WILLOW
Where the teasing comes from, she has no idea. Perhaps it's the relief in seeing him return to the Wesley who walked out of the movie theater that sparks the allusion to innuendo she knows is completely unintentional. But seeing him respond so acutely to her comment, all red-faced self-consciousness while his gaze strays noticeably to her mouth, makes her brave.
Makes her reckless.
Eat your heart out.
"Were they naughty?" she asks, deliberately affecting her best Precious Moments impression. It doesn't matter. He's not looking at her eyes anyway. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
Wesley clears his throat, but there is nowhere for him to run, the edge of the counter already pressing into the back of his legs. "It was a planetarium," he manages. "Outside of town. I'd thought…you would appreciate the astronomy."
The innocence of his aspiration throws her, though she'd known somewhere inside that it would be so, and she immediately drops the femme fatale act that doesn't really suit her anyway. "Stars?" she chirps. She sounds way too perky, even to her ears, and hopes that it doesn't turn him off. "That would've been wonderful."
"But we can't go now. It's too far."
"But we can." And she explains it to him, because obviously the possibility hasn't occurred to Wesley, and even as she begins the preparations, talking all the while, Wes just stands there, like he can't completely believe that it's unfolding so rapidly around him. It's only when she's got the stuff piled up on the bed that he steps forward.
"There's a café around the corner," he says, and it's the fact that he's finally participating again that has her warming when he nears, not the fact that he still smells so good, honest. "It won't be haute cuisine, but it should suffice for our purposes."
"I'm a college student," she jokes. "I consider any chef whose last name isn't Boyardee, haute cuisine."
It's a small joke, but for the way Wesley smiles, she could've been Whoopi Goldberg, and it's infinitely easier to start chattering away like they had at lunch time and after, like none of the apprehension and fear had ever become manifest in their stutters and silences. They talk of nothing, and everything, and there is unadulterated relief when they both realize at the same time that their new plans don't involve changing their clothes, as if the time to shed new costumes would alter the simplicity of just being together.
Being together. She likes the way that sounds.
Does Wes?
Somehow, she thinks he does.
When it comes time to go get the food, he gives Willow the option of accompanying him, but she shakes her head and declines. Part of her wants it to be a surprise, and she suspects that he needs this small task to make their date/not-a-date really his.
"I shan't be long," he says, and leaves the room.
But when the door re-opens immediately, and Wesley comes back in, her joke about his being even faster than Superman is cut off when he brings his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss. His hands hold her head still---as if I would turn away, ha!---and then just as swiftly he is gone again, leaving her mouth tingling, her mind whirling, and Willow almost wishing they didn't have the food thing coming up to get in the way of more kissage.
Because he is surprisingly good at it. He's even better at taking her by surprise. Not the kind of surprise where her heart ends up ruptured from the intensity, but the kind that ignites a slow burn for more.
She wonders what it is he will surprise her with tonight.
While he's away, she busies herself with putting her things away, unpacking the few clothes she's bought and placing them in the empty drawer she finds. She knows she shouldn't but her hands go back to the one that holds his, her fingers sliding over the soft cotton of his shirts, tracing the hard line of the collars. Other than the leather, all of his clothes are baby-bottom soft, like he needs that extra cushion to act as armor in the hard world he now traverses.
Soft against hard, good against evil, right against wrong.
Willow thinks that it's actually quite appropriate for Wes.
The shirt she wore to sleep in the night before hangs slightly separate from the rest in the small closet, and she picks up the sleeve and drapes it over her shoulder. A whiff of his cologne, or his skin or his soap or whatever it is that makes him smell like that, wafts to her nostrils, and before she can stop herself, she's lifted the fabric to her face, inhaling the aroma as if that will merge it with her body's natural rhythms.
It smells safe.
It smells like a warm fireplace in an old study, where she is wrapped in him before the flame as they read over a book together, each taking turns waiting for the other to finish a page before turning it.
It smells---.
