Corpus et Sanguis

Giles walked up to her where she sat at the table in the Magic Box with an uncharacteristic caution.

“Anya?”

“Yes?”

“Just... um, speaking... hypothetically... when you were a vengeance demon... did you ever, um, well... That is, did a woman ever wish...”

“Obviously this has something to do with sex, so just say it already, really, you’re not going to shock me.”

“It’s not about... well, I suppose it sort of is about...” He brought himself up short, girding his loins, and said, “Did you ever make a man, um, pregnant?”

“Oh sure. Heck, I thought you were actually going to say something weird. That was the number one wish among spurned pregnant women.”

Giles paled a few more degrees. Anya tossed her magazine aside and stood up, since this seemed to be one of those conversations better had standing.

“And given that you said hypothetically, that must mean that you think you are. Pregnant.”

“Oh, good lord,” Giles said, swayed, and then plopped down into the chair Anya had just vacated. Ok, so maybe this was a sitting-down conversation after all. She sat, in one of the other chairs, and squirmed uncomfortably for a moment. No fair, why did he get her chair? This one was cold.

Oh, he was distressed, right, cleaning his glasses with vigor. Anya reluctantly shifted into comforting-friend mode, wanting to get back to her reading, and patted his knee awkwardly.

“There, there.”

Giles leveled a deep, glowery glare over the tops of his newly-reseated glasses.

“I hardly think ‘there, there’ covers it, Anya.”

Anya sighed. So, comforting wasn’t the correct option after all. She would just never understand all this nonsense. She grabbed her magazine and pointedly began reading again.

After a few minutes, Giles cleared his throat softly, and Anya looked up again. The thunder was completely gone from his face... in fact, he now looked... well, sort of... fluffy, in point of fact, holding his glasses in one curled hand that rested lightly against his lips and sort of peering up at her from behind his lashes.

“These, er, men... what... what exactly... well, became of them?”

Resigned, she set aside her magazine again.

“Well, mostly they died. You know, male bodies not really being designed to, you know, grow infants.”

His eyebrows crawled up a notch or two and he said, “Hmph,” softly.

“It really depends on the spell, of course,” she continued quickly, “I mean, if you are pregnant, well, something magical had to have caused it, so it really all depends on what it was and what the caster intended. I, of course, never really intended those back-stabbing liars to survive. I mean, a painful death was pretty much the point, but, you know, if someone *did* want you to live, well, it’s entirely possible, I suppose. Although, probably not at all comfortable... So, who do you think knocked you up?”

It just never ceased to amaze her how quickly that man could go from looking as shy and contrite as a lost puppy to murderous.

“Well,” she commented mildly, “You’re certainly getting the mood swings.”

And just as he opened his mouth to protest, the bell over the Magic Shop door jingled and Buffy bounced in with a cheerful, “Hi guys!” and then saw them and immediately transitioned to cautious alarm, “Uh oh, badness, what’s up?”

Before Giles could waste half their too-short mortal lives stammering, Anya said, “Giles thinks he’s pregnant.”

Beside her, Giles dropped his glasses on the table and buried his face in his hands. Buffy just stared, mouth open, for a long time, before she suddenly snapped it shut, then turned to Giles and yelled, “You WHAT?”

“Buffy...”

“Oh, nonono, Watcher-mine, don’t ‘Buffy’ me. I *said,* ‘you what?’”

“This is all purely... baseless... speculation at this point,” Giles said, briefly going back to Ripper-mode to directing a poisonous glare Anya’s way, “But... um... well... I’ve... been experiencing certain... symptoms...”

“Symptoms?”

Buffy tossed her bag under the table and sat down in the chair on the other side of Giles, leaning towards him intently.

“Uh... yes...”

“Such as?”

“Well, um... morning nausea, strange cravings... um, mood swings...” he glared at Anya again, clearly daring her to comment. So she did.

“Oh, yes, he’s definitely having mood swings.”

“But, Giles, that hardly qualifies as enough to jump straight to... um... you know... I mean, hey, I’m even a *girl* and that wouldn’t--”

“I can feel it,” he said, suddenly. “It’s nothing... physical, exactly, I just... well, and there’s...”

He paused for a long time, looking off in to the middle distance thoughtfully. Then, he drew something out of his pocket and laid it on the table.

“... this.”

A home pregnancy test. It was positive.

After a protracted pause, during which Anya resumed reading her magazine, Buffy stared, and Giles pretended not to exist, Buffy finally spoke again.

“Oh. Um. Hey. Congratulations?”

***

“Ok. Ok, putting aside all the sense this *doesn’t* make... would that test thingy even work on a- a- pregnant guy? And also... No, there’s too much also. I can’t even cover all the alsos. I’m lost. I give up. Willow’s checking out for a little while.”

And she did, thumping down into a chair at the table and getting a spaced-out look in her eyes. Tara patted her hand gently, and shot a sympathetic look over at Giles.

“I-I guess this must be, p-pretty shocking for you, too, huh, Mr. Giles?”

Giles’s head lifted just a bit, but he didn’t really look at her.

“Hmm?” he said, mildly.

Buffy rolled her eyes and threw up her hands.

“Hello? Is anyone at this table actually coherent?”

Anya gestured in the affirmative with a twitch of her magazine, and Tara shyly raised her hand. Xander stared at Giles. He looked vaguely like something in his brain might have broken.

Buffy rolled her eyes again, and tossed in a heavy sigh for good measure.

“I’m coherent!” Willow said, after an extended pause.

“Uh huh.”

“No, no. I am,” she said. “Really. Back with the program. Ok. Thinking now.”

“Thank god,” Buffy said, and sat down at the table. Thinking was not her strong suit. At least, not this kind of non-tactical thinking, and she was beginning to fear she may have had to do some.

But it was ok now, because Willow was thinking. Leaning forward, with her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her hands.

“Oh. Oh, of course. Demon! It must be a demon, right?”

“Well,” Buffy said, “Yeah. I mean. Of course. Duh. Why didn’t anyone think of this before now? I mean, I just kind of assumed we’d already rejected that hypothesis. Giles?”

“Hmm?” Giles said.

Buffy looked at him.

“On second thought, I think maybe hypothesis has about three too many syllables for Giles right now. Geez, Giles, if you’re going to be like this for the next nine months, I’m gonna have to hire a new Watcher.”

“What?” he said.

“Never mind,” she said, and patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“So, ok,” Willow said, looking more non-shocky by the moment, “The demon idea. Not previously explored then?”

“I’d guess no.”

“Ok! I’m on it!” Willow said, and dragged over a book.

***

Five hours and a pizza (ordered by Buffy since Xander still hadn’t quite regained his wits) later, they had their suspects all line up. Willow looked with satisfaction over the list and nodded to herself. Ok. So, chances were good this was a demon thing. Now, if she could just get poor Giles coherent enough too see if any of these guy’s modus operandi’s checked out, they’d be in business. Most of these demons came with a relatively simple exorcism ritual. No fuss, no muss.

She knocked gently on the training room door and then slipped through it, shutting it behind her. It was dark. Giles was sitting on on of the mats in the far corner, leaning back against the wall, with one knee drawn up, and his arm resting on it, a glass of something dangling from his hand.

“Hey!” she said, brightly but cautiously, “Uh, so, we, uh, did the research thing. How... how are you doing?”

She dropped down to sit cross-legged facing him. He raised his head, looked at her for a moment, and then dropped it back down.

“Not good, huh?” she said. “Hey, it’s ok. Look, you think you’re up to looking over this list? Seeing if any of these sound like. Well. You know, your... guy? Or- or possibly girl! Several of them are actually-”

“Ethan,” he said.

“Uh. Ethan? What about-”

He set aside his drink, and rubbed both hands over his face, and then left them there, as though he couldn’t face her as he spoke.

“I- A few weeks ago, I- I...” he dropped his hands to his sides, and said, “slept with Ethan.”

Ho-kay. Apparently she was not the only one around here who was Gay Now. Or... Gay Already, as the case may be.

“Uh...” she said, “But, isn’t he in prison?”

Giles huffed a soft laugh.

“No prison in the world could hold Ethan. Chaos loves him far too much.”

“Um, but... well, it might not have been... him. I mean, a lot of these guys have, have the succubus thing going on. Shapeshifting-”

“It was Ethan. I’ve seen succubi. They aren’t that convincing. Not to anyone who knows anything.”

“Ok, why are you going and having, having... sex with... he’s a bad guy!” she said, with righteous indignation.

“The day there’s a label for Ethan, is the day labels really do lose all meaning.”

“But... But, he’s a guy!” she said, trying again, with not-so-righteous indignation.

“And? Do you think you hold the copyright?”

There was something not quite right about his eyes.

“Giles! Are you drunk?”

He blinked at her.

“Um. Perhaps a bit.”

She was shocked.

“Giles! Shame on you! Alcohol! Bad for the baby!”

He stared.

“Baby...” she continued, “which is... probably a demon, ok. But still!”

He sighed.

“Give me the list.”

She did, and he scanned it for awhile. Finally, he handed it back, shaking his head.

“Nothing.”

He leaned back against the wall and hugged himself, a perfect picture of traumatized dejection. She reached out and laid her hand on his knee in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.

“Ok, then. So, maybe it’s just a really, really good illusion. Or... even a demon we haven’t found yet. I mean, it’s... it’s probably not a real baby. That... that just seems... unlikely. And why on earth would Ethan want to... you know? I mean, generally, one tries to... avoid that kind of thing.”

“Well. Ethan always did have a... rather twisted sense of... whimsy.”

He fell silent, staring down at his feet and looking quietly desperate. For a long time, Willow didn’t really know what to say. But she really felt like she should say something. In fact, she knew what she needed to say. But she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. But then, she never really thought before speaking, anyway, and generally, she did manage to get her point across. So, what the heck.

“Giles... I... I’m sure this is something Hellmouthy. I mean, it *is* something Hellmouthy, obviously. But... I mean, *and*... and I’m sure we’ll fix this, ok?” She took a deep breath, “But if... if we can’t... or, or if this, like... IS a... a real baby... which, which it probably isn’t! But... if it is... you know we’re all here for you, right?”

Ok, and now came the breathless waiting, hoping against hope that whatever she’d said would make some form of sense. And then, Giles’s hand, the one that was braced on the mat beside her, slipped a fraction of an inch closer to her and turned over, held towards her, invitingly palm up.

Silently, she laid her own hand in his, and squeezed gently.

“Thank you,” he said, softly.

***

A few fruitless days later, Willow was sitting in front of her laptop in Giles’s apartment, surfing the web. It was still winter break, so she didn’t really have anything else to do. And besides, to be honest, Giles had been a bit... needy the past few days. She’d cooked dinner for them tonight, and even managed to make something that tasted good and not at all burnt. And now, here they were, researching again. Researching Glory. Well. Actually, Giles was researching Glory. Willow was researching... babies.

“So... when you say weeks, like, how many weeks are we talking here?”

Giles twisted around on the couch and looked back at her.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“How many weeks since you and Ethan... you know?”

“Oh. Um.” He frowned a little. “Is it relevant?”

“Uh. Well, maybe.”

The website had cute little pastel storks all over it. And smiling babies. Willow had to admit to herself that she was fairly enamored.

“Um. Not so much weeks, I suppose.” He seemed to think for a moment, then said, “Actually, if I recall correctly it was sometime in early September.”

“September?” she yelped.

“Er. Yes. Why? Is there a problem?”

“Well, no. I mean. I just mean... you’ve been, you know, pregnant for... for four months and you didn’t even, like, realize it?”

“Well, honestly, it wasn’t exactly the first thing that sprang to mind.”

He glowered and turned pointedly back to his book. Willow sighed. *Bad, Willow,* she thought to herself, *he doesn’t need you ragging on him. Bad enough what Xander and Buffy are putting him through. Thank god at least Spike doesn’t know...* Willow shuddered at the very idea.

She gently closed her laptop, walked into the living room, and sat down on the couch beside him.

“Sorry,” she said.

He set his book aside and turned towards her, pulling off his glasses and beginning to polish them as he spoke.

“Well, it wasn’t that I... didn’t notice, precisely. I just... believed it was middle age finally catching up to me, I suppose. You know, aching back, and... well. Other things. And, of course...”

He put his glasses back on and looked down at his stomach, rubbed a hand over it absently.

“Yeah,” Willow said, “I mean, I didn’t want to say anything, but... you have... put on a little weight.”

