Hugh Grant Explains It All for You, the conclusion, by Lori

[ljs]

Although this small ship fic may well be washed away in the tide of Giles-stories this weekend :-).... wotthehell, I'll post anyway.

TITLE: Hugh Grant Explains It All For You (the conclusion)
AUTHOR: Lori
PREVIOUS PARTS: In Memories, here.
LENGTH: This part, approximately 6100 words.
RATING: Mature Audiences, for language and sex.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Mr Joss Whedon, Mr Richard Curtis, Ms Emma Thompson (and Miss Jane Austen), and, well, Mr Hugh Grant.
SUMMARY: The conclusion of this romantic comedy. AU, post-"Flooded"; this last installment is set after this AU's version of "Once More With Feeling." What would that bloody Hugh Grant do?



Part Four

Anya’s singing, without demonic prompting, when she lets herself into the Magic Box the next morning. She’s also juggling her briefcase and two hot drinks, one of which is Giles’ favourite brewed tea, and she’s feeling as if all weight has been taken from her shoulders. Well, half the weight. She needs to talk to-

"Giles?" The back door’s unlocked, but there aren’t any sounds from inside. As she goes further in: "Giles, where are you?"

"He’s not here yet," Tara says, standing up from behind the counter. "Oh, let me help."

As she lets Tara take the briefcase, she frowns. "He’s not? He’s late, but...it’s not your day to open, is it? Did the dancing demon alter time as well?"

"No. There’s a Scooby meeting, Giles called it. Everyone should be here - Willow and I don’t have classes til later, and Dawn’s out of school for a few days, a teacher inservice thing." Tara puts the briefcase in the designated briefcase slot, then smiles. "Didn’t Xander tell you?"

"No. In fact, that’s a No, Never Again. The call list should be changed accordingly." She puts down both drinks before she spills them, because the weight’s dropped back onto her shoulders. If Giles wants a meeting, then he must have decided to go - and she suddenly, viciously regrets not calling him the night before, after she and Xander had their talk.

Tara’s smile fades. "I know you’ll tell me what happened when you can..."

"I want to tell Giles first. But I’ll tell you right after that." She hesitates. "What about you? Are you okay after the song and dance?"

"Not really. Willow and I... Just, thank you, Anya. We can talk about my changes later too." Tara looks up when the shop’s front door trembles under someone’s pounding. "Oh, it must be Dawn and Buffy, I’ll go let them in."

Anya sinks down on the chair she keeps behind the counter, and she sips her coffee. She thinks of last night, of Xander sitting with her on the empty stage of the Bronze, of them not touching but talking, really talking.

When she’d asked him about the spell and the stolen amulet, he said something about "showing her" they should stay together like he’d promised, and then he lost all the air he had. "I was so stupid," he said, staring up at the lights. "Because really? I was kinda hoping the spell would show we weren’t supposed to be together. No happy ending, no guilt! And paradoxically, happy Xander, which sort of screws the whole theory."

"I told you we were done, there wasn’t anything to feel guilty about then," she said. "But now I’m going to have to call in some favours and we’ll have to make restitution in order to make sure you, or we, don’t get vengeance dropped on our heads. People died. That often makes other people angry as well as sad, and they’ll want payback even though it wasn’t directly your fault."

"Oh God, no." She could tell he did feel guilty now. "Anya...."

"Don’t worry, Xander. I’ll take care of what I can. But we’re officially, conclusively broken up now. No more idiot spells, no more secrets."

"I get it. Only have to hit me over the head a hundred, two hundred times, but I get it." He laughed at that, with hurt around the edges, then got to his feet. Once there, he shoved his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight, looked away. "You know, since we’re not keeping secrets any more...the day I asked you to marry me? Totally thought the world was ending."

"I knew you were lying!" But she felt a wave of old affection at the memory, and she reached a hand out to touch his leg. "Still, it was a nice gesture. You’re a good guy, Xander. Often a crappy boyfriend, but a good guy."

This time his laugh sounded just fine. "I’ve heard that one before - and please tell me you haven’t chatted with Cordelia lately! Talk about Young Mr Harris’s personal vision of hell." Before she could answer, he jumped off the stage and headed toward the door. Halfway there, however, he stopped under a downlight and smiled at her. "I want you to know, I take pride in being a really great ex-boyfriend. But I’m not buying you a prom dress - or in your case, a plane ticket to England."

