The Storm Before the Calm

The drive over to the house was a fairly swift one. It seemed the town was sleeping, more or less. There were a couple of late-night – or maybe it was early morning, depending on your point of view – revellers rolling through the streets, singing drunkenly, and Xander had almost pulled over to ask just how stupid they actually were, but then he’d seen the disfigured faces and the fangs glistening in the moonlight, and apparently they weren’t as stupid as he’d first thought.

The car sped by, leaving the figures in the street, and he almost felt a pang of something bite into him because he just left them to prey on their next unsuspecting victim, he didn’t do anything about it. He could have jumped out of the car and used the wooden stake he kept in the compartment in his door that was always there, and he could have used the vial of holy water he kept in the glove box. But he didn’t. This was more important. Willow was more important.

When he’d gotten the call earlier tonight about what had happened with Willow and Dawn and the accident they had gotten into, all he’d wanted was to go over there and make sure they were both okay for his own sake as well as theirs. But Buffy had said no, that Dawn was staying over at a friends house, and he got the impression it was because she didn’t really want to be in the same house as his best friend. Buffy had also told him that she would be staying with Willow, that she needed peace and quiet, and that she’d see him tomorrow and everything would be fine. He sincerely doubted that when it had taken half a bottle of scotch to make him crawl into bed about half an hour before the phone had rang again and finally close his eyes because he was so afraid of the nightmares he’d have about a scared and broken Willow, when Anya had already been in bed for hours.

Now apparently Buffy was out, leaving Willow home alone, which he wasn’t entirely happy about but he’d live with it, at least for now. How could he say anything to Buffy for leaving her, when he had barely even noticed what was going on under his own nose? Okay, so that was a lie. He did know. He had seen her since Buffy had come back, even before then, with the unnecessary spells and chants, and he had seen the concerned looks Tara had been giving her every time something magical came into the equation. He had seen the way her hands would shake sometimes when they sat at the Magic Box, her body tense and rigid and hunched over the research books open in front of her, her eyes flitting around the room until she thought no one was watching her, not seeing him because she hardly ever did these days. And then she’d levitate a pencil or something, and he’d see her relax, see the look of relief and the smile that crept over her face in a way that made her seem surreal and scary, but he’d never questioned it.

He had punched the dashboard before he even knew what was happening, the sharp crack of the hard plastic breaking his thoughts and making him look at it like he hadn’t been the culprit. The damage was minimal, thankfully, just a visible crack but nothing else, and he breathed a sigh of relief, because he’d already had this car into the garage twice in as many weeks thanks to the demons in this town, which meant he was on a first name basis with the mechanic, and that couldn’t be good for him or the insurance company that kept sending him letters threatening to stop covering him when they had paid out almost as much the car itself was worth.

Anya had told him - had told them all - that Willow was heading for something big. He still hadn’t done anything. He’d let her deal with Tara leaving without him, just because he was busy planning for a wedding that he wasn’t even sure he could go through with when every morning he woke up with the same sense of dread and the doubts that had been plaguing him for months now.

The car pulled into Revello Drive, coming to a stop just outside the familiar house, and he sat in the dark for just a few seconds more, stalling for time because he wasn’t quite sure what was going to be waiting for him on the other side of that door just a few feet away, and not knowing something about Willow and her life made him feel like he was dying a little inside, and he hated that feeling.

Eventually, he pulled himself around, letting himself out of the car and walking up the path, surveying the outside structure as if it might give him some kind of clue as to what to expect. The house was in darkness, which was rare here because there was usually someone wandering around, even at this time. He had always seen this house as one of joy, or he had done until a year or so ago. No matter how bad things were at home for him and Will, when they came here it was okay. Joyce would always fuss around them, making them sandwiches and cookies, and she’d make them laugh and make them feel like they were part of something real and safe. Then she was gone and it had felt…wrong in some way to be here. They’d barely had time to breathe before Buffy wasn’t there, either, and they hadn’t known what to do when that happened. He’d expected the house to feel good again with Buffy back, but if anything, it was worse than it had ever been.

Trepidation filled him as he reached the porch, the house in front of him looking like any other in the street, peaceful and normal, but it had always been anything but that. His hand was cold and clammy as he reached for the doorknob, and he hesitated as he turned it, needing just a second of reprieve before he walked in there.

He twisted the doorknob, slowly and steadily, and pushed it open. He couldn’t see anything yet, and he couldn’t see her. All there was was darkness and quiet, both of them bad things in Sunnydale, and he walked through to the living room, but there was nothing. He walked through to the kitchen, usually his favourite place in any house, but not tonight. He could hear something, faint and muffled, but he could hear it, someone breathing, and he followed it to the dining room.

There she was.

Still no lights at all, in this room or any other, but she was there. She was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest and her head resting on them, the sound she was emitting just that little bit louder because he was closer. The phone was still in her hand, the spiralled cord hanging down from the main unit high up on the wall down to where she held the receiver close to her chest, and he had to choke back something that rose in his chest and travelled to his throat, making his eyes water.

She was wearing pyjama’s that were too big for her, looking lost and frail in them, and for a minute she reminded him of his grandmother when she had been sick, right before she died, and he hoped this image would fade from his mind because that one never would. The pyjamas were blue cotton and the pants came down to cover bare feet and the sleeves covered her hands. He had bought them for her last Christmas and it probably wasn’t intentional that she was wearing them now, but he felt something churn in his stomach that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason why, even if neither of them knew it yet.

He wasn’t sure if she knew he was there or not, and for just a second, it made him ponder turning back and leaving because he was certain he was in over his head with this. He knew he wouldn’t do it, but the thought was there, even as he looked up to the ceiling and turned on the spot, his hands covering his face in a hope of divine inspiration.

When it didn’t come, when he realised he was all alone, one of the only times in his entire life he had ever felt that way around Willow, he took a deep breath, holding it in until he felt the thudthudthud of his heart and lungs in his chest begging for air, he let it out and crossed over to her, hands out ahead like they were alien to him. It was just a few steps away, but it felt like it was miles before he was there, crouching next to her and lifting his hand to touch her.

He had barely even let his skin touch hers before she started, lifting her head up to look at him with tear-stained eyes. He heard a sharp intermittent noise, and he lifted the phone from her hand, her grip loose and weak. He stood up for just a second, hanging it back on the cradle, the noise stopping, as he crouched back down to her.

He could see now that she was shaking, shaking like he had never seen before. This wasn’t shivering, cold-from-being-drenched-with-the-hose-pipe kind of shaking like when they were kids. It was more than that. It was in every part of her, from her fingers to her toes, even in the hair that was hanging over her face, tangled and tousled. He wanted to touch her, but he was afraid, because she had never looked so scared and small in her entire life, not even when she had been in a coma at the hospital all of those years ago.

He lifted a hand to her face, lifting away the dark red locks of hair that looked almost black in the darkness, and he hoped to god that wasn’t a portent of any kind, because black equalled bad, and Willow was always the epitome of goodness, that’s what he needed her to be. He remembered when they were in high school, that summer when Buffy was gone, and she had joked to him once that maybe she should colour her hair black now, seeing as she was so into the witchcraft and she thought that maybe it would help her fit the stereotype a little more. The thought had given him nightmares for weeks.

There were tears in her eyes now, big and full, like puddles when they began rolling down her cheeks, and he felt her flinch beneath him as he touched his hand to her arm.

“Xander…?” she asked, voice tiny and squeaky, almost non-existent.

“Who else?” he asked her, forcing a smile onto his face because she didn’t need to know how absolutely terrified he was.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled out, her voice catching in her throat.

“Will you quit saying that?” he said gently.

She shrugged, as much as she could when she was obviously spent and exhausted. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s okay,” he told her. “I’m used to the middle of the night. Slayerette, remember?”