He looked up at her ruefully.

“My girlish figure will never be the same.”

Stuck by the unexpected humor, Willow broke down in giggles. To her surprise, Giles joined in.

They quieted after a moment or two, then looked at each other.

And cracked up.

For a good five minutes, they were both completely swept up in it, and by the time they finally got ahold of themselves, they were leaning on each other and gasping, with tears running down their cheeks.

“Ok, ok,” Willow gasped. “Not that funny.”

She giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

Which made Giles giggle. Then, he cleared his throat and tried to look serious.

“God, I needed that.”

She felt a sudden surge of tenderness for him, and said, softly, “Good.” And then, a beat later, she said, “So, did you say backaches?”

“Oh. Um. Yes.”

“How about the barfiness? Is that a problem?”

“Uh. No, no, not now. Nausea was an issue for awhile there, but... I assumed it was the flu.”

“Well, the website I was looking at did say that would settle down in the second trimester.”

He shot her a hard look, and she “eeped” softly inside.

“Website?”

“Uh. Well. Yeah. You know. About... pregnancy.”

“Magically-induced pregnancy, I assume?” he said, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice and glint in his eye. Willow inched back a bit.

“Um. No. No, just the normal kind.”

Oh dear, the glasses were off again.

“There is nothing normal about this, Willow.”

“I- I know that. But... Giles... haven’t you even considered that maybe this is-”

“No.”

He wasn’t looking at her now. He was sitting with his back stiff and straight, and glaring across the room as though the fireplace had slighted him.

“Well... maybe... maybe you should. I mean, there’s a chance, small as it is, that this is... a baby, Giles. What are you going to do if it is?”

He stood up and walked over to one of the bookcases, fingering the worn leather spines.

“I can’t have a child, Willow. The thought alone is ludicrous. I- I’m a forty-six-year-old single man who fights demons for a living.”

“Well, yeah. But... you own a shop. You’re either there or at home a lot. You have time, Giles. And you have us. You know we’d help.”

“Thank you, Willow. But it’s not a point that is up for debate.”

She watched as his idle fingering of the books changed to active searching, and he picked one off the shelf and proceeded to sit down with it in the armchair. Ok, so, maybe she’d known it was dumb to think about it. Giles’s baby. Because, first of all, it probably wasn’t even real. And, also, it was silly, and girlie, anyway, to wonder whether it would have his eyes. Or be all smart like him when it grew up.

Still, she was a little disappointed, if she were really being honest with herself.

***

Buffy pounced as soon as she saw him walk into the busy hospital hallway, all decked out as usual in his blue scrubs and stethoscope, holding a clipboard and clicking a retractable pen.

“Hi! Ben! I need to talk to you!”

He stopped, and smiled, sticking the pen behind the clip on the board.

“Hi, Buffy. How’s your mom doing?”

“Oh, she’s doing great. Look, is there, like, somewhere private we can talk?”

“Uh...” he looked around, “Well, the locker room’s usually pretty empty. Come on.”

She followed, growing more nervous with ever step. Ok, so, it had taken a *lot* of convincing to get Giles to go for this plan in the first place, but Willow had been insistent, and they all, even Giles, knew better than to argue with Willow. Right now, though, Buffy was beginning to wonder if maybe he’d been right all along about the badness of this idea.

Then, well before she was ready, she and Ben were both sitting at a small table in the doctor’s locker room.

“So, here we are, in private. What can I do for you?”

Buffy took a deep breath, and folded her hands on the table in front of her.

“Um. This... is gonna sound a little crazy. A lot crazy, actually.”

Ben smiled.

“No problem. I deal with a lot of crazy people in my line of work. Give me your best shot.”

Oh, god, this was such a bad idea. She was gonna kill Willow.

“This guy, that I know... well. Is kinda.”

Long pause. Ticking clock. Odd look from Ben.

“Kinda... pregnant.”

Ok, really odd look from Ben.

“Um. When you say ‘guy,’ you’re just meaning, like, person, here, right? As in a... female person.”

“Um. See, that’s the thing. No.”

“No.”

Think Buffy, think!

“It’s a- government experiment! Gone... wrong. And... cruelly abandoned.”

“Ah. Right... and I suppose your friend, the one with the really bad tachycardia, was part of a government experiment too, huh?”

“Uh. Well. Actually... yes. But don’t tell anyone!”

“You guys seem to have a lot of run-ins with government experimenters, don’t you?”

“Look, that’s really not the point. The point is... He needs help. You know, like, medical help. But... we need to keep it quiet.”

There was another one of those long pauses Buffy despised so much. Then, finally, Ben said, “Ok.”

“What?”

“Ok.”

“Wait, is that an ok as in ‘I’ll help you,’ or an ok as in, ‘you really are one of those ever-popular crazy people.’”

He smiled a little.

“It’s an ‘ok, I’ll help you.’”

“Oh. Oh! That’s great!”

But she was still going to kill Willow. Just on principle.

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to get into too much detail, but I know a thing or two about secrets that need keeping. And being a little out of the ordinary. So, uh, how far along is... he?”

***

“I still don’t like this,” Giles was muttering, and yet, he continued to drive along the darkened Sunnydale streets towards the hospital, a week and a half after that day in the Magic Box. Xander watched the show from where he sat, crammed in the backseat with Willow and Anya. Not that that was a bad place to be crammed, of course.

“Well, I don’t care, Giles,” Buffy said, “Do you know how weird it was telling this guy I barely know that this other guy I know is *pregnant*? Come on, Giles. Make my trauma worthwhile, ok?”

“*Your* trauma?” Giles said, “Excuse me, but I think-”

“Oh, get over yourself. All you’re going to have to do is show up and lie there.”

Xander couldn’t resist the urge to chip in: “Oh, no, you’re forgetting, Buffy. He gets to lie there half-naked after drinking about a hundred glasses of water while some random guy probes his innards.”

The car stopped rather unnecessarily abruptly for a red light. Willow was sighing deeply, in that disapproving way she had.

“Aw, come on Will,” he said, for the thousandth time that week, “We’re just joking around.”

“It’s not funny, Xander,” she muttered.

By the time they’d reached the hospital, and were walking into one of the side doors, Giles and Buffy had been reduced to simply glaring eloquently at one another, and Willow was shooting Xander looks of death if he so much as opened his mouth. She was very touchy lately.

“Hey, Willow, what’s with the attitude? Giles is the one who’s-”

“Shh!” Willow hissed, but as it turned out, the man who was walking down the hall towards them was actually Ben, anyway, so it was all right.

“Hey,” Ben said. “I see you brought the whole gang along. I hope you guys can be stealthy.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Anya spoke up, “None of them are speaking to each other right now, anyway. We’ll be very quiet.”

“So, wait,” Ben said, peering at them through the dimness of the hall, which was lit only by a few fluorescent emergency lights. “Which one of you is-”

He was pointing between Xander and Giles. Xander wondered what he was talking about. Then, he realized.

“What? No! No! Him! Not me!”

Ok, now Giles *and* Willow were giving him death glares. Wonderful.

“Yes, it’s me,” Giles said, sounding tired.

“Right. Ok. Right this way.”

All the way down the hall, Xander kept thinking to himself, *no! not me! I could never be-!* And then it occurred to him, suddenly, briefly, in a way it never had before, that Giles must kind of be feeling exactly the same way. Only, in Giles’s case... he was. Xander felt his brow furrow as this thought churned around his brain.

Luckily, though, before it could really settle in, Ben brought the whole group to a halt by turning around to face them and raising his arms, like an elementary school crossing guard. They were right outside of the only open door on the whole darkened hallway, and yellow light was spilling out from the opening.

“Ok. Before we go in, I have to tell you. I brought someone else in on this.”

“What?” Giles, Buffy, and Willow all said at the same time.

Ben made the “don’t walk” sign again, and said, quickly, “I trust her, all right? I got her to go over the ultrasound technique with me, and it was just too complicated for me to learn this quickly. So. She doesn’t know who you are. You can walk out now, if you really want to. But... I think you really shouldn’t.”

Giles only considered a few minutes before giving in with a sighed, “What the hell. I’m already here. Let’s do this.”

And so they all trooped into the room, and Ben shut the door behind them. The nurse that Ben had enlisted was an oldish woman, with a seen-it-all expression on her face. And, being a nurse on a Hellmouth, she no doubt had. She just gave Giles a kind of tired, but mostly friendly smile, and launched into a rapid-fire recitation of instructions that Xander completely tuned out in favor of gazing at Anya for a little while. Because gazing at Anya never got old.

By the time he reeled himself back out of his happy place, Giles was lying on the table with his shirt pulled up. There was some kind of clear goo all over his stomach and the nurse was running a medical gadget over it. This was the moment of truth.

Xander followed everyone else’s gazes to the little screen next to the nurse and saw...

A pulsating mass of black and white.

“Eww,” he said, “What’s that?”

Ben chuckled.

“Nothing yet, really. She’s just getting oriented.”

“Oh.”

He found Willow, fully expecting to be on the receiving end of yet another glare, and prepared to take it like a man, but at the moment, Willow seemed completely enthralled by the nothing on the screen. And she was standing right next to Giles. And... holding his hand.

Weird.

“Oh!” she said, suddenly, and her eyes lit up.

The nurse smiled at her, a much more genuine smile, this time.

“Good eye, young lady,” she said, and Xander looked back at the screen. He still didn’t see anything. And then, the image shifted a bit, and he *did* see. A hand. A little hand... with fingers.

“Whoa,” he said. “That’s...”

“A hand, yes,” the nurse said, and froze the image. “And here’s an arm, and a little bit of leg,” she added, running her finger along the curve of human-shaped stuff on the screen.

A baby. It was a real baby. He stared, distantly aware that his mouth was probably hanging open, as the images flashed by on the screen... a spine, a ribcage, a head, two feet... a little heart that was pumping away wildly.

“Everything seems perfectly in order, Mr. Giles,” the nurse was saying, “In fact, if you weren’t here in front of me, and all I had was this ultrasound, I’m not sure if I would pick up on anything out of the ordinary at all. Were you born a hermaphrodite?”

”Most certainly not!” Giles said, half-sitting up in protest. The image vanished from the screen until the nurse got him settled back down.

“Sorry, but I had to ask. This is just simply remarkable. And you don’t even have any surgical scarring. How-”

“I don’t know,” Giles said, in his this-conversation-is-over voice.

The nurse was looking at the baby on the screen again.

“I’d say you’re about sixteen weeks along. I could tell you the gender, if you’d like?”

“Ooo! Really?” Willow said.

“No,” Giles said, at the same time.

The nurse smiled again, apparently quite warmed up to them by now.

“Want to be surprised, then, do you?”

Giles was looking at a painting that was hanging on the far wall, and Xander realized he had hardly even glanced at the screen the whole time.

“No. I want to terminate as soon as possible.”

“What!” Buffy yelped.

“Huh?” Xander said.

Willow just looked kind of sadly resigned.

“Why?” Anya said, “I mean, it’s small and ill-proportioned, but it is oddly attractive. I’d want one.”

Ok, that wasn’t good. Xander looked over at her and his heart clenched in pure terror at the way she was making doe-eyes at the monitor. Ben was saying something, probably something important, but fear had a very detrimental effect on his hearing. Anya gave him a strange look, and said, “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, and looked back over at Giles and the others quickly.

“It’s going to take major abdominal surgery to get it out, in any case,” Giles was saying, “What difference does it make when you do it?”

“All I’m saying,” Ben said, “Is that it would be hard to keep it quiet. I’d say odds are pretty good that somewhere along the line, something would get out about this. Give me some time, and maybe I can find a way around that.”

“How much time do I have?”

“At least a couple of weeks.”

“All right.”

***

The fact that he agreed with hardly any protests to her suggestion that she stay with him that night only proved to Willow how off-balance he was. Even now, walking into his apartment, he looked tired and pale and older than his years. He was walking with a bit of a weave, and took two tries to get his coat properly hung on the rack. It wasn’t late, by their standards, only just past ten-thirty, but even she was feeling like it was more like three-thirty in the morning. She could only imagine how Giles was feeling.

He’d stopped somewhere around his desk, and was looking around the apartment as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Willow hung up her jacket and set aside the overnight bag she’d packed and walked over to him.

No point in asking if he was ok, and she doubted he’d want to talk about it, so, instead, she said, “I was just planning on doing the newspaper crossword puzzle tonight. You wanna help, maybe?”

