Fic: Rue, Giles/Willow, NC-17
Sorry for the delay, power outages, Christmas parties, and last minute Christmas errands conspired to delay me. Hope you enjoy.
Title: Rue
Author: mrtwstedwhsprs
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Giles/Willow
Spoilers: None, Set post-Chosen
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, etc. I’m not him, so not me.
Written The Drunken Giles Ficathon (masterlist here) for maybedarkpink
Who wanted: Willow, a baby, and a snowstorm
Special thanks to lostgirlslair for beta-ing this to help me turn my dense to the point of opaque prose into something readable.
Below, the Atlantic Ocean roiled in shades of silver and cadet as the plane flew west, away from the sun. Rupert Giles was not normally the sort to stare out of plane windows, especially over featureless ocean. Still, he sat there, head supported on one hand, fingers spread along his cheek.
He knew that the Council no longer needed his day to day attention. It was starting to click along in it’s own bureaucratic way and they would be fine without him for a while. He was moving towards the position of founder, and figurehead, a role he'd prefer to settle into rather than settle for, acceptance rather than resignation.
It was more than duty that found him on a plane the day before Christmas Eve. He'd packed quickly just that morning, after receiving the letter.
The letter. It had arrived by airmail, with a PO box and no name as a return address. Unsigned and computer printed. He unfolded it, turned it over in his hands, and read it again, for likely the tenth time, as if trying to divine its origin or a hint of a hidden meaning between the simple and straightforward words.
Giles,
You really should go to see Willow. I know you haven’t even spoken
to her in a year. Did you even know she had moved? Her address is
2123 W 78th in Olympia, Washington.
That was it. No hint of who had sent it. He folded the paper, and slid it back into the pocket of his suitcoat. He closed his eyes and tried to think who could be telling him to seek her out. Everyone he had asked about her had simply informed him that she was fine. That was the entirety of almost every report, “fine,” or “Willow’s fine.” Xander had once mentioned that she had started a job with a software company, and Buffy had once let it slip that Willow wasn’t in California anymore. It hadn’t sounded like a slip at the time.
“Think, Rupert, think,” he muttered to himself, seemingly hitting a wall every time he sought logic to tell him the author of the missive. Instead, all he could think about was the last time that he had seen her, memory being far more pleasant than a logic puzzle.
***
The previous December 23rd had seen London buried in snow. A driving, howling storm, that had wreaked havoc, delayed flights, and last minute shoppers retreating to warmth and shelter. She had called him from the plane, said they had announced that they'd be delayed to land, and not to bother waiting at the airport, she would take a cab. He remembered thinking how thoughtful it had been of her, and how he felt sheepishly guilty and slightly worried for staying in his Council-owned flat instead of going out to meet her plane anyway.
The Amulet of Tarzal was far too fragile to send through the mail, but it would be easy to get back into the US around someone’s neck, as it looked like nothing more than a gaudy purple antique to the untrained eye. It should have been an easy arrangement. Willow would go with Giles to pick it up from a Council safehouse, they would perform the cleansing ritual to prepare it, and then Willow would take it back and put it to use.
The intercom’s buzz startled Giles as he left the shower.
“Mr. Giles, Ms Rosenberg has arrived.”
“Thank you, Michael, I’ll be down.”
He found her in the foyer, a figure covered in a backpack, dufflebag, two suitcases, and just about every form of winter clothing developed my humanity since the dawn of time.
“Welcome, how was your. . .” Giles began as he walked over to take her bags
“Giles. . .need fireplace. . .now.”
“Oh. . .umm. . .yes, of course.”
She paused to set down her backpack, and make sure her laptop was dry before walking over to the fireplace, leaving her hat, scarf and coat (more accurately, coats) in a damp pile next to her.
“Do you want some tea?” Giles asked, retreating towards the kitchen.
“Tea, cool! Well, cool as in good. Not cool as in cold. . .hopefully it’s hot. Melt me!” Willow sounded, as if she was in a sudden panic that she would not have the additional respite from the cold.
“This is England,” Giles said, returning with two cups, “You’re going to get it hot no matter how you were expecting it."
The next hour passed quickly while they talked. Mostly about, the two concerns, warmth, and the Amulet of Tarzal. The amulet could prevent buildup of negative energies in the area where it was displayed. However, when moved from one place to another, it first had to be cleansed of the imprint of its old location before it could be placed in the new. Of course the snow might have something to say about that. Willow was lucky to have gotten into London when she did. The TV was now reporting flights being canceled.
Once sufficiently fortified to face the cold again, they hailed a cab. The snow was nearly blinding. It crunched wetly under their feet and slid across in foot-high slushy piles on the sidewalk.
The cabbie expressed his surprise for them to be out and about in the weather, the thankfulness for the business, and the fact that after this, he was giving up for the day, going home. They stopped outside a low-slung building in the East End, it was a squat two story, with a pub on the right and the ground floor, and a small sign reading Red Light Records on the left and above.
Snow howled and threw itself against the windows as they ascended the staircase into Red Light. They shook the wet flakes from their collars as they entered a warm, and surprisingly small store. It was packed floor to ceiling with posters, T-shirts, just about every sort of recording ever found for music. A selection of books and paraphernalia behind the glass counter brought old memories and an inadvertent smile to Willow. The back of the store was an open-doored storage room that seemed to spill it’s contents into the main room.
A fat, bald man in a white shirt waved from next to the register as they walked in, “Hey, Rupert, you’re early.”
“Morning, Simon. . .early?”
“Mike and Trevor just started the cleansing spell in the secure room. They’ve got about two hours to go.”
“Ah, bloody hell, she and I were supposed to do it this evening.”
“Mike and Trevor can do it. It’s a simple spell; it just takes time. Can’t be interrupted once it starts. Sorry, they told us to cleanse it, and then the two of you were going to fly it out tomorrow.”
“Not your fault, Simon, doesn’t really matter. Besides, who knows when the storm is going to let up.”
“Well, feel free to look around--” Simon scanned to make sure there were no other customers. “--anywhere.” He waved his hand and the entrance to the storeroom faded like a shimmering curtain turning inward to reveal shelves stacked high with occult goods.
“I’m really starting to like this place,” Willow browsed from section to section.
“Record shop, head shop, occult shop,” Giles flipped through a rack of old LPs, “Simon’s had it since he came through the gate in ’66. As you can imagine, I’ve spent quite a bit of time here over the years.”
“I probably shouldn't be looking in that back room, especially with you here watching me, huh?” Willow looked sheepish, but didn’t put down the small stack of CDs accumulating in the crook of her arm.
