Summary: Naughty metaphors and smoochies set between the scenes of Doomed.

Rating: FRM: Mature Audience: Parents Strongly Cautioned.

Word Count: 2,450.

Author: Valyssia.

Beta: Howard Russell.

Pairing: Buffy/ Willow.

Disclaimer: Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

Thanks to: Tamoline.

Capture Theory
by Valyssia

This isn't right.

The fleeting flash of feelings, images and sounds are so convincing I know I've been here before. I see it as clearly and vividly as anything I've ever experienced.

And that's completely absurd.

It was the sort of place that had probably been built back when Formica was considered a revolutionary new space-age material. But that might've lent an impression of charm and nostalgia…of a place time had forgotten. Where I was—a place I'd never been, but somehow now remembered with alarming clarity—had neither.

This was the diner that time hadn't forgotten. In fact, time had paid extra special attention to this little corner of the world, making sure to ravage it but good.

But that didn't give the right impression either. If that had been the case, the front windows would've been boarded up, not streaked with a thin, hazy film of neglect. More than a few people were involved in creating this little slice of hell. Cheap people with dubious tastes bordering on criminal. And other people. People who just didn't care.

Every surface was coated with the same sticky grime as the windows. I didn't have to snoop any further to know that. The odor told me so. The diner smelled, not of good and yummy things, but of stale, scorched hamburger grease and even staler coffee.

I tried the coffee. I mean, how bad could coffee really be? It's pretty basic stuff. That question now lingered in an ever-growing list of things I was too curious to know that I didn't want to know.

It's good I wasn't a cat.

I sat in one of two actual corner booths. That is, booths actually in the corner. There were two others, but in order to have occupied either of them, I would've had to've sat in the center island, conspicuously out in the open with my back to the door. This wasn't the sort of place where I wanted to be noticed, so I sat in the back corner. Still, I stuck out like a sore thumb among the usual clientele of dock workers and truck drivers…the sort of men who believed that a pat on the backside passed for a handshake when addressing a pretty girl.

And so did she.

Umm…

She stuck out…with the sore thumbedness, not the tushy pat part of that.

I was worried for her. I'd never seen her look quite so bad.

Part of it was her uniform. I found it hard to believe that a garment existed that someone who was as beautiful as she was could actually look bad in, but it did. The same atrocious aesthetic sense that had hung orangey-red and turquoise plastic panels randomly among the white ceilings tile overhead, or had painted the lower half of the wall next to me dingy mint-green and the upper half mottled aqua-blue, must've selected the short-sleeved, button-down, white polyester mini-dresses with red gingham collar and cuffs that she and the other waitress had on.

And here I thought she might look cute in red gingham. I stood corrected…if not abjectly mortified.

But it wasn't just the way she was dressed. If it had been, I wouldn't have had so much cause for concern. She looked tired in ways that someone so lovely and young should never be.

My regretfully not-untouched coffee cup sat to my left on the would-be wood table beside a plate of pancakes that remained untouched because of the coffee. A layer of paper napkins separated the backs of my hands from the tacky, textured surface as I held my book. I almost felt bad about using the napkins as a placemat. She'd probably have to scrub the table to get all of the torn scraps to come up when I left.

I shut out the drone of the other patrons' voices, the clatter and scrape of utensils against stoneware plates and thin, metallic sound of the radio, and stared, trying to concentrate on the chintzy, pulp paperback page.

As she approached, carrying a tray full of drinks to the table adjacent to mine, the top line of text, '…so their home base is their sex—their genitals, who they fuck,' made me blush.

But that passage wasn't the only reason I had to feel embarrassed. She pretended not to notice me because I was intruding. And I got this unmistakable, heartbreaking feeling that she'd been pretending that for a long time.

That can't be right. Just like the rest of this, it doesn't fit. I read Rubyfruit Jungle the summer before, between our sophomore and junior years. I picked it up because I was curious. I wanted to know why when she looked at me sometimes—the way she smiled or giggled made me feel weak in the knees.