The click of the front door makes her jump, whirl, slam the closet shut to face a bemused Wesley in the entrance with red cheeks and a racing heart and oh god, he just caught me sniffing his clothes. I'm not a date, I'm a stalker.
"Is everything all right?" he asks. His eyes dart to the closet door.
"Mice," she blurts. "Mouse. I thought I heard one."
"Really? Perhaps we should---."
As he starts to approach, her arm shoots out to stop him from opening the closet because Willow knows that the shirt will still be swinging inside and there's no way he's going to believe her mouse story because, hello, not true and the man is far from stupid. So she stammers out a story about not finding the rodent, and how hungry she is, and grabs their supplies from the bed in one hand while taking his in her other, leading him from the scene of her fib as quickly as she can without running, all the while wondering just how silly little girl he must find her. Because she certainly thinks she's being silly so there's no telling how it must look from the outside.
Quickly, they are ensconced in the small patch of lawn next to the outdoor pool. With the weather bordering on winter, nobody is in the mood for a swim so they have a world of privacy in its solitude as Wesley lays out the blanket they have filched from the spare bedding. Willow takes care of the food, silently musing on the peculiarity of having a picnic with Buffy's ex-Watcher in the middle of a nowhere town, but as she unwraps the sandwiches and pastries he has purchased, she decides it's too fragile to dwell upon. Just like her closure with Oz, this is a tenuous web she is weaving, and too close scrutiny will only make the strands dissolve.
They eat, and while they eat, they talk, but not once does Wesley mention the kiss before he left, and not once does Willow bring up the kisses from earlier. They both know they're there---forgetting is impossible---but in their need to just be, discussion of anything specific is superfluous. More than once, Willow smiles as she realizes what she's doing, but she hides them behind reactions to his stories, or punctuations to her own.
By the time they're done, the sun is gone, and the stars have taken its place in the heavens above. Why don't the stars in Sunnydale look like this? She suspects they probably do, but in her current state of mind---Hawaii, that's where I am, all warm and sunny and I wonder what Wesley looks like in a bathing suit?---these seem extra specially twinkly, all in abundance as if someone more powerful than either of them knew they were going to be staring at the stars that night.
"So, how do we do this?" she asks brightly.
Wesley has grown pensive in the aftermath of ham sandwiches and sugar cookies. "There's something…I believe we should talk about," he says. "Before we…before…I think it's best if we're both…"
Maybe it's the way he can't quite meet her eyes that makes the thought pop into Willow's head. Is this the safe sex talk? Does he think we're going to have sex tonight?It's not as if the thought hasn't occurred to her, but that was mostly when they were kissing, or when she was smelling his shirt, and I'm not a stalker, I'm a slut, and this is just a little too surreal in the Dali landscape of her weekend.
But before she can sputter out that nothing has to happen, and boy, does she really hate that she's going to say it, Wesley has taken her hand in his---I'm shaking, can he feel me shaking? I'm my own little earthquake---and is stroking the back of her fingers.
"Something…happened today," he says. He finally lifts his eyes, and the blue is so dark in the poor illumination from the poolside that she gets lost looking in them. "Something…of which you should be aware."
"What?" You're starting to scare me because this doesn't sound like any other sex talk I've had before.
"It's about…" He clears his throat, looks down again. "I saw Oz earlier."
WESLEY
She's flirting with him.
He can't believe she's flirting with him.
It's not the innocent banter that they'd shared at lunch, and it's not the heady conversation that had occurred at the cinema. This is plainspoken, I-am-woman-hear-me-know-you-want-me flirting that Willow is affecting. Quite effectively, he might add.
Dear Lord, I want to kiss her again.
"Were they naughty?" she asks, and he is mesmerized by the way her mouth is moving, how she can switch to the coquette so quickly after his dunderheaded foolishness. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
His throat is dry, and he clears it, but that does little to re-orient him to the issues at hand, something he believes Willow is more than aware of. "It was a planetarium." Perhaps some distance…but no, the counter is already cutting into his legs. There is nowhere to go, nothing for him to do but face his desire and hope she doesn't think him ridiculous. "Outside of town," Wes continues. "I'd thought…" It was supposed to be magical. "…you would appreciate the astronomy."
