WILLOW

She understands.

About his mood when he picked her up from the mall, about the Twilight Zone ride through town---guess the mochacchino's off the hook now---about the sudden shift away from the nightclub and the subsequent pancake lunch that opened up their whole afternoon.

She understands it all.

And she thinks she finally understands Wesley.

His eyes are wide open when she pulls away from kissing him, like he never closed them in the first place, and she reaches up to remove the glasses that keep them shielded from her. He blinks, more than once, and then squints a little as if to see her better. But you saw me already, she wants to say.

What comes out instead is, "Thank you."

He seems flummoxed by her gratitude, and starts stumbling over words like deserve to know and nothing anyone else wouldn't have done, but before he can get too far, Willow silences him by placing her fingertips against his moving lips.

A few words still slip through, but only a few, and then Wes is silent again, watching and waiting for whatever it is she has to say.

"He's not coming back. I know that now. And yeah, it hurts. A lot. But it hurt a lot more this morning, and I think it'll hurt less tomorrow morning. And that's because of you. Because you reminded me that this isn't about me. I didn't do anything wrong, even if…"

It's there that her bravado fails. Because saying it aloud makes it all too real, reminds her all too vividly that it really is over. He's not coming back. Her eyes sting, and she can't look at him any more. It doesn't matter that she was the one that made him stop talking so that she could say her piece because as it turns out, her piece is broken. The shards aren't quite as small and dangerous as they had been before, but they can still cut and they can still make her bleed and she just can't look at Wesley's benign blue eyes any more.

"I'm sorry," he whispers when she ducks her gaze, but then he doesn't speak any more. He only reaches around her to pull Willow close against his chest, and rests his cheek on the top of her head as he rubs her back. His hand is warm through her top, reminding her of the bite in the air, and she allows herself to return the embrace, even as her tears begin to wet his shirtfront again.

"You're chilled," he says. "We should go back."

And then he's tugging her to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and gathering their trash while she watches in confusion. "But…what about the stars?" she asks when he puts his glasses back on. I don't want this to end. Why does he want it to end now? "We haven't even looked for the Big Dipper yet."

"The stars will be there tomorrow night."

But you won't be.

"You're chilled," he repeats, softer, as if he is speaking to a child. Is she acting so petulantly?

The fear doesn't stop her from asking, though. "Is our date over?"

Wesley smiles, and holds out his free hand to her. "Only if you wish it to be."

No more words as they return to his room and as they stand before the closed door, shivers begin to make Willow's teeth chatter. So maybe she was a little cold. They could've snuggled to keep warm. They could've wrapped themselves in the blanket as they gazed up at the stars. They could've done any number of things that didn't involve going back to the antiseptic hotel. She wonders if Wesley regrets his decision to spend time with her.

That doubt takes deeper root when he suggests she take a shower. Willow has to subdue the instinct to sniff at her clothes---I'd know if I was stinky, right?---and just nods silently, too distracted about the aborted date to notice when he walks to the closet. Going to the dresser is rote, taking out the clean underwear that she's purchased. She is about to grab the tee and shorts when Wesley is back, and she glances up to see the shirt she wore the previous night dangling from his hands.

His eyes dart to the pale green bra and panties set she holds and she swears that his color deepens. "I…I thought…I didn't know…" He clears his throat. "…did you obtain something to sleep in?" he finally manages.

She explains about her solution, but then he suggests that she not dirty her clothes unnecessarily and holds out his own shirt in trade. I don't get it.

"There's nothing to get."

Oops. I said that out loud. I have to stop doing that.

"It was just…" Wesley was still talking. "…it looks better on you than me. And…" Is he staring at my underwear again? "…you…you looked lovely in it."

That catches her attention, more so than anything else he's said or done since announcing he saw Oz. "You don't think I'm stinky?" she blurts, and then reddens at his small chuckle.

"No." His bent knuckle brushes across her cheek. "No, I don't."

She doesn't know what to say to this, and hurries to the bathroom with her nightclothes in hand before her mouth runs away from her brain again. The shower---hot, but not as hot as her skin is, especially in the spot Wesley has just touched---is one of the quickest she has ever taken, because as confused as she is, she's even more eager to get back out to Wes and to the rest of the date she is convinced is going to happen now.

I think too much. He's been telling me all day that he likes me, and hello, not really the kind of guy to kiss and tell, at least I don't think so, and he said I was lovely. Guys don't just say that kind of thing. Unless English guys do, and it's just a euphemism that's meant to make me feel better---.

