WILLOW
She is not good at pretending. She never has been. Her face is every mother's wet dream because it's impossible not to tell what Willow is thinking when you look into her eyes.
So, when she decides that sleep is no longer an option, she makes her excuses and runs to hide in the bathroom, praying that the steam and scalding water will help her shake the disappointment she feels. They would understand, she wants to tell Wesley. Tell them like you've told me. They're not the ogres you think they are.
But she won't. He's made himself perfectly clear; he's never claimed that there was any hope that he would be staying in Sunnydale after he took her home. Any discouragement that may now drag down her spirits with leaden weights is her own creation, and Willow just has to deal with it.
Still. It would be nice if maybe he didn't have to go to Sacramento right away. She decides that Manny is a poophead for making that infeasible.
So quick to disappear from Wesley's gaze, Willow realizes when she steps out of the shower that she has forgotten to get her clothes for the day, and has no choice but to try and wrap one of the too-small hotel towels around her slim form so that she can walk out of the bathroom with what little dignity she still has left. They make these for midgets. Not even Buffy is this skinny.
Her hopes that she can get dressed without notice are dashed as soon as she opens the door and sees him standing in front of the closet surveying his own apparel. He is reflected in the mirror behind him, and when she steps out, two Wesleys turn their heads to regard her.
Two Wesleys smile when they see her.
Two Wesleys become aware of her near nudity. Two sets of eyes darken when they sweep over her.
The mirror is only half-length, however. Willow only sees one cock harden within his sweats.
Which is probably a good thing because that gives the whole beast-with-two-backs nickname a really scary connotation.
"How do you feel?" he asks. From a distance. Though his voice is as rough as it sounded during the night and their physical escapades, he makes no move to close the gap between them. "Did the shower…help?"
"All squeaky clean," she chirps, far more brightly than she feels, but if this is how he needs it to be, she is not going to be the one to tarnish what they shared by telling him the truth about what she wants. She holds out an arm before she can think not to. "Go ahead. Rub me. I'll bet you I really do squeak."
As soon as the words escape her mouth, Willow wishes she can take them back. For Wesley looks like he's about ready to cry, which is surprising considering the fact that he hasn't looked like that even in his most vulnerable moments over the weekend.
"Except, you know, that would be silly," she is quick to add, yanking her arm back to fold it along with its mate across her breasts. She is desperate to change the subject and glances pointedly past him at the closet. "Can I have my clothes, please?"
He doesn't say another word as he hands over the jeans and sweater, but she can feel his eyes on her as she goes to fetch the underwear that was discarded during the night, feels him watching her as she picks up the scraps of lace and holds them close. Her cheeks flame as their gazes meet, and she stumbles out a query about his use of the bathroom, all the time wondering why it is he seems so close and still so far away.
"Take as long as you need," he says. "I'll be ready when you come out."
Willow only nods. Anything more and she will lose the Pollyanna.
But then he touches her arm when she passes by. And she turns to look up at him, and he's oh so near and she can't breathe. Does she even want to?
"Last night…" he starts, stops, takes a deep breath before shaking his head and lowering it to press his lips to hers.
The kiss surprises her---the happening of it, that is. He is not searching for anything that remotely touches the passion from their encounters, but it's not the caress of just a friend, or of someone who doesn't care. It begs her to listen with more than her ears, and as she leans into it, into him, Willow understands what it is he's been trying to tell her. Finally.
She is breathless when they part, and can't help but smile when his murmured, "Thank you," floats to her ears.
"I won't be long," she promises, vanishing back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.
When she emerges, she is not surprised to find him fully dressed, complete with leather pants and hair combed ever so precisely. His glasses seem a bit innocuous in comparison, but she doesn't say anything as she helps him finish gathering their belongings, volunteering to be the one to get down on her hands and knees to look under the beds when she sees his wincing hesitation. And she chatters about what little she knows about Sacramento, and how much she wishes she could be there to help him take out the demon again because I haven't had that much fun slaying with Buffy in ages and Magic kicks studying for statistics to the curb any day of the week.
Slowly, gradually, even Wesley begins to realize what she's doing and yields to her lead, smiling and joking just as he did with her yesterday, just as he did before, and I get it, I really get it, and it's OK, honest.
Because this trip away from Sunnydale, and these two days in the company of a man she never expected to find, isn't about trying to retrieve someone she's lost. It's about realizing she's strong enough to go on when she can't have it.
