WILLOW

All it takes are whispers.

Whispers for more.

Whispers for words.

Whispers for arms, and lips, and hands.

What is so extraordinary is that the whispers are not all hers.

He gives, and he holds, and he makes her feel powerful and pliant all at the same time, all with the tenor of his touch, the vibrance of his voice. If he had this gift all along, Willow wonders why he failed so miserably as a Watcher. She thinks she could very well follow this Wesley wherever he might choose to lead.

They sleep little, by choice rather than design. It's not that she dreads the idea of unconsciousness any more; even with the confession regarding Oz, potential nightmares no longer haunt her. She can return to Sunnydale knowing she has done what she can, and that that's OK. Wesley has shown her that.

No, in all honesty, she fears losing what remaining time she has with Wes, and clings to the seconds as tenaciously as she fights for grades. He's made it clear that he won't be returning to Sunnydale with her, and though she understands that this weekend will likely be the only time they have together, a part of her wishes that he would change his mind. This isn't the same man who left after graduation. This is a man who is more than capable of holding his own on the Hellmouth. There is no more reason for him to be ashamed of who or what he is.

But she won't think about that now. Now is about something other than regret.

He explores every inch of her, and more than once sends her into a giggling fit when his travels across her skin tickle. It feels so good to be laughing again, free and alive, shimmering in the air like the sound of wind chimes on a spring day. He laughs, too, and Willow decides that sound is even better. He'd forgotten how, but now, he can at least have a recent memory to help him the next time. And the I gave him that is almost smug when she rolls on top of him, resting her head on his chest while his hands linger on her spine.

"Aren't you tired?" he murmurs.

She loves the slickness of him. When Wesley works, she can see the result in his skin, and she loves the way she slides against him as she snuggles in more comfortably.

"Maybe a little," she admits, even though she'd rather not to. And when he coaxes her to attempt rest, she does so reluctantly, the hypnotic thump-thump of his heartbeat under her cheek drawing her around the impasse she'd erected inside her head.

She dreams of riding down the highway on his motorcycle, the bike vibrating between her legs and wow, that's fuel for future fantasies, and neither of them are wearing helmets as the wind whips razor fingers around them but neither of them care. It's safe as only dreams can be, and they're both free. Free. But what if I don't want to be? What if I like the chains?

Just as quickly as she thinks it, Willow feels her hands bound to the front of Wesley's stomach, heavy with manacles that cleave into her flesh. She cannot leave him, cannot get off the bike if it stops. Oh god, if we crash, I'll kill him because I can't let go. I have to let go. But when she starts struggling, he only laughs, a high-pitched giggle that sounds more manic than happy, and the motorcycle starts careening even faster down the highway.

A shrill ring yanks her from the dream, and Willow feels the world flex and tilt beneath her cheek. She blinks her eyes open in time to see Wesley pick up the phone on the nightstand, his other arm still firmly around her, but half of his words are lost as she struggles to release the bonds of her sleep.

"I'm sorry," he says when he sets the receiver back down. His lips brush against the top of her head. "You should go back to sleep."

She murmurs her assent, her eyes fluttering closed again, but when he rolls her off him to settle her gently into the blanket, they open again to watch him rise, grab his sweats from where they were tossed to the floor, go to the desk and sit down. Did I miss something? This isn't his version of afterglow, is it?

But when she asks, he doesn't even look back at her. He just picks up his pen and starts scribbling in his notebook as he replies, and she feels a vague sense of discontent somewhere in the pit of her stomach start to swell again.

"Are you…disappointed that we…you know…?" After Oz, she has to know. She can't go through this again. She can't go back to thinking that she's not good enough. She thought Wesley was different.

He swivels immediately, though he doesn't rise. "Of course not. Far from it. This is just…work. That was Manny. He needs me to be in Sacramento tomorrow morning. Another job."

Sacramento isn't Sunnydale. Don't go.

"We have demons on the Hellmouth, you know," she says instead, and sits up, dragging the blanket with her to cover her bare breasts because being naked in front of him now seems awkward and not quite right when he doesn't seem interested in it any more. Or in me.

His eyes sadden, and he turns away, back to his work, back to his real life. And when he starts to talk about how he can't return there, how he has things he needs to accomplish, amends to make, she knows she's strained the fragile bonds they'd been building and immediately backpedals. She can't destroy it further. She needs to be able to walk away from this weekend with as much pride as she can muster, though it feels like her mustering muscle is so far out of shape as to be nonexistent.

So she lies down, and she watches him look through his books, and she drifts in and out of slumber while she convinces herself that this is for the best. It would weird Buffy out anyway. And Xander. And I'm not sure Giles would look at me in the same way again, either.

But a small part of her wonders if that really matters to her any more.

WESLEY

She makes him feel like shouting.

It has been far too long since Wesley felt so unfettered. Free of his fears. Free of reproval. Free to take pleasure where he wants it, and free to give it in kind.

Every time he feels her whispered breath in his ear, along his skin, it spurs him to show her just how magical she really is, that the power she is learning to wield is not merely that which can manipulate physics, though his physics is most definitely beguiled.

"Come for me," he coaxes. He is buried inside her from behind, his fingers flicking across her clit as his tongue sups at the skin of her neck. And as simply as that, she does, squeezing around his cock and moaning his name so breathlessly that he has no choice but to follow, shooting deep inside her for the third time that night.

Well, into the condom, that is. He smiles when he remembers her query regarding how many he had. My Willow is always prepared.

And he knows it's wrong to think of her that way, because she isn't his, not really, she's merely on loan. Because when the dawn comes, he must return her to her shelf back in Sunnydale and hope that someone there remembers to tend to her, that she doesn't get left there, unappreciated and unread when what she has to share is so sublime. It's why he chooses not to sleep. If I close my eyes, will she vanish like some kind of dream? He'd rather not risk it.