"Thank you, I can purchase my own clothing and transportation. But why would you think I need that?"

He took his hands out of his pockets and executed a slow, choreographed turn. His shoes made a funny hush on the floor, like he was dancing on sand, like maybe there was just one spark of Sweet’s magic left. As he came to a stop: "‘Cause the stammering Englishman will go back there sooner or later, and, well.... I’ve been paying more attention than you think." He touched fingers to lips, then waved. "‘Night, Anya. Happy endings to you."

Anya blinks herself out of the memory, takes another sip of coffee to remind herself it’s morning, then turns her foot to make that funny hush sound. She hopes she’ll feel like dancing soon, too.

"Hi, Anya!" Dawn slides onto the counter and reaches over it with a cake doughnut. "Want this? We’re saving the jelly ones for Giles."

Anya beams at her. "Hi, Dawn! You’re very thoughtful, but I’m not hungry." She finishes her coffee and stands up. Even without caffeine she’d be jittery, a second away from running, flying, searching for him-

The door to the stockroom opens, and here he is. He’s exhausted, she sees after one look, but still - "Giles! I didn’t hear you lurking downstairs. There wasn’t any humming."

"No. Er, I was quiet." He is also very contained, as if holding in hurt. When she can’t help her hand going out to him, he gives her a tight-lipped smile, and then it’s one of those secret-garden moments, all moon and wind and Giles. She doesn’t realize she’s not breathing until he looks away, and it’s just Monday morning again, except she’s suffering from oxygen deprivation.

"So what’s the what?" Buffy says, mouth full of doughnut, as she walks toward them. Despite the usual Buffy-front, she seems sad and tired too. Almost dancing to death must not agree with her.

"Ah, yes, er... I need to speak to you first, Buffy. In private." Giles shuts the stockroom door behind him, then wavers as if he can’t manage another step.

And Anya makes it there for support, putting the cup in his hand and wrapping his fingers around it, enjoying the buzz of contact. God, he has nice hands. "Giles," she says quietly, "I know you have important things to tell her, but could I talk to you first?"

He stares down at the tea like he’s never been given anything so precious before in his life, or maybe like he has no frame of reference for flavoured water with added milk. "Anya...thank you. But I do need to talk to Buffy."

"Are you going to tell her the special thing?" she asks. "I really think you should."

"No. Or not that particular special thing." That’s the old Giles talking, snobby, snotty, thinks he’s so great.... He glances at her - and then his face and voice change, become open and concerned. "What is it?"

Before she can answer, however, Buffy’s in between them, yanking him away so fast that some of his tea slops over onto Anya’s hand before he’s gone, disappeared into the training room. The door slams, and it’s a barrier she can’t cross.

"I hope that rapid disappearance isn’t an omen," she mutters.

She, Tara, and Dawn move around the shop aimlessly while voices rise and fall inside. There’s doughnut-eating, and a little thumb-wrestling, and then Buffy’s voice gets high and choked without words, and the training room door slams open. Buffy’s eyes are too bright, her long coat wrapped too close around her body, and Anya knows whatever it was went badly.

"Is Giles-" she starts, but Buffy pushes past her just as he walks out. He looks expressionlessly distressed. She goes toward him, and for his ears only: "What did you tell her?"

He takes off his glasses and begins to polish, in his usual ritual of invoking control. Just as quietly, he says, "That I’m leaving tonight, that she can handle it here. I can’t... You know I can’t stay, Anya."

She puts her hand on his arm. "Yes, you have a work deadline, I’ve read the most recent faxes." When he halfway glares at her, she says, "Oh come on, they were sent here to the shop! Like newspaper headlines flashing in my face saying ‘Read me’! Anyway, you’ve got to do your archive job, which dedication I applaud, but even so..."

The front door opens with enough noise to distract her, and Willow and Xander come in. He waves a Robinson-May bag at her. "Hey, Ahn, I brought what I could find of your stuff, but you already cleared almost everything out." Stopping for breath, looking around: "Did the meeting get started without us? Sorry, Willow wasn’t ready when I picked her up. What’d we miss?"

Willow doesn’t say anything, just pulls Xander’s coat around her and smiles.

Buffy steps up onto the higher level shop floor, however, calling everyone’s attention to her. "Okay, we’re all here now. Go ahead, Giles, do the announcing."