Giles laughed, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Well, this room’s first. It gets first dibs on us, we have to be polite to the rooms.”
“Besides, we’ve got a couple hours.”
“More than that,” Simon called from the embarrassingly close counter, “Friend just called, no flights out of Heathrow until the storm lets up. Might be a couple days.”
“Well,” Willow said, turning back to the racks with an almost satisfied nod, “I can take my time now.”
There was an unusual happiness around Willow that day that Giles was not able to describe. He thought it to be the nature of her personality, that a snow-bound London was an adventure. In retrospect, he knew now the happiness was a wall that kept everything in the present time and prevent pain from showing. He wondered, in the intervening time, if he should have seen before he stumbled across the Jericho trumpet that brought her wall down. Since then he had long wondered the effects of that particular butterfly wing, the simple act of him, stumbling across a rare CD.
“The Followers,” he said “’Here For No Reason’,” he reached across a low bin and handed it to her, “Something to add to that stack.”
“Nuh-uh, not a fan,” Willow replied, pushing it back against his hand.”
“Well, I remember in one of your emails that you said Kennedy was a big fan, you can only get this one here, it was before they went popular overseas.”
“No. . .I got a lot already,”
“I’ll get it, Christmas present, I mean, you won’t get it there in time, but. . .”
Willow turned away, “She’s not with me. . .anymore.”
Giles dropped the Followers CD, “I didn’t know.”
“I haven’t told anyone. It sorta just happened. . .well, not just happened. It’s been a while, but.”
“I’m sorry. . .I.”
“Not your fault. . .” She kept her back to him.
What followed next didn’t seem like the sort of suggestion that would come from Giles these days, but it slipped from his lips like a manifestation of fate before he could logically examine it.
“There’s a pub downstairs. We can wait there until the amulet is ready, far away from the Followers.”
Her response surprised him more than his own sudden request, “Yeah, that sounds good. Besides, isn’t it supposed to be bad luck to go to London and leave before going to a pub.”
“I don’t think--”
“I’ve heard that somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
***
The Seattle-Tacoma Airport was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with holiday travelers. Giles had no choice but to push his way through the crowd or to be pushed long with it. Finally, he got to the rental counter, where a frazzled clerk tried to keep a shred of feeling for the season.
“Towncar, reserved for Rupert Giles. . .it’s on a corporate account.”
“London Council Enterprises? What’s that?”
“We, um. . .deal in rare books.”
“Really, what, science fiction?” The clerk tried to keep up a friendly appearance of conversation without taking his eyes or mind off his computer screen.
“Not as much as you’d think.”
“All set, lot B #34.”
Giles thanked him, found the car, and checked the map. Almost a straight run, but it would still be over an hour to Olympia, under the best conditions, with the strong snow, it would be even longer. The radio told him that white Christmases were rare in the Seattle area, even though it would be cold enough, it was usually too damp. In addition, this year, it was particularly cold. Then the radio switched back to its yearly Christmas carols. Giles glanced at the clock on the dashboard and set his watch. 11:06 PM, December 23. It would be Christmas Eve by the time he got there.
From the crowded access road to the slightly less crowded Interstate 5, the radio alternated between seasonal wishes and meteorological warnings, as the wind howled and the windshield wipers smeared the thick, wet flakes in his line of vision. Christmas songs, unusually strong snowstorms; he couldn’t help but to think back.
***
The Marksman was dim, even for a pub, but it was warm, and anything was better than the snow or that quickly abandoned conversation. The bartender cracked a one-sided smile as Giles came over.
“Well, Tom, the usual scotch and, uh. . .”
“Vodka stinger.” Willow filled in the blank. Giles looked at her momentarily, but then shrugged slightly. “You come here a lot?”
Giles hummed and nodded, “I do sometimes, why?”
“You know the bartender.”
“He’s Council.”
“Who isn’t? Are all of you taking over London one small business at a time.”
“Well, shares a building with a occult shop and a safehouse. A pub can be a lot less confrontational place to meet people when you want to start out on friendly terms.”
“Safe house?”
“Just a regular flat, furnished though, nice. If someone needs to hide out. . .or until we can find them a permanent place. . .whoever needs it really.”
The conversation continued through another two rounds before they moved to a circular booth along the wall, where it would be easier for them to talk.
“So, how’s the Council going for you?” Willow ran the tip of her finger along the rim of her latest stinger.
“Efficiently. . . Is that a working description? I don’t know, they all look up to me as if I'm the only one among them that knows anything. It’s not as if none of them have done anything of this sort before. No time to start from scratch, I had to select people with some experience. I just don’t know if they’re going to enshrine me as a hero or a database. I’d like to think they won’t always believe they need me to do it for them, but I don’t want to be relic either.”
“You can always be needed. . .wh-when you want to be.”
“Well, I’d rather people to want me around, not to need me around.”
Willow laughed, though Giles wasn’t sure what he had said that was funny. “I think that’s what everyone wants.” Willow drained the last of her stinger and announced that she would go get the next round. Giles tried to gulp his scotch as she walked off to be ready for the fresh glass. He could feel the warmth welling up in him and he leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. For the first time, over the noise of the bar, he could hear the wind outside. Alcohol always brought a feeling of timelessness to him, an eternal present, as if all of him, past and future, finally existed at once. He felt as if he were rising off of the booth, and suddenly found himself making sure he wasn’t. He chuckled to himself as he drained the dregs of his glass, seeing Willow coming back with a drink in each hand. He would probably make the suggestion that they leave soon. It was what he was supposed to do.
They wouldn’t be leaving soon. Willow slid over a quarter of the way around the booth after setting the glasses down, stopping with her left hand on Giles’ thigh. Soon she was leaning against him. They talked about things Giles had never thought they'd discuss, at least not with each other. Every secret shared was met with an accepting nod at worst and at best a look of intention and intrigue that seemed to pull them closer.
Giles never got the chance to suggest the round they were on be the last, as Willow rarely waited until the glasses were halfway empty before she volunteered to get up for the next round. After all, she was on the end while Giles leaned against the wall, and she had figured out that as the leader of the Council, Giles’ tab was essentially unlimited.
By the time the crowd died down, they were essentially clinging to one another and it was dark outside. On his third try, Giles managed to get to his feet. “I suppose we can pick the amulet up tomorrow morning. . .I’ll find us a cab.”
Willow grabbed his wrist to pull herself up, almost sending them both the floor in a heap. When he steadied her, he found himself with his arm around her and her murmuring approval.
