2.
The Charm


I awake with a jolt to a dusky, blurry, beigey-golden blob. A couple of hard blinks and a squished pillow later and the blob becomes Buffy. Even after I tilt my head back, her nose isn't more than six inches from mine. She scrutinizes me with such intensity that I have to look away.

It's dark in our room. I'm not sure how long I was out. Is this the same night or did I sleep so soundly that another day has come and gone? Not being sure worries me almost as much as Buffy straddling me. The hypnopompic daze makes me feel disjointed, like I'm not quite seated in my body. Still, I know she is. She's poised above me on her hands and knees. When I jumped, I hit her. Echoes of those collisions linger in my limbs. Even though we aren't touching, I feel her heat pressing down on me.

The covers are gone. Somehow she peeled them away without waking me. That goes a long way toward showing just how conked out I was.

She traces the curve of my lower lip with her index finger. A sweet, yeasty, kinda sweaty aroma fills my nose. My fumbling description makes it sound atrocious, but isn't. Not at all. Not by a long shot. It's so wonderful my mouth waters. I swallow as sense flirts with memory, teasing the fringes of my consciousness. It's right there, but I feel like I have to dredge the memory from a thick, black soup. She was on her bed, stretched out on top of the covers, entertaining herself—with the naughty touching and the happy moaning. It was, umm, uh…

It feels like a fantasy, but I guess it isn't. At any rate, it fits. There's just too much sense in this feral creature figuring out that bad things can feel really, really, amazingly good. She was bound to get there eventually.

Now she's decided that I could be entertaining too. I squeak, "No," so pitifully that she cocks her head and grins. It's no wonder. My 'no' sounded more like 'nuh.' I wet my lips, determined to try again and manage to croak out a pathetic, broken, "Please, don't." My throat feels raw. It hurts, but I'm improving. This attempt sounds a little more like what I meant to say. It's just so wispy I barely hear it.

She reacts by moving over, not like she heard me at all. Her leg comes to rest between mine. She stretches out, her weight falling on me. Just that little bit of pressure makes things a zillion times worse. I have to do something now. She caresses my cheek. I think she's going to kiss me. As her head tilts, I find my conviction and my voice, "I said, no!"

My scratchy, crackly outburst sends her scrambling. I don't expect her to stop, but she ends up at the foot of my bed. I don't know why. My throat burns, repaying me for screeching in her face. If that had been me, I would've kept going…and going, and going. Without the fuzzy, pink bunny suit. She just hangs her head, looking dejected, still dressed in her birthday suit. Or again dressed in her birthday suit. I have no idea whether she ever had the wherewithal or the inclination to find clothing and get dressed.

Probably not, but what does it matter? "I'm sorry," I mumble, feeling like scum. No, that's too nice. I'm a great big, tactless, spiteful, churlish, mean, awful so-and-so.

It takes a few moments for her to compose herself, and then she says, "Willow loves Buffy." Her statement spins me. The tone of her voice is so hurt. She's almost in tears. It's like she doesn't understand why I would think this is wrong because I love her.

She doesn't know the half of it. I can't believe how stupid I've been. I've been thinking of her as lesser or somehow diluted from her original form. My head hums with the realization. I was wrong. Not only has this less sophisticated version of Buffy seen something in a matter of hours that her more evolved self hasn't noticed in all of the years we've known each other, she effectively communicated it in three words. But it wasn't even what she said. It was how she said it.

She points at her chest. "Buffy loves Willow."

This is a matter of simple reasoning to her. I love her. She loves me. We're attracted to each other.

That thought sticks. I hiccup, not literally, but mentally. We're attracted to each other? Since when? Has she been going through the same thing I have? Did she not know how I felt? Was she scared too? I can't even begin to imagine that. All of the times in the past that we felt suspiciously coupley come back to me instead. Not just one, but many. Many, many times when she held me—sometimes the whole me, but mostly just my hand—so I wouldn't feel so alone—as a sign of solidarity. Or that's what I thought. I thought she was touching me to reassure me, to make me feel better. Did she actually want to touch me, for her, not me? Has she been trying to hint at this for years?