He looked down at the desk, furrowed his brow and picked up one of the books there, glanced at the spine and set it back down before he really acknowledged her.

“Uh. Thank you, Willow, but... I think I’d really rather just lie down, maybe do a little light reading before bed.”

“Ok. I understand. Oh, but, hey! Could I at least give you that back rub I was thinking of offering a few days ago before we got sidetracked by arguing?”

He looked a bit doubtful.

“Aww, come on, it’s just a back rub. You said your back was hurting. You know you want to.”

She grinned at him and waggled her eyebrows, and he slowly smiled back. It was just a small smile, but it was a victory.

“Actually, that would be wonderful. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not a bit.”

It wasn’t until she had him upstairs, face down and shirtless on his bed that the first twinge of doubt really hit her. She hadn’t anticipated doubt. Doubt had not even been on the radar. Or... on the gaydar, possibly. But then, as she’d scooted onto the bed and curled her legs up under herself to sit beside him, and really looked at him for the first time, that was when it all began to get a little complicated.

Because, ok, downstairs it had all been about helping a friend who was in a weird place and had a sore back. Up here, it was suddenly about... Giles. Half-naked. Lying on a bed. All relaxed with his head pillowed on his crossed arms and the lamp beside the bed casting this soft warm light over his really *nice* back and making him look like... Like something *way* too touchable. Because, hey, not that she was meaning to be repetitive, but she was totally gay now. In love with a girl. And very fond of breasts, which Giles, in spite of his current state, definitely did *not* have.

In spite of her new misgivings, she leaned forward and laid her hands on the back of his neck. His skin was warm. And soft. He grunted very softly as she began to rub his neck. She bit her lip, and tried to concentrate on just working the knots out of his tense muscles.

Everything was quiet in the apartment, and even outside, like the whole world was holding its breath. Or maybe like she was too distracted to notice anything else. Because all she could hear were the sounds Giles was making: soft moans and sighs and grunts. It very much didn’t slip her notice that those were the exact kind of sounds Giles might make if they were in a far more... intimate sort of situation. Ok, they were also kind of like the sounds he occasionally made while fencing. But now they were in a bed and she was touching his bare skin, and the context was way, way, way different.

And it was kinda turning her on.

She’d once heard someone say that 95 percent of all back rubs lead to sex. It didn’t seem like a very logical statistic, probably one that would fall under that joking category of 57.8 percent of all statistics being made up on the spot, but still, when his hips shifted and bumped her knee after she’d dug into a particularly bad spot along his spine, she had some distinctly not-gay kinda feelings.

So she’d had a crush on him in high school. And he was really sexy when he sang. And he looked *good* in those nice Magic-Box-owner suits. And his eyes were such a pretty color. And he was smart. And he’s always treated her like an equal, right from the start. She really loved that about him.

He was practically purring under her hands now, pressing up into her knuckles as she leaned forward to put her weight into kneading the small of her back.

“Oh, that’s good,” he said, his voice kind of shaky and dripping with pure, sensual pleasure, and ok, he *never* said *that* while he was fencing, at least not in anything *like* that tone of voice.

She pulled her hands away and sat back on her heels.

He hitched himself up on one elbow and looked back over his shoulder at her. His eyes were shuttered, half-closed, rings of jade around pools of darkness, and she knew that waxing poetical about eyes was one of the leading signs that she was really in a whole lotta trouble.

“Willow?” he said.

Apparently he had as much faith in her gayness as she’d had up until just a while ago. Except, here he was, living proof that maybe things weren’t always so clear-cut, what with Ethan and Jenny and Olivia.

When she didn’t answer, he sat up, facing her, with one knee drawn up and hugged in his bare arms. He somehow managed to look relaxed and content and ruffled and concerned all at the same time. It was endearing. And adorable. And sexy.

Damn it.

“Everything all right?”

And of course everything was not all right. Everything was very bad. And she was beginning to wonder if maybe this would always happen to her. Things would get good, and then she’d sabotage everything by falling for someone else. Because, things were good with Tara right now. Amazingly good. Better than anything.

But Giles had felt so good under her hands. And she’d just realized that the reason he was sitting in that awkward position was probably because he was hoping she wouldn’t notice that he had an erection.

Ok, and now, in addition to coming up with some sort of coherent reply to his inquiry before he decided she’d lost her mind, she also had to find some way to pretend she wasn’t staring at his bare chest.

“Uh,” she said.

That really wouldn’t do it. She mentally gave herself a good hard kick upside the head.

“Nothing,” she said, looking up. “So... uh. Is that any better?”

He continued to look doubtful for a moment, and she cringed inside, waiting to be questioned again, but then, he just let it go, and his expression broke into a small smile.

“Yes, thank you. I feel like a new man.”

“Well good. Not that I didn’t like the old man. He was just a little, you know, cranky and pained-looking.”

Giles laughed gently at that, and when he looked back up, their eyes met, and then, instead of flicking off somewhere else, it was like their gazes got tangled up somewhere between them, and they couldn’t quite pull them away.

This was bad. This was dangerous. It had been bad enough when it had been just her, having naughty wrong thoughts. Now there was this intense, unbreakable gazing thing. The kind of thing that takes two people. Oh, this was very bad. She was having more flashbacks to senior year and Xander, but they weren’t helping to clarify anything. They were just making her feel guilty and confused and kind of helpless.

Giles got himself untangled first, looking away sharply and reaching for his glasses.

“Ah, well, I- I believe I should, um, get some sleep.”

“Oh. Yeah. Ok. I’ll. I’ll be down on the couch. You know. If you need anything. Not that you’re, you know, incapable or anything, but-”

“Yes,” he said, mercifully cutting her rambling short, “Thank you, Willow.”

But he touched her hand as he said it, and it made her shiver.

She slunk back downstairs to the couch they’d made up with sheets and a pillow. She slept restlessly that night, and dreamed of green eyes and male hands.

***

He was making no headway. Damn Glory, whatever she was. He turned the page of the book, but there was nothing but more frustration on the next page. He sighed and looked up.

It was dark in his apartment. Darker than usual. Darker than it should be. He stood up from his desk slowly, pushed the chair in and stepped away. The light from the desk lamp was a hazy golden halo in a dark mist, pushing weakly against the blackness. He looked around, and the angles were wrong, the stairway tilting off not-quite-right.

Something was there. Watching him. He could hear it. Feel it. It had a heartbeat, and it had magic, and it was out there, beyond the pitch black window panes. His own breath was loud in his ears as he backed slowly towards the kitchen, and then the wall was solid against his side, and he hung against it, feeling the slow, dumb terror of a hunted animal, feeling the pressure of the thing. Watching him. Waiting.

With a start, he pulled away from the wall, backing up again, down the hall, because to show his back to it would be the biggest mistake he could make.

Away from the desk lamp, in the shadows of the hall, the darkness was purer. Deeper. Like the gut of a dragon. The hall suddenly seemed miles long, and the only light was a faraway glimmer, hopelessly distant. He felt his heart beating harder, and it was cold, and he trembled.

It was closer now.

He fought monsters. He had fought them all his life.

But he had no weapons to fight this one. He reached out to touch the wall, and it seemed he was reaching through a deep cavern, feeling a cold cave-breeze on his arm. Then he felt it. The wall. But it was different. Cool and slick and smooth. He turned to it with a start, pulling his hand away.

Someone stared back at him.

He flailed away, panic crushing his chest.

And then realized he was seeing himself. A mirror.

Drawn, he stepped closer again. All was black now, everywhere around him, an infinity of dark space, except the mirror, glimmering faintly, and his own reflection, reaching up as he did to touch his fingers through the cold glass.

Then, behind him in the reflection, something moved in the darkness. It was like a deep-sea fish, moving sluggishly, blindly. It was pale, white on black, and fleshy, and it shifted and changed and pulsed softly, and he knew that was It. The Thing. He stared, in horror, and could not move, watching it. It was formless, and it was meant to be. But it didn’t want to be. It wanted to be something. And so it changed, slowly, like clay molding itself. First an arm. Then a foot. Then a head. Each of these in turn, as though it wanted to be human, but since it couldn’t see, it couldn’t understand what that was. Couldn’t grasp the totality.

He breathed out, slowly, and saw his breath as a white cloud in the cold.

It heard him.

There was no time to run. No way to stop it.

It started as warmth. Unthreatening, almost, if taken out of context. Just a solid curling of heat in his gut. But it grew. Slowly, slowly, the temperature rising, a painful shock against the chill of the air. He gasped harshly, and his hand, slick with sweat, skidded along the mirror.

He whispered denial into the darkness, but nothing answered. Nothing changed. The heat curled tighter inside of him, and he could feel it, settling in there, making a nest from his innards. His hand slipped from the mirror and he dropped to his knees, as it tugged something inside him, and the heat flared unbearably. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.

“NO!” he shouted.

And then its claws ripped him open from the inside out.

***

Giles awoke already half-sitting up, with one hand clutched to his stomach. The dream was still wrapped around him like the tangled sheets.

Slowly, his heartbeat began to slow, and his panting calmed to slow breaths.

His hand was still pressed to his abdomen.

Just before he pulled it away, he felt it.

Something inside of him moved.

***

Willow looked up at a sound, and startled at the sight of Giles coming down the stairs.

“Oh. Giles. Hey. Did I wake you?” she said, looking guiltily at her midnight (or more like 4 AM) snack of crackers and peanut butter. She’d only turned on the light over the kitchen sink. She didn’t think that was enough light to-

“No, no, not at all. I just. Um. Bad dream.”

He was in a T-shirt and boxers, practically naked by his usual standards, and she felt an uncomfortable twinge of interest, which was quickly superseded by concern. He looked out of sorts, and was rubbing his stomach with one hand in a less-than-idle manner. Funny, now that she knew, how obvious it was. She wondered how she’d missed it. Must be that good old Sunnydale repression at work.

“Uh. Can I get you anything?”

He turned on the desk lamp. Then the lamp by the couch.

“No, that’s quite all-”

He stopped, mid-sentence, and held perfectly still, his head tilted slightly to one side, his hand motionless and pressed flat on his abdomen.

“Giles? You ok?” she asked.

He blinked, then moved his hand down to his side.

“Yes. I- I-” he paused, then said, “It’s... moving.”

“Oh wow! That’s so-” she stumbled to a quick halt, “So... strange?” she offered hopefully, and got a tiny smile in response.

“Very strange. One could even go so far as to say exceedingly strange.”

He sat down on the stool beside hers and cast a longing glance at the Scotch, but didn’t move to pour any.

“Peanut butter cracker?” she said, holding one in his direction.

He waved it off. For awhile, they sat beside each other quietly. He was staring at the countertop. She was staring at him.

She wanted to touch him so much. Even just his arm, or his shoulder. Her crackers sat there, forgotten. He was so unclothed at the moment. Bare, pale arms, one resting on the counter, the other on his knee. Which was also bare. And fuzzy. And even his feet were bare, down there in the shadows. He had long, guy-like toes.

Just a whole lotta Giles skin, really. Right next to her. So close she could almost feel his heat. Smell a trace of his sweat. Sense the aura of his magic. It tasted like ozone and summer rain.

His jaw was stubbly.

“You think I’m making a mistake,” he said, softly, and his voice was a bit rough from sleep.

“Huh?” she said, snapping out of her reverie.

“A mistake. The wrong choice.”

Oh. About the baby.

Then it was only natural to reach out and lay her hand over his.

“I think you don’t need me judging you right now. You know what’s best for you, Giles.”

“Perhaps,” he said, not looking at her. He turned his hand over under hers and curled his fingers loosely, and his blunt nails traced tingling trails up from her wrist to her palm. She could feel her pulse in her throat as she mirrored his gesture, wrapping her fingers around his own, nesting them together like yin and yang. The underside of his arm was white under the fluorescent kitchen light, and his Eyghon tattoo was like a dark insect just beneath his elbow.

They were holding hands. This... this was not of the good. Not at all. But then, it was. Because he was so warm, and he was Giles, and the fifteen-year-old with a crush that still lived inside her was bouncing with giddy joy. Her current self was just getting quietly turned on.

She uncurled her hand again, and her fingertips brushed against his wrist. It was warm, and very soft, and, intrigued, she investigated it more, tracing circles and lines. He accepted this without protest. When she looked at his face, she saw his eyes were following her invisible hieroglyphs. And when she stopped moving, he took her wrist in his hand. Gently turned her palm up.