She pulled a smile onto her face, only one half of her mouth turning up. “I bet Anya wasn’t happy,” she commented.

“Anya’s never entirely happy,” Xander said, “Unless you’re giving her money, and then she wants to jump you.” His hand travelled down her arm, her skin like goose flesh under his fingers. “You feel like moving?” he asked her.

“Why?” she asked him, genuinely confused as to why she couldn’t spend the rest of her life right here, right in this spot.

“Because you’re cold,” he pointed out. “And because my legs are numb.”

“I’m tired,” she told him.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” he said, moving one arm around her back and the other underneath her legs. It didn’t take much effort to lift her, although pulling himself up was nearly an entirely different matter. He felt the blood rush through his limbs after it had been cut off while he was on the floor, and he got to his feet, Willow almost weightless in his arms, another thing that scared him.

His hand was at her side, his fingers brushing against her, feeling the indent and outline of every rib, and he wondered when that happened. He didn’t remember her losing this much weight, but they say that when you see someone every day you don’t realise stuff like that, and this was the first time in his life he could ever recall thinking that he wished he didn’t, because maybe he would have noticed this before and been able to stop it before it got this far.

She lifted her arms around his neck, still shaking, as he carried her through the house, his legs feeling like pins and needles, but he didn’t care. He took her into the living room, placing her down carefully to sit on the sofa, taking off his jacket and putting it around her shoulders.

He wanted to sit next to her, to hold her and tell her it was going to be okay, that she could get through this, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know if that was true, and he’d never been able to lie to her in all of the years they’d known each other. While he was standing, he could hold it together, sitting next to her would make him fall apart. He stood in front of her, his hands coming to his hips as he took a deep breath.

“I can’t believe Buffy left,” he told her, shaking his head to himself.

“It’s okay,” she said, pulling the jacket closer to her, hugging it tightly to her body.

“Where is she patrolling?”

“I don’t know.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“I didn’t actually talk to her,” Willow said. “I mean, I was feeling…” her head lowered, eyes concentrating on the fingers that were fidgeting relentlessly in her lap, “…So I went to her room to see if she was awake, see if she wanted to talk. She wasn’t there. I came downstairs to look for her, but…nothing.”

“She’s not with Dawn?”

He regretted the question before it was even out of his mouth, the name sparking too many memories for the girl in front of him as her eyes came up briefly. She flinched, fresh tears brimming in her eyes, something he could see even in the night blackness filling the room, as she looked away from him, her head tilting to look at anything that wasn’t him.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, closing his eyes as he mentally whacked himself upside the head. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” she said, that small and quiet voice back again. “I really screwed up, didn’t I?” she asked, already knowing the answer as she looked up at him.

“No,” he said quickly, a little too quickly, even he was aware of that as he crossed over to the couch, sitting next to her and forgetting about the apprehension he’d had a few moments ago. “No, you didn’t.”

She looked at him, a wry smile on her face and a knowing look in her eyes. “You always were a crappy liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Xand, please,” she said honestly, shaking her head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Act like this,” she told him. “Act like everything’s fine, like I just spilt soda on your favourite shirt instead of putting people I love in danger.”

“Okay,” he allowed, “So, maybe you screwed up a little. But at least you know that. Now, you can start to make things right.”

“Make things right?” she asked him, a switch somewhere inside her being flicked, her face changing from timid and sad to somewhere between horrified and disbelief as she stood on unsteady feet, the jacket that was hanging around her shoulders falling onto the couch, her hands still shaking, the silhouette of them fluttering projected on the walls from the silvery moonlight streaking in from the window. “How can I even begin to make things right?” she demanded from him, the look on her face transferring to her voice.

“Will—”

“No, come on,” she challenged, her voice growing loud, louder than he could have predicted when he’d seen her huddled by the wall just minutes ago. “Just how the hell am I supposed to make things right? I hurt Dawn, Xander. I actually physically hurt her.”

“It wasn’t you,” he told her, standing up to move opposite her. “Technically, it was the car accident.”

“That I put her in,” Willow told him, and there was nothing he could argue with about that. “How am I ever going to be able to look her in the eye again? And Tara?” she said. “I’ve hurt her so much, and not just with the magic stuff.”

“Did you sleep with Amy?” he asked suddenly.

“Xander!”

“What?”

“Don’t be a creep.”

“How am I being a creep?” he questioned. “By asking if you slept with a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Which would be a problem if you weren’t a lesbian.”

She rolled her eyes at him, feigning a disgusted look. “No,” she said finally. “I didn’t sleep with Amy.”

“Then maybe you’ve got a shot at making things right,” he said.

“Did you just tune in?” she yelled at him suddenly. “I treated her like crap. Just like everyone else. You haven’t wanted to come near me for months, and you’re supposed to be my best friend.”

“There’s no ‘supposed to be’ about it. I am,” he told her. “And I’ve wanted to be here.”

“Well, obviously not that much, huh?” she said, her tone accusing and hard and not at Willow-like.

“Hey!” he protested. “I would have come earlier, but Buffy said you were okay, that you didn’t need me, okay? Just like you haven’t needed me for a long time.” Her face fell, and he took a deep breath. He had to be the grown up here. Now, if only he knew what a grown up would do… “Look,” he told her, “I didn’t come over here for a fight, Willow. I’m sorry if you feel like I’ve been a bad friend, but it works both ways, you know.” He shook his head to himself. “If you want me to leave, just say it.”

“No,” she said quickly, panic evident in every part of her face. Her hands came up to her face, covering it as she lowered her head, red hair falling over her. “No…” she whispered from behind her fingers. “Don’t leave…” she told him. “Please.”

He crossed over to her, knowing that he wouldn’t have left, even if she had told him to, his hands coming to hers, prising them from her face to take them in his, feeling the trembling throughout her body there, stemming from the very core of her.

She brought her eyes to his, tears there that he wiped away with his thumb when he brought their intertwined hands up to her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him. “I didn’t mean to… One minute I’m about to break, the next I’m so angry, at everything, and frustrated, and then I’m scared and… I hate feeling like this, Xander. I don’t know what I’m doing,” she told him. “I don’t…I can’t…”

He didn’t let her finish, he just brought his arms around her shoulders and locked her in a hug that ceased any movement from her. He let her bury her head in his shoulder and cry, because that’s what shoulders were made for, especially his, especially for her, because even if that was all she’d ever need him for, he’d take that over her not needing him for anything at all.

“You can do this,” he murmured into her hair. “I promise you can do this.”

“I can’t!” she exploded angrily, sobbing and angry, eyes blazing as she pushed him away from her, so hard that he nearly fell over the coffee table that hit the back of his legs. “I can’t do it. It’s inside of me, Xander, crawling, scratching at my body to get out. It won’t go away, it’ll never go away. I’m always going to feel like this, empty and hurting. It’s always going to be inside of me. I’m not strong enough.”

“You are!” he told her, his voice a determined growl as he advanced on her, his hands grabbing her biceps, alarming himself when his fingers could fit almost all the way around them, and he told himself that wasn’t normal, that had never happened before and he unconsciously snapped back to when he’d been able to feel her ribs earlier this evening, and he had to shake it away to get the image out of his head. He pushed her back, making her stumble a few steps, his grip the only thing that was keeping her standing as they hit one of the walls, a cabinet next to them wobbling precariously as one of the ornaments tipped on its side.

“You are the strongest person I know!” he said seriously, almost yelling it in her face, making her turn her face from his, her expression bewildered. There was alcohol on his breath, scotch if she recalled correctly, which she did, because she knew that smell, pictured his father every time she smelt it, swaying and slurring in the doorway to Xander’s bedroom, telling his son how useless and how disappointed he was in him while they tried to continue studying and pretending he wasn’t there. That meant Xander had been drinking. Was it because of her? Oh, God, another thing to feel guilty about…

“Don’t you dare give up!” he yelled at her, and she felt another switch being flicked, like she was inside of her own body, watching it happen while she tried to fight it, but she just couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.