These are the thoughts she clings to as they load the bike, as they begin the long trek down the highway, as the sun slides across the sky overhead. When they stop for lunch, she even goes so far as to write down the spell she used under the dock, just in case Wesley is going to need it, and she hands it over without any expectation of being the one to cast it.
His eyes are quizzical when he takes it, but she just jokes, "Don't want to be caught with your Maluschna down around your knees, now do you?" See? She's still helping. Just from a distance.
She's good at that.
He insists on taking her all the way to her dorm, though she tells him at lunch that he doesn't have to if it'll weird him out. She stops him from getting off, though, and just taps on his visor to speak with him that way.
"Thank you," Willow says, and means it this time. "I think it's going to be a long time before I forget this weekend. And I mean that in the best possible way."
The corner of his mouth lifts, his smile bittersweet. "I shall never forget it," he says. "But I do believe, I should be the one thanking you."
When she wishes him good luck and holds out her helmet for him to take, he hesitates just long enough for her to wonder if he's going to refuse it. Please, Wesley. Don't forget.
"I don't think I'll be able to see a rainbow again without thinking of you," he says when he finally takes it.
"Good thing this is California and it doesn't really rain here that much then," she jokes. "I'd hate to distract you in the middle of hunting your rogue demons."
His mouth opens to correct her before he realizes she's teasing him. "Yes," he says, his smile wider. "Those rogue demons could prove especially difficult if I'm imagining a beautiful redhead in my arms instead of a crossbow."
His flattery makes her blush, and she rushes through the rest of their goodbyes, standing and waving at the curb as he pulls away.
It didn't turn out as she had expected, but Willow is pleased with the results of her weekend. Walking the curved path up to the dorm's front doors, she indulges in reliving her favorite moments.
She is smiling by the time she reaches her room.
WESLEY
He abhors trying to pretend she's not tossing and turning behind him.
Every rustle of the sheet, every whisper of her breath that is too quick to be slumber, reminds him that he is the reason she is so unrested. It's his fault she cannot find her peace again, and he detests his weakness.
So, when she practically runs for the bathroom on the pretense of showering, Wesley decides enough is enough and sets to getting ready to leave. There is much to do before they can check out, and if he wishes to be on the road for Sacramento before dark, they will need to start out early.
He makes the bed, though he knows there is a maid service to do so, but as he straightens the sheets that got so tangled in the night, two scraps of green flutter to the floor and arrest his movements. And he remembers how lovely she looked wearing them, and how lovely she looked not wearing them, and how lovely she looked when he didn't even know she'd bought them yet.
And he smiles at the memories.
It's the truth of the smiles that makes him stop. Bending to pick up the underwear, he lets it fall between and around his fingers as he listens again to all the words Willow has shared with him over the past thirty-six hours.
Her whispered confessions about dreaming about him.
Her trust in him to hear her tale.
"Everything about you has been surprising to me, too. Surprising very, very good."
She never stopped accepting him. She never questioned his capability. She gave without asking for anything in return.
And he is the better man for it.
He is angry again, but this time at himself as he sets her underwear aside and returns to the task of getting dressed. She deserves to know. If nothing else, I have to convince her that I've heard every word she's said this weekend. That I shall treasure it always. She deserves that.
These are his thoughts when the bathroom door opens and a wall of steam precedes a nearly naked Willow from its interior. He smiles at her, ready to tell, but the moment he sees the cheap white towel straining to be tucked around her breasts, his thoughts betray him. Or his body, rather. His thoughts merely followed his cock's lead.
All the words he'd been rehearsing are gone, and Wesley's mouth is dry as he attempts to say something, anything, that isn't completely gibberish.
"How do you feel?" Well, that was bloody ridiculous. "Did the shower…" Make you wish I was in there with you? "…help?"
He doesn't dare get any closer to her. If he does, his resolution to get on the road to Sunnydale will be tossed aside in favor of taking her back to his bed, and though that certainly has its own merit, it is not the best plan for either of them at this moment.
When she jokes about how clean she is, even thrusting out an arm within touching distance to prove it to him, Wesley fears the worst will happen to his design. Lead us not into temptation, Willow. I am only a man who wishes more than anything he could be strong enough not to let you go. The worst is when he realizes she must see it in his face, and she quickly backpedals to get rid of the sudden awkwardness.