He puts his glasses back on, winces, fake-smiles. "Well. I just wanted to say, to, er, give you all fair warning. I’m leaving for England tonight, and I plan to stay there, um... indefinitely."

"Now?" Xander all but yelps. "I mean - Now? Anya, didn’t you tell him?"

"When would I have had the damn time?" she snaps, and then, as Giles murmurs something, she takes his hand. When he tries to move back, she’s ready for it, she holds on. That makes him focus on her, watching and listening - he really does listen, it’s wonderful, it’s amazing - and she says, "I know you have to go, but could you give it another day or two? Because a young, single shopkeeper’s heart can only take so much...."

"Anya, you know I-" His grip tightens. "Hang on. Did you say, er, ‘single’?"

The front door opens again, but she doesn’t let go, he doesn’t let go.

Spike comes in, accompanied by a flapping blanket and a trickle of smoke, and he’s complaining about a floppy-skinned messenger and also requesting asylum, which elicits a chorus of disapproval and jokes. This all happens at the periphery of Anya’s attention. She’s gazing at Giles... who looks confused and yet encouragingly hopeful.

"Yes, I broke up with Xander approximately ten minutes after he announced the engagement - we’d been mostly broken up before that - but he asked me to promise to keep quiet. Ridiculous idea. You see? Secrets are stupid, and they cause demon intervention, musicals, and bad decisions. Like whatever you told Buffy."

"Anya, Anya," he says, on the edge of a weary laugh.

But Buffy says more loudly, "He’s not going to stay. I asked, I need...." and all the life in the room is crushed by the weight of her grief.

Because Anya’s so close, she feels the impact on, and the hopeless pain in, Giles - he’s not laughing now. "Buffy, please."

"If you all only understood how I felt! How I feel like I’m lost, I’m dying again, but-"

And the world darkens, even as Anya’s mind empties. As she collapses into sleep, she is cushioned by a big, solid, comforting male body.

When she wakes to confusion, she’s still holding his hand.

That’s what carries her through the next hours, when she can’t remember her name without written help, or her home, or her past, and when cadres of vampires and accidentally summoned rabbits terrorize their shop and the nice if bizarre amnesiac people in it. She’s got her partner Rupert -- she adores the strength of that name, regardless of its slightly stuffy, library-paste connotations, and she adores him, even when they’re arguing, which they do often and with a great deal of skill and passion.

The fight about his one-way airline ticket is an especially lively one, coming as it does in the middle of her badly cast spell; they hiss at each other and he curses attractively while he hunts for the right words to disappear the monsters, and then it’s her turn to say the right words ("I’m sorry" - magic beyond magic), and all the anger goes away.

That’s when Rupert finally kisses her. Oh, he kissed her when they woke up, a sleepy ‘good-morning’ brush of lips before the amnesia kicked in, and she kissed him casually when she straightened his tie (both times; he gets rumpled quickly because he thinks very hard), but this...this is the real thing.

He takes her in his arms, slides her back until she feels like she’s floating, then leans in. She feels magic sparking everywhere, smells flowers and green things and bay rum cologne. He’s got one big hand supporting her back, the other caressing her bottom, and then he just...kisses her, deep and slow and a little bit rough. It could take days to finish this. It could take days to recover, she thinks-

Just as the magic in the shop changes, and who they are comes rushing back.

He doesn’t stop immediately, because this is the real thing.

But after he returns her to her feet, he blinks himself back to where they were before all spells were cast. "Anya! Bugger, I’ve missed my flight, and what the bloody hell will the hotel have done with my luggage, I was supposed to check out at noon, and- Oh, fuck." Still holding onto her, he sort of collapses in on himself. "And I’ve got to call the Council, and I don’t know what to say."

She can’t stop herself from petting him a little - he is infinitely pettable - before she pushes him toward the door. "Okay, Rupert, okay. You go handle your mess, and I’ll clean up the mess in here."

"But I should help you," he says, stopping in his tracks. It’s gratifying that he doesn’t seem to want to leave her.

She puts her hands around his face, enjoys the buzz of contact even more now. "I chose the wrong book, and I’ll clean it up. I know you’ve got stuff to do. But... really, can you stay in town just another couple of days? You could come to dinner tomorrow night. My place."

He curves his hands around her wrists, his music-roughened fingertips dancing over her skin, and when he looks at her, time stops. When he speaks, though, his words are so bizarre that she begins breathing again - "Last night after everything, Anya, I went back to our garden to work things out in my head. When I was there... I was told to ask myself, ‘What would Hugh Grant do?’ But the truth is, um, I have no bloody idea. What do you think?"