“I don’t want to wait out in the cold for a cab,” Willow responded, her pout slightly less effective behind her drunken smile, but the meaning blindingly clear. “Is anyone in that safehouse you told me about?”
“No, no, it’s empty at the moment.”
“Well, let’s stay there, it’s more likely we’ll be able to make it.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Giles pulled away and turned in place, practically twirled, “I’m feeling pretty clear and. . .” he didn’t manage to finish his sentence before falling over a chair.
“I think that’s about as far as we’ll get,” Willow said, sitting in the chair that was his undoing and looking over him teasing concern.
“That might not even be a surety. . .but the back staircase does lead right to it, wouldn’t even have to go out in the cold.”
“Better all the time.”
Tom watched them walk to the door marked 'private' at the back of the bar, the same walk in the opposite direction from so many other couples.
As soon as the door closed, leaving them alone in the poorly lit stairwell, Giles felt Willow’s hand slide under his sweater and seek the skin of his back. As he turned to her, though, they stumbled on steps, the edges biting into Giles’ arm as Willow landed on top of him.
“These steps. . .” Giles said, his tone nearing an apology.
“Bad, evil steps.”
“I don’t think they like us very much.”
“Well, I like us,” Willow said, leaning back so he could pull himself up to sitting position and then kissing him.
Her tongue tasted of crème de menthe and promises. Giles mind split immediately into sections as he returned her kiss, the same timelessness invading, playing tricks with the 'this can’t be happening' that fluttered at the edges of his thoughts. He saw every time he had looked at her, every time he had seen something in her eyes when they fell upon him, and his dismissal of it. Then he remember the bittersweet recognition when he saw that same something when her eyes had fallen upon Oz or Tara. He saw all they had been through, all the secrets they had portioned out to each other and they had let flow the Marksman only minutes before. And he felt it all condense into a single point of light, an infinite energy that gave fire to moment after moment. He ran his hand through her smooth hair. It even felt red.
When their lips separated, he found himself having to sheepishly point out a single problem. “If we keep going here, we’re going to fall down these stairs.”
“That would be bad.”
They did manage to get up the steps and through the doorway, but not much further. Under the intermittent light from neon and streetlights filtering through the storm and the shutters, Willow pressed Giles against the wall with a kiss and then hastily found the bed and lay across it, propped on her elbows. Giles considered a dignified approach, but lost the focus for it a half a step towards the bed and practically dove for her, pulling off his sweater as he went.
Her coat had slipped from her shoulders, and he ran his hands around her as he pulled her close. His tongue moved from her lips across the side of her neck. He could feel her breath against his cheek. Suddenly, she leaned back from him, pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. She began to work at the buttons on his dress shirt, fumbling with them in a combination of excitement, drunkenness and lust.
“This would have been easier earlier in the night,” she laughed, as her hand slipped away after only managing the first and third, “but. . .”
His hand met hers as she reached again for his shirt between collar and second button. Looking into her eyes and holding her hand around the cloth, he pulled down and a way. In the back of his mind, he heard his shirt ripping apart, but at the time, he'd have clawed through stone to feel her skin. Their bodies pressed against each other, skin to skin, flushed and slick with sweat, the heat between them building, an ecstatic tension.
In that moment alone, he could have stayed for eternity, were it not for the promises and temptations of what was to come. As she moved, and lay flat on her back in the center of the bed, he pulled himself unsteadily to his knees and leaned over her, kissing her deeply as his hands explored her body. Then, as slowly as he could make himself, his mouth moved from her lips, across her throat, to each nipple in turn, and down her stomach with kisses, until he felt her soft pubic hair against his lips. From mint liqueur to salt, he savored her.
His tongue roamed across her clit working towards expert strokes as his hands reached up towards her hips, and he felt her writhe against him. He could hear her moans build to an operatic crescendo, and feel her nails against his scalp as her fingernails ran through his hair. As he was preparing to bring her to another orgasm, she pulled back and slid around clockwise, he followed her as they found themselves at opposite positions.
“My turn, she said, guiding him half-gently down onto his back, “let’s see what you have there, mister.” Unlatching his belt and sliding it down to the floor, she pulled away the jeans and underwear, freeing his cock into the crisp air of the room. “Well, that’s even more than I expected,” she said then ran the tip of her tongue along the underside of his shaft, sending a quiver through his body before taking his cock into her mouth.
A rush of sensation blotted out any possible disbelief for Giles. As she sucked his cock with a combination of skill and enthusiasm that would have caused him torrents of disbelief had he been sober. After a while, she straddled him, then guided him into her tight wet heat. He watched her as she rode him, haloed by the neon outside that contrasted with her red hair, making it look in the dark the color of spilled pinot noire, her eyes fixed on his with a gaze of passion and hunger. They came together, her howling in ecstasy, him exploding inside of her. The last thing he remembered clearly was her coming forward, collapsing exhausted against his chest and the words, “that was wonderful.”
He wasn’t sure which of them had said it.
***
Giles found himself lost in memories, as the exit for Olympia arrived faster than he expected. It was nearing 1 AM, just after the turn of Christmas Eve and the carols on the radio alternated with world news and the omnipresent weather reports. Dreams of white Christmas fulfilled by nature, he had other dreams on that particular white Christmas. He did want to see her again, but a nervousness burned at the back of his neck. Why was it they had lost contact?
Now on surface streets, he saw houses decorated with lights for the season, and he had to try to keep his focus on the road. Still, the red lights reminded him of her hair, the green ones of the flash of her eyes, and the songs on the radio of that second day a year earlier.
***
Giles had awakened first, and sat in a chair facing the bed, sipping tomato juice and watching her sleep. His hangover bit at him, but it was more than that. He wondered what she would say when she woke up, tossing a coin over and over in his head since he had no flowers to pull the petals from.
She stirred, groaned slightly, and then sat up, pinching the bridge of her nose He wasn’t sure what to say as he poured a second glass of tomato juice and walked over to sit on the foot of the bed.
“Umm. . .good morning?”
“Hmmm, morning.”
“This will help.”
She gratefully accepted the glass, and leaned in towards him. Giles looked down to consciously check; yes, her hand was most definitely on his thigh.
“I have to say that was a really good night.”
“Oh,” Giles wondered exactly how audible his sigh of relief was, “I was a bit afraid you were going to wake up with a ‘never again’ speech.
“Well, not until after I’ve had breakfast, but no, you won’t be getting any sort of speech like that from me. You were really worried that I was going to look back with unhappy memories?”
