Delicate

By Eurydice

WILLOW

This is something new to her. This being tired. Not even three consecutive all-nighters for finals in high school had ever made her this tired. And it's not like she isn't sleeping. She is. Just too much. Because in her dreams is the only place she can still see him.

She doesn't think about him standing outside his van the day he left. And she doesn't dwell on the way his naked body was curled around that bitch Veruca. Not much, anyway. Instead, Willow likes to remember the other times, the not-so-unpleasant, I'm-not-going-to-break-your-heart kind of times. In high school. When things were simpler. When she wasn't always alone. When it was her and Oz, and the world had order again, and the sun when it rose didn't laugh in mockery at pain that belonged in deep, dark corners.

So when she overhears Devon talking about driving up the coast to see him at some club he's playing at---filling in for a friend, he says, which makes her want to laugh and scream what about me, I was his friend too, and so much more---she does something she's never done before. She buys a bus ticket to the town Oz is in, and then lies to Buffy and the others and all her teachers, telling them she has to go to a funeral out of town and will be gone for a few days.

Nobody questions her. Nobody ever does. Goody goody Willow tell a fib? Unheard of. Willow doesn't ever do anything wrong. Willow is always the good girl. Shares her toys. Plays nice with others. Turns her homework in on time with all the extra credit, and prays that at least her elders will like her for something. Except she usually likes doing the extra credit, so maybe that last isn't such an anomaly. Just weird. That's her. Weird girl Willow.

Oddly enough, she doesn't sleep on the bus, although it leaves Sunnydale at an obscene hour of the morning. Too excited. She just wants to see him, to make sure he's OK, to be able to fill some of the holes in her heart that his leaving created. Just a look. That's all she wants.

And if he decides after seeing her that he made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving, then all the better.

She goes to the club first, and sees the poster for the band that's playing, and imagines Oz's face over the blurred image of the guitarist that's plastered there. For a moment, she's tempted to just camp out in front of the building and wait for it to open, but then decides that that seems stalkery. Better to be casual.

Oh, I just happened to be in town...

You're playing here? What a coinky-dink! I was just passing through...

Hi, I miss you. Please come home.

The hours are passed wandering along streets she doesn't recognize, looking into shop windows selling cheap plastic toys and overpriced souvenirs, listening to what sounds like the hundredth motorcycle roar past on the street. The air is salty, and it leaves her skin tingling as the minutes tick closer to the time when she can go back to the club. At one point, she actually tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and gulps at the sensations, drinking down the fortitude she imagines it's giving her, before realizing that people are staring at her, leaving her to scurry along the sidewalk with her chin tucked back into her chest.

Staring is not good. Staring means they see her. And seeing her means they're judging, and she already knows how that turns out. Because it always turns out the same. Not good.

There is already a crowd outside waiting to get in when she gets there, and like a good little Willow, she waits at the end of the line, smiling even when the Goth girl in front of her allows three of her friends to cut in. It only pushes her further back in waiting, but she doesn't care. She can be patient. After all, she's going to see Oz again. That is really all that matters.

Except something happens before she can make it to the doors. The crowd is starting to break apart, and she can hear grumbling about fickle musicians and something about a guitarist. Only then does she push her way to the front, and waits patiently as the bouncer laughs at some joke a busty blonde is making, waving her past without a stamp when it's obvious she's not even eighteen.

"Did something happen with the band?" she asks breathlessly.

"Not playing," is his brusque reply. He's back to business now, barely flicking a glance over her, the knit cap pulled down low over her cropped hair, long sweater over Oz's favorite skirt.

"How come?" She has to fight to keep his attention.

"The sub they got for the guitarists bolted," he explains. "Packed everything into his van and took off. Something about a girl."

Her faint thank you isn't even heard as she stumbles away, the hot rush of tears prickling her eyes. Something about a girl. A girl meaning her. Obviously, Oz had run because he'd seen her. Walking around the town all day like she owned the place. How stupid was she? Of course, she'd been seen, and her surprise had been blown out of the water. Except if he'd run at the mere possibility that she might show up in the club, who would the surprise really have been for?

She walks and walks and walks, and when she finally looks up, she realizes for the first time that it's dark outside and she has absolutely no idea where she is. Shadows of long buildings stripe the concrete before her, alternating in shades of grey and black, encasing her in rising fear as her head jerks around to try and get her bearings. Buffy would kill her if she knew she'd wandered off alone at night, she thinks. And then Giles would be right there to do his own kind of killing, and then Xander would try and make her laugh about how stupid she was by cracking some dumb joke. And they would be right.

Because foolish doesn't even begin to describe how she is feeling at the moment. Foolish for thinking Oz would take one look at her and decide he'd made a huge mistake and come home. Foolish for wishing she could go back to the way things were, even if she only actually admitted that somewhere deep inside her heart. And foolish for being in a strange place at nighttime.

Without a weapon.

And what looked like to be a vampire coming out of an alley in front of her.