"Well, first, I think it’s weird." When he starts to laugh, she says, "But second... isn’t it a feature of Hugh Grant movies, at least the ones where he’s not evil or slimy, that he has to learn to express himself? He has to tell whoever the truth. No secrets. Give the girl enough to decide."

His laugh dying away, he gets still and...concentrated, God, he thinks so hard. "Yes," he says, then more strongly, "Right, yes. Anya, you are brilliant." He grins at her. "It’s bloody terrifying."

After kissing the inside of each of her wrists, he lets her go. When he gets to the door, he hesitates -- "What time tomorrow night? Should I bring anything?"

"6:30, and just yourself," she says, and he smiles at her.

Anya sings without demonic prompting while she cleans, even though she’s alone, even when she has to touch reminders of cotton-fluffy hellbeasts.

.......................................................................

It rarely rains in Sunnydale, but now low pressure is coming, bringing weather-change and moisture. Giles looks up to see blue and then dark grey and then blue swirling together, sun, cloud, sun, more cloud. A touch of home, he thinks, something to get him ready to leave.

He heads up the walk to the Summers home, clutching the folders he’s spent the morning putting together. Last night after handling the worst of the emergencies, he sat in his hotel room with a notepad for planning and a drink from the mini-bar, and watched the eighty-fifth airing of Four Weddings and a Funeral on cable. He also practised saying a speech he’s not sure will work.

He fell asleep thinking of Anya and the way she fit so perfectly against him, and of ridiculously sentimental movie-kisses in the rain.

This morning, however, it’s been all work - he’s ticked items on the notepad, made a dozen phone calls. This time, his discussion with Buffy and the others will be done not out of pain but out of... preparation.

Dawn’s waiting on the front porch for him. "Okay, I’ve got her ready. In the kitchen, fixing lunch?" she says, then holds out her hand. "Do I get something?"

"This." He finds her folder and hands it over with all due ceremony. "In there, you’ll find a phone card for the fortnightly phone check-ins, my contact information, and a template for your twice-weekly reports, to be faxed from the Magic Box under Anya’s or Tara’s supervision. I’ll want their initials on top of each report."

"You are so strict." She grins at him. "But okay, for a trip to England...."

"Right. Keep your grades, reports, and behaviour at an acceptable level, and you too shall win an exciting summer holiday package in Somerset!" he says in the closest to a bad-advert voice he can manage, which is regrettably not very close.

"Oh, Giles." No one can sound as world-weary as an almost-sixteen-year-old girl - and no one can change mood more quickly. She comes lightly down the steps, hugs him far less lightly. "I’m, like, really scared," she whispers.

"I know you are, Dawn. But we’ll all do better." He hugs her back before presenting another folder. "Um, since I’m not going by the shop today... would you give this one to Tara?"

"Sure, no problem." She adds it to her pile. "Did...was it you that made it so that Tara would stay and Willow would leave? I wanted it, but..."

"No. That was their decision." One for which he is profoundly thankful, he thinks but doesn’t say. Learning that yesterday’s amnesia was due to Willow has not comforted him -- but at least she has a safe place to go.

From inside the house come heavy, burdened footsteps, and Dawn makes a face. "Speaking of... okay. Okay, I’m going to go to the Magic Box and get this all set up, and you and Buffy can talk the talk in peace." Her face twists the other way in thought. "Wait, shouldn’t Anya, like, get instructions too?"

"Er, well, I’ll give hers in person. Not at the shop."

Her eyes sparkle with almost inhuman energy. "Oh yeah? Really? Well, who knew ...ewwwwww." With a giggle she spins toward the street - heading toward the Magic Box, he imagines. "I’ll find it all out, you know!" she calls over her shoulder.

"I’m sure you will. Sooner, rather than later." She’s clever, he thinks. Someday that girl’s going to be a true Watcher... no, wiser than that.

Smiling, he jogs up the rest of the steps - to come face to face with Willow, weighed down with bags. Moving her things out to seek refuge at Xander’s, as Tara told him when she called. "Willow, sorry, do you need help?"

"No." Eyes red-rimmed from tears flicker. "It’s not as heavy as it looks."