“Give up?” she asked, her eyes glinting dangerously as she looked him full on. “You think this is a matter of me making a simple choice?” she asked him. “I either do it or I don’t?” She shook her head. “You’ve never understood this, have you, Xander? Even back in high school, with that spell for Angel…you didn’t get it, didn’t know why I had to do it. You never got how it made me feel needed, important, and now…I have nothing. You have no idea what this is like.” She pulled her arms out of his grasp, shaking him away from her, one hand on his chest, pushing him away but never letting go, pushing him into the hall.

It didn’t seem to end, the way she was forcing him back and back, and he couldn’t help feeling she was about to push him into an abyss that he’d never re-surface from, but it didn’t matter. It was forever until they hit another wall, this time his back flat against it, the force of them together, of her weight against his, knocking the wind out of him and making him breathless, or maybe that wasn’t just because of the blow to his back.

Her hands pushed against his chest, pushing and pushing, even though they couldn’t get any further back, her cold, trembling hands permeating his sweater to make his skin shiver underneath, and he could almost see her finger marks emblazoned on his chest when she let go. She was looking at him like…he didn’t know what. It was a cold, hard stare that he was sure he’d never, ever seen before, her face set and jaw clenched.

“You need to stop, Willow,” he told her, his voice sounding quiet, even to him.

“Why?” she asked him. “Because I’ll lose everything? Newsflash: I already have.”

“You haven’t lost me.”

That seemed to still her, at least for a second or two. “Are you scared of me, Xander?” she asked him, and from the tone of her voice, he wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to respond.

“No,” he told her eventually, shaking his head just enough for her to tighten her grip on him.

“I’m evil, do you know that?” she told him. “You think I regret the past few days, weeks, months I’ve spent lying to you and Tara and Buffy? I don’t. I’ve got this black thing inside of me, telling me to do more, always more, and I want to. You think what I’ve already done is bad? If I let this in, I could do anything I want. All I have to do is just say a few little words, and I can make you hurt like nothing you’ve ever felt before.” She fixed her eyes on his, staring at him with something he couldn’t quite read in her eyes in the dim, dim light of the hallway. “Are you scared of me, Xander?” she repeated.

“No,” he told her again, no hint of fear or hesitation in his voice, just sincere honesty. “I’m scared for you,” he said. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Maybe you should be…” she told him, pressing her body into his, every curve of her fitting into the contours of him. She pressed, harder and harder, trapping him completely, her pelvis against his and feeling something awaken there. It was stiff against her stomach, digging into her, and she ground herself against it, a smirk on her face when he had to close his eyes and open his mouth because of her.

“Do you like it?” she asked him.

“Like what?” he managed to ask, surprising even himself when he managed to speak.

“Me being bad,” she told him. “Me hurting people. Me losing myself… Having to call you in the middle of the night because I feel like I can barely get through the next few minutes, let alone make it until morning. Me needing you like this… Is that what you get off on?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?” she asked curiously, something dark in her eyes that he had never seen before, something he could live with never seeing ever again. She ground herself against his him again, making him lose his breath for just a second as her hand came down and pressed against him, small and slender fingers felt through the denim. “What makes you so hard?”

“You,” he told her quietly, simple, complete honesty. “Just you.”

“Why?” she demanded from him.

“Because you’re Willow.”

And then she was gone, like she had just disappeared into thin air, and he really hoped that hadn’t happened. He thought he should be ashamed, mortified that he had gotten hard when she had touched him. But then, that had been happening for years, he’d just been able to hide it easier before. But now, when she was so desperate and scared, it should have been something that he could control, and she definitely shouldn’t have known about it. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem to matter.

He could hear her now, that quick breathing and the sound of her pacing in the dining room, and he spent a minute alone, still next to the wall but breathing easier now. The minute was supposed to calm him down, to calm down the one part of his body that didn’t relax when he saw her, the part of his body that did exactly the opposite. It didn’t work, he knew that even without looking down at the tent formed in the suddenly-tight denim around his groin, but he did pull on his sweater to try and cover it, even if that was probably the last thing on her mind.

He followed the sounds of her bare feet on the carpet, shuffling and unsteady, despite the bravado she had displayed. He found her as he expected, pacing the dining room, not the full length, just back and forth along the table, using the backs of the wooden chairs to hold onto. He watched her from the hall, feeling his heart pull at him with every tear that seemed to fall down her cheeks.

She fixed him with a stare, standing across the room from him. “Why?” she asked him simply.

“Why what?” he asked back. “Why do I have so much faith in you? Why do I believe in you?”

She faltered, bringing her hand up to her face to angrily brush away the tears clouding her vision. “Yeah,” she told him. “Stop it. I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t say that,” he told her, moving right in front of her, putting his arms around her to hold her, worrying all the while that she’d pull away after what had just transpired in the hall, but now that seemed a million years ago

“It’s true,” she said, burying her face into his shoulder, her voice breaking as more tears came, hands gripping at his back as she clung to him like she was afraid to let go. “I’m evil, Xander. I’ve lied and I’ve cheated. I lost Oz, I’ve lost Tara. I don’t even know who I am anymore without the magic, without it pulsating through me and making me better, making me more. I’m not Willow anymore…”

“You are,” he told her.

“I’m not,” she said. “I can’t be. Willow’s not like this. She can’t be like this.” She shook her head. “I’m alone,” she sobbed into him. “I’m all alone, and it’s all my fault.”

He felt something inside of him, a fire that flamed fiercely at her words, spreading to every part of his body. He pulled away from her, his hands coming to her face to make her look at him, forcing her to make eye contact. “You’re not alone!” he told her angrily, his face swooping down, fast and determined, his lips on hers before either of them even knew it. It was hard, and hurried, his mouth on hers as she responded. It was a passionate kiss, rough and wanting, with crushed lips and hot breaths that left no time for coordination.

Somewhere in his mind, Xander thought that kissing Willow shouldn’t be like this. It should be soft and gentle, and he should take his time, because kissing her was special and something he’d always want to remember, just like before, just like when they were in high school, just like he could still remember every detail about those too few, too brief moments every time he saw her.

“You’ll never be alone!” he growled at her angrily, making his point by pressing his lips against hers again, hard and urgent. “I’m here,” he told her, another kiss, another point to make. “I’m always here.”

But she was still sobbing, burying her head in his chest, her tears soaking through the thin wool sweater, his own eyes filling as he held her tighter, tighter and tighter still, part of him afraid he’d crush her to death, break those ribs he had been so aware of earlier, part of him just wanting to feel her closer to him, thankful for her.

“Make it stop…” she whispered. “Make me feel something else, please…” Her hands at his back tightened, fingers digging into his sweater and the skin underneath, her nails drawing blood, even through the material, but he didn’t care, he relished the pain.

She shook her head in his chest, hair tangling and knotting, static building there as she clawed at him over and over again. “Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop…” she sobbed into him, the words like a mantra he’d never forget, never be able to erase from his mind, the words he’d always hear when he slept and dreamt. “Please,” she begged him, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes that he loved and never wanted to go away. “Please make it stop…”

And then she was kissing him, kissing him like he could have sworn no one ever had before. Which was kind of true, because no one kissed like Willow and she had never kissed him like this before, no one would ever feel as good as her, not that he’d ever tell her or anyone else that. She was pushing her lips against his, hard and fast, her hands coming to his chest, pushing him again, pushing him back against the table, the corner of it hitting him square in the small of his back, making him wince at the pain and the bruise that was sure to be there in a few hours, black and blue and red and purple, something he’d try to hide from the person he lived with and then pass off as a demon-related injury.