“A bit,” he admitted, then laughed, “or that you wouldn’t remember it.”
“Well, the second time is a bit foggy, but I remember the first time in detail.”
“The second time?” Giles gulped slightly.
“Yeah, the one with you on top, that one’s a little hazy, but the first time,” her face went into a familiar mock seriousness, “total recall.”
“I think you about ran poor Tom out of white crème de menthe, your stingers got progressively greener as the night went on.”
It was Willow’s turn to laugh, “Didn’t really keep track.”
He left to attend to council matters after a short time and she was on the phone ordering food to be delivered as he left with a kiss.
A few hours later, he came back to the safe house with the news that the weather was clearing and she would be able to fly out of Heathrow the next day to deliver the amulet. As he walked up the stairs, he heard the television on inside. He opened the door to find a table set with candles, a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a sizable number of white cardboard packages. Willow met him at the door, a blue bathrobe tied at her waist.
“Merry Christmas, Giles. I-I tried to cook, but things kind of caught fire. So. . .Chinese? Th-the wine’s French.”
After dinner, they lounged on the couch together with the wine, watching an old movie. Giles had his back against the arm of the sofa, his hands around Willow’s waist as she leaned back on him.
“So, she said, the wine was good, but nothing as strong as last night, right?”
“Well, yes, definitely.”
She reached around for his hand, and pulled it through open front of her bathrobe, guiding his hand until it cupped her breast, “Good, I wanted to make sure that this time you knew it wasn’t just the stingers that made me want you.”
The next day, he drove her to the airport. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I can,” she said, "or you can come back, that’d be nice.”
“Well, I have to leave for Cairo in two days, Council business,” Giles said, “I’ll be there for a couple of weeks.”
“Email, then,” Willow said as they stopped at the gate, “It makes the world go ‘round, well, goes around the world anyway. Until I can see you again.”
They parted at the gate with a kiss and Giles watched as she walked away, turning back towards him to smile, the Amulet of Tarzal around her neck.
***
West 78th street was in a semi-suburb of indeterminable nature. Houses small and large sat next to each other as if the area were constantly being rebuilt. Christmas lights edged the rooftops and seemed to weave themselves into every available piece of shrubbery; snow lay across the ground in low drifts, still falling softly. The houses were set back from the street and the streetlights were dim. Giles had to get out of the car to find the address and as he did, the cold hit him full force. He drew his hands up to his face to warm them, but when he blew on them, his glasses fogged.
Looking around through the fogged glasses, the snowy night and Christmas lights blurred into one abstract image, starkly black and white, shot through with every color of the rainbow. Even to a man who knew the true feel of the touch of magic, it seemed like magic. Suddenly, he felt as if he were ready for anything. He had been so caught up in divining the source of the letter, he had ignored the question that truly bit at his mind, that he had truly needed an answer to for a few months shy of a year.
Why had the emails stopped? For a few weeks, the emails had been exactly the sort he knew of lovers who could not be together at the time. Then, suddenly, near the time he returned from Cairo, they became more distant, almost businesslike. Then they tapered off, before stopping altogether. For a long time, he had wondered, stared into space, spent too much time in the Marksman, as if he could summon up the spirit of that night. Then, he had told himself that he accepted it, that Willow wanting him was a dream to bright to last, and now that it was over, he at least could harken back to its reality for a while.
He knew it wasn’t true. He couldn't be satisfied with a fleeting dream. Now, though, standing at the edge of the walk of 2123 W 78th, he knew he now at least, would know. He took a step and fixed his eyes on the door. The lights were on, and he knew that Willow was behind that door. That one way or the other, he would have an answer, even if it were the last one he would ever want to hear. He made his way to the door, an eternity of hopes, fears, and images racing through his mind. With one last deep breath that smoked in the sub-freezing temperatures, he steeled himself and knocked.
“Who is it?” A familiar voice. Hers.
“It’s. . .” this was it, “it’s Giles.”
The door swung open with a force that pulled the drifting flurries across the threshold. Willow stared at him for what just might have been the longest second in the world before throwing her arms around him. Giles returned the embrace, eyes stinging, holding her tight as if they had transversed from one Christmas and freak snowstorm to another. Willow pulled him through by the wrist and he had to reach back to close the door behind him.
“I can come in then?”
“Of course. . .it’s so good to see you. How-how did you find me?”
“Someone sent me a letter.”
“I told them not to. I mean, I didn’t wrestle them to the ground or anything.” Willow said, eyes wide, then added sheepishly, “I almost didn’t say anything at all.”
Giles took a moment to look around the room. About half of it was taken up by a bank of computers, the other half, a mix of gaudy decorations for almost every winter festival or observance ever known to humanity. It looked as if a computer showroom had been airdropped into an inclusive holiday display.
Giles motioned towards the display, “It’s very. . .complete.”
“Well, I thought she deserved the whole holiday grab bag.”
She, Giles thought to himself, that might be the answer.
He only realized he had started looking down at the floor when the sound made him look up. It was a small cry, the cry of a young baby in another room.
“That’s her waking up now,” Willow said, “Come with me.”
Giles walked as if in a trance towards one of the back rooms, where, in a white-painted crib a small baby, a few months old at most, fussed. Willow gently but deftly picked the child up to comfort against her shoulder.
“Her name’s Rue.”
“Rue. . . pretty,” Giles said, still not coming full awareness, “named after the medicinal herb, I hope, not the emotion.”
“Oh, definitely the herb. . .and for her father. . .Rupert. Do you want to hold her?”
It could have been hours or days that he stood there, with the world falling to a temporary stasis as his mind raced. The explanation he should have reached, but couldn't. He thought about the many parries and dodges of his life and how life always seemed to find him wherever he was. He knew he had been seen as a father figure, a substitute with an escape clause at either end, a fiction. But now he would not be what someone settled for instead, but could be what someone always saw.
With a nod, Giles accepted the baby from her arms. She cooed as she fell back to sleep against his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“I wanted to, and then I didn’t. I really don’t know even now. I guess it’s like we talked about. I wanted you to always feel wanted instead of needed.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“That’s okay, I just want you to know you're wanted here now,” she put her hand on the crook of his arm, “I love you, Giles.”
“I love you too.”
An hour later, another sofa, another bottle of wine, another old movie on the television, another Christmas, they sat together, talking about everything that had taken place and every thing they wanted to take place for the future. The bright lights from the living room threw their shadows as silhouettes against the drawn shade of the window. As they kissed, the silhouettes melded into one. The day would be clear, sun bursting across the new fallen snow. The storm had lifted.