She can't even scream. Somehow the connection that vampires really did exist outside of Sunnydale never made it through her head, leaving her rooted to her spot as the demon approaches, golden eyes glinting, closely cropped red hair making him look like some ghoulish Richie Cunningham. It's only when he smiles, baring his fangs, that she can turn and flee, but the pounding of her feet ceases almost immediately when he tackles her to the sidewalk, ripping her tights and scraping her knees so that life returns with a vengeance to her stunned body.

Even she can smell her blood as she struggles against his strength. It's a losing battle, she knows, and the irony that she's going to die in some unknown place, at the hands of a vamp that Buffy could've easily dusted back in Sunnydale if she'd only done the sensible thing and stayed, doesn't escape her. She is bracing herself for the bite when she hears the motorcycle roar out of nowhere, the swift gait of boots across cement whispering in welcome as they approach.

The weight on her back is suddenly gone, and Willow sneezes as the dust settles around her head, blinking once, then twice as it clings to her lashes. Before she can roll over, gentle hands are under her armpits, pulling her into a sitting position and helping her to lean against the nearby building. Gentle but strong, she notes, and looks up to see the black of his leathers darker than the sky as he crouches at her side.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

It strikes her immediately that she knows his voice, and frowns, reaching up to tap at the helmet visor that still hides his face. He pushes it up, disclosing the bright blue eyes that look upon her with worry, and she wonders where his glasses are.

"OK, Wesley and leather? Not a combination I would've thought I'd live to see," she jokes.

His smile tells her he understands she's fine, and he straightens, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. "You're a long way from home," he says.

"So are you. And on a motorcycle."

He glances back at the bike and she swears he's blushing under his helmet. "It's easier for transportation," he explains. "It allows me my freedom."

"To do what?"

His chest swells in assumed pride. "I'm a rogue demon hunter now."

"You hunt rogue demons?"

"No, I'm the rogue."

Wesley and rogue, another word combination she never thought she'd hear.

When she takes a step, Willow winces at the pain in her knees, feeling the scrabble of tiny rocks and sediment imbedded into her flesh.

"You should get cleaned up," Wesley says. "Where are you staying?"

She hasn't thought that far ahead. Somehow, in the fantasy she'd created, Oz was going to see her and take her back to wherever he was spending the night. And that realization sends the events of the night crashing back into her shoulders, making the tears return to blind her eyes.

He notices and nods as if he understands. "I have a hotel room. You can get cleaned up there. Get some rest before going back to Sunnydale in the morning."

She can only reciprocate his nod. As she follows behind him, she sees the awkward gait of his step, the cautious way he throws his leg over the seat. Maybe he was hurt, she thinks. Out loud, she says, "Maybe I should be the one to ask if you're all right," and points to his legs when he looks confused.

"Ah. No. It's...the trousers. They...chafe." He shakes his head as he flips his visor back down. "My apologies for not having an extra helmet. I don't normally carry passengers."

"It's no big," she says, climbing on behind him. There is a moment of hesitation as she wonders what's she's supposed to do, but the scent of leather as it hits her nose is comforting, reminding her of Buffy and of home and of all things safe. Willow sighs as she puts her arms around his waist. "Thank you for the save-age," she murmurs, and closes her eyes against the dark as the bike roars to life beneath her legs, whisking them away from the vampire dust that is now scattering on the ocean breeze.

And she's tired again.

WESLEY

Another town, another demon, and did he ever think he'd end up in this part of California again? Part of him debates whether he should ride the few extra miles down the motorway to Sunnydale and drop in to say hello to Rupert, but somehow, he fancies his presence would not be a welcome one. No, better to just find the Jwa'hra demon and be done with it. He has a job to do. That is what's important.

So, when he sees her strolling along the streets downtown, Wesley's first thought is that it was his musings about the Hellmouth that had forced his brain to conjure the image of one of its inhabitants. It's only when she stops on one particularly sun-laden corner and tilts her head back, opening and closing her mouth as if she is swallowing down the very sky, that he knows he isn't seeing things. It really is Willow. But why she is here and not there remains a mystery.

She seems older than he remembers, but then realizes the shadows under her eyes make it appear so. She must be studying too hard, he thinks, and feels an unexpected swell of pride at her scholarship. He's always appreciated that about her. The only one of her group to understand the value of the written word, and the power of knowledge when it came to the battle between good and evil. Plus, fearless. He remembers the fray at graduation, and smiles at the memory.

When his contact tells him the Jwa'hra has left town already, he knows he should follow the trail as quickly as possible. Trails have a tendency to vanish if you ignore them, and this particular demon is one he's been hunting for quite a while. He has a score to settle. But as he's heading back to his hotel to gather his few things, he spots that knit cap again, only this time it is standing outside a club, waiting in some line to go in.

Ah. Now he understands. She is there to have fun. That would explain her earlier mood. It must be some sort of vacation.