Besides, listening to her laughter as he discovers those tender spots of her flesh that are most ticklish delights him in measures that exceed millennia. Wesley tries to catch the sight of her face when another paroxysm takes her over, but most often, his face is buried in her skin, and he settles for joining in with her. He adores how she thrashes at him to stop, and then grabs him in entreaty when he backs off. Perhaps this need for him is what he will miss the most when they have to part.

Willow tries to turn the tables, but her search for his tickle spots is fruitless, much to her chagrin. He could tell her that he's long ago learned how to protect those vulnerable parts of him, but he doesn't. It will likely prompt her to try harder. And he can't risk that. Though they are safe now, when she is gone, those vulnerable parts will need to be shielded again. Better to keep them hidden, even if he does wish he could open that last door for her.

She rolls onto him with the exhaustion of a sated woman---I gave her that---and sighs when he starts stroking the length of her spine. She admits to being tired when he asks her, but there is reluctance in her tone. Could she be as afraid of slumber as I am? But that's a fantasy he can't entertain.

"Sleep," he whispers, and smiles when she snuggles even closer into him. Grabbing the edge of the blanket, he pulls it up, swaddling them as tight as he can without losing his hold on her. I won't let go. Get your rest.

Because he doesn't plan to sleep. Over the course of his demon-hunting, he's mastered going long nights without rest, and those were for far more insignificant reasons than the one that lies atop him now. As long as he's awake, he has proof that this really happened, that she really is there with them, and those memories will warm him as surely as her flesh does now long after he has to leave her behind.

The phone rings just as the digital clock ticks over to six a.m., and Wesley grabs it as close to the first ring as he can. Willow has finally fallen asleep, and he doesn't wish to disturb any sooner than he has to.

"Hey there, English!"

He cringes at the incessant good humor in the other man's voice and inquires to the purpose of the call as quietly as he can. Willow is stirring against him, and he suspects she has woken, but he only tightens his arm around her, hoping that will be enough to impel her to rest again.

"You're never going to believe this, but we've got another one out in Sacramento. The boss says that if you get this one by the end of tomorrow, he'll pay you double. You can even bring along your girlfriend, if you want, but he's only paying you. Just want to make that clear."

"No, I understand." A job. I should've known. And as he gathers what little information he needs, he is already slipping his rogue demon hunter mantle back on. The time for his escape is past.

When he sets the receiver back down, he becomes aware of her fingers tracing along his bare chest. He has to bite back the smile when he realizes she's writing the Greek alphabet out on his skin, and muses as to whether she knows what she does.

"I'm sorry," he says and can't resist kissing the top of her coppery hair. "You should go back to sleep." So that one of us may rest.

"OK," she replies, and barely stifles a yawn before burrowing back into his body.

His cock is starting to harden again, but this is neither the time nor place for more of their activities, and Wesley knows he must get as far from her as possible or he will never let her go. Carefully, he rolls her to the side, tucking the blanket around her before sliding out into the cold. As he slips into his sweats, he wonders if maybe he's made things worse by allowing himself these few hours of abandon. Now, he knows what he could have, and though he doesn't fear his own sense of failure any longer, he does fear the empty Willow-shaped place in his life that she has carved for herself.

Work. I must work. If I concentrate, I shan't have the luxury of time to think of it. To think of her. I must remember that this was always meant to be just about this weekend.

"Is something wrong?"

She sounds so forlorn, and it takes all Wesley's resolve not to return to her side, and bundle her close, and tell her that there is absolutely nothing wrong, it's all about him, it's all about his failing. As it is now and will be until he's atoned for his errors in judgment. "Nothing's wrong." With you. Believe me. Work, Wesley.

"Are you…disappointed that we…you know…?"

How can she think that?

So, he turns and she is watching him with such wide eyes, that his stomach clenches and he has to struggle not to cross to the bed to her. The bed in which he'd made love to her not an hour before, and which he has now abandoned because he can't be strong enough to leave it when she needs him to and not when he needs it.

Damn it.

"Of course not." Not enough. "Far from it." Explain it to her, you prat. "This is just…" But he can't find the word. Diversion? An excuse? So, he latches on to the one that has been rolling around inside his brain and hopes it will suffice. "…work. That was Manny. He needs me to be in Sacramento tomorrow morning. Another job."

As he watches, she sits up, baring her lovely breasts for the most fleeting of moments before covering herself up with the blanket. It's that almost more than her blithe declaration about demons on the Hellmouth as well that saddens him. Because she feels she has to hide again. And he is the cause of it.

"You know that's not possible," he says as he turns his back on her---please accept my apologies for that, Willow---and picks up his pen again. "Sunnydale is…" Still too painful. "…not my home." I have no home any longer, though for a moment, I found one in you. "If I wish to prove that my presence on the Hellmouth last year wasn't a complete waste, I must continue with my demon hunting. It's the only way for me to make amends. I thought…" I explained this. I'd hoped not to have to do so again. "I told you I couldn't."

When she concedes to his statements with no more fight, Wesley discovers that it disappoints him. Is it not worth arguing about? She's been more than direct in her wishes prior to this. Have I broken what I was trying so desperately to mend?

Returning to the task of organizing what he will need for his venture to Sacramento, Wesley debates the wisdom in leaving the topic of their trip to Sunnydale untouched any longer. She is only half-sleeping, and though he knows the reason for her disquiet is his doing, he cannot bring himself to cross the breech he has created. The chasm is too wide. But is it? Is it really?

The answer eludes him.