His hand came to the back of her neck, gripping her there, hard, through the thickness of her hair, his other hand around her waist, holding her tightly. He felt the back of the chair next to him, and when she pressed against him, her chest against his, her hands on his face, pulling him down, he could feel the wood biting into his leg and his ass, uncomfortable but not awkward, just something that reminded him that this was real, because there was the possibility that this could be just another one of those dreams he was so used to.

Her lips felt warm, moving in a rhythm with his, her tongue in his mouth, contorting and moving with his in a way that made him hard, harder than before, and she knew that, she must have known that, because he felt her pressing herself against him there, her crotch grinding against his like she knew what she was doing, and he didn’t want to think of how she had learnt that - probably not from Tara, unless there was something they weren’t telling him.

The image of her girlfriend popped into his mind, sweet and innocent, but was it weird that it didn’t make him feel guilty? Was it weird that the only thing he felt was thankful that Tara had been there for the one person he cared about the most in this stupid world? It incurred nothing bad in him, although when he saw her in person it might be different, but he forced the image away, he’d care about that when it came.

The chair faltered behind him, their combined weights pressing against it making it wobble, and he reached out a hand behind him to grip the table. It missed on the first attempt, sending the thick textbooks that had been piled there to the floor, and he tried again, this time managing to grab the edge of the table.

It wasn’t there for long, though. It wasn’t enough to be touching her with just one hand, and he pulled her closer to him, breaking the kiss for long enough for him to catch his breath, to let her catch hers. If there had been more time, he may have worried that he had pushed something she just didn’t want, but her response proved he didn’t need to as she pulled him away from the table, their feet stumbling over one another as their momentum sent them into a wooden bookcase against one of the walls. They heard the books shake and fall inside, the porcelain ornaments sitting atop of it crashing to the ground, not smashing, but one of them losing a piece or two, and he’d have to buy a tube of superglue to fix that tomorrow.

She had him pinned against the wall again, a thrill running from his head to his toes and back again, tingles as he pulled her to him to kiss her again, long and hard and not the most loving kiss of his life, but not devoid of the emotion either. How that worked he wasn’t entirely sure, though he knew that he loved her, in so many different ways, and he knew that she felt the same, could feel it in her kiss, in the way she was pulling at his sweater, yanking it up and moving her hands over his bare skin, scratching and nipping at him, painful in the best way.

His hands were on her face, pulling her, and she liked that. She liked that they were close enough for her to feel his hardness digging into her, that his hands felt like they would devour her completely, big and masculine and rough, and she realised she missed that feeling she had first experienced all of those years ago. She felt like she had wanted this for so long that sometime over the years she had forgotten and this was reminding her, and she wanted more.

She had felt so lost, so empty and alone before he got here, and he was making it better, he was making it okay, just like she knew he would. He always made it better, no matter what was happening. Sometimes, all she needed to do was look at him, to have him smile at her, and things would just seem that little bit brighter, a little more hopeful. It was taking more than a smile right now, but he was still making her feel like things might just work out, despite the gnawing in the pit of her stomach and the shaking of her hands as they touched him.

He pushed her back, not letting go of her, and they fell back again, this time crashing into the doorjamb between the dining room and the kitchen, and she heard something crack as his back hit wood. She hoped it was the frame and not one of his bones, because that would be bad and probably not that easily explainable. She supposed it didn’t matter, that structure had never been too safe, especially after so many years and so many demonic attacks it had endured, and she knew what it felt like. She felt like she had been waiting to break until he had touched her, and then it had happened, and it wasn’t like what she had been expecting, but he had kissed her and made her feel again, something good, something other than desolate and gone.

She moved her hands up, over where half of his torso was exposed, the top of him still covered by the sweater she had pulled up earlier, crushed by their bodies so connected and fitted together. She pulled on the material, pulling him back as she fell against the wooden cabinet, the sharp edge cutting into her spine and she could almost feel the skin break, could picture the trickle of blood running down the middle of her back and down her pants, but that was good, it meant that she was still alive, especially when she had been lying in her bed earlier, shaking and sweating, wondering if she’d ever feel anything other than desperation running through her body.

And she was feeling something. She could feel it in her stomach, making it turn and flip, could feel it spreading down to her crotch, making her wet, so wet it was making the pyjama pants she was wearing damp and cold against her skin. She could feel the tingle it was causing making her knees weak, but they had been anyway, so it was a good thing he was holding her so tightly, or she’d be on the floor by now. But he’d always been the one holding her up when she felt like she might fall, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise. She could feel it moving through her, making her want and need more, and she knew it was coming, so she could wait – as long as it didn’t take too long…

They stumbled together, away from the danger of sharp edges and broken porcelain, and she felt herself backed against the wall, spine flat against where she had been when he first found her not so long ago, when she would never have even thought of this happening. The phone was next to her, not that she saw it, she just felt it when his hands tore open the pyjama shirt she was wearing, buttons flying through the air and landing with an audible ping when one of them hit the glass fruit bowl across the other side of the room. It was as his mouth dipped to her neck, wet kisses placed there that moved down to her chest, his tongue running over one of her nipples, making it hard and full, just for him, that her arms let go of him. She brought them up, trying to use them to ground her in some way, but instead one of her hands hit the phone unit, making the receiver fall with a noisy clatter to the floor, the faint sound of the dial tone ringing the air between the heated gasps she was letting out. His mouth closed around her nipple, sucking hard and smooth, his teeth grazing her, making her other arm swipe at the cabinet next to her, not on purpose, but because it was like a spasm she couldn’t control, and the photographs in the silver frames went flying to the floor, the glass smashing loudly, but not enough to make them stop, not enough to make her want to stop.

It should have, though, because one of those pictures was lying face-up, the one of Tara looking beautiful and ethereal, her eyes sparkling and laughing, and Willow wanted to feel guilty. She wanted to be able to find a reason to put an end to this, because this might be the thing that put the final nail in the coffin of her relationship with the other Wicca, but it didn’t give her that. It didn’t mean anything, not right now, not while his big hands were wandering over her body, while one of them was closed around one of her breasts, fingertips rolling around her nipple, making her whimper and moan and pull on his hair as he continued to suck and tease the other with his mouth, warmth filling her as he brought her in from the cold, knowing he was the only one who could help her with this despair that had been filling her for what had felt like forever.

She pulled him up when she couldn’t stand it anymore, her fingers in his hair and moving his head to hers because she needed to kiss him again, needed it so much that it her hurt inside, made her wet and hot, that good, down-low tickle making her knees buckle again.

But he didn’t kiss her. He was going to, and he wanted to, and he needed to, just like he knew she did, too, but for now, just for this moment, he wanted to just look at her. It had seemed so long since he had last done that, just…watched her. He used to do it all the time, when she had her nose in a book and smirked to herself when she read something funny or interesting. Or when she was talking to Giles, a riveted expression on her face that said wanted to know everything he did, wanted to know more than that. He had never known anyone or anything like that in his life, probably never would, which was a good thing because that meant that Willow would always be that thing to him.

He had stopped watching her…he didn’t know when. Maybe after he had gotten engaged, maybe when she started dating Tara…maybe even before then. He just knew that he missed it. Maybe if he hadn’t fallen in love with her all of those years ago and stopped spending time with her because it hurt too much to be around her, she wouldn’t have gotten this far, and…

His hand moved to her face, her skin soft, despite the pain still etched there, and he wondered if that would ever go away, or if it would be there every time he looked at her from now on. His fingers found a lock of hair, tangled and wiry in his fingers and pulled it back from her face, pushing back all of her hair in the pale moonlight that still shone in from the outside. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to, because there was something happening here. She was standing in front of him, pinned there by his weight, breathing heavy and deep and uneven, something more in her eyes now than there had been earlier. Before, they were empty, making her look like a stranger, now they were full, full of him, and even the tear marks that still stained her face couldn’t take away the beauty of her skin, of her mouth and her lips.