Cradling her hand in his own, he reached up with the other, and touched just one finger to her life line. Slowly dragged it from one end to the other. And back. Lit fire to every single one of the thousands of nerve endings along the way.

“Oh,” she tried to say, but her voice had left the building, so all that came out was a small exhalation.

His voice was still working though, because he spoke, with the rough tenor of a rumbling fire.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

Whoa. Whoa. That... she had not been expecting that.

“Uh... no... definitely no.”

“You are,” he breathed, and touched her heart line, followed its curve up to the sensitive skin between her index and middle fingers, then let his finger linger there, stroking between hers subtly, suggestively.

It sent a bolt of heat through her.

She jerked her hand away.

“Hey! This- this is all wrong! You’re not supposed to hit on me!”

“No?” he said. He was looking at her from under heavy lids, and that look alone was like a touch.

Her voice was shaking. She wanted it to be with indignation. But really, it was probably more like desire.

“No! You’re supposed to say, ‘we can’t do this, it would be wrong.’”

“I see,” he said.

Her body was heavy and time was slow. He touched her knee. Slid his hand up, just a little bit.

“I want you,” he said.

“I... I...”

It was bad. And wrong. But it was Giles. And she’d loved him for so long she couldn’t remember not loving him. And she’d never even hoped that she might actually have him someday. And she wanted him. So. Bad.

“Me too,” she said.

His eyes snapped up, and looked straight into her own.

“Ok,” she said.

And he leaned in, and then he was kissing her.

*Eyes open,* she thought. *I’m cheating on my girlfriend. There will be fallout.*

*I’ll deal with it in the morning.*

She was kissing him, too. This was...

“Whoa.”

“Mmm,” he said.

His eyes were closed, and his hand was splayed across her cheek, and his lips were still close enough to hers they were nearly touching. And then they *were* touching, and she decided to stop thinking. She let him lead her up the stairs, let him take off her clothes and his own, let him drape them both naked across his bed. Kissing all the while, touching. Heated skin against heated skin. Friction and softness.

He braced himself on one hand over her, held himself in the other. She was stretched out under him, with her arms laced behind her head, relaxed and wanting. His eyes burned down into hers, and for a moment, she felt his magic again, cool and silver-green and electric.

Then, he touched himself to her, pressed just the tip of his cock against her slick heat, and dragged it down and then up, and then back down. Teasing them both, if the look on his face was any indication. She arched her back and groaned, and he pulled back as she moved, no penetration, just continuing the slow, sliding motion.

“Rupert,” she moaned, her voice thick with arousal and frustration.

He smiled down at her. And then pushed into her.

She gasped. He laughed, a strangled, short sound. Already his hips had found a rhythm, and he was fucking her, slowly, shallowly, giving her time to readjust to the sensation. She cupped the back of his head in her hand, feeling his hair coil around her fingers, and pulled him down for another kiss.

“More,” she murmured. He complied, going deeper, harder. She wrapped her arms around his back and hugged him close. Struggled just to breathe against the pleasure, felt his own breath, wet and hot, against her ear.

Gave herself over to it, and came, gripping his hips hard between her thighs and bucking up, pressing herself against his pelvis.

Watched his face as he followed her over.

They collapsed into a tangle of limbs and hot, damp bodies on the wrinkled sheets, and then wriggled around just enough to get under the covers.

They slept the rest of the night, soundly and dreamlessly.

***

She moaned in protest at the annoying buzz of the alarm clock, her head aching a bit from a night of not-enough-sleep. To her surprise, for once, her groan produced real results. Someone else turned the damn thing off.

“Mmm,” she hummed approvingly, and cuddled closer to the warm chest she was draped over. Warm... manly... chest. And that thing against her thigh? Definitely not a girly thing.

But Giles *was* petting her hair a lot like Tara liked to do.

It was kinda nice. She kept her eyes closed, and held still, putting off the whole freaking-out phase that was probably going to come as soon as they both admitted to being awake. Actually, it was *really* nice. His arm was hooked around her back, holding her close, and his dick was hard, and they smelled good. Ok, not good, exactly. They needed a shower. But it was nice, in some sort of primal, sexy way.

It made her want to crawl on top of him, let him slide inside her, and ride him for as long as he could stand it, and just say to hell with the rest of the world, like shops that needed opening, and college courses that needed attending, and lovers that needed a big confession followed by a much bigger apology.

And his hand was so tender. So fascinated with her hair. Almost made her think...

Then she noticed that her left arm was completely numb, so she had to give up the illusion of sleeping so that she could pull it out from under him. He shifted obligingly, and she ended up propped on that elbow, looking down at him. He smiled up at her.

“Good morning,” he said.

Hmm. Not freaking out. Still petting her, even, although his hand had moved from her hair to her arm. Since she’d been expecting stammering and blushing and a speedy retreat, this all left her a bit confused.

“Hi,” she said.

Then they were both just silently looking at each other. Her heart was beating a little hard. None of this was going as she’d expected. Least of all when his hand moved again, from her arm to her face, touching her cheek, and then lightly brushing over her lips. She breathed out softly around his fingers, and his eyes drifted closed for a moment. Then he rolled them over, gently pressing her down on her back beneath him.

She didn’t even try to not kiss him back. Didn’t hide the way her body arched up against his weight.

“Oh, Willow,” he said, and then he was kissing a path under her jaw, his tongue soft and wet and maddeningly *good.*

She said his name, called him Rupert, because she’d only ever called him by it that one other time last night, and now it felt so good rolling off her tongue, like a sex word.

He nipped her earlobe, cupped her breast in his hand and rubbed her nipple roughly with his thumb. She gasped, and rocked her hips up. Oh, goddess, he felt wonderful. His thigh was between her legs, close enough for her to rub herself against, so she did, groaning at the sweet relief of pressure against her hot, swollen center.

“God, yes, precious,” he breathed, raggedly, against the skin he’d dampened with his tongue. He hitched his knee a little higher, pressing more firmly against her sex, and slid his hand down to her hip to encourage her. Her gaze followed his hand down and something inside her flared up like a wildfire.

His hand was flexing and releasing, following the slow roll of her pelvis against his thigh, coaxing her, begging her to keep moving. Her leg was twined around his. His breath was harsh beside her ear. His cock was hard as steel, a hot brand brushing against her flank with each upstroke.

*Precious*

The endearment buzzed in her mind, flickering through the haze of sleepy, sensual pleasure.

She gripped his shoulder, could feel her own slick juices, cooling on the skin of his thigh. Could feel the hair there tickling her skin, sweet friction just where she wanted it.

He whispered to her as they moved together with their easy rhythm.

“Beautiful,” he said, and then kissed the folds of her ear. “Amazing.” Another kiss, and one to punctuate each word after: “Perfect. Wonderful. Willow.”

Then his hand slid off her hip, pushed between them, two fingers curling into her without preamble. She grunted and dropped her head back, twisted up to meet him, felt nothing, thought of nothing, but the pure pleasure of his hand on her, inside her, working her with practiced skill: his fingers moving inside her, his thumb pressed against her clit.

He shifted closer, bringing with him heat and the heady scent of male sweat and sex, and his mouth covered hers, his tongue pushed between her lips, taking her, claiming her, even as his fingers dug deep into her body.

She moaned helplessly, scraped her nails down his arm. It seemed to incite him. He pressed her down, kissed her fiercely.

He had four fingers in her now, his thumb still circling her. Her orgasm hit hard and fast, raking up her body, slamming her hips up against him, clamping her passage iron-hard around his hand.

She collapsed, boneless, but he didn’t let up. He broke the kiss to let her breathe, but kept up his rhythm inside her, his eyes on hers, blazing and intense.

“Goddess,” she gasped, “Fuck me, Rupert. Now, please. Please-”

He didn’t, though. Not until he’d wrung another orgasm from her. Then he left her, briefly, a melted puddle of happy goo, while he leaned over and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. It was while he was rooting around in the drawer looking for another condom that she figured something out.

This was a seduction. Not a sexual seduction, obviously, since here they were, already well into the sex part. This was about a lot more than sex.

He crawled back over her, and kissed the tip of her nose teasingly. She was too distracted by her new revelation to smile. He cocked his head to the side.

“Something wrong?”

“No... I just... I’m having a paradigm shift here. Don’t mind me.”

He grinned at that, a broad, happy, uncomplicated grin, and kissed her again, lightly, on her temple, and then whispered, softly, “God, I love you.”

Then, while she was still reeling over that, he thrust inside of her.

“Just making sure you shift into the right one,” he said, still grinning, a cheerfully wicked sparkle in his eyes.

He was moving gently enough that she could keep her wits more or less about her.

“Love?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“But... but...”

He was looking down at her so tenderly, though. And he felt so good, moving inside her. Negative thoughts weren’t really coming to mind.

“Mmm, tha’s nice,” she slurred.

He pulled away and sat back on his heels. Wow, and she’d thought she was seeing a lot of Giles skin *last night*.

“Hey,” she protested, albeit somewhat weakly, because this was her best view yet of Giles, full monty. “’scuse me, Mister, but what part of ‘mmm, that’s nice’ are you having trouble with here?”

“Roll over,” he said.

She arched her brow at him.

“Trust me,” he said, with another grin.

So, she did, because she was discovering that she really liked Giles when he was gleeful.

He leaned down over her, kissing her shoulderblade languidly for a little while, until she said, “So, what exactly are you planning on doing back there? Just so we’re all on the same page and all.”

She felt his chuckle on her skin, and shivered a little at the feeling.

“Not that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He nipped her, and she squirmed and giggled.

“Well, thank you, that was nice and indefinite.”

“Here, sit up. Slowly, let me-”

His hands were strong and steadying on her sides, pulling her back towards him and then holding her still, up on her knees and braced against the wall with one hand.

“Big with the orders, today, aren’t we?” she said, as he moved up flush against her back, his knees between hers. “What are you-”

But then she didn’t need an answer, because he’d pulled her down into his lap, sliding back inside her.

“Oooooh,” she sighed. “Ok.”

His stomach was a firm presence against the small of her back, and it occurred to her that if they’d tried this a few weeks later, it probably wouldn’t have worked out.

He’d wrapped one arm around her, and his other hand was on her, touching her as he began to move again. Their position kept things almost painfully slow, but that was more than compensated for by the way his cock was touching whole new places inside her, and his fingers on her clit were driving her right back out of her mind.

He kissed her neck, fucked her, held her tight, and she lost all track of time, everything just fading into a golden sort of haze. Nothing mattered except his hands on her, his cock inside her, his voice, murmuring to her. Calling her things like “darling,” and “love,” and “precious.”

Her climax, when it came, was powerful but slow, rolling over her like liquid heat. It was thorough, like being licked all over, and it left her every muscle quivering and weak in reaction.

She just hung in his arms, after that, her head draped back over his shoulder, exulting in the tingling aftershocks as he reached his own completion.

Afterwards, they were spooned together, unconcerned with their mutual lateness.

“But... what if this is just some kind of... weird reaction to, you know, this whole... weird situation. Like, maybe this is some manifestation of my nurturing instincts or something.”

His hand stopped petting her arm.

“Do you think it is?”

“I- I dunno. I mean, it’s not that I don’t... really really like you, Giles. I mean, I’ve had a crush on you for, like, ever. But... five years we’ve known each other, and we haven’t jumped in bed before.”

The petting resumed, but warily.

“Yes. But in that time... you were far too young at first. And then there was Oz. And then Tara.”

“Um, technically, there’s still Tara.”

He didn’t answer.

“I love Tara.”

His silence continued.

“I don’t know what I want, Giles... I didn’t think... this isn’t... I never planned on this.”

She started to roll over to face him, but he tightened his arms around her, and then kissed her shoulder.

“Take all the time you need, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Tara was already off to class by the time Willow got back to their dorm room. She’d left a message on the white board on their door: “Missed you last night. Hope things are good with Mr. Giles. - Tara. P.S. Will take good notes in class today” The message was followed by a quickly sketched heart.

Willow felt her lips tighten in a painful smile, and she reached out and touched it. Her fingers smudged away a section of the red line, and something in her ached horribly. She’d messed up Tara’s little heart. It wasn’t perfect anymore.

She sighed and pushed open the door, walked into their room, and started gathering together her shower stuff.