I need to cry, but I hold back the tears. I don't want her to worry. The pressure behind my eyes builds and builds. A headache forms. For what it's worth, I have my answer. Her evolution is happening slowly. She didn't break up the syllables of my name either time. Her speech patterns are still sluggish, but she's more 'Buffy' than she was.

She reaches for the lower button of my pajama top. I have every chance in the world to shove her hand away, but I don't. I can't. I've been humbled enough for one night.

Eventually, she dares to press her luck. It feels exactly like that. Her every movement is laced with trepidation. She manipulates the button one-handed. That might be an improvement. I'm not sure. Her hand-eye coordination never really suffered. The big change is in how she holds her hands. Before, her fingers curled, making them more paw-like. Now she prefers to relax them.

My resolve melts when she touches me. She's so affectionate. In the few seconds that follow, I tell myself this can happen, even if it means some huge change for us. Even if it doesn't, even if she doesn't remember, it can happen and I can—not forget—that wouldn't be right—but I can move on. I can hold onto this as a memory of something that happened one very crazy night and will never happen again. I think I can even live with the guilt.

No. I lie to myself so well that I think there won't be any guilt at all.

I sit up. Just a little. Not much. Not fully. My head throbs. I got whacked in the noggin too and I feel it. That happened tonight. I'm sure of it now. My muzzy brain tells me all about it.

She kisses me and all of the grumpy, complainy stuff fades. One tender smooch is it. That's all I've earned and 'whump,' I get glomped. All of my excuses, rationalizations and lies mean nothing. They melt away into the haze that follows. Up and down. In and out. Lips slipping, sliding, squishing… Tongues caressing, dueling, entwining, caught in a dizzying, delicate dance, echoing, mirroring, shadowing…

Overshadowing.

Lost.

There's just so much. She threatens to consume me. My attention shifts randomly. Her fingers tangle in my hair. Our breasts crush together. Waves of motion ripple through her. My hands trail over active muscle and bone wrapped in warm, pliant flesh. Her hand follows the curve of my side. The contact abates when she reaches her leg, then she takes my thigh, lifting it up, clutching it, pressing it against her, between hers. Hunching her hips, she drives us together, bathing me in warm, slippery…

She breaks the kiss. Her soft, breathy sigh turns into a groan. Warmth air wafts over my cheek. Her lips follow. She nibbles a path to the rim of my ear and down my neck, licking and sucking. Weaving, rolling, undulating…her hips shudder and catch. She crushes us together. Her grip on my thigh tightens. It's almost—ow, ow, ow

She bit me!

"Hey," I whine in my crunchy, shrill, ouchy voice as I push and pry and try to wriggle away. "No biting." She doesn't want to let go. Her teeth scrape my skin and I feel it all the way down to my toes, tickly, prickly and weird.

Finally, she takes the hint, raises her head and stares at me, the very picture of innocence, all batty eyelashes and sheepish smile. I'm not buying it. No siree. I have no clue how my pajama top got unbuttoned. I don't even know if there still are buttons. I remember the one button. How she managed with the rest of them escapes me. Weren't we—? Wasn't she—? She was laying on me. How'd she—?

Innocent, my patootie!

"No bite," she agrees, dipping her head to nuzzle my neck. She kisses me. I think that's supposed to be an apology. She really takes this apology seriously. More kisses follow…and more and more.

Is it sad that I want to push her away? Nothing's really changed. She's still not Buffy—not the Buffy I know—and I'm still involved. A few winks and a declaration of love ago, I was fighting tooth and nail to avoid this. Now she's kissing the slope of my shoulder. She must be done humping my leg 'cause she lets go. My thigh falls. It's a soppy, soaked, slimy mess. So is the crotch of my sleep shorts. They're a damp, sticky, steamy ookie. Uncomfortable against all the tender bits they hide.

Her hand travels up my side and I let it. I don't think I've ever acted more a fool in my life. But I'm just not sure how to tell her na—

Na.

Na.

Na.