His head tilted to one side, his eyes still taking her in, his hair in complete disarray from her tumultuous ministrations of him while he had been tending to other parts of her body, and boy, had he loved that. He’d torn open her shirt because, well, he couldn’t stop himself, and this was the one time he didn’t have to hold back when he was with her. He loved her fully clothed in complete Eskimo garb, so half-naked did more things to him that anyone ever had, and that included a cheerleader and a slayer and an ex-vengeance demon he had been involved with. He had always imagined what she looked like under those t-shirts and fuzzy sweaters she wore, dreamt about it when he slept. Sometimes the images bombarded his unconscious state so much that it would wake him up, make him go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, make him get into a cold shower while he satisfied himself with his eyes closed, pictures of her dancing in his head. From now on, at least now he’d have the real thing to picture.

And the real thing was so much better than he could ever have predicted, lily-white skin and rosy nipples, not that he’d had much of a chance to study it, not that he even needed it, because the image was forever going to be burned into his mind and into his heart. It would make him ache when this was over, when he had to go back to his fiancé and his life and being her best friend and nothing else. But he’d live that if he could just have this with her, this one encounter when nothing else mattered. He’d tasted her, his mouth ravenous for her, and her skin had been like silk to his tongue, wet from his kisses and her nipples hard for him, the thought making him hard and breathless, and he’d pushed himself into her, rubbing himself against her because he needed her to know what she was doing to him.

And now her eyes were on him, burning him and making him sweat, intense and familiar and so many different emotions raging in them that he couldn’t do it anymore. He bent his head, capturing her lips in his once again, more fervent and urgent kisses exchanged, tongues melting into one another as his arms came around her back, trapped between her body and the wall, her weight so heavy against his hands that he could feel his knuckles scraping against the wall covering, friction and skin breaking making him kiss her even harder, making her gasp for breath.

In response to what he was doing to her, she was pulling on the back of his sweater, pulling it up and up, forcing him to break their kiss when he tasted wool in his mouth, felt lint on his tongue as she struggled to divest it from him. It was a brief disconnection as their lips met again, and the sweater was gone, his skin hot and damp as it pressed against hers, hard nipples digging into his chest to give him a warm shiver, her hands roaming over his shoulder blades and pulling at him, nails in his skin to claw at him, before they moved down, rubbing and teasing right where he was the hardest, a moan coming from him that sounded perfect when his mouth was still on hers.

One hand moved behind her neck, him pulling away just for long enough to see a streak of red on the wall behind her where his knuckles had grazed it, a blood trail left in its wake that he’d have to remember to pass off as a reminder of a demonic attack of some kind, because those were hardly rare around here. He felt a sting as her hair tangled in his fingers, getting caught in the open wounds of hands that should be used to the hazards of working construction and he’d had more cuts and calluses than he could remember, but this was a new kind of wound and a new kind of pain, one that he entirely relished, although tomorrow might be another story when he’d have to stop by the drug store for band aids and antiseptic cream.

The other hand ran over her face, over her cheek, clammy palm and fingers against damp skin as he kissed her again, because he couldn’t stop. His hand moved down, her breast the perfect size for his hand, like he always knew it would be, travelling even further down, across the toned and disturbingly indented stomach, feeling the ribs again at her sides, something he’d talk to her about sometime when they were less…naked. He could feel his own hand shaking, trembling as it moved further and further down, finally finding her pyjama pants and getting inside of them, no hesitation, just anticipation of what was to come next.

His fingers finally brushed a soft patch of hair, soft hair that he imagined being as red as her hair, bright against pale skin that was probably even paler down there where she had never been exposed to the sun – at least, not that he knew of. His fingers felt damp, felt warmth, and his hand delved deeper, caressing her, soft thighs and cold skin, wet from perspiration caused by the shaking and withdrawal, but he was making it better, or he hoped he was, because that’s all he wanted to do, and he could almost fool himself into believing that was the only reason why he was doing this.

His hand covered the patch of hair, his fingers dancing in it, as he used the hand that was still at the back of her neck to pull her away. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kiss her, because he really, really did, and he’d never get enough of kissing her, of that he was certain. He did it because he wanted to see her, to look into her eyes, for her to look into his eyes, and know. He needed her to know what he had wanted to tell her so many times. He wouldn’t speak now, wouldn’t want to break the moment and the atmosphere, and if he said something it might ruin everything. It was like they were in a bubble, separate from everything else in their lives, something delicate and frail around them, locking them in, and anything could destroy it, bring the reality of what they were doing crashing down on them like an explosion in a high school, and he knew from first hand experience what that could be like, what destruction it could cause, and he wasn’t willing to risk that.

He pushed his own body against hers, feeling her release a breath as they impacted, warm breath washing over his face that he was sure he shouldn’t be thinking of how it would feel on his cock, hot breath against hot skin, of her tongue on him and her hands, small and slender on his length. The thought forced his fingers against her skin, forced the tips into her, against hot flesh, exposed as he eased it apart with two fingers, his thumb brushing against her swollen clit, making her cry out so loud he felt a wave of fear run through him, scared he had hurt her, because he wouldn’t hurt her if his life depended on it, and right now, he knew that if he wasn’t buried inside her soon, it was a very real possibility that he might die.

But the look on her face was far from one of pain and torture. It was more like the opposite. Her eyes were half-closed, half-open, eyelashes fluttering, while her mouth hung open, the pink wetness inside bringing more thoughts of her mouth on him, and he had to taste her again. His mouth on hers, he wanted to push his tongue into hers, but she beat him to the punch, nearly swallowing him even before their lips had touched.

His thumb brushed against her again, making her buck into him, his hardness being crushed by her almost falling to the ground, but he held her still. The hand on the back of her neck still had a firm grip, something she was getting off on, and he had to admit, he wasn’t hating it, either. He was used to strong women, always being attracted by their fire and confidence, just like Cordelia, just like Faith, just like Anya. They were the women he knew would keep him on the right path, would help and guide him, but no one had ever thought Willow was like that, they thought that was why they had never gotten together in all of these years. He knew better, though. He knew it was her who had shaped him into the person he was today, whether good or bad, she had been there and taught him and loved him, and despite what other people thought when they saw them together, she was the controlling force, in an entirely good way that he would always be more grateful for than he could ever express in words or actions. There were too many things that had kept them apart, but none of them had to do with her apparent non-assertiveness. Because she was, she had proved that to him earlier when she had turned on him, accused him of getting off on her pain and suffering, of liking the fact that she needed him. The scary thing was that maybe she wasn’t entirely wrong.

But now he was holding her, pulling her away again, forcing her to look into his eyes, not that she needed his encouragement. Green eyes met brown, sparking electricity between them almost, the tension so think you could probably cut it with one of those broadswords from the weapons chest in the living room, not that he was going to try. Her hair was still tangled in his fingers, twisted and locked between them as his thumb played on her clit, over and over again, making her cry out and wanting to throw her head back, but he wouldn’t let her. He wanted to see her face, to watch as she reacted to him, watch as her face blushed and her mouth opened and closed with her cries, watch as she tried to push herself down onto him, to try and impale herself on his thumb and fingers, and he couldn’t make her wait any longer.

His fingers dipped inside of her, hot and wet and throbbing against his digits, his thumb still on that pivotal swollen bundle, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing, harder and harder, faster and faster, her breathing and cries responding in kind. Her arms came up again, banging loudly against the cabinet next to them, more things falling to the ground and breaking, as she grabbed onto it for something, anything, to keep her with him as that yearning and that good kind of pain began to build inside of her.