Weak like they feel right now, only not nearly so—

And falling, but not…

Swooning.

She tilts her head the other way and I follow, mirroring her actions. During the seconds our lips are parted by divergent angles, I sneak in a ragged breath.

Not falling.

Sweet, moist air fills my senses, heavy with the floral scents of her perfume and my shampoo mixed with a faint minty aroma of her breath. She must've been chewing gum before she got here.

And hey…wouldja look at that? Me actually pulling off sneaky…around her, here, now…like this. That could qualify as a miracle.

Her body crushes against mine, pressing my back against the door to our room. My fluffy terrycloth robe provides a soft, squishy buffer between me and the hard surface. I doubt I'd be standing without her.

Of course, the whole standing problem is her fault. Not mine. My knees would still be my knees if her tongue wasn't so bent on making nice with mine.

If she hadn't thrown me against the door and accosted me, I'd be standing pretty, thank you very much.

Not that I'm complaining. She's welcome to create as many of these problems for me as she wants. I'll figure them out…eventually…once my head stops swimming.

'Thrown'?

I'm not really sure it was a 'throw.' It may've been a 'push' or a 'guide.' I don't remember.

She was here when I got back from my shower…all twitchy and weird. I agreed. She has every reason to be upset.

That was it. That's what brought this on. She laced her fingers through my hair. Our lips touched and—

She was tender.

For all I know I was the one who accosted her. This could be my doing.

I was almost to my closet…and she was so tender…like she was grateful for some sense of solidarity.

And then 'poof'…I remembered. I remembered something impossible…and all ten seconds of it…catching sight of her in that greasy spoon…mucked up my perception.

She told me about her time in L.A. She wasn't overly generous with the details, but we did talk. Maybe that was just my screwy, skewy, hyperactive brain playing with the pieces and filling in the gaps.

But why? Why now? Why when she's—?

Why now when she doing things to me with her lips, her tongue, even her teeth…things that make it impossible to think straight or breathe or—uh…?

Er, umm…

Those things she was doing—she's not doing them anymore. Her tongue, just the tip, caresses mine. And her lips…the smushing stops. She's tender again.

Is it over?

But her other hand, the one that's not in my hair—which one would that be—is that her left hand?

Umm…

I have no idea why. I have no idea 'why now.' And I have no idea why she stopped.

Well, not stopped. She's just—

She's smushing again. As her lips smush mine, she breathes out.

Yeah. That's her left hand.

And darn it. I missed it. That was a break to breathe. I was supposed to—

Her left hand rests just below the belt of my robe. She clings to me, like I might try to get away.

Like that thought would ever cross my mind. The way I feel right now, I'd fall and she'd pounce and—

It'd end tragically.

The edge of my tongue scrapes her teeth and I feel it all the way down to the tippy tips of my toes. They curl. It's hard to stand with curled toes. My grip on her tightens. Her shoulder's in my left hand. That one's fine.

The other one's the problem. I cup her cute little hiney—just one cheek—the left one—in my right hand. It's just the right size.

She breaks the kiss to draw in a quivering breath.

I really shouldn't be fondling that. I'm not even sure how my hand got there.

It's a brief break. A break that leaves me dizzy, er…dizzier. I breathe too during the brief break.

She catches me mid-breath. Her lips smash and mush and squish…

My lips are tingly and numb.

I—

I just don't see how we got here.

She eases me away from the door. We twirl and spin.

Well, she twirls. I spin. And stumble. She keeps me on my feet.

The way we move together is something like a waltz, but with one of the dancers too drunk to stand…and the other too graceful and chivalrous to let the sad sack fall.

She stops me just as the edge of my mattress touches the backs of my calves. At least I guess that's it. She hasn't let me come up for air yet.

Easing me onto the bed, she nibbles at my lips.

I tilt my head back as I sit so she can keep up the nibbling. It's almost graceful.

Yay me!

I don't see how she does half of what she does. I'm just glad she does it. The world would be a very different place if she didn't do the things she does.