She spent a long time in the shower. It was midday, and no one was around. Most everyone was either in class or studying or sleeping. The water pressure, as always, left much to be desired, but at least it was hot. Hot enough to steam up the whole room, even, and to turn her skin all pink. She scrubbed herself determinedly with her little blue bath puff, and stared at the tired, yellow tiles.

Bad. That’s what she was. Very, very bad.

She loved Tara. Tara was her girlfriend. Tara was *a* girl, and she was supposed to like girls now. Not boys. Her mother had been so proud of her when she came out. Excited, even. She’d joined PFLAG the very next day. She’d hung a rainbow flag next to their front door. But then, the next time Willow saw her, she’d called Tara “Tamara”.

Which was totally beside the point.

The point being... she’d just cheated on Tara.

With Giles.

Who she really... Well, it was hard to define how she felt about Giles. She knew she loved Tara. Loved a lot of things about Tara. She loved her shy smile, and her gentle voice. She loved the soft curves of her body, and the way she smelled, and her kitten-soft hair. She loved, most of all, the way Tara looked at her... like she was perfect, like she was wonderful, like she could do no wrong.

Oh, but she *had* done wrong. Big wrong.

She should tell her. That was the right thing to do. Sure, she had done a bad thing. But it was Tara. And Tara loved her. She’d forgive her. She’d just tell Tara that... that things had gotten a little out of hand.

But then... that would work, maybe, to explain the first time. The second time? Not so much. And sure, she could say that Giles had started it, because he had. But that didn’t really explain why she hadn’t stopped it. She hadn’t wanted to stop it. She’d just wanted to *do* it. And so she had. Even though she’d known that it was wrong.

No. No, she’d just been in the moment. That was all. It was a mistake. A big mistake. A fluke.

She swept a soapy hand between her legs, and her body twitched in response, still achy and tender. She lingered a little longer than strictly necessary. The hot water, slick foam, and her own fingers combined with the echoing sensations of that morning’s sex sent little electric tingles all through her.

Fluke, right. That’s what it was.

Maybe it would be best to just not say anything. It wasn’t going to happen again, after all. Ok, so, Giles maybe wanted it to happen again. Maybe. But... that didn’t mean it would. She was strong. She could say no. And she loved Tara.

So, really, there was no reason to even mention it. It would just dredge up all sorts of issues and stuff. And really, that wasn’t necessary. What Tara didn’t know... wouldn’t hurt them.

She made her decision as she shut off the water. She wouldn’t mention it. She and Tara would continue on, undamaged. And the next time she saw Giles, she’d just gently break it to him that that whole sex thing was never ever happening again.

***

He could feel her approaching, as though his body were a taut guitar string that had just been plucked. Thrumming.

He’d gone still, for a moment, at the counter, a customer’s purchase in his hand and halfway to the bag. Evening sunlight was slanting in and landing in crooked rectangles on the front floor of the shop, fluorescent orange. The Scoobie gang was grouped around the research table, clowning around as usual.

He had to shake himself to bring himself back to the present, finish up with the customer and send them on their way.

Then, he wandered towards the front of the shop, justifying the action to himself by straightening up a few shelves, brushing a bit of dust off a few of the statues. When the bell jingled over the door, he managed to keep himself fairly calm when he turned, and to keep his smile level and normal as he greeted her.

“Hello, Willow.”

“Hey, Giles,” she said, but when she looked at him, her eyes jittered a bit, like a flighty horse, and he felt a tightening in his chest. God, no.

She scurried to the back of the shop, and sat down quickly between Xander and Buffy, and the cheerful greetings from the rest of the group floated over to him. He found himself standing still again. Listening as the others’ voices mingled with the dust that drifted in the sunlight.

He was a fool. An old fool, at that. Thinking that he could ever have her.

But, he was also, apparently, a glutton for punishment, because after a moment or two, he walked over and joined the group at the table.

“So,” Buffy chirped, “What did you two *do* last night?”

“What?” Willow yelped, and Giles groaned inside. Yes, dear, and shall we sign a written affidavit confessing to our actions as well?

“Hey, chill Will,” Xander said, “Sheesh, another reaction like that and we’re gonna think you and Giles are having a torrid love affair or something. And can I just say: ew.”

“No, no love affair. Not at all. We went to bed. Early. Separately!”

Anya spoke up, at that.

“I can’t imagine why. Giles is quite physically pleasing. I would have sex with him. If I didn’t already have Xander, who’s much better, of course. But he’s mine and you can’t have him.”

As usual, Giles was left wondering whether to be pleased or offended.

“So, really, you two just went to bed? That’s boring,” Buffy said.

“We were tired,” Willow said, and Giles could still see the panic in her eyes. “Ooo, but hey, Giles felt the baby move.”

Bloody hell. Yes, let’s just bring that whole issue up again, shall we?

“Ooo!” Buffy said, “ Really? Is it moving now? Can I feel?”

“No,” he said, dourly, “But I do have a rather bad case of heartburn. Feel free to pop by the drug store and pick up a package of Rolaids if you are indeed concerned about my physical well-being.”

Buffy pouted.

“Fine, be that way. Geez, Giles. You need to lighten up a little.”

“Yeah, really,” Xander said, joining in, “I mean, think of it as a demonic possession. Only without the demon. Or the mind control.”

There was, he’d learned a long time ago and the hard way, such a thing as being too jaded. Things lost all meaning, then. Things lost all sense of balance, and proportion. The end of the world could feel as dreadful or as trivial as stubbing one’s toe, if one had developed the right frame of mind. Sometimes, that was a good thing, a useful thing. Sometimes it meant that you could completely miss the things that were truly important, that were truly meaningful.

The things that were truly painful.

Except, at that moment, with the heat of rage rising through him to match the physical pain in his chest, he would never have been able to explain that to them. So instead, he excused himself and walked away, measuring his step until he was safely ensconced in the basement stock room.

He leaned back against the wall, shut his eyes, and slipped his hand between two buttons on his shirt and pressed it flat, his fingers touching the skin of his stomach. Truth be told, now that he knew what the sensation felt like, he’d been feeling it on and off all day. It was like ants marching in his intestines: a trembly little flutter.

A baby. Good God, it really was alive in there. Moving.

It was horrifying. He had always had the utmost respect for mothers, truly he had. He’d even assisted at a birth, once, part of the extensive first aid training he’d received in preparation for being a Watcher. The Council was nothing if not thorough.

But this? It was wrong on so many levels, he couldn’t begin to count them. It was humiliating. Emasculating. It was like a cancer. Like a parasite. Like a horrible mutation. All he wanted was for it to be gone, for it to be over. The worst part of last night’s nightmare had been waking up to the knowledge that it wasn’t a dream. It was real.

This time, he didn’t feel her until she was right beside him. He even flinched when she touched his arm.

“Oh... sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

He opened his eyes, looked at her.

Beautiful girl. Eyes so big you could get lost in them. Of course she would be the one to come down here. She would understand. She could never be jaded. She felt everything, all the time. He couldn’t imagine it. But it amazed him.

She shouldn’t be in the dark like this. She was meant for the light.

“You ok?” she asked.

He couldn’t stop his ironic snort, and she smiled a little in answer. Because she understood him. She’d always understood him. God, from the moment they’d met in that library, she’d looked right into his soul.

He hurt inside, looking at her. And then decided, what the hell? He had faith in her. He knew she’d never let him harm her. She was stronger than that.

So he curled his hand around the curve of her skull pulled her closer and stepped towards her, and kissed her, because there were no words that he could say then. Words were far too dangerous, far too precise. Bodies only knew how to speak in broad terms. Bodies could say “I want” or “back off,” but not “I want to, but we shouldn’t, I have a girlfriend.”

And for a moment, hers was tense, stiff. Her lips were locked tight as he kissed along them.

And then her hands were on his back, and her body melted like warm butter, and her lips parted beneath his, and he could breathe again. Thank god, thank *god*, was all he could think as he pulled her roughly against him, as her mouth opened wide, as she invited him inside her.

He knew that on some level, this was escapism. That he was burying himself in physical sensations to escape that freak show his life had suddenly become. But she wasn’t just a convenient bystander. She was Willow. And he’d loved her for far longer than was socially acceptable. He wasn’t passing this up, his one shot. He was tired of being lonely. Tired of stepping aside and letting people go, or losing them to death or fate or fear.

He pressed her back against the wall, and she squirmed against him. She wanted him.

For the moment, that was all that really mattered.

They kissed for a little while, their bodies undulating gently together. But even as they did, Giles could feel the seconds bleeding away. Eventually, someone would come down here, try to figure out what had happened to them.

He kissed her hard, and then reached down, unbuttoned her jeans.

She groaned a “yes” against his cheek, so he unzipped her fly, pushed her pants and underwear down, hiked her up against the wall and held her up there.

“Whoa,” she said, but not at all in a restraining way. It was encouragement.

His hands gripped her thighs, holding her up, and she kicked her jeans off one foot, wrapped her legs around him, and hooked one arm around his shoulders. Had to hurry. God knew, Buffy was paranoid. She could be appearing down the stairs any minute now. His cock surged harder in his slacks and he almost laughed at himself. He’d lived long enough to accept the fact that public sex was one of his ironclad kinks.

“Unzip me,” he said, his lips near her ear, “Take me out, put me in you.”

“Oh goddess,” Willow gasped, and it thrilled him and aroused him to hear the wild abandon in her voice.

“Condom’s in my right jacket pocket,” he added, as her fingers touched his zipper. “Quickly.”

And then he lost himself to the feeling of her small, perfect hands on him. Loved the way she handled him, with sharp quick movements, fumbling a little from unfamiliarity and the constraints of their position.

And sliding inside of her was heaven, hot and slick and tight, moving around him. She grasped his shoulders hard and he bowed his head beside hers, panting against her shoulder as he fucked her. So good. So fucking good. That was all he could feel, or think, or comprehend. It was good. It washed up and down and all through his body, fiery waves of lust and satiation. He could taste her skin, smell her hair, hear her breath, and feel her. God, could he feel her. Clenching hard around him, drawing him deeper.

And he could feel her magics, too, reaching out from somewhere deep inside her and touching him, warming him in a way that wasn’t tangible, but was still so physical. She tasted like strawberries. He’d always assumed that was her shampoo, or her perfume, it was so strong around her. But it was magic. Oh god, she was powerful. He’d never even realized...

He stifled a groan against her neck, and she shuddered, wrapping her legs around him tighter, and pulling him up into her.

“Yes. Rupert, baby, yes, please,” she was saying, her voice still mercifully quiet, but taking on an edge of desperation, “Just a little more, please, more...”

More. A little more. Yes. He was gripping her thighs hard now, could feel his fingers digging into her skin. Prayed it wouldn’t leave bruises, and then forgot all about it as he hammered into her, deep, powerful thrusts that drove her inches up the wall, that made her squeak, and then bite her lip to keep quiet.

“Yes, darling, yes, come for me, come on,” he coaxed, watching her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her head thrown back against the wall, lost in the feeling, lost in *him*, dear god. He loved her. Loved her, loved her, loved her.

“Love you,” he gasped, hardly able to find the breath for the words.

And she came, her head thumping back against the wall, her whole body tightening around him: her arms and her legs and her hot, flinching channel. He buried himself in her as deep as he could, pressed his face into the hollow between her shoulder and neck, and his own orgasm took him, wracking his whole body, shoving him a few degrees over from reality, leaving him breathless and spent and sweaty.

And then, Xander’s voice came down the stairs: “Hey, you guys get et by vamps or something?”

She startled in his arms, and he let her down onto her own feet, and she called up, “No- Nope. We’re fine. Be up in a few.”

“Already was, actually,” Giles murmured into her ear and she giggled and poked his arm.

“Silly.”

“Ok,” Xander said, and the door whumped shut.

They went limp in relief against each other.

“Ok,” Willow said, “That was... really good timing.”

He grinned and kissed her.

“That it was.”

Then she reeled away from him, looking a bit drunk, and stopped a few feet away. Then she just stood there, naked from the waist down, with her jeans and panties caught around one foot and the other leg bare but for a sock. She glanced down at herself, and seemed momentarily taken aback, and she was just... simply the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. He marveled at his own capacity for sappiness as he dealt with the condom and then went over to help her get her jeans off so that she could get them back on again properly.

And then, when they were both properly clothed, he stepped back, and held out his arms for inspection. She looked him up and down, and nodded, then mirrored his posture.

“You look perfect,” he whispered, nothing but the truth, and kissed her one more time, letting the moment linger as long as he could.