Title: Rue
Author: mrtwstedwhsprs
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Giles/Willow
Spoilers: None, Set post-Chosen
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, etc. I’m not him, so not me.
Written The Drunken Giles Ficathon (masterlist here) for maybedarkpink
Who wanted: Willow, a baby, and a snowstorm
Special thanks to lostgirlslair for beta-ing this to help me turn my dense to the point of opaque prose into something readable.
Below, the Atlantic Ocean roiled in shades of silver and cadet as the plane flew west, away from the sun. Rupert Giles was not normally the sort to stare out of plane windows, especially over featureless ocean. Still, he sat there, head supported on one hand, fingers spread along his cheek.
He knew that the Council no longer needed his day to day attention. It was starting to click along in it’s own bureaucratic way and they would be fine without him for a while. He was moving towards the position of founder, and figurehead, a role he'd prefer to settle into rather than settle for, acceptance rather than resignation.
It was more than duty that found him on a plane the day before Christmas Eve. He'd packed quickly just that morning, after receiving the letter.
The letter. It had arrived by airmail, with a PO box and no name as a return address. Unsigned and computer printed. He unfolded it, turned it over in his hands, and read it again, for likely the tenth time, as if trying to divine its origin or a hint of a hidden meaning between the simple and straightforward words.
Giles,
You really should go to see Willow. I know you haven’t even spoken
to her in a year. Did you even know she had moved? Her address is
2123 W 78th in Olympia, Washington.
That was it. No hint of who had sent it. He folded the paper, and slid it back into the pocket of his suitcoat. He closed his eyes and tried to think who could be telling him to seek her out. Everyone he had asked about her had simply informed him that she was fine. That was the entirety of almost every report, “fine,” or “Willow’s fine.” Xander had once mentioned that she had started a job with a software company, and Buffy had once let it slip that Willow wasn’t in California anymore. It hadn’t sounded like a slip at the time.
“Think, Rupert, think,” he muttered to himself, seemingly hitting a wall every time he sought logic to tell him the author of the missive. Instead, all he could think about was the last time that he had seen her, memory being far more pleasant than a logic puzzle.
***
The previous December 23rd had seen London buried in snow. A driving, howling storm, that had wreaked havoc, delayed flights, and last minute shoppers retreating to warmth and shelter. She had called him from the plane, said they had announced that they'd be delayed to land, and not to bother waiting at the airport, she would take a cab. He remembered thinking how thoughtful it had been of her, and how he felt sheepishly guilty and slightly worried for staying in his Council-owned flat instead of going out to meet her plane anyway.
The Amulet of Tarzal was far too fragile to send through the mail, but it would be easy to get back into the US around someone’s neck, as it looked like nothing more than a gaudy purple antique to the untrained eye. It should have been an easy arrangement. Willow would go with Giles to pick it up from a Council safehouse, they would perform the cleansing ritual to prepare it, and then Willow would take it back and put it to use.
The intercom’s buzz startled Giles as he left the shower.
“Mr. Giles, Ms Rosenberg has arrived.”
“Thank you, Michael, I’ll be down.”
He found her in the foyer, a figure covered in a backpack, dufflebag, two suitcases, and just about every form of winter clothing developed my humanity since the dawn of time.
“Welcome, how was your. . .” Giles began as he walked over to take her bags
“Giles. . .need fireplace. . .now.”
“Oh. . .umm. . .yes, of course.”
She paused to set down her backpack, and make sure her laptop was dry before walking over to the fireplace, leaving her hat, scarf and coat (more accurately, coats) in a damp pile next to her.
“Do you want some tea?” Giles asked, retreating towards the kitchen.
“Tea, cool! Well, cool as in good. Not cool as in cold. . .hopefully it’s hot. Melt me!” Willow sounded, as if she was in a sudden panic that she would not have the additional respite from the cold.
“This is England,” Giles said, returning with two cups, “You’re going to get it hot no matter how you were expecting it."
The next hour passed quickly while they talked. Mostly about, the two concerns, warmth, and the Amulet of Tarzal. The amulet could prevent buildup of negative energies in the area where it was displayed. However, when moved from one place to another, it first had to be cleansed of the imprint of its old location before it could be placed in the new. Of course the snow might have something to say about that. Willow was lucky to have gotten into London when she did. The TV was now reporting flights being canceled.
Once sufficiently fortified to face the cold again, they hailed a cab. The snow was nearly blinding. It crunched wetly under their feet and slid across in foot-high slushy piles on the sidewalk.
The cabbie expressed his surprise for them to be out and about in the weather, the thankfulness for the business, and the fact that after this, he was giving up for the day, going home. They stopped outside a low-slung building in the East End, it was a squat two story, with a pub on the right and the ground floor, and a small sign reading Red Light Records on the left and above.
Snow howled and threw itself against the windows as they ascended the staircase into Red Light. They shook the wet flakes from their collars as they entered a warm, and surprisingly small store. It was packed floor to ceiling with posters, T-shirts, just about every sort of recording ever found for music. A selection of books and paraphernalia behind the glass counter brought old memories and an inadvertent smile to Willow. The back of the store was an open-doored storage room that seemed to spill it’s contents into the main room.
A fat, bald man in a white shirt waved from next to the register as they walked in, “Hey, Rupert, you’re early.”
“Morning, Simon. . .early?”
“Mike and Trevor just started the cleansing spell in the secure room. They’ve got about two hours to go.”
“Ah, bloody hell, she and I were supposed to do it this evening.”
“Mike and Trevor can do it. It’s a simple spell; it just takes time. Can’t be interrupted once it starts. Sorry, they told us to cleanse it, and then the two of you were going to fly it out tomorrow.”
“Not your fault, Simon, doesn’t really matter. Besides, who knows when the storm is going to let up.”
“Well, feel free to look around--” Simon scanned to make sure there were no other customers. “--anywhere.” He waved his hand and the entrance to the storeroom faded like a shimmering curtain turning inward to reveal shelves stacked high with occult goods.
“I’m really starting to like this place,” Willow browsed from section to section.
“Record shop, head shop, occult shop,” Giles flipped through a rack of old LPs, “Simon’s had it since he came through the gate in ’66. As you can imagine, I’ve spent quite a bit of time here over the years.”
“I probably shouldn't be looking in that back room, especially with you here watching me, huh?” Willow looked sheepish, but didn’t put down the small stack of CDs accumulating in the crook of her arm.