I'm thinking too much again.

No more thinking.

Her fingers are shaking when she does up the buttons on the shirt, and when she emerges from the steam-filled bathroom, she isn't even aware that she's holding her breath. Can't breathe, afraid to exhale, any more air and she's going to explode. So when she spots a shirtless Wesley sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her as he fumbles with the bandage on his arm, she freezes as every wrong thought and every right image that has gone through her head that day makes a return appearance in the space of a single second. Holy moley, guess I was right about the demon hunting workout.

The escaping steam is choking her, and when Willow takes a step into the room to break free of its hold, she sees the small trickle of blood seeping from the edge of the anesthetic tape holding the gauze to his wound. "Let me," she says without even thinking, and is at his side, nimble fingers taking over the administration of the injury, before he can protest.

She is aware of his gaze on her face as she works, but she concentrates on her task, taking care not to pull the fair skin more than is absolutely necessary. It's nothing different than what she did that morning when he first got the injury---was it only this morning? Does time go wonky in this town or something?---but the definition of his biceps seems sharper, the scent of his skin more piquant, and Willow's mouth is dry by the time she has adhered the new bandage.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

And she can only nod because speech is impossible. Her body is humming with desire for this man, for this man who watches when he believes he can't, who runs and runs and fights because he's so frightened of stopping long enough to realize that he's only alone because he chooses to be, and she doesn't know how to tell him that without ruining the gentle bridges they've been building all day.

Kissing Wesley is one thing.

Wanting to make love to him is completely different.

WESLEY

She still tastes sweet.

And she pulls away far too quickly.

Where is she going?

The caress is so swift that he never has the opportunity to close his eyes, which means he's gawping like a schoolboy when she pulls away, trying desperately not to look like he's eager for another. When she takes his glasses off, he has to squint slightly to refocus, but the prospect that she's doing so to continue their physical interaction without hindrance makes his body vibrate in anticipation.

Until she says, "Thank you."

Thank you? Was it merely gratitude? But…I thought we'd gone past that. I told her the truth about what happened. Was it too much?

"I…I just thought you…deserved to know," he stumbles. Though I'm beginning to wish that I'd never said a word. "It's really nothing anyone else wouldn't have done." Except Oz. Coward. "It was nothing."

There is more, but it is lost in the soft feel of her fingers on his lips. He has to fight the urge to take them into his mouth and instead steals a few extra moments of contact by continuing to speak, though what comes out of his mouth is nonsense. He stops. Waits. Watches. There must be more.

The more is a pained confession, so much like the disclosure the previous night, though this time it wears a brave face and uses words like isn't about me and didn't do anything wrong. But not even those are powerful enough to stave away the inevitable tears. It is still too fresh a wound, and Wesley chastises himself for believing that anything he has said or done in the past twenty-hours has been anything but a temporary balm to a greater grief. Especially when Willow can't even look at him now.

"I'm sorry." So sorry.And all that is left for him to do is take her into his arms and try to soothe away the tears that are now his fault. His fault. Odd how that still hurts even if it is the clarion call of his adulthood.

When she slips her arms around him, it's impossible to enjoy the feel of her pressed against him. She is icy, the night cutting through her clothing, and not even contact with him seems to be warming her.

So, though it pains him to curtail their improvised date, Wesley suggests getting back to the warmth of the room, where they can put this behind both of them and pursue the pretending that seems to be the purpose of this weekend. He doesn't stop to see her response. Stopping always leads to doubt, and he is filled with enough to fuel self-recriminations for the next century. He gathers their rubbish and scorns the lack of receptacles, picks up the blanket and folds it into careful squares. It isn't until he is slipping his glasses back onto his nose that he realizes Willow hasn't moved from the spot in which she stands.

Her eyes are luminous. "But…what about the stars? We haven't even looked for the Big Dipper yet."

There is a hitch in her voice, and his first instinct is to credit it to her tears. But why would she ask about our stargazing? It's hardly anything special. And he says as much, but it doesn't erase the confusion crinkling her brow.

"You're chilled," he says. I only want you to be well.

"Is our date over?"

He smiles in reassurance, though reassuring is the last thing he feels at the moment. "Only if you wish it to be," Wesley murmurs, and holds out his free hand to her in hopes that she won't refuse him this last contact.

She is shivering by the time they get back to the room, and all he can think of is how to get her warm again. "You should take a hot shower," he says as soon as they're inside.