"Stars?" Though he'd been hoping for magic with the planetarium notion, seeing her light up like a child at Christmas is almost more so. "That would've been wonderful."
Would've been. If he hadn't blown the tire on the motorcycle.
His face closes again and he sighs. "But we can't go now. It's too far."
"But we can."
She is babbling now, going on about how they have all the stars in the world so who needs to worry about entrance fees and schedules and out-of-the-way museums when all they have to do is go outside. It's not an option that has occurred to him, frankly, and he's rather annoyed that he was so focused on his final goal that he overlooked the obvious. Willow, on the other hand, has already proven that she is problem solver extraordinaire, and pulls out a blanket from the closet as if to prove her point.
"I don't know what you had in mind foodwise," she continues, and the excitement about their prospects makes her glow. "But I'm sure we can figure something out."
Wesley is no longer willing to be the passive stander-by, and steps forward until he's next to her at the bed. "There's a café around the corner," he says. "It won't be haute cuisine, but it should suffice for our purposes."
Her joke about her lowered tastes eclipses the unexpected reminder of the difference in their ages, and he relaxes enough to offer the most genuine smile he's felt since leaving the cinema.
After that, it seems almost normal to resume their conversation, to pretend that his irresolution doesn't linger like a ghost between them. He doesn't know how she does it, how she can make the world seem easier with something as simple as a smile, but he's not throwing it again, not this time, not when she's given it back to him with hardly an expectation.
"Is that it?"
"Other than changing…"
They look at each other at the same time, then at their clothing. When Wesley lifts his gaze again, Willow is chewing her lip in anticipation. Does she draw my attention to her mouth on purpose?
"That doesn't seem necessary at this point, does it?" He's stating the obvious, but her relief stops the diversionary tactics.
"Just the food, then."
His eyes stray to the door. "Do you wish to come with me?" Wes asks. This is no longer his arrangement; everything else about this evening is again Willow's doing so it's only natural that she pick out the food as well. He should just consider himself lucky that he is getting anything from his time with her at all.
"That's OK," she replies. "I'll just stay here. I trust whatever you decide to get."
His heart is hammering inside his chest. He doesn't think he'll ever grow tired of hearing that word---trust, she trusts me---and it takes all his control not to allow the weakness of what hearing it does to him from showing in his voice. "I shan't be long," he says, and leaves.
The instant the door closes behind him is an instant too long away from her, and Wesley whirls on his heel to push it open again, to stride inside, to cup her surprised face between his hands and feel the delicate bones twitch beneath his touch, and to press his mouth to hers in a hard kiss. He just needs her to know how grateful he is, how much her presence in this weekend means to him, and disregards the fact that he's been dying to kiss her again ever since tasting her response to him before the movie. He doesn't give her the opportunity to respond. It's only important that she has that moment of clarity.
He rushes as quickly as he can, ordering an assortment of sandwiches before noticing the sugar cookies and getting some of those as well. The memory of how Willow tasted after the pie makes his mouth water. Will she let me kiss her again? It's a silly thought, especially since he took their last kiss without her permission, but he's not certain he can be so bold as to repeat the action, as much as he may want to.
Back to the hotel, juggling the bags of food, and his mouth is already open to speak when he pushes open the door. He doesn't, though, because he is greeted by a wide-eyed Willow, standing in front of the closet, looking very much like a deer caught in headlights.
"Is everything all right?" he asks. When he glances at the door, he swears her breathing takes butterfly wings. What is she hiding?
"Mice." She's hiding mice? "Mouse. I thought I heard one."
Well, that certainly makes more sense.
But when he tries to help, she blocks the door and sputters an explanation that is more Pratchett than Hemingway, but if she's not bothered, then he's not bothered. Besides, she's adorable when she babbles.