Giles laughed, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Well, this room’s first. It gets first dibs on us, we have to be polite to the rooms.”
“Besides, we’ve got a couple hours.”
“More than that,” Simon called from the embarrassingly close counter, “Friend just called, no flights out of Heathrow until the storm lets up. Might be a couple days.”
“Well,” Willow said, turning back to the racks with an almost satisfied nod, “I can take my time now.”
There was an unusual happiness around Willow that day that Giles was not able to describe. He thought it to be the nature of her personality, that a snow-bound London was an adventure. In retrospect, he knew now the happiness was a wall that kept everything in the present time and prevent pain from showing. He wondered, in the intervening time, if he should have seen before he stumbled across the Jericho trumpet that brought her wall down. Since then he had long wondered the effects of that particular butterfly wing, the simple act of him, stumbling across a rare CD.
“The Followers,” he said “’Here For No Reason’,” he reached across a low bin and handed it to her, “Something to add to that stack.”
“Nuh-uh, not a fan,” Willow replied, pushing it back against his hand.”
“Well, I remember in one of your emails that you said Kennedy was a big fan, you can only get this one here, it was before they went popular overseas.”
“No. . .I got a lot already,”
“I’ll get it, Christmas present, I mean, you won’t get it there in time, but. . .”
Willow turned away, “She’s not with me. . .anymore.”
Giles dropped the Followers CD, “I didn’t know.”
“I haven’t told anyone. It sorta just happened. . .well, not just happened. It’s been a while, but.”
“I’m sorry. . .I.”
“Not your fault. . .” She kept her back to him.
What followed next didn’t seem like the sort of suggestion that would come from Giles these days, but it slipped from his lips like a manifestation of fate before he could logically examine it.
“There’s a pub downstairs. We can wait there until the amulet is ready, far away from the Followers.”
Her response surprised him more than his own sudden request, “Yeah, that sounds good. Besides, isn’t it supposed to be bad luck to go to London and leave before going to a pub.”
“I don’t think--”
“I’ve heard that somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
***
The Seattle-Tacoma Airport was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with holiday travelers. Giles had no choice but to push his way through the crowd or to be pushed long with it. Finally, he got to the rental counter, where a frazzled clerk tried to keep a shred of feeling for the season.
“Towncar, reserved for Rupert Giles. . .it’s on a corporate account.”
“London Council Enterprises? What’s that?”
“We, um. . .deal in rare books.”
“Really, what, science fiction?” The clerk tried to keep up a friendly appearance of conversation without taking his eyes or mind off his computer screen.
“Not as much as you’d think.”
“All set, lot B #34.”
Giles thanked him, found the car, and checked the map. Almost a straight run, but it would still be over an hour to Olympia, under the best conditions, with the strong snow, it would be even longer. The radio told him that white Christmases were rare in the Seattle area, even though it would be cold enough, it was usually too damp. In addition, this year, it was particularly cold. Then the radio switched back to its yearly Christmas carols. Giles glanced at the clock on the dashboard and set his watch. 11:06 PM, December 23. It would be Christmas Eve by the time he got there.
From the crowded access road to the slightly less crowded Interstate 5, the radio alternated between seasonal wishes and meteorological warnings, as the wind howled and the windshield wipers smeared the thick, wet flakes in his line of vision. Christmas songs, unusually strong snowstorms; he couldn’t help but to think back.
***
The Marksman was dim, even for a pub, but it was warm, and anything was better than the snow or that quickly abandoned conversation. The bartender cracked a one-sided smile as Giles came over.
“Well, Tom, the usual scotch and, uh. . .”
“Vodka stinger.” Willow filled in the blank. Giles looked at her momentarily, but then shrugged slightly. “You come here a lot?”
Giles hummed and nodded, “I do sometimes, why?”
“You know the bartender.”
“He’s Council.”
“Who isn’t? Are all of you taking over London one small business at a time.”
“Well, shares a building with a occult shop and a safehouse. A pub can be a lot less confrontational place to meet people when you want to start out on friendly terms.”
“Safe house?”
“Just a regular flat, furnished though, nice. If someone needs to hide out. . .or until we can find them a permanent place. . .whoever needs it really.”
The conversation continued through another two rounds before they moved to a circular booth along the wall, where it would be easier for them to talk.
“So, how’s the Council going for you?” Willow ran the tip of her finger along the rim of her latest stinger.
“Efficiently. . . Is that a working description? I don’t know, they all look up to me as if I'm the only one among them that knows anything. It’s not as if none of them have done anything of this sort before. No time to start from scratch, I had to select people with some experience. I just don’t know if they’re going to enshrine me as a hero or a database. I’d like to think they won’t always believe they need me to do it for them, but I don’t want to be relic either.”
“You can always be needed. . .wh-when you want to be.”
“Well, I’d rather people to want me around, not to need me around.”
Willow laughed, though Giles wasn’t sure what he had said that was funny. “I think that’s what everyone wants.” Willow drained the last of her stinger and announced that she would go get the next round. Giles tried to gulp his scotch as she walked off to be ready for the fresh glass. He could feel the warmth welling up in him and he leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. For the first time, over the noise of the bar, he could hear the wind outside. Alcohol always brought a feeling of timelessness to him, an eternal present, as if all of him, past and future, finally existed at once. He felt as if he were rising off of the booth, and suddenly found himself making sure he wasn’t. He chuckled to himself as he drained the dregs of his glass, seeing Willow coming back with a drink in each hand. He would probably make the suggestion that they leave soon. It was what he was supposed to do.
They wouldn’t be leaving soon. Willow slid over a quarter of the way around the booth after setting the glasses down, stopping with her left hand on Giles’ thigh. Soon she was leaning against him. They talked about things Giles had never thought they'd discuss, at least not with each other. Every secret shared was met with an accepting nod at worst and at best a look of intention and intrigue that seemed to pull them closer.
Giles never got the chance to suggest the round they were on be the last, as Willow rarely waited until the glasses were halfway empty before she volunteered to get up for the next round. After all, she was on the end while Giles leaned against the wall, and she had figured out that as the leader of the Council, Giles’ tab was essentially unlimited.
By the time the crowd died down, they were essentially clinging to one another and it was dark outside. On his third try, Giles managed to get to his feet. “I suppose we can pick the amulet up tomorrow morning. . .I’ll find us a cab.”
Willow grabbed his wrist to pull herself up, almost sending them both the floor in a heap. When he steadied her, he found himself with his arm around her and her murmuring approval.
