WILLOW
The date/not-a-date begins with a bang.
Literally.
One minute, the bike is racing back to the hotel, thundering and cogent as he pushes its limits in his haste, both of them eager to clean up and change before setting to the plans Wesley has formulated for the evening---plans he has become oddly secretive about, she muses as she loses herself to the liberty tearing down the road offers. Jack Kerouac, eat your heart out.
The next, a sharp crack from the right makes her helmet reverberate around her ears, her alarmed squeal driving Willow to tighten her grip around Wes while he struggles not to lose control of the handlebars.
She squeezes her eyes shut---because, really, watching the world tilt upside down and sideways isn't exactly conducive to not panicking and I'm not going to panic, I'm not---but the urge to throw up doesn't recede, her stomach deciding for her that maybe the motorcycle isn't such a great thing to have between her legs after all. That shake, rattle, and roll effect it has is only fun when there's no danger of becoming the highway's next Rorschach. Nix on filling Buffy in on the details of her Easy Rider weekend.
All she can think is she doesn't want to die, not today, not now after finally figuring out that it's OK to believe again, and wow, does she have that kind of thought every day? It was just last night that she was wishing the same with the vampire, though it feels like a lifetime ago. That was a different Willow. A Wes-less Willow. Not that he's hers now. She can't think that. She shouldn't think that.
Even if she really, really wants to.
It's while these thoughts are going through her head that Willow realizes the world has stopped moving. Slowly, she lets her eyes open and she's no longer looking at Wesley's back, but his front, and he has his hands on her shoulders, steadying her as if she's going to topple from the bike though the visor is still down and obscuring her sight of him.
"Are you all right?" he is asking, but his voice sounds so far away, like he's talking through water, that it spurs her to shake her head in denial.
Immediately, she is moving again, and all her attempts to keep the world at bay are for naught as he scoops her up, off, onto the ground, strong hands stretching her out and cradling her head as the helmet strap is undone from beneath her chin. As soon as it is gone, though, all the fuzziness vanishes, and Willow feels foolish for not thinking about the effects of having the inches of plastic and foam wrapped around her head in answering his question.
"I'm OK," she says, repeating ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
But Wesley isn't listening. Wesley is too busy checking her over for injuries, and she has to close her eyes again because the sun is beating down and blinding and making those little spots dance before her, the ones she can never seem to catch directly in front but only out of the corner of her eye. She can hear his voice clearly now, that odd blend of crisp and halcyon that will forever swathe her with the promise of sanctuary, but when she tries to tell him this, he seems not to hear.
Only when she catches the word "hospital" does Willow set aside the harborage his touch seems to bring, pushing him away to prop herself up on her elbows.
"I'm fine," she says. Sometime in the last few minutes, he's lifted his visor so now she can see the worry darkening his aspect. Her fingers catch the hand that is reaching for his cell phone.
"I'm fine," she repeats.
For a moment, Wesley's hand tremors, stills, curls around hers, before tugging her gently upward to sit straight at the side of the road.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice bleeds with it. "I lost control. Are you certain you're not injured?"
"More than certain. The certainest." She doesn't want to admit to being scared. That would show she didn't trust him and his driving. So she latches on to the other excuse to explain it away. "It was the helmet. It made you sound funny, and I sort of forgot I was wearing it. It's actually kind of comfy once you get used to it."
The words make her cringe. She hates admitting to stupidity. Her smarts is the one thing she should be able to count on.
He only nods. Stands. He's going away? Now what did I do?
But it's the bike that currently garners his attention, and he is crouching by the front wheel, a dark bow of power administering to the vehicle's intricacies with a fervency that avows to his concern for their circumstances. That makes sense. Wesley isn't running again---and she really has to stop thinking that every time he takes a step away from her---but administering to the problem at hand. Scratch Willow from the to do list. Move on to the next.
His deep sigh is followed by Wesley sitting back on his heels. "I can't fix it." Why does he sound so bleak? "We'll have to ring for roadside assistance."
"What happened?"
"The tire blew. I would imagine I probably hit something, but…we're just fortunate that we didn't go off the road."
"Maybe I can---."
"No." And it's the firmness of his tone that stops her, shocks her into plopping back down onto her bottom from where she's started to rise. "No," he repeats. Softer. No less firm. "I shall ring. You rest. It shan't be long."
His estimation of long is right on the money when a tow truck shows up in less than ten minutes. Whatever insurance plan Wesley has, she figures, is worth every penny for that kind of service, except he looks less than pleased as he talks in the distance with the broken-toothed mechanic, and downright pissed when the man begins hooking the bike onto the back of his truck.
She doesn't act on the urge to ask him what's wrong, though. Somehow, she thinks that might make it worse.
So, they ride with the man in his truck back to their hotel, all silence except for the driver's off-key humming of "Achy Breaky Heart." And when Wesley merely takes her shopping bags in one hand and hers in the other to lead her to their room, she follows just as quietly, because she has no idea what is going on. Have I ever? Is all this just some psychedelic hallucination and I'm really bleeding out in the dark on the sidewalk from the vamp attack?