"Except, you know, that would be silly."
Not as silly as I must seem to you.
Her quick request for her clothes is met with an automatic response, but he can't take his eyes from her when she goes over to fetch her underwear. It's seeing the scraps of lace in her hands, and then the corresponding flush on her cheeks as she must've remembered how they'd been removed from supple skin that drive him back to his earlier surety.
I will tell her.
"Do you need the bathroom?" She is stammering over her words, and it only serves to remind Wesley that she is just as unsure about things as he is. "I mean, if you need to shower, I don't want to---."
"Take as long as you need. I'll be ready when you come out."
And then she's coming toward him, his opportunity nearing, then passing. Now, you nit. So, he touches her arm. He hopes it's enough. Perhaps a step.
His fingers itch to do more than this simple touch when she turns those bright eyes back to him, so expectant, so eager for anything he might have to say. This is his chance. This is his moment.
"Last night…"
And he chokes. Words, which seemed so plentiful when he reached the decision, have fled. How do I possibly convey to this amazing creature what she has done for me? I'll only bungle anything I might try.
No, you won't.
It's her voice that reassures him, her voice that he hears.
So, he takes a deep breath, and opts for something other than words.
He will always think kissing her is like tasting spun sugar.
His throat is locked when he finally pulls away, and he can barely say the "Thank you" that is far too inadequate to encompass all of his feelings. But when he sees her smile, and when he sees the joy light up her eyes---the real kind, not the put-upon kind she adopted when she came out of her shower---he realizes that she understood. That his meaning wasn't missed. And he finishes getting dressed with a freedom of spirit that hasn't been his since he first boarded a plane for the United States a year ago.
He can do this. He can succeed. Willow has shown him that it's all too possible.
The rest of it is a blur when he really wishes it wouldn't be because these moments with Willow, as they return to their easy camaraderie of the day before, with no lingering awkwardness about their intimacy of the night, are tiny jewels that he wishes to treasure, to hold onto when his doubts start to plague him again. Because they will. Not even a hastily scribbled spell that she hands over to him in the middle of lunch right out of the blue will be enough to ward away those dark moments when Wesley's insecurities threaten to overwhelm him again.
There will be a difference, however.
This time, when the moments rear their ugly heads, he will have the power of her to help beat them back. They may come again, but perhaps they need not win.
Though the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign makes his stomach twist in anticipation, he is adamant in his avowal to return her to her doorstep, and he navigates the so familiar streets wondering if anyone would recognize them should he be spotted. He even debates doing a drive-by of Rupert's flat, but decides against it. He may be ready to cross the Sunnydale border, but any more would verge on masochistic.
All too soon, they're at her dorm, and he pulls up along the curb to help her get her things. When she slides off, he immediately misses the weight of her on the back of the motorcycle, and muses when he begins to follow her about how long it will take him to adjust to riding alone again.
He is stopped from climbing off by the gentle tap of her finger on his visor.
"Thank you," she says, when it is lifted. She has already removed her helmet and holds it awkwardly in her hands. "I think it's going to be a long time before I forget this weekend. And I mean that in the best possible way."
She does. He can see it in her face.
"I shall never forget it," he replies. Never. "But I do believe, I should be the one thanking you."
A smile. That lovely smile that shall forever be etched in his memory. He is glad he can associate something so warming to the bane of his career.
"Well…good luck." And she holds out the helmet to him.
But I bought it for you. Who else could possibly wear it?
He doesn't want to, but he can see it on her face that she wants him to take it. So he does, but not without making sure she is aware of how it will always be hers, regardless of the circumstances. And even when she makes a joke about rain in California, and teases him about his unfortunate nomenclature, he can't refrain from offering her one last compliment, to assure her just how much he has valued their weekend.
"Those rogue demons could prove especially difficult if I'm imagining a beautiful redhead in my arms instead of a crossbow," Wesley says. He is pleased when she blushes, though maybe not so pleased when she hurries to get her things off the back of the bike. She doesn't even stand still long enough for him to kiss goodbye, even though he's fairly certain that would be an extremely bad idea in the long run.
Instead, she stands on the curb and does that little finger wave thing she does. And when he pulls away, she is still standing there, waiting until the last possible minute to walk away. As if she doesn't want to lose any second in seeing him that she doesn't have to.
Unseen beneath his visor, he smiles.