“I don’t want to wait out in the cold for a cab,” Willow responded, her pout slightly less effective behind her drunken smile, but the meaning blindingly clear. “Is anyone in that safehouse you told me about?”
“No, no, it’s empty at the moment.”
“Well, let’s stay there, it’s more likely we’ll be able to make it.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Giles pulled away and turned in place, practically twirled, “I’m feeling pretty clear and. . .” he didn’t manage to finish his sentence before falling over a chair.
“I think that’s about as far as we’ll get,” Willow said, sitting in the chair that was his undoing and looking over him teasing concern.
“That might not even be a surety. . .but the back staircase does lead right to it, wouldn’t even have to go out in the cold.”
“Better all the time.”
Tom watched them walk to the door marked 'private' at the back of the bar, the same walk in the opposite direction from so many other couples.
As soon as the door closed, leaving them alone in the poorly lit stairwell, Giles felt Willow’s hand slide under his sweater and seek the skin of his back. As he turned to her, though, they stumbled on steps, the edges biting into Giles’ arm as Willow landed on top of him.
“These steps. . .” Giles said, his tone nearing an apology.
“Bad, evil steps.”
“I don’t think they like us very much.”
“Well, I like us,” Willow said, leaning back so he could pull himself up to sitting position and then kissing him.
Her tongue tasted of crème de menthe and promises. Giles mind split immediately into sections as he returned her kiss, the same timelessness invading, playing tricks with the 'this can’t be happening' that fluttered at the edges of his thoughts. He saw every time he had looked at her, every time he had seen something in her eyes when they fell upon him, and his dismissal of it. Then he remember the bittersweet recognition when he saw that same something when her eyes had fallen upon Oz or Tara. He saw all they had been through, all the secrets they had portioned out to each other and they had let flow the Marksman only minutes before. And he felt it all condense into a single point of light, an infinite energy that gave fire to moment after moment. He ran his hand through her smooth hair. It even felt red.
When their lips separated, he found himself having to sheepishly point out a single problem. “If we keep going here, we’re going to fall down these stairs.”
“That would be bad.”
They did manage to get up the steps and through the doorway, but not much further. Under the intermittent light from neon and streetlights filtering through the storm and the shutters, Willow pressed Giles against the wall with a kiss and then hastily found the bed and lay across it, propped on her elbows. Giles considered a dignified approach, but lost the focus for it a half a step towards the bed and practically dove for her, pulling off his sweater as he went.
Her coat had slipped from her shoulders, and he ran his hands around her as he pulled her close. His tongue moved from her lips across the side of her neck. He could feel her breath against his cheek. Suddenly, she leaned back from him, pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. She began to work at the buttons on his dress shirt, fumbling with them in a combination of excitement, drunkenness and lust.
“This would have been easier earlier in the night,” she laughed, as her hand slipped away after only managing the first and third, “but. . .”
His hand met hers as she reached again for his shirt between collar and second button. Looking into her eyes and holding her hand around the cloth, he pulled down and a way. In the back of his mind, he heard his shirt ripping apart, but at the time, he'd have clawed through stone to feel her skin. Their bodies pressed against each other, skin to skin, flushed and slick with sweat, the heat between them building, an ecstatic tension.
In that moment alone, he could have stayed for eternity, were it not for the promises and temptations of what was to come. As she moved, and lay flat on her back in the center of the bed, he pulled himself unsteadily to his knees and leaned over her, kissing her deeply as his hands explored her body. Then, as slowly as he could make himself, his mouth moved from her lips, across her throat, to each nipple in turn, and down her stomach with kisses, until he felt her soft pubic hair against his lips. From mint liqueur to salt, he savored her.
His tongue roamed across her clit working towards expert strokes as his hands reached up towards her hips, and he felt her writhe against him. He could hear her moans build to an operatic crescendo, and feel her nails against his scalp as her fingernails ran through his hair. As he was preparing to bring her to another orgasm, she pulled back and slid around clockwise, he followed her as they found themselves at opposite positions.
“My turn, she said, guiding him half-gently down onto his back, “let’s see what you have there, mister.” Unlatching his belt and sliding it down to the floor, she pulled away the jeans and underwear, freeing his cock into the crisp air of the room. “Well, that’s even more than I expected,” she said then ran the tip of her tongue along the underside of his shaft, sending a quiver through his body before taking his cock into her mouth.
A rush of sensation blotted out any possible disbelief for Giles. As she sucked his cock with a combination of skill and enthusiasm that would have caused him torrents of disbelief had he been sober. After a while, she straddled him, then guided him into her tight wet heat. He watched her as she rode him, haloed by the neon outside that contrasted with her red hair, making it look in the dark the color of spilled pinot noire, her eyes fixed on his with a gaze of passion and hunger. They came together, her howling in ecstasy, him exploding inside of her. The last thing he remembered clearly was her coming forward, collapsing exhausted against his chest and the words, “that was wonderful.”
He wasn’t sure which of them had said it.
***
Giles found himself lost in memories, as the exit for Olympia arrived faster than he expected. It was nearing 1 AM, just after the turn of Christmas Eve and the carols on the radio alternated with world news and the omnipresent weather reports. Dreams of white Christmas fulfilled by nature, he had other dreams on that particular white Christmas. He did want to see her again, but a nervousness burned at the back of his neck. Why was it they had lost contact?
Now on surface streets, he saw houses decorated with lights for the season, and he had to try to keep his focus on the road. Still, the red lights reminded him of her hair, the green ones of the flash of her eyes, and the songs on the radio of that second day a year earlier.
***
Giles had awakened first, and sat in a chair facing the bed, sipping tomato juice and watching her sleep. His hangover bit at him, but it was more than that. He wondered what she would say when she woke up, tossing a coin over and over in his head since he had no flowers to pull the petals from.
She stirred, groaned slightly, and then sat up, pinching the bridge of her nose He wasn’t sure what to say as he poured a second glass of tomato juice and walked over to sit on the foot of the bed.
“Umm. . .good morning?”
“Hmmm, morning.”
“This will help.”
She gratefully accepted the glass, and leaned in towards him. Giles looked down to consciously check; yes, her hand was most definitely on his thigh.
“I have to say that was a really good night.”
“Oh,” Giles wondered exactly how audible his sigh of relief was, “I was a bit afraid you were going to wake up with a ‘never again’ speech.
“Well, not until after I’ve had breakfast, but no, you won’t be getting any sort of speech like that from me. You were really worried that I was going to look back with unhappy memories?”
“A bit,” he admitted, then laughed, “or that you wouldn’t remember it.”
