friction, her tongue flexing against the undersides of his finger joints, the ridges of her palate hard against his knuckles.
”Dear god, Willow,” he’d gasped, and he’d wanted so much.
Wanted her to do to his cock what she was doing to his hand. She sucked his fingers a bit deeper and he felt her throat twitch, just for a moment, a mild hint of a gag reflex. It didn’t seem to bother her. And god, how she looked at that moment, eyes shut, long dark lashes, her cheeks hollowed, her lips sealed around his fingers. His cock was hard as steel, flat on his belly, and wet, drooling on his skin.
“Please,” he’d said.
She’d let his hand slide out of her mouth, looked at his face with drowsy eyes. A drop of her saliva had found its way down to his wrist. She smiled, a slow, sleepy smile, and then she knee-walked backwards on the bed, and dropped her gaze downwards.
Her smile pulled a little wider, and she’d reached out and touched his cock, with the same light, maddening, fingertips-only touch.
He’d grasped crumpled fistfuls of the sheets, almost physically restraining himself. The light touch inflamed him, almost infuriated him, dragging the beast inside him far closer to the surface than he’d normally be comfortable with. He wanted to lunge at her, slam her down on her back. Wanted to, but didn’t. Because right now, it felt so good to feel the beast rage inside of him.
He panted hard, clenched his fists white-knuckled tight.
She’d been investigating his foreskin, pulling and pushing it, experimenting with how it moved. Then she’d pulled it back with one hand, and touched the head of his cock with a few fingers on her other hand.
“This is killing you, isn’t it?” she said, and he looked up at her. Her eyes were dark as night, dark as black magic. Her voice trembled, just a little. Not nerves, not at all. Power. She knew she had power. And she was loving it.
There was nothing he could say. Nothing he needed to say. He was hers.
She’d rolled a condom down over him and moved off of him, but her eyes had never left his. Slowly, deliberately, she’d laid back on the bed, spread her legs and drawn her knees up. He could see her then, perfectly, pink and open and wet, her dark curls clinging damply to her skin. His heart was leaping against his ribs, every breath felt like breathing rarified air.
“Com’on,” she’d said, just softly, and it was like a sudden axe blow, severing his bonds, and he’d pounced on her, shoving her legs back, sinking into her with one thrust, no warning, no waiting. She’d shouted, an incoherent sound, and rolled her head back, her long, pale throat bared to him. He’d held himself over her with one hand planted in the bed on either side of her, her legs hooked over his shoulder, and he’d taken her, hard, fast, deep, his eyes on her, watching her, as her head rolled from side to side, as her own hands gripped the sheet, as she’d shuddered through three orgasms in quick, breathless succession. Her body was shining with sweat, her chest heaving, and she’d made more noise that one time than she’d made the rest of the week combined, sharp, garbled, strangled sounds.
His own orgasm had been a relief, almost painfully intense, like a rake dragged up his spine. His vision had even darkened for a moment. And after it was over, he couldn’t bring himself to pull out of her, so he’d stayed inside, grinding against her, and she’d looked up at him with wide eyes, and then dropped her head back again, squeezed deliberately around him.
He’d wanted to try to go a second time, see if he even could, without pulling out... but it was too much, the sensation was too strong, pleasure segued to pain, and he’d pulled away, and fallen to his side on the bed, panting and halfway curled up. She’d sat up after a moment, and he’d raised his head a bit, smiled at her, and she’d smiled back, and gently stroked his hair.
Back in reality, the plane jolted suddenly, and all thoughts of Willow fled abruptly on a new wave of nausea.
He groaned and pressed a hand to his stomach. His layover in Washington DC loomed somewhere ahead of him, like one beacon of hope in a sea of dark despair.
Bloody Council bloody well better have some bloody information.
Because now he was not only on the verge of throwing up, he also had an erection he could drive nails with. Two things which, by all rights, truly should not exist simultaneously.
And he had to pee. Which was absolutely nothing new. He urinated about every ten minutes. Yet another of the parasite’s exciting new contributions to his life.
The parasite which still, as far as he could tell, had not moved since leaving California. And, oddly enough... he was a little concerned. What was wrong with it? Was it possible it really *didn’t* like flying? Was it at all advanced enough to even be affected by such things? Was it maybe that the vibrations of the plane were simply making it hard to feel the little flutters?
He stood up and made his way down the aisle, grateful for his long jacket, and stepped into the tiny airplane lavatory. The plane rocked as he shut the door, and his stomach clenched in protest.
He leaned back against the small sink and slipped his hand into his shirt, over his lower abdomen... over his newly acquired womb. And he pressed down there, gently. Held still in concentration.
“What are you up to?” he murmured. This simply wasn’t like the parasite. Honestly, the little thing would probably make one hell of a hyperactive child, were it ever to be born.
He waited, holding as still as the plane allowed, his head bowed a bit, his brow furrowed.
*Come on, then,* he thought.
But there was nothing. Not a twitch.
And then, just as he was about to draw his hand away... he felt it... a tiny shiver.
He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“Right, then. Of course you’re still there.”
He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh. Well, at least the waiting had given his hard-on sufficient time to wane, and he was able to take a rather unsatisfyingly brief piss, wash his hands, and return to his seat.
It was only when he’d refastened his seatbelt that something occurred to him. Hyperactive child. If it were born.
Born. Good lord.
His mind skittered nervously away from that train of thought... but there was a horrifying fascination to it that he could avoid. A child. Baby. Infant.
His hand went back to his stomach again, rubbed back and forth.
His child. Son or daughter. It could grow up. Be a person someday.
He pulled his hand away. Placed it firmly on the armrest of his chair.
Pipe dream. That’s all it was. Ridiculous. Out of the question.
The nausea had subsided a bit, so he reached for the in-flight magazine, opened it to the crossword puzzle, and folded down the tray table. He concentrated on 1-Across and gave no more thought to the small corner of his mind that was murmuring, “Why not?”
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