As soon as they're alone, as soon as the door is closed between them and the rest of the world, Wesley disappears into the bathroom, leaving Willow standing amidst her purchases and debating whether she should just give up on the whole idea of her and Wesley after all. The prospect of their potential date has faded in the aftermath of the not-quite-an-accident. Even the euphoria from his kisses has lost its bloom, and it's the loss of those gossamer whispers that stings most of all.
"What's going on?" she demands when he finally emerges. She has to know. She can't stomach the way he's shut himself off any longer.
"What do you mean?"
"Have you changed your mind?" Please don't have changed your mind. "Aren't we going out now?"
He shakes his head. "We can't. The motorcycle won't be fixed until tomorrow morning."
"So?"
This throws him, and the eyes that had been so dark seem to search hers for hidden meaning. No hidden meaning! she wants to scream. Open book here! Not like Wesley. See Wes. See Wes run. Run, Wes, run. Except please don't, she doesn't quite beseech.
"My plans…required transportation," he finally says. "What I had in mind isn't exactly within walking distance of the hotel."
"So why can't we change them?"
"I'd rather hoped it would be more…special."
She forsakes the distance he's been keeping between them, and crosses the room to stand in front of Wes, her hand small and shaky as she sets it on his arm. "I wasn't looking for special." She realizes the error in her words as soon as they are uttered, and hastens to fix them even as she watches his eyes shutter. "I just want to spend time with you. It doesn't matter what we're doing. We could even go patrolling if that was what you wanted. Only, maybe if I could not be the bait? Last night kind of took the fun out of the damsel in distress for me for awhile."
Slowly---very slowly, so slowly she's not even sure it's happening at first---the corners of his mouth lift, his eyes soften. Hey, at least I make him laugh. Looks like I learned something from Xander after all. And when he agrees, she exhales as quietly as she can.
Because she doesn't want him to know how scared she got for a minute there. Like she'd lost Wesley.
She can't lose him.
She's only just found him.
WESLEY
He should've watched where he was going.
After, he would rationalize it as distraction. It was impossible to think clearly with Willow clinging so tenaciously to his midsection, not with the memory of her lips on his so fresh in his recollection. It was a deadly combination.
But during…
He doesn't remember seeing the road.
He doesn't remember feeling the wind sneaking beneath his helmet.
All he remembers is the brilliance of a beautiful smile, and those lovely words, That sounds wonderful, ringing in his ears.
So when the tire blows, and the motorcycle jerks within his grasp, threatening to send both of them to an abrasive collision with the concrete, Wesley is startled back into the real world. A world of blood and screams, where poor judgment means someone can die, and where he has to struggle to merely be adequate.
He decelerates as carefully as he can, all the while feeling Willow's grip tighten around him, her face pressed so fiercely to his back that he imagines he can even feel her eyelashes through his leather jacket. But he can't allow himself to enjoy the need she has for him right now. Her life hangs in the balance, and this is a scale where his culpability must not be questioned.
Concentrate.
Focus.
Failure is not an option.
And his mind has shut itself off by the time he skids to a stop at the side of the road, his fury at his poor choices---too fast, too careless---banishing the romantic who had ruled his head to the far recesses of his awareness. All that is left is Wesley, Rogue Demonhunter, Purveyor of Punishment to Those Who Do Wrong.
But Willow did nothing wrong.
Perhaps befriending him is wrong.
No.
He pushes the tiny voices aside, twisting to face his passenger. Her face is wan, eyes squeezed shut as if she is frightened of what her vision might betray. As soon as he removes himself as her anchor, Willow starts to sway, prompting him to take hold of her shoulders, root her in her seat, and silently pray that she doesn't hold this against him.
The instant her lashes flutter open, he asks of her wellbeing, but the small shake of her head is the death knoll for any remaining vestiges of hope he might have that this day can somehow be salvaged.
Please don't need hospital. Please let the wounds be superficial.
But when he stretches her out on the loose grit beside the road, Wesley can find no evidence of her injuries, though he searches for what feels like an eternity. His hands grace expertly over her arms, skips past her hips, tremble when they examine her legs. Even such innocence makes him hard, and though he fights to occupy his mind elsewhere by offering as much verbal cheer as he can, he still hates that he lacks even the smallest iota of self-control in containing his growing attraction to Willow.
I must stop touching her. I'm only making it worse.
"I'll have to get you to hospital," he says, and starts to reach for his mobile phone. "Your injuries must be internal---."
Her assurances that she's fine are accompanied by her hand on his, and she pushes herself partially upright to prove it. He's trembling---can she feel what she does to me?---but Wesley can't resist twining his fingers with hers, even if he can't feel her skin through the gloves. He holds her for a second.
Two.
Three.
And then realizes he's staring. Perhaps he should've kept the visor down.
He hides by ducking his head when he pulls her more into a sitting position.
"I'm sorry." So very, very sorry. You have no idea. "I lost control." Of the bike. Of myself. Of the situation. "Are you certain you're not injured?"
"More than certain. The certainest."