“Well, the second time is a bit foggy, but I remember the first time in detail.”
“The second time?” Giles gulped slightly.
“Yeah, the one with you on top, that one’s a little hazy, but the first time,” her face went into a familiar mock seriousness, “total recall.”
“I think you about ran poor Tom out of white crème de menthe, your stingers got progressively greener as the night went on.”
It was Willow’s turn to laugh, “Didn’t really keep track.”
He left to attend to council matters after a short time and she was on the phone ordering food to be delivered as he left with a kiss.
A few hours later, he came back to the safe house with the news that the weather was clearing and she would be able to fly out of Heathrow the next day to deliver the amulet. As he walked up the stairs, he heard the television on inside. He opened the door to find a table set with candles, a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a sizable number of white cardboard packages. Willow met him at the door, a blue bathrobe tied at her waist.
“Merry Christmas, Giles. I-I tried to cook, but things kind of caught fire. So. . .Chinese? Th-the wine’s French.”
After dinner, they lounged on the couch together with the wine, watching an old movie. Giles had his back against the arm of the sofa, his hands around Willow’s waist as she leaned back on him.
“So, she said, the wine was good, but nothing as strong as last night, right?”
“Well, yes, definitely.”
She reached around for his hand, and pulled it through open front of her bathrobe, guiding his hand until it cupped her breast, “Good, I wanted to make sure that this time you knew it wasn’t just the stingers that made me want you.”
The next day, he drove her to the airport. “I’ll try to come back as soon as I can,” she said, "or you can come back, that’d be nice.”
“Well, I have to leave for Cairo in two days, Council business,” Giles said, “I’ll be there for a couple of weeks.”
“Email, then,” Willow said as they stopped at the gate, “It makes the world go ‘round, well, goes around the world anyway. Until I can see you again.”
They parted at the gate with a kiss and Giles watched as she walked away, turning back towards him to smile, the Amulet of Tarzal around her neck.
***
West 78th street was in a semi-suburb of indeterminable nature. Houses small and large sat next to each other as if the area were constantly being rebuilt. Christmas lights edged the rooftops and seemed to weave themselves into every available piece of shrubbery; snow lay across the ground in low drifts, still falling softly. The houses were set back from the street and the streetlights were dim. Giles had to get out of the car to find the address and as he did, the cold hit him full force. He drew his hands up to his face to warm them, but when he blew on them, his glasses fogged.
Looking around through the fogged glasses, the snowy night and Christmas lights blurred into one abstract image, starkly black and white, shot through with every color of the rainbow. Even to a man who knew the true feel of the touch of magic, it seemed like magic. Suddenly, he felt as if he were ready for anything. He had been so caught up in divining the source of the letter, he had ignored the question that truly bit at his mind, that he had truly needed an answer to for a few months shy of a year.
Why had the emails stopped? For a few weeks, the emails had been exactly the sort he knew of lovers who could not be together at the time. Then, suddenly, near the time he returned from Cairo, they became more distant, almost businesslike. Then they tapered off, before stopping altogether. For a long time, he had wondered, stared into space, spent too much time in the Marksman, as if he could summon up the spirit of that night. Then, he had told himself that he accepted it, that Willow wanting him was a dream to bright to last, and now that it was over, he at least could harken back to its reality for a while.
He knew it wasn’t true. He couldn't be satisfied with a fleeting dream. Now, though, standing at the edge of the walk of 2123 W 78th, he knew he now at least, would know. He took a step and fixed his eyes on the door. The lights were on, and he knew that Willow was behind that door. That one way or the other, he would have an answer, even if it were the last one he would ever want to hear. He made his way to the door, an eternity of hopes, fears, and images racing through his mind. With one last deep breath that smoked in the sub-freezing temperatures, he steeled himself and knocked.
“Who is it?” A familiar voice. Hers.
“It’s. . .” this was it, “it’s Giles.”
The door swung open with a force that pulled the drifting flurries across the threshold. Willow stared at him for what just might have been the longest second in the world before throwing her arms around him. Giles returned the embrace, eyes stinging, holding her tight as if they had transversed from one Christmas and freak snowstorm to another. Willow pulled him through by the wrist and he had to reach back to close the door behind him.
“I can come in then?”
“Of course. . .it’s so good to see you. How-how did you find me?”
“Someone sent me a letter.”
“I told them not to. I mean, I didn’t wrestle them to the ground or anything.” Willow said, eyes wide, then added sheepishly, “I almost didn’t say anything at all.”
Giles took a moment to look around the room. About half of it was taken up by a bank of computers, the other half, a mix of gaudy decorations for almost every winter festival or observance ever known to humanity. It looked as if a computer showroom had been airdropped into an inclusive holiday display.
Giles motioned towards the display, “It’s very. . .complete.”
“Well, I thought she deserved the whole holiday grab bag.”
She, Giles thought to himself, that might be the answer.
He only realized he had started looking down at the floor when the sound made him look up. It was a small cry, the cry of a young baby in another room.
“That’s her waking up now,” Willow said, “Come with me.”
Giles walked as if in a trance towards one of the back rooms, where, in a white-painted crib a small baby, a few months old at most, fussed. Willow gently but deftly picked the child up to comfort against her shoulder.
“Her name’s Rue.”
“Rue. . . pretty,” Giles said, still not coming full awareness, “named after the medicinal herb, I hope, not the emotion.”
“Oh, definitely the herb. . .and for her father. . .Rupert. Do you want to hold her?”
It could have been hours or days that he stood there, with the world falling to a temporary stasis as his mind raced. The explanation he should have reached, but couldn't. He thought about the many parries and dodges of his life and how life always seemed to find him wherever he was. He knew he had been seen as a father figure, a substitute with an escape clause at either end, a fiction. But now he would not be what someone settled for instead, but could be what someone always saw.
With a nod, Giles accepted the baby from her arms. She cooed as she fell back to sleep against his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“I wanted to, and then I didn’t. I really don’t know even now. I guess it’s like we talked about. I wanted you to always feel wanted instead of needed.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“That’s okay, I just want you to know you're wanted here now,” she put her hand on the crook of his arm, “I love you, Giles.”
“I love you too.”
An hour later, another sofa, another bottle of wine, another old movie on the television, another Christmas, they sat together, talking about everything that had taken place and every thing they wanted to take place for the future. The bright lights from the living room threw their shadows as silhouettes against the drawn shade of the window. As they kissed, the silhouettes melded into one. The day would be clear, sun bursting across the new fallen snow. The storm had lifted.