Willow looks at him bleakly, and nods. Her lips are pinched and he imagines it's from the cold, but at least he's been able to convince her to do something about it. A shower will warm her through, and then perhaps, they can settle into some more of the conversation that they'd enjoyed earlier. He has no hopes of being able to continue the more physical aspects of their relationship; even if she is suffering, he refuses to capitalize on her pain, no matter how much he wants her.

But he will comfort her, and he will offer her whatever body parts she wishes to cry upon, and he will try not to think about the young woman he has shattered by bringing up the source of her pain again.

If she's showering, she will need something to wear afterward, he reasons, and remembers the shirt she wore the previous night. It is still hanging in the closet, and he crosses to retrieve it for her. The long sleeves will help to warm her, and if she curls up with the blanket as well, Willow will be feeling better in no time.

He realizes after he's pulled it out that she's gone to the dresser, as if she had clothing already put away there. Only then does he notice that the bags she'd had at the mall are now gone. She unpacked. As if she was staying.

But he goes to her anyway, to offer the only thing he thinks he can, and is struck dumb when he spots the delicate garments she already holds.

The palest of green lace. They float in her hands, the tags that prove she has only just purchased them dangling from the gossamer strands that hold them together. And he can see her wearing them, the gentle swell of a breast above the low cup of the bra. How translucent her skin would be. How inviting her arms could be.

How beautiful she is.

"I…I thought…" He is stammering, and he knows it's because of the images. Look away, look away. "I didn't know…" She watches him in expectation. She knows. She must know. He coughs and clears his throat as if that will do the same with his head. "Did you obtain something to sleep in?"

At last, a question that is coherent, though he suspects that he must appear a proper tom for staring at her undergarments so.

"I figured a t-shirt and shorts." Willow points to the items that are still in the drawer, but it only drags his gaze back across the green snippets of lace in her hands.

"Those won't do," he says, and holds out his shirt again. It takes a moment for him to realize she doesn't understand. "I see no need for you to create more laundry for yourself unnecessarily. Not when you've already worn this."

It sounds weak even to his ears.

It sounds even weaker when she says, "I don't get it."

"There's nothing to get." Just take it.

But she doesn't. And he is feeling more foolish by the second.

"It was just…" Perhaps he can tell her without really telling. "…it looks better on you than me." Surely a compliment will appease some of her hesitation. "And…" His eyes stray to the green lace, and he is overwhelmed with the memory of seeing her in the shirt the night before. "…you…" Just say it, you prat. "…you looked lovely in it."

A weight has been lifted, and he finds it easier to breathe now, though when his lungs had failed him, Wesley has no idea. Laughing at the ridiculousness of her hygiene question is automatic, but at least he now understands why she was so quiet when he first suggested the shower.

"No," he says. He can't help but brush a knuckle across her heated cheek, for his trembling fingers would betray how much he wants her. "No, I don't."

For a long moment, Willow gazes up at him. Shadows of the woman she can be, the woman she wants to be, the woman she is, flicker behind her eyes, and then slowly, she reaches forward and takes the shirt from his grasp. It doesn't matter that she rushes away at that point without saying a word. The wonder reflected in her aspect is all he needs to feel like perhaps, they're back on the right track.

Her absence means he can change his clothes, so as soon as he hears the shower start, Wesley grabs his sweats and t-shirt. The sweats are first, but when he removes his shirt, the bandage pulls where it has adhered to the dried blood, and he feels the scab tear, the finest trickle of blood start to drip down his arm. He grabs the first aid kit and sets to changing it before he finishes getting dressed. One of the things he hates the most about being a warrior for good is the stickiness of healing injuries against his clothes.

It gives him something to focus on. Something that isn't Willow. Something that isn't completely himself.

So intent on his task, he doesn't even hear the shower stop.

Or the bathroom door open.

Or the footsteps across the thin carpet.

He hears, "Let me," and he is startled into looking up and seeing a pink and glowing Willow taking the adhesive he's been struggling with from his hands.

She sits at his side, her weight barely making a dent in the mattress, and Wes feels the heat of her body through the cotton of his shirt that she now wears. Her hair is wet, though she's combed her fingers hastily through it, and tiny droplets of water cling to her skin where she wasn't very thorough with her toweling. He notices mostly the way her mouth looks swollen, damp and dewy in the aftermath of a hot shower, and debates as to the appropriateness of kissing her again.

"Thank you," he murmurs when she finishes with the bandage, and before she can pull away, he leans down and presses his lips to hers.