This isn't quite the same. There's nothing world endy about this kiss. It's a kiss. A long, passionate, beautiful kiss…

It could change my world, but not the world.

She lays me back on my bed without relenting, without looking or feeling around. The only thing she touches is me.

Somehow she just knows.

I don't even know why she's here. I didn't expect her to return. She's been so scarce ever since last time—the time before this when we were—

And I was—

But that time—the other time—that time wasn't like this time. Her hands weren't all gropey. I kissed her and she—

Her radio plays softly. I notice it and focus, trying to pick out the tinny, metered tones.

Precious Things. Her sense of humor's showing.

All she wanted was for someone to understand. No one else got that. Giles thought she was being silly. And Riley…he thought that the earthquake was nifty, like a ride at Disneyland. She was scared and they dismissed her. She came to me because of them.

I just wish I knew how we got from there to here. Here with her hand on my tush and her thigh…

Her thigh's kind of—it's in a bad spot—a very good, bad, naughty sort of spot. It hangs down between my legs, trapping my robe between tender bits of me and…parts of her proving balance and motion for this…whatever this is.

Whatever this is it feels incredible. I move and she moves, point and counterpoint, each in equal measure. We move together with the rhythm of the kiss. This wonderful, marvelous, breathtaking kiss that doesn't seem to want to end…

Opening and closing, swaying to and fro…undulating like a pond on a blustery day. Ripples course over the surface of the water.

Through the water.

Our lips glide and slip and nip and tease and mash and squeeze and squish…

Eddies churn beneath its surface.

Enchanted by an intricate dance, our tongues flowing over each other, against each other…

Water laps at my shores.

I love her.

Her warmth flows through me, tingly and intoxicating.

It could not end. That's possible. This kiss could never end and that'd be just fine and dandy by me. It might make going to class a little awkward, but I'm willing to give it a whirl.

Oh, but there's eating…and drinking and sleeping and…we'd dehydrate and starve…probably before we went crazy. But there's always intravenous sustenance.

That might be taking it a little too far. Okay, so…it could last forever for now.

I just wish I understood. We should talk. We should figure out what this is and what it actually means.

We should discuss where we want it to go.

Or at least…

I'd like to know how we got here. All I did was agree with her. I told her that the senses can be one of the strongest triggers for memories. And an earthquake, little or not, isn't exactly a subtle trigger. It's hard to miss all those rumbley sounds, the loss of equilibrium, the weird vibratey sensations pulsing through your legs…your body…

Uh…

If simply agreeing with her gets me this every time, I may never disagree with her again.

Well, unless I have to lie. I can't lie to her. But even that—

I could learn. It'd be worth it. Totally worth it.

I may have to learn how to lie.

But it won't.

Or I'm afraid it won't.

I'm afraid this is like a spell. A beautiful, delicate, complicated, fragile spell. I'm afraid if I move or say or do anything, the magic will fizzle away.

My body thrums. A kitty bathed in a pool of sunlight. The trill starts low in my tummy, building, reverberating…spreading out…all warm and wonderful. I wonder if purring feels as good to a kitten as this does to me. The vibrations seem oddly similar. Both sensations convey the same ecstasy.

To purr on a whim…wouldn't that be wonderful?

But when I break the kiss to gasp, she suddenly and inexplicably sobers.

My fears are made manifest.

I try to hold on, but she rolls away, slips free and scrambles from our room.

I follow.

She's just too fast. She sprints out the door and down the hall.

I'm just amazed my legs carry me.

The stairwell door slams closed in my face when I reach it.

I push it open. The same desperation that drove my legs compels my voice. Four simple words emerge, "Buffy, please, wait. I—" Unsure what to say, I choke on the fifth.

What could I possibly have to say?

My words hang in the cramped space of the stairwell, resonating above the pitter-pat of her footfalls. They sound to me like a prayer.

The lower door claps shut.

Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: .../s/8156788/4/The_Rivers_Daughter