They went back upstairs, studiously not touching, and he understood that this was the way it would be, for a time at least. A secret. He decided he could live with that.

***

One week passed.

Giles’s car was parked at the top of a rocky bluff, snugged up against the matte grey roadside barrier, a shock of red against the washed-out blue of the evening sky and the dense charcoal black of the rocks. The surf was wild, and wind-whipped, capped with foam and roaring against the small strip of sand. They were huddled together on a blanket, her back to his chest, his arms around her, and her arms crossed over her own chest against the chilly breeze. It was nice, though. The cold wind was something they could shelter each other from, made the warmth of their bodies that much more attractive.

His chin was resting on her shoulder, his face turned slightly into her neck, and his nose was brushing her jaw. It was cold, like a puppy’s.

They’d made love earlier, after feeding each other a picnic dinner of fruit, crackers and cheese, and a bottle of wine. She’d always figured that sex on a beach would turn out to be much more romantic in theory than in practice, but it had surprised her. With the cool sand shifting under the blanket under her back, the howl of the wind, and the pounding crash of the waves, it had all been so primal, so powerful. It was like they were connected to the earth, moving with some universal rhythm, and like the forces of the earth were moving in time with them, as well.

She shivered, remembering, and Giles pulled her a little closer, maybe mistaking it for a chill... or maybe knowing exactly what she was thinking. He nuzzled her with his cold nose and pursed his lips against her throat, a quick, glancing kiss. She rolled her head back onto his shoulder and looked up at the darkening sky.

“Are you sure you really have to go? Can’t you just call them?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.

“I wish I could. But I’m afraid this is my best hope for getting the Council to speak with me at all.”

She sighed. She knew. And the whole Glory thing was more important than her sex life. But... but...

“This stinks. A lot,” she said.

He licked her neck, and she squirmed and giggled.

“Giles!”

He just moved on to nibbling the shell of her ear. She sighed again, happily this time, and let the issue go. So, he’d be off to England tomorrow. Wasn’t permanent. He’d be back. And then they could do this all they wanted, provided they could continue to find good excuses for slipping away from the rest of the group for a couple hours. His hand moved to her breast, squeezing gently. She turned her head towards him, and they kissed, deeply and slowly. The wind whipped her hair around their face and into their mouths, but they just laughed and kept kissing.

She felt the words inside her a moment before he spoke them aloud: “I love you.”

Something twisted in her chest, and fluttered at the back of her throat. Maybe it was habit, because whenever Tara said the words, she said them back, almost as a reflex.

In any case, thinking about it made her head hurt and her heart feel funny and panicky, so she generally tried to avoid it. Instead, she thought about how warm and solid and alive Giles’s body was, like a living wall behind her, and how nice his arms were, wrapped around her, making her feel so loved, so cherished, so... “Precious,” he whispered.

That thing inside her heart moved again, with an insistent lurch, and she had to say something, so she finally just said his name, because *that* at least, she was sure of.

“Rupert...”

Then she relaxed in his arms and just watched the stars come out over the ocean and let him hold her.

***

Mr. Giles had left for England that morning and Willow was spending the evening at home for what seemed like the first time in at least a week. Tara didn’t begrudge her the time spent with him, of course. Far be it for her to try to get between any of the Scoobies. She knew that they cared about each other, and she knew that they leaned on each other. And she knew that Willow really cared about Giles, and things were weird and probably scary for him right now.

Still, if she were being completely honest with herself, she was kinda glad he was gone for the moment, and that Willow was actually here. Even if they were just studying.

Tara was at her desk making a spreadsheet on her laptop. Willow was on her stomach on the bed, tapping a highlighter against her lips and reading a textbook. Her knees were bent up, and her feet were hooked together at the ankles, swaying back and forth over her back, vaguely in time with the beat of the music on their stereo.

She smiled, warmed by the sight of her love, here with her and at ease.

And, ok, not all of that warmth was entirely platonic. After all, with all the distractions of the past week they hadn’t really had any... alone time. Her smile widened a little, took on a wicked edge, and she decided that her spreadsheet could wait.

She shut her laptop and slunk over to join Willow on the bed, quiet as a cat, so that her hands on Willow’s back came as a surprise to the other girl. Willow jumped a little, making a cute little squeak, and then looked over her shoulder at Tara.

“Hey!”

Tara just continued to smile, and started to rub her shoulders.

Willow arched into the massage and tossed her highlighter aside.

“Mmm,” she said, and then, after a moment, “Hey, Tara, I heard once that 95% of all back rubs lead to sex. Do you think that’s, like, really accurate? Cause it seems to me like that’s- ooo, that was a good spot, right there... mmm...”

Tara leaned down over her and into the massage, like a jockey coaxing a thoroughbred to run just a little faster.

“This one might,” she murmured.

And Willow rolled over under her then, and reached up to touch her face, her hair, grinning all the while.

“Yeah, kinda looks like,” she said.

Tara let herself down over Willow, covering her like a blanket, and they were kissing, slowly, without urgency.

***

Willow couldn’t help but compare them. Tara’s kisses and Giles’s. Neither of them came up lacking in her mind, but there were differences. Aggression, maybe, being the big one. Here was Tara, a warm weight over her, with her tongue slipping gently into her mouth as it did, soft and light. Giles could be gentle. Often was. But there was always something more there, something hard to define, something wild and maybe just barely leashed.

Willow slid her hands down Tara’s back as they kissed, tracing her soft, feminine curves. Different, very different. But not in a bad way. She loved Tara’s body. She loved the shape of it, the softness of it. It felt good under her hands, always had, even the first few times they’d touched. She could remember the joy of it... the relief of it. The freedom of being able to admit how much she loved women’s bodies.

But she loved Giles’s body, too. And she’d loved Oz. And Xander. She liked male muscle, and broad shoulders, and... heck, Giles’s chest hair.

Tara pulled them over onto their sides, and Willow’s hand moved, almost automatically, to Tara’s breast. There was nothing in the world like those. She was endlessly fascinated by them, the way they moved in her hand, a heavy, living weight, and the way Tara’s nipples would peak into sharp points when she handled them.

Tara hummed softly into their kiss, moved her hand down to Willow’s waist, and pulled them a little closer together, wrapping her leg around Willow’s.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to compare them. After all, she’d been with Tara for more than a year. Giles, she’d been with for a week. He still had the flush of new... whatever... working in his favor. Plus, the whole secret romance thing? Kinda sexy all by itself.

It wasn’t until she was on her stomach between Tara’s legs, with her tongue slipping into her folds, that the real epiphany hit her. What Giles had that Tara didn’t. Hardness. And she wasn’t talking about the physical sense.

Tara was kind, and gentle, and soft... malleable. And that gentleness defined her, filled her, through and through. It wasn’t a bad thing. It was what made her so beautiful, so wonderful. Honest compassion, deep-seated agreeableness.

Giles, though... there was a darkness in him. A violence. Not something he was proud of, or something he showed very often. But it was there.

And the thing was... it was in her, too. She felt it sometimes. And when the two of them were together... it was like striking flint against steel. Sparks. Passion.

It wasn’t a *guy* thing, it was a *Giles* thing.

Later, with Tara’s tongue on her, and Tara’s fingers inside her, she had to press her arm over her mouth, had to bite back the words that wanted to come. Silently moved her lips, shaped words against the skin of her arm, “Goddess, yes, please, harder... Rupert...”

Then she was arching her back up, biting her arm to stop any incriminating cries, and digging her heels into Tara’s back, lost in the black-red haze of orgasm.

***

Willow had driven him to the airport, partly to spare him the cab fare, but mostly so they could spend another few minutes together before he had to leave. She’d followed him to the gate, and when they’d called for pre-boarding, and he’d stood up and reached for his carryon bag, she’d jumped up as well, and hugged him. Not a quick, desperate hug. Just a slow, easy hug, the kind where you moved together as though drawn by gravity, and your arms wrapped tight around each other, and your bodies seemed to melt together into one being. And then she’d just held him, and he’d held her, there at gate A3, with the rest of the LA-bound crowd flowing around them, a distant, unnoticed blur.

And instead of letting go, they just seemed to bond a little tighter with each passing minute. He could feel her heartbeat, her breathing. Her head was tucked under his chin, and he could just barely feel her breath, warm and damp, through his sweater. He inhaled deeply the scent of her hair, knowing full well how much he resembled an addict who knew his next fix may be a long time off.

She seemed to be doing the same thing.

Inhaling him. Absorbing him.

They called his row, and he just pulled her closer, feeling the warmth, the mass, the shape of her body, and memorizing it. Loving it. Just trying to get his fill of touching her for long enough to let go and board the damn plane.

They’d finally pulled apart when the last call came, and they were both a little unsteady on their feet. His eyes were a bit unfocused, and her pupils were widely dilated. There were no words he could stand to say, so he simply touched her cheek, and then finally picked up his bag and walked to the gate. The attendant gave him an inscrutable look, checked his boarding pass, and waved him on. He didn’t look back as he walked down the long, grey corridor to the plane. As he stepped onto the plane, he smiled and shook his head, amused at himself. It wasn’t as if he were leaving forever. He’d be back in a few days. And yet, leaving her, even for that long, was sweet agony.

He’d miss her. Her soft touch, her smile, her voice. He’d always adored her, but over the past week, he’d become completely besotted with her. She delighted him, amazed him, set fire to his body and spirit.

He was in love, and it was utterly thrilling.

Five hours later, though, the elation had long faded. He hadn’t even spared a thought to what it might be like to fly in his condition. All that had been on his mind was getting in touch with the blasted Council. Now though, after a rough takeoff and landing in a tiny puddle-jumper, and then another takeoff in a jet shortly thereafter, he was somewhere over Colorado, and all he was thinking about was...

Not. Throwing. Up.

The nausea had originally started a few months earlier. It was worst in the mornings, generally, and certain tastes and smells would set it off. It was bad, too. Not enough to be incapacitating, but more than enough to make him miserable. He’d assumed, though, that it was simply a very bad case of flu, and therefore, nothing a doctor could do anything about. He’d bucked up and dealt with it, drank plenty of fluids, ate mild, inoffensive foods, and tried to avoid even thinking about coffee.

It had mostly settled down recently. But now... now it was back. Oh, yes. The little parasite did *not* like flying, and it was making its feelings on the matter abundantly clear. He’d been clutching the little white airsick bag ever since they’d crossed the Nevada border.

A flight attendant had been hovering around since then, as well, half-sympathetic, half-annoyed. Her early attempts at conversation had only made things worse, so she would just silently walk by every few minutes. His seatmate was shooting him constant nervous glances, and had turned her body until her little glowing laptop was as far away from him as possible.

Willow had mentioned that the nausea would settle down, he realized. And then he’d snapped at her. Because if a website could tell him what he would be feeling, it meant that this was... essentially normal. And that was a thought that was quite unacceptable.

But now he was wondering. It occurred to him that he hadn’t felt any movement since takeoff in Sunnydale. This wasn’t normal. The little thing was generally active. Hyperactive, even, bouncing around like a teeny-tiny billiard ball in there. Personally, Giles thought that its ultimate goal was to cause him as much discomfort as possible in however much time it had.

He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat, praying sleep would find him before the plane hit another patch of turbulence.

He could barely even keep his eyes closed for a second. Sleep didn’t appear to be an option.

He risked a glance over at his seatmate and noted her laptop was a PC running Windows. An instinctive little twist of distaste stirred in him, and even through the nausea, he had to smile a little. Between Willow and Jenny, he’d apparently inherited a distinct side in the Mac/PC debate. Jenny had once spent nearly an hour trying to explain all the ways that Macintosh computers were apparently superior to Windows machines. Almost everything she’d said had been utterly lost on him, but it had implanted some kind of seed, apparently. Then, of course, there was the conditioned association between the little glowing apple logo and Willow, and that alone was enough to make him partial to the brand.

She was *in* him, deeply and irrevocably. If he lost her, it would hurt. It was a danger. A liability. And yet... he believed she was worth the risk. He knew she was worth the risk. The elation, the joy that she stirred in him... that alone was worth it. That she’d given him herself, let him touch her... that was a gift he’d never expected to receive.

Now his eyes closed smoothly, his body relaxed, as much as it could, into the seat. Willow. Sweet Willow. Big green eyes and soft red hair. Small perfect breasts. She wasn’t his type, really. He’d always gone for dark hair and eyes. But she defied type. He loved her small body, loved that he could pick her up, hold her down, loved that she let him.