She tore her head away from his hands, leaving him with handfuls of red strands entwined in his fingers, ignoring the pain it caused when she felt the pull reverberate through her skull. All she cared about was this, and this only, his fingers inside of her, good but not nearly enough to satisfy her like she needed. He was rubbing her, so hard and fast, his breathing coming in quick rasps as his body created a friction against hers, and she felt herself crying out time and again, non-coherent sounds in the dark room and her dark heart that was feeling lighter all the time, the longer she was with him and the louder she cried out his name.

Her head was against the wall, her hair full of static as she tossed and turned in his arms, her hands clamouring for something to make it stop, to make it never stop, feeling his eyes on her the whole time.

“Please…” she felt herself whimper, “Please…”

His face came in close to hers, his hand, still wet from where it had just been, travelled up, up over her stomach to find her breast, a trail left in his fingers wake, wet and silvery in the moonlight falling on them. He closed his hand around it, making her moan, carnal desire taking over him as his mouth attacked her neck, sucking kisses and teeth grazing her skin so roughly that she’d have some good-looking hickeys there tomorrow that she’d have to cover up with a thick wool sweater.

“Please what?” he asked her, his voice low and dangerous, in an entirely thrilling way that almost made her orgasm right there and then, because wasn’t she supposed to be the dark one here? The dangerous one?

She felt her knees grow even weaker, her body saved from slipping down the wall by his strong hands that held her.

“Please…” she said again, a breathless whisper that she wasn’t sure was actually a word.

His hand came down again, over her hard nipple, so hard it felt like it was aching for him to touch it, so what else was he supposed to do? He took it between his fingers, nipping it between his fingertips, hard and firm and pulling lightly, making her even more restless against him. His mouth came up to cover it, to take it into his mouth and nip on it with his teeth, the pressure so delicious as it freed his hand for other things, things like yanking on the waistband of her loose pyjama pants, pulling them down easily as they fell around her feet, and she stumbled over herself to step out of them.

He lifted his head to kiss her again, and her hands came to his pants because she had to do something, she had to hurry up the process, because if she didn’t think she was already crazy because of the things she had done just lately, she was certain that she would be now, out of her mind with this insane need for him. Her fingers found the fastener of his jeans, and she fumbled awkwardly to prise it open, impatient fingertips that just wouldn’t stop shaking, pulling and tugging at problematic buttons that she was sure had been designed just to piss her off.

And then her hand met hot flesh, met hair and skin that made him jump almost as her hand touched him, touched that hardness that she was dying to feel inside of her. She felt him trying to pull away, trying to get some distance between them, but she wasn’t having that. His tongue was inside of her mouth and as he tried to move, she attached her teeth to it, biting and pulling on it, tasting the metallic tang of blood and swallowing it down. Her fingers tightened and gripped at him and this time she released him when he pulled back, only because she needed the air and because she wanted to hear the noise she was encouraging him to make.

The jeans were pulled down, not all the way down, just far enough so that they reached his knees and freed him fully to her, pulsating in her hand, anticipation of what was to come running through the veins and making it twitch.

She looked at him, and she felt the world stop, she felt everything and nothing, all at the same time. There was an understanding between them, between their gaze on one another. This wasn’t about sex, or love, or solace, or hurt, or any of those twelve hundred and one emotions that could come into the equation here. This was all of that, rolled into one, and somehow they both knew that, even without speaking about it.

She could feel this urge in her to tell him what she’d never had the courage to before. She wanted to spill her heart, to tell him that when she closed her eyes at night, sometimes a part of her wished that when she woke, it was his face on the pillow next to her that she wanted to see. There was Tara, and she knew that, and she loved her more than she could ever have expected, but not like this. She didn’t need Tara in this way, not like she needed him, and she could never love Tara like she loved Xander, because there just wasn’t enough in the world for the both of them.

But she didn’t tell him, didn’t need to, because when he looked into her eyes, for the first time in their lives, he saw it, he saw everything she had ever felt and still did, in that corner of her heart that was always reserved for him until they could be together, just like he felt in return. He didn’t know why that was suddenly so very clear to him right now when they had been drifting for so many years, but it was, and it gave him hope, tiny and dangerous, that someday everything would be okay.

His hand moved down, from where her collarbone jutted out just a little, down to the curve of her breast, and further. Across her stomach and her hip, moving down the side of her thigh to the back of her knee, lifting the leg as his free hand moved down to where he could see her glistening, wet and waiting for him.

He looked into her eyes again, needing to be absolutely sure she wanted to do this, because if she didn’t, that was alright. If she didn’t want this, he’d…well, he’d have to live in a cold shower for the rest of his life, move his comic book collection and his DVD player and a TV in there, but it was alright. He’d do that, for her.

The answer he got was her pulling him closer, pulling him so that his erection was trapped between their bodies again, one of her hands roaming down to catch it again while the other came around his neck. His face was next to hers as he felt himself dip, lowering himself to her height, his dick closing in on that beautiful wetness and the power it held inside of it. This may not have been the first thing on his mind when he woke up this morning… Okay, so that was a lie, because sometimes it was the first thing he thought about. And sometimes it was the second and the third and the fourth if he was being honest, but that was all it had ever been before. A thought. A dream. Something he would never have.

But now she was drawing him closer, opening her legs for him, that wetness touching him where he was hard and begging, making him shiver and close his eyes, and that was before he was even inside of her.

His dick touched against her skin, making her draw back a deep breath because of nothing more than the fact that she couldn’t believe how much she wanted, needed this. The shaft of him pressed against her opening, pressed against her clit and she cried out again, thinking it was lucky the neighbours were used to screams coming from this house in the middle of the night – and the day, for that matter. It pressed against her again, between those swollen, red lips, and he hitched her leg up a little higher, up above his ass, and her arms closed around his neck in a death grip that even Buffy would have been proud of.

With his face close to hers, he pushed into her, a breath released with a moan as she held hers, the sensation old and new but never like this before. It was a high squeal that came from her next, somewhere between a scream and a moan, neither of which he would have complained about, but this sound encompassing both of them, as he pushed in a little farther. Her eyes were clenched closed, her face contorted as she adjusted to him inside of her, her head flat against the wall and her arms locked so tightly around his neck that she was afraid she was hurting him.

This wasn’t about love-making, as much as he wanted to pretend it was. If anything it was about him scratching an itch that she just couldn’t get at, but it was Xander and Willow, and that made it special, despite the surroundings and the situation. He sunk into her, deeper and deeper, feeling himself falling deeper and deeper for her, only for her, immersed in her energy and her light and everything that she was, because he knew she was all of that, even if she seemed to have forgotten. There were cries between them, maybe even a few tears, he couldn’t quite see, but being inside her was like fire, flames licking at him, burning and aching, sending sparks throughout his body. Hotter, wetter, tighter, nothing had ever felt like this.

She cried out, once, twice, three times as he ran his hand down to her other leg, pulling her up to impale her, her entire weight balanced on him, one leg at either side of his hips with his hands under her ass, caressing and groping and fingers probing into and out of her, as he pulled out so he could drive back into her, and into her, and into her. Her head was buried in his shoulder, her teeth unknowingly sinking into skin, the sound of flesh and muscle tearing nearly audible and he could almost see it in his mind, the pain ripping through him like penance for his sins, for this sin. This was wrong, he knew that, so many different shades of wrong that he couldn’t even begin to count them all. The wrong time, the wrong place, but he was inside her, and she was crying out his name over and over again, so that made it okay.

She was forgetting everything while he was with her, doing exactly what she had wanted him to do, making her feel something else, he was making her feel everything else, and if she could think at all, she might have thought about what would happen when this was over, when they’d reached their climax and their bodies were sticky with sweat, when he went home to Anya and when Buffy came home. Instead, she felt like she had been a blank canvas before she’d been with him, and slowly, he had been filling her and colouring her and making her something more than the nothing she thought she was. She loved him for that. She loved him for everything else, for too many reasons than there could ever be for loving anyone, but right now, it was for that.