He doesn't hear the rest of her babbling, nodding only when he notices the silence when she stops. Rising to his feet, he crosses to the motorcycle to examine the damage. If he can fix it, perhaps the evening can be saved. She isn't hurt, and they can continue on with their plans---his plans, a date, it's a date---as if nothing untoward has happened.
Except he can't. The tire is in need of more than a simple path
"I can't fix it," he says with a sigh. He doesn't even know if she's listening. Will she be disappointed? "We'll have to ring for roadside assistance."
"What happened?"
I failed. Again.
He doesn't say so, but when she starts to suggest that she can be of service, Wes can't stop himself from snapping.
She looks hurt at his refusal, and more than a little confused. How does he explain that it's not her? How can he tell her that he can't allow her to try to mend what is his fault?
"No." He can't. "I shall ring. You rest. It shan't be long."
He buries himself in his task, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she pretends not to listen to him speak on the phone, wishing he hadn't muddled this so badly. There is no way they can keep their date now. The night will end without the something special he was hoping would light her so, and she will return to Sunnydale with memories of how Wesley had disappointed the both of them. All he can do at this point is pray that he doesn't harm her further.
Why had he thought this would work?
Oh, yes. Because she smiled at me.
Her smile has been the impetus for much of this weekend.
At least he doesn't have to wait long for the tow truck. When he spots the broken-toothed grin of the driver, Wesley pulls himself straighter, reverts to his staunchest demeanor. He can at least endure this with pride. But that word---
"Tomorrow."
only sours his mood, and no matter what Wes argues---
"Tomorrow."
the driver is firm on the earliest he's going to be able to fix the motorcycle.
"Tomorrow."
Behind him, Wesley senses Willow coming up as he watches the driver work to affix the bike to the truck. She is silent, and he almost wishes she would offer some sort of sympathy regarding their situation. Almost. It's likely her words, however well meaning, would either exacerbate his sense of defeat or ignite the short fuse of his temper and he desires neither. She deserves better than that.
He is able to contain himself throughout their journey back to the hotel, and by the time they pull up in front of the lobby, Wesley has relaxed a little from his earlier agitation. Having Willow pressed up against him in such close quarters is remarkably calming, though the slight touch of her thigh along his means his erection never quite goes away. She leans into him, away from the driver, as if it is the pair of them against everyone else, and Wes begins to relive their day prior to the accident.
It doesn't have to end badly. Though their date may not be what he originally intended, perhaps something quieter will suffice. They've done the unorthodox all day; he rationalizes that continuing the trend into the evening isn't necessary. He is already planning when he automatically picks up her bags and takes her hand, and when they get to their room, he disappears into the bathroom so that he can compose himself before approaching the new idea with Willow.
She doesn't give him the opportunity.
"What's going on?"
Her eyes are sparking, her body bow-tight as she waits for him to respond. Folding her arms over her chest only draws his attention to the swell of her breasts and he stumbles over his next words as he silently berates himself for indulging in his attraction when he should be attempting to mend what he has broken.
"Have you changed your mind?" she asks. Beneath the query is a hint of desperation, and Wesley's attention is torn when he labors to understand which it could be she means. "Aren't we going out now?"
Ah. The date. Thank god she clarified.
"We can't," he confirms, shaking his head. "The motorcycle won't be fixed until tomorrow morning."
"So?"
And he remembers then that this is a young woman accustomed to overcoming obstacles. It's not just a symptom of working with the Slayer, though three years of averting apocalypses and hurdling demons has verged her methodology---or was it that way before? She sees life as a series of problems to be solved, a product of her analytical mind, and though her attempts to unravel sometimes leave her shattered and sobbing in the arms of a near-stranger, it is not in Willow to give up without putting forth her solution. Does she see me as a problem? How do I show her that I was hoping to be part of the answer?
"My plans…" he starts, and then wonders how much he should reveal. "…required transportation. What I had in mind isn't exactly within walking distance of the hotel."
The planetarium is actually quite a distance away, impossible to reach without a mode of transportation of some sort. If American public transit weren't so appalling, he still might consider taking her, but that is quite impossible under their current circumstances. So when she suggests changing the plans, he admits to the one thing he hopes she will understand, and prays she doesn't think him weak for it.
"I'd rather hoped it would be more…special."
These words more than any other he has uttered draws her to him, but when she reaches out, all Wesley can see is the slight tremor in her hand. Afraid. Nervous. He has frightened her.
"I wasn't looking for special," Willow says.
It makes his throat constrict, air precious. She's changed her mind. He's lost his opportunity.
Then, her grip tightens, forcing him to meet her eyes again. "I just want to spend time with you. It doesn't matter what we're doing."
And she means it. Wes can see that now. There is no guile in the green. There is no guile in her.
"Yes," he breathes. "I suppose I can amend my intentions."
"Your intentions?" she teases, and her smile is brilliant. "You make it sound like your plans were of the naughty variety."
He swallows. He knows she is only kidding, that her gentle gibes are meant to draw him out of his funk, but hearing that word---Naughty? Do not tempt me so, Willow. I am not the font of self-restraint as I might appear.---makes him want to forego propriety and plunge into the sanctuary of her skin.
As he is already plunging into the sanctuary of her friendship.