Her kisses were so honest. Open. She never hid her desires. Her tongue against his said things she couldn’t vocalize. They’d had whole conversation that way, wrapped around each other naked, or half-naked or fully clothed, just kissing each other, deep and slow or hard and fast.

Her hands... small hands... but amazing. She was surprisingly confident. She liked touching him. He knew, partly because she’d said it, but mostly because she did it, as much as she could. Little things sometimes, like brushing against him in the Magic Box, or touching his hand or his arm or his back or his shoulder to get his attention or emphasize a point. She’d sit near enough to him as they researched to let her knee brush against his whenever she moved, to turn the page, or lean in to see an illustration, or sometimes just so that their knees would touch.

When they made love, her hands were always on him. She would card them through his chest hair, or trace his jawbone. She’d touch his lips, let him suck on her fingers. She’d curl her hand around his cock, cup his balls. When he was inside her, she would have her hands on his shoulders, or a sweaty palm resting on his ribs, or both hands gripping his ass, and once, she’d reached down between them, touched his cock, slick with her own juices, felt the place where their bodies joined, and got such an amazed look on her face. It drove him out of his mind, sometimes, but only in the best ways.

He knew her fascination with his body stemmed at least partly from confusion. He understood her feelings, on a very personal level. He’d found men around the same age she had found women. He’d found that he still loved women as well a few years later. He knew that feeling well, and knew that the best thing to do was let her figure things out for herself. And he was, of course, perfectly content to be her guinea pig.

A few days ago, they’d gone back to his place during lunch hour, and ended up in his bed. He was naked, but she was still dressed from the waist up. He couldn’t quite remember exactly how that had happened, and it wasn’t really important. She had pressed him onto his back, kicked away all of the covers, left him completely bare, spread out across the sheet. Then, apparently satisfied that she had him where she wanted him (and he certainly wasn’t about to complain) she’d straddled his thighs.

Her expression had been a mask of studious concentration, and she’d leaned forward a little, and touched his face. She started with his eyebrows, then his nose, and his cheekbones, his jaw and his hairline, walking her fingers over him like she was blind and he was Braille. He’d shut his eyes, and her fingertips had grazed his eyelashes, touched his eyelids, and the corners of his eyes, where he knew his skin crinkled when he smiled. She ran her hands through his hair, and then fingered the whorls of his ears. One fingertip lingered for a moment at his piercing, and he’d shuddered at the sensitive, questing touch.

She’d continued her exploration, touching the cleft in his chin, the skin of his throat, pressing hard enough to feel his pulse, feel his windpipe, hell, even feel his lymph nodes. This was Willow. She was thorough.

He’d shivered when she reached his collarbone, and she’d noticed, and paused there, drawing her fingers back and forth along the circlet of bone there, just lightly enough to be felt, sending fiery tingles all over his body. And then she’d moved on, touching the muscles in his shoulder, maybe silently naming each one. He’d gasped in a deep, shuddering breath, clenched his hands into fists, and he’d wanted so badly to grab her, roll them over, slam himself balls-deep inside of her and fuck her until they were both raw. But he didn’t. He resisted, lay still and let her look, let her touch. But he couldn’t stop his breath from quickening, could stop the sheen of sweat that cropped up on his skin, or the goosebumps that followed.

She’d pushed his right arm up, about 20 degrees above his shoulder joint, and leaned in a little closer. Ruffled the hair in his armpit, and then dragged all her fingers up the underside of his upper arm, leaving sensitive skin burning in her wake. When she’d reached the inside of his elbow joint, she’d paused, lingered over the thin skin there. It would be warm in that spot, he knew, and a little bit tacky with sweat right now. The difference seemed to intrigue her. Her fingertips caught on the sticky skin, and staggered a little. Then she moved on, up his arm to his wrist, then to his hand.

His hand. Dear god. She’d started out simply touching it, as she had been, with her fingertips. Traced its outline, up and down his fingers, and then doodled across his palm, and then across his knuckles. Then she leaned forward, on her knees and one hand, and she’d pulled his hand to her lips, kissed his palm. First, just a dry, soft kiss. Then several. Then her mouth had opened and her tongue had poked out, a small, sharp point, tracing the shape of his hand, the lines on his palm. And then she kissed the center of his palm, deeply, mouth open wide, tongue pressed flat over his sweaty skin. She’d made a soft sound then, and licked up along his fingers. Then tickled his own fingertips with the tip of her tongue, feather-light, teasing. He’d groaned, deeply, desperately, and then she slid his middle finger into her mouth, as deep as it could go. Hot, slick, wet. Her tongue had curled around his finger like a cat, and he’d actually cried out, softly. She’d sucked, strong and hard, he could feel the ligaments pulling just a little, feel the pressure. Then she’d pulled back, and then gone back down again, three of his fingers in her mouth now, her hands gripping his wrist, holding him where she wanted him. Sucked on him again. Pressure, friction, her tongue flexing against the undersides of his finger joints, the ridges of her palate hard against his knuckles.

”Dear god, Willow,” he’d gasped, and he’d wanted so much.

Wanted her to do to his cock what she was doing to his hand. She sucked his fingers a bit deeper and he felt her throat twitch, just for a moment, a mild hint of a gag reflex. It didn’t seem to bother her. And god, how she looked at that moment, eyes shut, long dark lashes, her cheeks hollowed, her lips sealed around his fingers. His cock was hard as steel, flat on his belly, and wet, drooling on his skin.

“Please,” he’d said.

She’d let his hand slide out of her mouth, looked at his face with drowsy eyes. A drop of her saliva had found its way down to his wrist. She smiled, a slow, sleepy smile, and then she knee-walked backwards on the bed, and dropped her gaze downwards.

Her smile pulled a little wider, and she’d reached out and touched his cock, with the same light, maddening, fingertips-only touch.

He’d grasped crumpled fistfuls of the sheets, almost physically restraining himself. The light touch inflamed him, almost infuriated him, dragging the beast inside him far closer to the surface than he’d normally be comfortable with. He wanted to lunge at her, slam her down on her back. Wanted to, but didn’t. Because right now, it felt so good to feel the beast rage inside of him.

He panted hard, clenched his fists white-knuckled tight.

She’d been investigating his foreskin, pulling and pushing it, experimenting with how it moved. Then she’d pulled it back with one hand, and touched the head of his cock with a few fingers on her other hand.

“This is killing you, isn’t it?” she said, and he looked up at her. Her eyes were dark as night, dark as black magic. Her voice trembled, just a little. Not nerves, not at all. Power. She knew she had power. And she was loving it.

There was nothing he could say. Nothing he needed to say. He was hers.

She’d rolled a condom down over him and moved off of him, but her eyes had never left his. Slowly, deliberately, she’d laid back on the bed, spread her legs and drawn her knees up. He could see her then, perfectly, pink and open and wet, her dark curls clinging damply to her skin. His heart was leaping against his ribs, every breath felt like breathing rarified air.

“Com’on,” she’d said, just softly, and it was like a sudden axe blow, severing his bonds, and he’d pounced on her, shoving her legs back, sinking into her with one thrust, no warning, no waiting. She’d shouted, an incoherent sound, and rolled her head back, her long, pale throat bared to him. He’d held himself over her with one hand planted in the bed on either side of her, her legs hooked over his shoulder, and he’d taken her, hard, fast, deep, his eyes on her, watching her, as her head rolled from side to side, as her own hands gripped the sheet, as she’d shuddered through three orgasms in quick, breathless succession. Her body was shining with sweat, her chest heaving, and she’d made more noise that one time than she’d made the rest of the week combined, sharp, garbled, strangled sounds.

His own orgasm had been a relief, almost painfully intense, like a rake dragged up his spine. His vision had even darkened for a moment. And after it was over, he couldn’t bring himself to pull out of her, so he’d stayed inside, grinding against her, and she’d looked up at him with wide eyes, and then dropped her head back again, squeezed deliberately around him.

He’d wanted to try to go a second time, see if he even could, without pulling out... but it was too much, the sensation was too strong, pleasure segued to pain, and he’d pulled away, and fallen to his side on the bed, panting and halfway curled up. She’d sat up after a moment, and he’d raised his head a bit, smiled at her, and she’d smiled back, and gently stroked his hair.

Back in reality, the plane jolted suddenly, and all thoughts of Willow fled abruptly on a new wave of nausea.

He groaned and pressed a hand to his stomach. His layover in Washington DC loomed somewhere ahead of him, like one beacon of hope in a sea of dark despair.

Bloody Council bloody well better have some bloody information.

Because now he was not only on the verge of throwing up, he also had an erection he could drive nails with. Two things which, by all rights, truly should not exist simultaneously.

And he had to pee. Which was absolutely nothing new. He urinated about every ten minutes. Yet another of the parasite’s exciting new contributions to his life.

The parasite which still, as far as he could tell, had not moved since leaving California. And, oddly enough... he was a little concerned. What was wrong with it? Was it possible it really *didn’t* like flying? Was it at all advanced enough to even be affected by such things? Was it maybe that the vibrations of the plane were simply making it hard to feel the little flutters?

He stood up and made his way down the aisle, grateful for his long jacket, and stepped into the tiny airplane lavatory. The plane rocked as he shut the door, and his stomach clenched in protest.

He leaned back against the small sink and slipped his hand into his shirt, over his lower abdomen... over his newly acquired womb. And he pressed down there, gently. Held still in concentration.

“What are you up to?” he murmured. This simply wasn’t like the parasite. Honestly, the little thing would probably make one hell of a hyperactive child, were it ever to be born.

He waited, holding as still as the plane allowed, his head bowed a bit, his brow furrowed.

*Come on, then,* he thought.

But there was nothing. Not a twitch.

And then, just as he was about to draw his hand away... he felt it... a tiny shiver.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Right, then. Of course you’re still there.”

He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh. Well, at least the waiting had given his hard-on sufficient time to wane, and he was able to take a rather unsatisfyingly brief piss, wash his hands, and return to his seat.

It was only when he’d refastened his seatbelt that something occurred to him. Hyperactive child. If it were born.

Born. Good lord.

His mind skittered nervously away from that train of thought... but there was a horrifying fascination to it that he could avoid. A child. Baby. Infant.

His hand went back to his stomach again, rubbed back and forth.

His child. Son or daughter. It could grow up. Be a person someday.

He pulled his hand away. Placed it firmly on the armrest of his chair.

Pipe dream. That’s all it was. Ridiculous. Out of the question.

The nausea had subsided a bit, so he reached for the in-flight magazine, opened it to the crossword puzzle, and folded down the tray table. He concentrated on 1-Across and gave no more thought to the small corner of his mind that was murmuring, “Why not?”

***

So, here he was. Inevitable, he knew. They always found each other. A whole wide world out there, and yet, they ended up in the same pub at the same time. Ethan smiled an ironic smile, realizing he was channeling Bogart, and then he picked up his drink and walked over. Because it was what was in the script. It was what he did. Would always do.

That night he’d gone back to Sunnydale. The blood still fresh on his hands, but only metaphorical. Only incorporeal. He had destroyed them. All of them. It was better than they deserved, they who had put a shovel in his hands and told him to dig. It took more than what they’d done to break Ethan Rayne. They would never break him. Could never break him. There was only one man who could break him. And that man was in Sunnydale. So, Ethan went. Back to Sunnydale. Felt the trembling tingle of the Hellmouth on his skin.

That man who was here now. Didn’t matter why. Ethan knew why. Because it was meant to be. Because fate had a heavy hand, and pushed them all around like a young girl playing with rag dolls. Giles-Rupert-Ripper. Sitting at a table in a dark corner of a London pub, crouched over a clear glass that he held like a lifeline. Candle flame on his glasses.

If he hadn’t looked so damn old, it would have been a flash straight out of their youths.

Except Ripper had never abided the glasses.

Ethan slammed his own drink down on the round table, and that was the first notice he got. Affronted green eyes jumping up to his face in the gloom. And then, recognition. And then, like clockwork, there was the anger.

He wouldn’t say that what they’d done hadn’t hurt. Because of course it hurt. It hurt to have needles jabbed into your skin day in and day out. It hurt when they shocked you with increasing voltages of electricity, from a small, almost pleasant tingle, up to triple digit screaming agony. But they couldn’t touch him. Not really.