She lifted her head as he pounded away, so hard she knew she’d pay for it later, but at least it would be something more physical, more tangible, to remember this by than just a memory that would melt into so many she already had of him and of them together. There would be bruises and burning and aching, and she’d think of him every time she felt them.

She was hardly aware of what she had been doing, her eyes catching the bite mark on his shoulder, teeth marks perfectly imprinted and she wondered if it would be there forever. She kinda hoped it would be, because then, every time he looked in a mirror, she’d be there with him, and in that way they could be together forever if in no other.

Her eyes found his, moonlight outside slowly fading and soon there’d be the sun, and the day, and Buffy would be home with words of how she’d made it through the night and how great that was, even when Buffy herself hadn’t been able to stay in the same house as her, despite her earlier proclamations of help and forgiveness for what happened to Dawn. But for now, there was just him, just them, and his brown eyes were staring into hers, burning holes in her, just like she remembered from so many times over their lifetimes. This time, though, she didn’t have to excuse herself so she could run home and lock herself away in her room, or in the bathroom at school, and put her hand down her pants where she was already wet after just one look or one smile from him. This time she didn’t have to think of him while she rubbed herself, feeling ashamed and thrilled all at the same time, while his face swam in her head when she closed her eyes at that moment when she released with a cry muffled by her sweater or her hand. This time, he was there, and he was real, and he was doing everything she had ever dreamt of, and the real thing was infinitely better.

She didn’t know that she had been crying out, all she knew was that his face was in her head and in her heart when she closed her eyes, and she could hardly hear herself over the pulsating of her skin and the throbbing that was taking over her, all over. It was only when his lips came to hers, crushing and forceful and rough that the faint noise that had been somewhere in the background stopped. His tongue came into her mouth, imposing and threatening, but all good and hot and sexy, and that wasn’t what this supposed to be about, was it? She didn’t know, didn’t care, she just wanted it to always be there, just like he was.

They both knew it wouldn’t be long, this experience too much, yet too little, especially when his hand came between their bodies and touched her there, touched her where he was pumping into her. His fingers rubbed against her, and she threw herself back against the wall, her shoulder blades hitting the hard surface, more cries, accompanied by his moans, as her hands wound in his hair, twisting and pulling as she drew him nearer, as near as he could get, her elbows around his neck and digging into his shoulders.

And then, that perfect moment came.

And neither of them had known that it would be, because hadn’t this started for all of the wrong reasons? Hadn’t this been about him wanting to help and things had just gotten out of hand and taken a turn towards destruction? How could something that had started because of something so bad, something that had taken over her and almost destroyed everything good she ever had, turn into a moment of total calm?

It was her pleasure that came first, quick and penetrating to her very core, resounding around her and through her, the cry she released different to the others as her body, tense and rigid, suddenly felt like fluid rushing through her. It was this that made him follow close behind, delayed by milliseconds, his head lowering to rest upon the sweat of her breast, his breathing thick and fast and uneven, matching hers as he emptied everything into her, the fruits of their interlude in their rightful place, just where they had always yearned to be, euphoria that was sure to damn him later on, because he had wanted her for so long, only her, and now he knew and nothing would ever be the same again.

It took a few moments for their hearts to slow, and their minds to clear. Xander lifted his head, eyes meeting in a tender moment, the only one they had known since this had begun. His hand came to her face, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over her face, damp with sweat, as he leaned in and kissed her. This kiss gentle and slow and all-too-brief, almost a mockery made of the fact that he was still inside her, soft and spent but still there.

And they understood. It was the storm before the calm. The moment when everything in the world got fucked up, turned upside down and inside out and span around and around, when she felt like there would never be anything else in her life but the darkness. There had to be that bleak desperation for there to be this, this one glimmer of hope that things would get better and sometime in the future she’d be okay, she could get through this, live with it, and it wouldn’t kill her, and it was only him who could make her feel that way.

He lowered her gently, the foreboding sense of finality filling him, and her, too, if the look in her eyes was anything to go by. He felt their bodies disconnect, felt himself leaving her warmth and safety, even if no one else saw her as those things right now, and he hated it, but it had to be done.

Her feet hit the ground, and she knew it was a good thing he was still holding onto her, because she felt her legs weak beneath her, shaking and numb, and she had to rest her hands on his chest to steady herself.

“Willow…” he began.

But he was cut off when her hand came to his mouth, her hand still shaking and she reckoned it would be a while before that stopped. The shaking and the fidgeting. She silenced him as she leant in and placed a kiss on his lips, maybe the last one – for now, anyway.

“Don’t,” she said. “We don’t need to. You have…” she stopped, a tear coming to her eye that he reached up and brushed away. “You have…no idea how grateful I am for you,” she told him. “And for what you’ve done for me.”

He nodded, understanding, choking back a well of emotion that came over him. He reached toward her, taking the shirt he had ripped open earlier and pulling it closed around her. He bent, reluctantly pulling up his jeans, not quite bothering to fasten them just yet as he bent again, finding her pyjama pants and helping her put them back on, the feeling not at all as awkward or embarrassing as it probably could have been. When she was done, he picked up his sweater and pulled it on.

And then there was just silence, something unspoken hanging in the air between them, but both of them knowing it was there, both of them knowing what was to come.

Willow shook her head, a sad smile on her face, as she put her arms around his neck, feeling him respond in kind and taking her into his embrace. “You have to go,” she whispered in his ear, and she could feel his body tense.

He pulled away, hurt in his eyes, and she hurried to dispel it. “I’m not saying that I want you to,” she said. “But there’s… You have Anya waiting for you, and daylight’s coming so Buffy should be home soon, and I don’t think we need to get into what happened. What we did is ours. It belongs to us.”

“I can’t,” he told her. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Why not?” she asked him, and again, there was that shaking that seemed to permeate her thoroughly, though she tried to hide it by wrapping her arms around herself and taking a deep breath.

He took one of her hands, pulling it away from her body and leaving the other wrapped around her own waist, leading her out of the dining room and away from the carnage they had created, making the room look strange in the slowly lightening room.

He took her through the hall, and into the living room, until she seemed to pause. When he turned to look at her, she looked tired and weary, like she hadn’t slept in weeks, bags under her eyes and skin so pale that it seemed like it had been painted white.

She turned briefly, gesturing to the dining room that they had just left. “Shouldn’t we…” she shrugged, “I don’t know, clear that stuff up or something?”

“No,” he said gently, shaking her head. “It’ll be okay.”

“What if Buffy asks?”

“I’ll tell her it was the cat.”

“We don’t have a cat, not since the ‘Miss Kitty meets crossbow’ incident.”

“Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll try ‘it was another demon attack’. At least we know she’ll believe that.”

She smiled at him, which was good because he hadn’t been sure if he’d ever see her smile again. He watched her standing there, one hand holding the shirt closed tight and the other in his, her hair in complete disarray, knotted and tangled and in a completely unrecognisable style, and he felt something break inside of him. His hand came to her face, stroking her cheek just for a moment.

He tugged a little on her hand, making her stumble a little as she took a few steps toward him. He pointed to the sofa, big and soft and comfortable, and kept a tight hold on her hand as she sat. He let go and swung her legs up for her when she looked like she could barely manage to keep her eyes open, and pulled the jacket that was still there from earlier around her to keep her warm because he never wanted her to be cold and alone ever again.

She took his hand before he let go of the jacket, her fingers slipping between his, forcing him to sit when she wouldn’t let go, just stared at their intertwined hands and the contrast of skin and size. She pulled on it, and he smiled at her, getting the hint and laying next to her on the sofa that seemed to be made just for them.

His head touched the arm of the sofa, and his arm went around her neck when she lifted herself so she could rest on his chest, and he thought that wasn’t such a great idea because his heart rate was going through the roof by just being near her, so actually touching her…

He supposed that didn’t matter so much anymore, not after what they had done.