Shit!

Er, I mean shoot.

The thimbleful of resolve I had left goes 'poof' as she suckles and fondles my boobies. Everything goes 'poof.' She formats my brain. I sit up to make her let go. Reboot. I want to say no. I should say no. Somehow that's not what happens. We come to a quick, mutual agreement. I have too much on. A flurry of tearing and thrashing accompanied by ravenous, broken kisses and the problem's solved.

As we move together, following one another's cues, the lines blur. I begin to wonder because—distraction—distractions are good when—are we really a sum of so many erogenous zones, like checkpoints on a map—sex, a game of connect the dots—or is there more to it? I treated sex with Oz like a study. I collected and compiled data—his likes and dislikes—and ended up with a list. Each time became a mechanical act. I do this and he does that. It's wonderful, but it's also predictable. And it hasn't been that long. How will it be in six months?

Thinking about Oz makes me ache, but it doesn't last. Another image forms in my overloaded mind: Buffy chasing butterflies. That's what this feels like. All of her—the whole her, not just the obvious parts—work together toward one goal: making me feel good. And while that sounds amazing in theory…

My body chatters, like it's trying to shake itself apart. Each new place she touches becomes just a little more sensitive than the last. She touches me lots of places. All kinds of places. Random places. Too many places all at once. She's highly dexterous. Finally, she touches me just below my ribs and I squeak. I can't hold it in any longer.

That tickles!

She looks up. I swear she wants to laugh. She bites her lip instead.

I wiggle free and sit up, forcing her off. She lingers, stationary between my legs for only a moment before she reaches out. I try to shy away, but she says, "No." She's so firm I don't resist and she does the most amazing thing. Somehow she knows. Whether it's intuitive or not, I don't know, but she fixes me. Her fingernails fix me. She scratches my back at first by reaching around, but it feels so wonderful I end up lying on my side. It's the best thing ever.

Until it isn't. The goodness wears off and I turn onto my back to find her smirking. Everything might just be okay. She holds my gaze. Her smirk becomes an actual smile, then slowly fades replaced by something I can't imagine: desire. The lust in her eyes doesn't fit what I know about her. What I know about me. As her attention drifts lower, I get progressively less and less comfortable. Blood rushes to my cheeks, piping hot. My strawberry look is back. I can't watch. I stare at my bedside table. There's stuff there. Miscellaneous stuff to focus on to—

Uh.

I wonder if she'll look at me this way tomorrow. I try to imagine how that might be and it just doesn't fit either. Will this happen again? Will we even talk about it or will this become another one of those things we can't bring ourselves to discuss? Will it be painful? That's what that implies.

I just have to peek…and that's a big mistake. Her attention ends up fixed on a part of my body that no one except my doctor has ever really looked at before. And she doesn't look at it like that. If she did it'd be—

My face is almost up to temperature. A drop of egg might just sizzle, congeal and turn white.

Egg on my face.

Uh…

Distraction.

The lamp on my bedside table—I brought it with me from home. It was there when—

That night was—

Buffy licks her lips.

Most old friends have that thing, or I assume they do—maybe I just watch too much TV—but there are things that happen that are just too painful to talk about, especially when they've been through what we have. Though I'm pretty sure nobody's been through what we have…or anything even remotely like what we have.

She died for me. That's our painful thing that—

She touches me. My breath catches. I shudder as her fingertips slide from top to bottom, almost to my bottom, parting the folds of skin.

She didn't really even know me. Not really. Yet there's no refuting the fact that she saw me, got upset because I was so upset and marched straight off to her death. Her death was even a certainty. It wasn't one of those 'maybe' things. She knew exactly what she was doing.

For me.

Her fingertips dip inside me.

On second thought, maybe it'd be strange if something like this hadn't happened.


Prompts: #305 Fringe tamingthemuse; #005 Discovery from Table B (modified) lover100; #19 Tongue from Table 1 kinda_gay; #25: Consumer Product: Any: Energizer Batteries from the Pop Culture Prompt Table kinda_gay.

Beta: Howard Russell.