She’s still using magic as a convenience, he can feel it. Which makes what he wants to say more important, actually -- he puts her folder into the nearest bag. "I wanted to leave this for you. Er, it’s two phone numbers for people I’d like you to call. Miss Jane Lavender, and Ms. Marie Barker."

"Aren’t those...Tara told me...aren’t those some of the local witches, the ones you and Anya call the Herbals?" Her voice clearly implies that they’re amateurs.

Repressing another surge of anger, he says evenly, "Willow, you have enormous power. But you don’t have a sense of why, for what purpose, you should use that power. Apparently Tara and I have failed you-"

"No!" Her protest is swift, and he suspects, not entirely true. There is too much anger here, and it’s not just his.

"Tara and I have failed you," he repeats, "but these women know more than their exteriors suggest. They know why and for what." He holds her gaze, then touches above his heart. "Listen to them, and learn. You are, after all, one of the most gifted students I know."

She flushes, although he can’t read what it means. "Giles," she says, her voice choked with more tears. "I just...."

"I’ll check on you from England," he says. "You and Xander... er, you both be well, all right?"

She bites her lip and nods - old girlish gestures, although he’s afraid she’s grown far beyond them. "Bye, Giles. And I’ll do better. Just watch."

"I will, Willow." He does watch her as she goes down the path. She walks quickly despite her burdens.

Then a gust of chill, rain-laden wind flutters the last folder in his hand, reminding him of his own much loved burden and the conversation he needs to do better.

Although Buffy is in the kitchen as Dawn said, she’s sitting in the dimness, head bowed, hands locked on top of the island. He feels...well, it bloody doesn’t matter what he feels, he tells himself, and he flicks on the light.

She doesn’t even twitch, doesn’t turn around. "Hi, Giles. Come to say goodbye again?"

"Er, yes, and no." He takes the bar stool next to her. How many times have they sat together before pressure-change, before the world shifts around them.... He puts the closed folder in front of her.

She doesn’t move. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I did...Buffy, I told you badly, before, and was rather stupid about it, and I want to rectify my mistakes. An annoyingly wise woman recently told me two things. One, that secrets are, well, stupid. And two, that I should ‘give the girl enough to decide.’"

Buffy rests her head on her hands. Muffled, she says, "But you’re still leaving."

"Yes." He plays with the folder, trying to find the words. "You see...this is, er, one of the secrets. I’m officially no longer your Watcher. The Council’s given me an archivist position in England instead, and I need to return." When she stirs, he hurries on. "What I said to you yesterday is true - I’ve taught you all I can. Let’s be honest with each other. When was the last time you regularly trained with me? High school, wasn’t it?"

"But-"

"And you’ve done perfectly well without it. Not to mention that I can count on the fingers of one hand the times you’ve taken my advice in the past two years... in matters of Slaying, at least."

"Giles, that’s so not fair-"

He puts his hand on her shoulder. She’s shuddering under her own hurt. "No, it is, and it’s fine, Buffy. You’ve become your own source of strength, and you don’t need me any more, not as a Watcher. I’ve done my job, and the worlds and the Council know that you are a formidable... person."

"Still not helping," she says, and the bite is clear even through the barriers.

"I know. I know, and..." He doesn’t know if it’s his trembles or hers which shake their connection. Taking a deep breath, he pushes on. "I’m so sorry I can’t. Because what you want, what you need, is someone to take the pain away. I know how desperately you’re hurting. And the horrible, deeply unfair thing is that no one can take it away."

She looks up at that -- tears are there but not falling - and shakes her head mutely.

He swallows his own distress for her. "It’s just... that’s what we have, Buffy. You ache more, perhaps, because of that formidable self, but the pain we all carry with us. If I could give you back heaven... but I can’t, you see? I so wish I could fix it for you, but it’s too much, it’s impossible." He thinks of his mistakes, he thinks of cold dead wind, he thinks once more of Ben dying under his hand. That secret he will not share with her, but.... "We all carry hurt with us."

"I can’t do this," she whispers. "Giles, I can’t."

"Yes, you can. And what I can do, what I failed to do yesterday, is to remind you that I’m here even when I’m not, and to give you, er, ‘enough to decide.’ Enough to rest before you move on."