Her hand was on his stomach, tracing small circles through the material that made it tickle there and made him smile to himself, and he wished he could rewind the night. Not because he regretted what happened, but because he and Willow had been together, and that should have been about more than this. It should have been soft and tender, just like he knew they had both dreamt of, but in a way, it had been because they’d both always remember it and think of it whenever they saw each other, it was them together and it meant something, it really, really did.

Her hand moved, coming to her face to push back the hair that kept falling in front of her eyes, watching with interest as her hand trembled in front of her. She could still feel all of that adrenalin and peace running through her body, and although she figured it would wear off eventually, for now it was all she needed, all she wanted.

She wasn’t cured, not by a long shot, neither of them were fool enough to believe that. She still felt that itch inside of her, that feeling that told her she needed magic, and the sooner the better. But she wasn’t going to give in to it, she was resolved about that much. She could pretty much guarantee that this was going to be the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, that there’d be moments when she wanted to give up and say ‘screw it’, but she wouldn’t. And it would be for him, because that’s the only way she could do it.

She pulled on the jacket, tightening it around her and she smiled to herself when she saw the stain on the right lapel where he had spilt ice cream a couple of weeks ago but never bothered washing off because he thought it made the jacket unique. She tried telling him it just made it smelly, but he’d shrugged and said ‘whatever’. She buried her face in it, inhaling the scent it gave, mild cologne and fresh air and hard work, the smell mingling with the real thing right next to her, and it was the most reassured she had ever felt in her life.

“Thank you…” she whispered into it, the words hardly audible, but he must have heard her because she felt him leaning down to place a kiss on the crown of her head, muffled by hair but still there.

She could do this.

She could.

He looked down at her, watched as her eyes fluttered closed but still the grip on his jacket was tight, so tight her knuckles were almost white, and he used the hand behind her to smooth down the hair, because of no other reason than he just wanted to touch it, something familiar in this foreign situation. Her breathing was slowing, still rattling almost, and the shaking was something that was starting to feel normal now, even when it was vibrating against him, and he thought that when he didn’t have her next to him like this, he’d miss that. He’d miss a lot of other things, but he’d miss this.

And that time was getting closer and closer, he could feel it. His mind was unconsciously counting down to when he heard the door opening, for Buffy to return and look at them, surprised and confused, and maybe there’d be a little shame when he looked at her with that hard glare that hardly anyone except Willow had ever seen him use because Willow had been left alone just when she needed people around her the most, just when she needed her friends the most.

He wouldn’t explain why he was there, he’d hope she’d just get the message, but not the full message, because Willow had been right when she said that what they had done was theirs. Everyone knowing, or anyone at all knowing, might take something away from what they had felt. He’d make a brief apology for the state of the house and the fact that he’d made absolutely no attempt to clear up the destruction they had caused, and then he’d leave.

And that would be the hardest part. Leaving. Leaving her.

Willow was sleeping, he knew that by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, and the sweet little sound that was being omitted by her, something he remembered from their sleepovers when they were kids, and he was pleasantly surprised that she still made them because it made him feel like he knew her that little bit better when he had been wondering if he knew her at all when he had found out about all of this magic addiction stuff because he was sure his Willow wouldn’t have done that.

When the time to go came, he’d carefully lean down and kiss her head, and he’d feel like crying because that meant this was over, this brief interlude that was entirely inappropriate but right. Then, he’d lift her head so he could free himself of her, even if all he ever wanted was to never be free of her, and he’d lay her back down on the sofa so she could sleep because, god, she needed it. Then he’d stand, hoping that his pants didn’t fall to his ankles when he remembered that he hadn’t fastened them yet.

He would turn and leave, giving Buffy one last ‘leave-her-alone-again-and-I’ll-kill-you’ stares, looking over at Willow one last time until he couldn’t take it any longer. If he didn’t go then, there was the real possibility he wouldn’t go at all. He would head for the car that he hadn’t realised was parked so askew on the road, fishing the keys out of his pocket with trembling fingers. He’d open the car and jump inside, turning and looking back at the house one last time before he drove away.

And then he would drive. And drive. He’d probably pass fifty blocks more than he should, before turning the car in the right direction for home, but the concept would be alien to him when he didn’t feel like it was anymore, when he felt like he’d just left the place that had ever felt like home, and he wouldn’t be thinking of the house. He would be thinking of her.

He would stop at the twenty four hour fuel station with its lights blinking on and off on his way back to the apartment to pick up a bunch of wilted, lame-looking ‘I’m sorry’ flowers from one of the cracked, black plastic buckets outside that he hoped would placate his pissed off fiancée. After that, he’d head back into town, leaving the car engine running while he dashed to the ATM outside of the Sunnydale Bank, withdrawing a couple of hundred bucks from his ‘When-Xander-Really-Screws-Up: The-Keep-Anya-Happy’ fund, the one he set up after the whole energy-bars-that-tasted-like-cardboard fiasco a couple of years ago. He really hoped the cash dispensed in smaller bills, this being the one instance where smaller really was better, because the longer it took for her to count, the happier it made her.

And then he’d drive back to the apartment with his flowers and his cash, and he’d have to wait in the car while the guilt inside of him started to eat away at his insides like acid rotting him away. He’d think about Anya inside, probably sleeping in their bed, and of all of the good things she had done for him, all of the good things that she was, and he’d want to slap himself for what he had done. He’d realise just what an absolutely amazing person she was, and how she’d make someone the most perfect wife.

It would be about then that he’d realise that someone was never going to be him.

He’d get out of the car, shivering when the early morning chill hit him, and he’d think about Willow, wrapped up on the sofa in his jacket, and he’d have to stand still because of the memories and images that assaulted him.

And then he’d take a deep breath in, and out again, and he’d go inside, shedding his sneakers on the way. He’d go into the room they shared, and he’d sit on the bed next to her, hoping she couldn’t sense Willow on him or smell her on his skin, and when she stirred, realising she was still mad at him, he’d hand her the flowers and the cash, and she’d forget, maybe temporarily, but that was enough.

Counting money was like foreplay to her, and when she was done, when she pouted, leaning across the bed with a predatory look on her face, trying to kiss him and tease him with her hands and other parts of her anatomy that he could see, he would have to make up some kind of excuse why he couldn’t have sex with her because he wasn’t sure he could ever have anyone else now that he’d had Willow, and he’d wish that he hadn’t bothered with the guilt gifts and that he’d headed straight for the site so he could shower and change into the clothes he left there, calling her on his cell to say he had to get to work early and stick with her being pissed at him.

He’d make his excuses and go into the bathroom, head in hands, as he prepared to wash all traces of his recent tryst and of her from him. He’d turn on the shower and let the room fill with steam, getting inside while his misdemeanours rushed down the drain and he’d feel like he lost something. Then he’d get out and stand in front of the mirror, naked and exposed, looking at the marks she had left on his body and picture her red hair still on him, even if all trace of her was washed away, but that was okay, because he still had the memories, and they would be his and hers forever, something shared that no one could ever take away from him.

But that was then, and this was now. And now there was hope, while she was in his arms and breathing and sleeping, just like normal people did, and he didn’t know why or where it came from. They were all so far away from a happy ending that it wasn’t even funny. He was in a relationship with someone he was sure he could never make happy, never be good enough for, someone who might just turn around one day and be a demon again. Buffy was so unhappy and uncomfortable around her friends that she could barely be in the same room as them, that she’d rather be out fighting for her life and being fought than spend any time with those closest to her. And Willow…well, they all knew what Willow was going through.

It was years away. It was miles and miles away in a distant, faraway, fairytale land that none of them could see right now. But it was there.

He just hoped they could find it.

They would be okay. They all would.

They had to be.