Taking her by the hand, he leads Willow to the patch by the pool they've deemed worthy of their purpose, the meal a balm to the bruised egos of the afternoon, their conversation solace for the transgressions of the past year. Every once in a while, Wesley catches one of her whimsical grins, but they're so fleeting that he wonders if he's imagining them. Ethereal motes that offer individual embraces, the smiles are often lost within her tales of school, of Sunnydale, of slaying and Buffy.
It surprises him that it doesn't hurt as much to hear of them. Not when they are such an integral part of who she is.
"None of them know, though."
Wesley frowns as he realizes he's missed what has led to this revelation of hers.
"Oh?" Perhaps she won't notice. "Why is that?"
She shrugs, her shoulders thin though the weight they can bear amazes him. "It's kind of pathetic, don't you think? I mean, he said it was over, and I didn't want to believe him. I didn't want my friends to think I'm such a baby just because I thought I could convince Oz we should get back together."
Oz. She's talking about Oz again. At least she isn't crying any more.
The rest of what she says is lost to him as guilt begins tracing black patterns atop the golden tapestry of their date/not-a-date. He is here under false pretenses. He carries with him knowledge about her weekend that Willow isn't privy to, and if she were to know the truth, that she could've had her confrontation and potentially swayed the man she loved to return with her to the Hellmouth---for Wesley doesn't doubt that she could've been very persuasive if she'd needed to be, how could any man in his right mind resist such a lovely combination?---she would hate him for withholding what was rightfully hers.
So, when the meal is done, and all that is left to them are the stars overhead, Willow turns that open face of hers to him and poses the one question he wishes she wouldn't.
"So, how do we do this?"
With honesty.
But honesty is much harder when the woman you desire is staring at you with the expectation of a child.
"There's something…" He has no idea how to approach this, even though he knows he must. "…I believe we should talk about." I'm lying. I very much don't want to. "Before we…" Have a future? Do we? Can we? I think the answer to that is no but I must do this anyway. "…before…" He's making a mess of this. Better to start over. "I think it's best if we're both…"
The words are choked in his throat when she shifts where she is sitting, her calf brushing against his. He hears her breathe in to speak, but he mustn't let that happen or he will never find the nerve to tell her what he knows.
"Something…" Wes takes her hand in his, hoping that it will give him the strength, and when he feels her tremble at his touch, castigates himself for frightening even more. "…happened today," he finishes. I must soothe her. She mustn't cry.
When he looks up, he almost loses his resolve again. She has granules of sugar clinging to her lips that sparkle in the moonlight.
"Something…of which you should be aware."
"What?"
"It's about…" Just say it. But he can't while she is gazing at him so anxiously, and returns his gaze to their hands. "I saw Oz earlier."
The name is a whispered assassin of her good mood, and Wesley's heart fails him when she jerks back. Away. Away from him. But I'm doing the right thing. Why must I be punished as well?
"What?" Another whisper. Just as deadly, though this one is aimed at him. "When?"
Haltingly, he tells the tale of the encounter in front of the club, and ends by repeating Oz's wish that she not be told. "But, I couldn't do that," he says, and risks looking at her again. Mistake.Though she isn't crying, she seems so forlorn that it suffocates him. "I didn't wish you to find out later and think less of me for being less than honest." Please believe me. I. Am not. Him.
"Did he…" But she stops, swallows, shakes her head. "You were taking me there, weren't you?" she asks instead. "On the bike. But you changed your mind."
There is no point in denying it. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I thought he was being cowardly in not telling you himself."
"No. Why'd you change your mind?"
Oh. That was what she meant.
"Because…you deserved better than to be subjected to such pain again. Because…I couldn't bear the thought of seeing you hurt so."
Her mouth makes a silent O, but Wesley is unable to move, unable to breathe, waiting for the other shoe to at least get taken off if not dropped to the ground. I only did what I thought best. I'm sorry if my best isn't good enough.
He still can't move when she leans forward and presses her lips to his in a delicate kiss.