She turns to look at him. Taking a deep breath, he opens the folder in front of her. He flips past the contact information, the phone card (with a separate chart indicating the difference in time zones between Bath and Sunnydale), Anya’s list of debts and outgo with his annotations and suggestions, the small cheque for emergencies which has taken all the money in his local account - and he stops on the last page. "Right. Part of the problem, I think, is what you’ve told me before... other than your Slaying job, you don’t know what to do with your days. You needn’t decide right now, but, um, while you figure it out, I’ve taken the liberty... er, well, I rang some acquaintances at the University, and a clerical job’s opened up in the Development office. Just answering phones and setting up appointments, and filing - Um. You do remember the alphabet, don’t you?"

Even with threatening tears, she makes a face -- remarkably like Dawn’s earlier, in fact. "Yes, library guy, I remember."

Encouraged, he says, "Right, then... the salary’s not great, but there’s enough to cover your bills with a bit left over, now that both Dawn and Tara are working, and there’s a health plan, and free tuition for employees, should you wish to try school again. Only if you want, mind." He taps the paper. "I’ve started your c.v., which we can rework over lunch, and I’ll drive you to the interview I’ve set up at two, it’s really just a formality-"

"Oh God, Giles," she says, and suddenly she hurls herself at him. He barely has time to steady himself for them both before she’s hugging him, and then she’s back on her stool, crying incoherently. He thinks it’s good crying, however. If not happy, happy-ish.

Fighting his own emotion, he says, "Well, then. Sorry I mucked it up so badly yesterday, but even the best, er, rakish uncles make mistakes. And - dear Lord, Buffy, don’t cry so hard, you’ve got an interview in a couple of hours."

But they both know he’s joking, mostly, and while the light changes outside and the first rain strikes the kitchen windows, he rubs her shoulder until the sobs run out.

When she’s done, she blows her nose on his handkerchief and asks him if he’ll be staying for dinner. He smiles at her. "Thank you, but no. I’ve got a gig of my own."

...............................................................

It’s 6:28, and Anya is about to jump out of her skin. Not like the skin-leapers of Gratoz, of course, because that’s just unpleasant, but in anticipation.

She spins around to survey her studio. Last night she came home and cleaned while Four Weddings and a Funeral played on TV, she did laundry and rearranged things to her taste, and on her lunch hour, after she spoke to a demon-contact about minimising the ramifications of Sweet’s spell, she bought a linen tablecloth and some blue dishes and a new outfit. Her apartment looks like her own, like the beginning of good things. She feels like she’s living her own life now.

Now all she needs is Rupert, even if he’s leaving tomorrow.

6:29. She looks out the window at the lowering clouds. It’s rained off and on all day, and the sky looks like it’s about to be on again. She hopes that he gets here before-

Doorbell.

When she opens the door, she lets in the sweet smell of rain in a dry land. He’s turned away, doing his own survey of the surroundings and the flowers she has in her window box, but he whips around at once. Although he’s wearing jeans and a button-down, he’s tucked in his shirt - really, quite a nice stomach-- and that makes her laugh a little, even as she says breathlessly, "Hi, Rupert. Come in."

"Hello, Anya." He smiles a bit nervously. "Er, I will, but first, for you-" he hands her a gorgeous bunch of flowers, all colours that should clash but don’t, and then two bottles of wine, one red, one white - "and for me. I hope."

"That’s so...oh, they’re pretty, and the wine looks good too. Come in while I put them away."

"Well, I just wanted...I’ll stay here for the moment."

She gazes at him inquiringly. "Is something wrong? Because even if you somehow were vamped in the past twenty hours, I’ve invited you in, and-"

"No, no. That’s not it." He gazes back, and the world goes silent - no traffic noise, no loud neighbours three doors down, nothing. This isn’t retraction but expansion, she thinks: a world goes silent when it grows too fast for breath. "Um, Anya, if you’ll put those away, I want to say something to you."

"One of your speeches? I guess it’s good I haven’t ordered the food yet."

That makes him laugh, and he’s still laughing when she gets back from dumping the flowers and wine on the table. He’s got a hand on the doorjamb, and he’s taken off his glasses, and he’s all green shirt and hazel eyes against the grey evening. He looks like the man who she’s seen cast spells and serve customers with skill, like a man who fights hard and likes his food and whispers funny comments at the movies, like a man who thinks too much and cares too much and hurts too much, like a man who’d be at his best in a night-garden. Giles. Rupert. "Hi," she says quietly.

"Hi." He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it. Once connected, he still seems unwilling to start.

It’s quiet out, and mist begins to swirl.