Ripper’s fist in his gut hurt. It always did. But he barely tried to evade it. Let the blow come, let the force drive him back into the neighboring table, let Ripper catch him by the collar and haul him to his feet.

This was his greeting. This was the script. When he’d knocked on Ripper’s door that summer, back from the desert and still soaked in all that metaphorical blood ol’ Shakespeare was so very fond of, Ripper’s fist had been the first thing he’d really felt. The first sensation that had registered. In hours. No. In months. So he’d let him. Let him hit him. It was his utter silence, in the end, that stopped the blows.

Here in the pub, held close enough to kiss him, he could feel Ripper’s body. Feel the curve of his stomach, too pronounced for middle-age alone to account for. And he smiled, feeling the blood on his lip.

“Come to demand child support?” he said, knowing that all Ripper would hear was ‘Hit me again.’ Because that seemed to be all Ripper ever heard. Could say, ‘Nice day we’re having,’ or ‘Your mother wore army boots,’ didn’t make a bloody bit of difference. It went the same every time. Ethan knew why, Ethan was a man, himself, and knew that Ripper had his pride. But then, he also knew that what it truly was was cowardice. Deep, childlike terror. Ethan was everything Giles denied in himself. His very existence was a threat.

Except, this time, Ripper shoved him backwards. And then walked away.

Six months, naked in a sterile white cell. Food came from the ceiling, every day, on schedule, the only way to keep time. Was drugged, of course, but then, Ethan had always been partial to a bit of controlled substance. Time passed easier while tranquilized. The humiliation was only distant and far away. Like it was someone else. He liked to pretend it was Ripper.

He followed him out into the street. Around the corner to an alley.

The blows had stopped after his silence. Ripper had looked down at him, and Ethan’d simply stood up, dusting himself off, feeling the pain. Beautiful pain, bright and sharp. Like freedom. Like hatred. Hatred. Oh yes. Rupert had looked so taken aback. So guilty. As though he’d done harm to an innocent. Wearing the same mask of regret. A lie. Such a lie.

But this was good. Guilt was the collar around Ripper’s neck, and now Ethan had the leash.

“I suppose you want to know what-” he began, rounding the corner into the alley.

But couldn’t finish speaking, because Ripper hit him. Hard, across the jaw, driving him back into a brick wall. And then grabbed him by his coat. *Slammed* him against the wall. Crack of skull against brick, world suddenly dark around the edges, stomach suddenly clenching. Another fist, hard right hook, cheekbone cracking like a twig. He would have fallen, but Ripper’d grabbed him again. Then thrown him to the ground. Hard. Hand catches on asphalt, trying to break his fall, skin shredded on the uneven surface. Blood in his eyes, everything’s red, blood in his mouth, tastes like copper, blood on his hand, wet and cool. Too dizzy to get up. Not in the script. Not this.

They were trying to quantify magic. Trying to put it in their neat little boxes. Because they liked boxes. Soldier boys, oh so brave. But terrified. Terrified of anything that didn’t fit in their boxes. They really liked boxes. Kept all of them in boxes. Literal boxes. Flat white, with one glass wall, so they could see them. Trying to put Chaos in a box.

Stupid. So, so, so stupid.

Chaos couldn’t live in a box. Ethan couldn’t live in a box. Ironic, really, that it was their boxes that kept them alive so long. Chaos couldn’t live in a box. Ethan was powerless.

Guilty Ripper, looking at him, battered and bloodied. One tug on the leash, and they were upstairs. Ripper folded like a deck of cheap playing cards. Always did. Thought he was the one with the power. Always thought that. Believed it, even at that moment, flat on his back with his cock in Ethan’s mouth. Giles liked boxes, too. But his boxes weren’t going to save him. Ripper was in Ethan. Always, always, like the metal bits in the brain of a bird, he navigated by him. He’d give anything to get him out. Would never happen though. Ripper was a cancer that was deep inside him, tendrils reaching into all parts of him. Couldn’t cut him out without destroying himself.

So... second best thing. Put a part of himself... in Ripper. Show him just how much power he didn’t have. Leave a piece of himself inside him forever. Or at least a few months. Something Ripper would notice. And never forget.

Like he’d never forget. That he’d spent the whole evening. Warning him. About the sodding soldier boys. And yet...

Ripper had handed him over, with a smile on his face, and a song in his heart.

It was a game, he wanted to say. Are you mad? It was a game. It was always a game. He was supposed to know that. Had always known that, before.

The soldier boys, they didn’t play games. Nothing was a game to them. Deadly serious, they were. So perfectly uptight. So perfectly convinced that they were doing the Right Thing. So utterly and completely sure that they were serving humanity. So equally sure that Ethan and the others did not and never had belonged to that particular camp. Because of their damn boxes. He, they all, could do things, things that weren’t on the label of the box for “humans”. So, he was cast aside, into the junk box, the one labeled “other.” An animal? A demon? Didn’t matter to them.

The kick came a heartbeat after he was expecting it, sinking into his stomach. Pain radiated, as it did, and he groaned, curled in on himself on the cold pavement. Another kick, hard against his ribs, hard enough to bruise, or maybe crack, definitely hard enough to roll him over on his back. Then Ripper was on him, his knee pressing into Ethan’s windpipe.

“Undo it,” he said.

Ethan knew he couldn’t kill Giles, much as he wanted. Just couldn’t do it. But he could hurt him. He could show him just how much of an illusion that power he thought he had was. A drop or two of blood and semen, an appeal to Diana, goddess of fertility, a sacrifice of an actual goat. Ethan always crafted his own spells. Like works of art, everything in its place. He had a binder of them, neatly typed pages with neatly drawn sigils. There was a place for order even when one was a chaos mage. Every spell he’d done, every chant he’d written, was in that book, from the time Ripper left. From the time Randall’d died.

But he couldn’t remember how he’d killed the soldiers. He just remembered them dead, scattered about on the hard desert sand, still as the dusty rocks, rifles fallen from their hands. And all the other, witches and werewolves and sorcerers. He’d been standing alone, by his own half-dug grave.

Then he’d walked to the road and hitched a ride back to Sunnydale.

“Can’t,” he’d croaked, around Ripper’s knee in his throat.

“Wrong answer,” Ripper said. Knee dug deeper, vision narrowing, pain, pain, pain.

“Swear I can’t.” He’d mostly mouthed the words.

“Why the bloody hell not?”

All the spell had done was supply the necessary equipment, set things up. The conception itself, cellularly? Perfectly natural. It was ingenious, smoothly skirting around the difficult issue of using magic to create life from nothing.

“No reason not to kill you, then.”

Yes, Ripper. Kill me. You owe me that much, you bastard. And it’s the worst thing I can do to you. Make you live with it, all your life. You destroyed me, Ripper. I’ll destroy you. I’m not playing anymore.

Everything dark, pain faded away, lungs burning for lack of air. And in all that, he’s hard.

And then the pressure was gone. And the first thing he sees as his vision returns, slowly, like a photograph developing, is Ripper’s back. And then Ripper is gone, and he’s alone on the ground in an alley, nothing but pain and vertigo. And loss. How much more could he lose?

He dropped his head back on the asphalt and stared up at the night sky, tasting blood.

***

His internal clock was staggering from the flight, but it was still fairly convinced that it was early evening, all evidence to the contrary. He was lying on his back on the bed in his sister’s guest room, staring at the dark ceiling and wide-awake. The obnoxious ticking, glowing clock beside his head cheerfully informed him that it was, locally, 2:12 in the morning.

His little encounter with Ethan earlier was not helping him relax at all.

Finally, as the clock ticked another minute deeper into the night, he gave up.

If he recalled correctly, Tara had an evening lab course today.

He kicked the covers off and headed out to the living room, got the cordless phone and carried it back into his room. He was on the ground floor, so as long as he kept his voice down, he wouldn’t wake anyone.

He dug out his international calling card, dialed, and lay back on the bed, the phone cradled against his ear. It rang three times, a distance purr, and he feared that she wasn’t home. But then, there was a click, and her voice came on the line, slightly crackly over the long-distance: “Hello?”

He smiled, and finally felt himself relax a little.

“Hello, Willow.”

“Giles! Hi, hon! How’s England?”

The warm pleasure in her voice and the endearment made his smile widen a bit more. But then, it faded, and the first thing he thought of to say was: “I... found Ethan. Well, actually, he found me.”

“Oh... Uh oh. He’s not, like, dead or anything now, is he?”

Disturbingly close, actually.

“No... no, he’s alive,” was what he said. But then he felt compelled to add, “A bit battered and bruised, of course.”

“Yeah...” Willow didn’t sound too surprised. “Hey, um. There’s something I should tell you.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Yes?”

“I... I slept with Tara.” His heart clenched tight. “I mean,” she continued, “you know, in the euphemism way, not the literal, cause, yeah, obviously I-”

God, stop. Please, stop.

“Yes. Thank you. I caught that.”

“Oh. Ok.”

A silence fell over the line, and he wondered why it bothered him so much. He knew perfectly well that Willow was still with Tara. He’d never really said anything about wanting them to be exclusive. In fact, he was fairly well aware that pressing the issue would no doubt only cause him to lose her. Eventually, he decided to ask the most pressing question.

“And? You’re telling me this... why?”

“Cause... I mean, I haven’t, since we... you know. And I felt guilty afterwards. It’s like... like I was cheating on *you.*”

Well. That was... interesting. Possibly... promising. In spite of himself, his heart was beating a little faster.

“I... see.”

“I don’t know what to do, Giles.”

*Leave her* he wanted to say, so badly he could feel the words sticking in his throat. Couldn’t say that, though.

“... I’m afraid I can’t console you on this, Willow,” he said, finally. “I’m sorry. I’d like very to tell you that I... just want you to be with whomever you choose, to be selfless. But... I can’t. I love Buffy dearly, but I’m afraid she’s about tapped me out in that regard.”

“... Oh. Wow. I... didn’t really... I didn’t know.”

“I love you, Willow,” he said, firmly, wanting to be absolutely sure that every word, every nuance, made it all the way across the ocean and continent between them.

“What do you want, then?” she asked, her voice a bit soft, almost hesitant.

“You have to ask?” he said, his voice gentler, now. “I want *you*. I want you with me. All of the time.”

“Wow.”

There was a long pause. He didn’t know what else to say, and apparently, neither did she. But really, even having the sound of her breathing in his ear, knowing that they were together, at least in some small way, still made things... better.

She was the one who eventually broke the silence.

“Uh. So. Ethan. Did he, you know, fix things?”

He shifted in the bed, restively. He wanted to discuss Ethan even less than he wanted to discuss Tara.

“I’m afraid not. Apparently the spell only... set things in motion. The, ah, conception itself was more or less natural. Reversing the spell now would... probably kill me.”

“Oh. That’s... not good. But also... so that means it really is just... human. Right?”

“Human.” *Human,* dear god. “Yes. An offspring of myself and Ethan Rayne. A truly frightening concept.”

It was easiest to be flippant, even as his free hand went almost unconsciously down to his stomach, rested over that spot.

“Huh,” Willow said, clearly contemplating said frightening concept.

“How is everything?” he said, desperate to change the subject, “Any difficulties with Glory?”

“Nope. Stuff’s pretty quiet. So, what else is going on there with you? Where are you staying?”

“Uh. My sister’s.”

“Wow. I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

“No?”

“Nope. Not a clue. You got any other siblings you haven’t been telling us about?”

“Um. Two others, in fact,” he said.

“Giles! What’s up with never telling us this?”

“It... never really came up.”

“Well, it’s coming up now. Spill, Buster. I want the whole story. Well, ok, I don’t need to hear about the, like, second cousins and stuff. Unless they’re particularly notable for some reason.”

“My life story, then?”

“Yup. Rupert Giles, unabridged. I’ve got time. Start with ‘I was born...’ and go straight on up to ‘And then this crazy witch person demanded I tell my life story.’”

He found himself laughing, softly. Then, obediently, he began, “I was born...”

He got up to his late twenties before the conversation wandered off to other things, like the weather in Sunnydale and England, and computers, and airplanes, and dog breeds, and various and sundry other topics of varying degrees of randomness. It was wonderful. Her voice, her laugh, her utterly unique outlook on life. He felt the tension of the past few days fade away completely.

Everything faded away, really. Everything but her voice, a soft vibration against his ear in the dark. He could almost feel her. See her, on her back in her own bed in the fading light of evening.

“Man, hearing your voice,” she said, suddenly, “It’s like you’re here with me.