Finally he says, "I’ve been thinking about Hugh Grant films, Anya, and how, as you’ve pointed out, he’s always got to explain himself at the end, which... Well, I’d always prefer not to, if allowed, but I suspect I’m just bloody lazy. So I’ll try." His finger tickles the inside of her palm, sweet as rain in a dry land. "Although we’ve only, er, found each other, we’ve worked with each other for some time. I’ve long thought - grudgingly - that you are quite good at tactics, while I’m better at strategy."

"I’m short-term girl, you’re long-term guy?"

He smiles. "Well, in some ways you’re, er, fairly long-term as well. But yes. So I rather thought I’d share my long-term planning, ask for your views." He pulls her just a step closer. She can feel the rain now, soft droplets on her face. "I’ve got to finish the job I’ve contracted for - it’ll take several months. I can schedule a couple of short visits here, and I’d like you to visit me in England a time or two as well. And, right, I’ll attempt to learn that sodding evil e-mail."

"You make it sound like it’s a demon."

"Well, there bloody are demons on the internet, let me tell you." He’s closer now, big and warm, and she puts her other hand on his waist - they’re dancing without dancing. "Anyway ...I’m still thinking about how we’ll go on after that, whether I leave the Council and come back here to set up a consulting job where I can still help, still fight what must be fought, or whether we sell up here and you come to me. I’ll not figure out the specifics until later, and you’ll get a choice, because... any strategy does include you now. Er, if you’d like it to."

She feels like she’s swallowed the sun, like she’ll burst with pleasure and possibly tears, but - "That’s a really good speech, Rupert. Did you practice it much?"

He’s laughing again, sort of helplessly. "Um. Yes. Couple of hours. The room service waiter found it rather dry, but on the whole, moving."

"It’s perfect." She can’t get any closer, but she tries. "I completely approve of it and this strategy, and I think you’re wonderful, and brilliant, and-"

But he’s kissing her then, deep and slow and a little rough, lifting her off her feet, and she lets herself go soft like the rain.

When he lets her down, lets her breathe, she whispers, "So, as for tactics.... I’ve planned a few activities for tonight. We’ll get food delivered, either pizza or Indian, for supper; we’ll watch Sense and Sensibility, which I’ve rented because it has Hugh Grant and we can enjoy mocking any historical or geographical inaccuracies; we’ll have sex; we’ll sleep. You get to choose the order."

Silently he lifts her up again and carries her inside. The way he uses one booted foot to kick the door shut behind them is utterly unlike Hugh Grant, and she finds herself just a little more in love with him.

He chooses sex first. She doesn’t even have time to open her futon before they’re lying down, and he’s kissing her again, whispering questions about protection even as he strips her bare. He shows great enthusiasm for light bondage and for kissing her breasts - "‘s been on my mind since I spilled that bloody orange juice," he says indistinctly, his mouth full of her - and with his hand gives her an intense pleasure-moment before she gets to so much as unsnap the top button of his jeans. But she does get her chance, and she gets to explore and taste all of him, salty-sweet from neck to nice substantial cock, before he flips her over and slides inside. She wraps her legs around his waist like a weapon-belt, throws her head back, and thinks of him, thinks of England. It is a land of green and ecstasy, she thinks wildly, and when he shudders inside her, she says his name and comes with him.

Next, supper - which is a slightly more conflict-rich time, as she really wants pizza and he really wants Indian and he is not above using sexual attentions to cheat, which is a very useful thing to know about him. Eventually, however, she makes the call while he goes out and fetches his bags from the rental car. They eat their vindaloo and drink their excellent wine and squabble over the last samosa, while the candles flicker and the rain is loud against roof and window and wall.

Then, a little tired, they arrange themselves on the futon, she tucked up between his sprawled legs, covered by a light blanket, and by candlelight they watch the movie. During the sad parts she is given his fresh handkerchief, which smells of him and sex and bay rum cologne.

And near the end, when Hugh Grant begins to explain himself to Emma Thompson, Rupert puts his mouth on Anya’s neck and tightens his hold on her, and she lifts her arms and locks her hands behind his nape. His lips silently move on her skin, as if he’s following the words. I came here with no expectations. Only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is, and always will be, yours.

Anya understands why Emma Thompson cries at that part even though it’s a happy-ish ending, and after the movie ends and the screen goes blue and fuzzy, she and Rupert sit quiet and interlocked, while the rain is loud against roof and window and wall.