What he doesn't understand is why is she alone. Back in Sunnydale, she was never alone. There was always the Slayer, or Rupert, or young Xander Harris. It is obvious that she isn't even waiting for someone to arrive, allowing a group of raucous young people to push her farther back from the entrance, and his decision to stay and watch her---just to make sure she's all right, he tells himself---seems ordained. It's only a matter of minutes, he reasons. Just until she goes inside to safety, or someone comes up to join her.

Except it doesn't happen. She grows confused when the queue starts to break apart, skirting the crowds to approach the bouncer. Wesley can't hear the words that are exchanged, but the slumping of her shoulders, the crooked turn of her body as she walks away from the building and all the people, tells him enough. Behind his visor, he frowns, eyes following her hunched form. She is headed toward the darker part of town. Alone. And she isn't watching where she's going. He really has no choice but to follow.

More than once, he asks why he just doesn't stop and let her know he's there, convince her to go back to civilization and the warm bosom of her friends. But he already knows what will happen. She will laugh. Scorn him as ridiculous, just as the Slayer did. Just as Faith did. Hell, just as Rupert did. She won't do it with words, of course. Not gentle Willow. No, her contempt would be in the expression of her eyes, and though he considers himself stronger now, not the same Wesley Wyndam-Pryce who first descended upon the Hellmouth all bluster and vinegar, he is still not certain that it won't break him in two. Or more. Most likely, more.

Only when the vamp appears from nowhere, tackling her to the ground, does he gun the engine to close the gap. He can't even see her slight form under the hulk of the demon, and a suddenly anxious Wesley rushes forward, stake in hand, to plunge it directly into the creature's back.

She stops moving immediately, lying there amidst the dust until it makes her sneeze in a high-pitched squeak, and only then can he bring himself to touch her, scooping her under the arms to help her lean against the brick wall.

"Are you all right?" he asks, eyes searching the tender slope of her neck for any puncture wounds. His relief is palpable when he sees it is blemish-free. Except for the freckles. Did he know she had freckles before?

Willow frowns. Instead of answering, she reached up and taps on his visor with her index finger, almost as if she is asking entrance. When he pushes it up, he is surprised when she smiles. It looks genuine. Beaming, even in the midnight. And she makes a joke about him and leather being an unlikely combination, but it doesn't sound in the slightest bit mean.

"You're a long way from home," he says as he helps her to her feet. If she's smiling like that, she must be all right, he decides.

"So are you. And on a motorcycle."

He swears she's laughing at him now---perhaps my estimation was correct after all---and squirms in discomfort as he looks back at his bike, mumbling something about transportation and his freedom.

"To do what?" she asks.

Now this he can be proud of. "I'm a rogue demon hunter," he boasts with pleasure.

"You hunt rogue demons?"

His pride deflates. "No, I'm the rogue," he emphasizes. Why does no one ever understand that? He is distracted when he hears her wince, and notices for the first time the blood oozing from her scraped knees. "You should get cleaned up. Where are you staying?"

And then there it is again, that slumping, only now Wes is close enough to see the tears shining in her eyes. Something must have gone terribly wrong, he thinks, and makes the offer to allow her the use of his hotel room before he can even consider otherwise. Though her tears didn't disappear, it is obvious that she is grateful when she nods and follows him to the bike. And perhaps again, he is wrong about her. Maybe she won't be derisive. Even her comment about his soreness seems to be tinged in concern.

"Ah. No. It's...the trousers." How he must sound like an absolute prat having to admit this. "They...chafe."

But she doesn't laugh. She accepts him at face value and climbs on, hesitating only a moment before sliding slender arms around his waist. He is surprised at how good it feels to not be alone on the bike, and mentally berates himself for not having a spare helmet to ensure her safety. Just have to be more careful, he thinks. It wouldn't do to save the girl and then have her get hurt as I'm getting her away.

He almost misses her thank you. Wes doesn't reply, concentrating instead on coaxing the motorcycle back to life and guiding it back onto the street. Behind the visor, he smiles unseen.

And for the first time in weeks, feels awake again.

WILLOW

She is numb by the time they arrive at the Holiday Inn, and not just on the outside. He left because of me. He couldn't bear to see me again. He'd asked for time. He'd sworn he'd never loved anyone like he loved her. And yet he still ran, not willing to face the pain that he'd caused while he sought to control his own.

No more crying though, she vows. Giving it up for Lent. If she actually celebrated Lent, that is. The tears she's already shed have long been dried by the gentle wind along the ride, so by the time the engine dies beneath her, Willow's eyes are clear, her face somber. For all intents and purposes, she looks like she's feeling better.

But she doesn't move. She can't. Her arms are still locked around Wesley's waist, almost frightened to let go and more than a little shocked at how surprisingly solid he is before her. Does she want to consider the good luck in running into him, right then, just in time to save her? Not really. She just wants to not let go of the one person who's not turned away from her today. That doesn't seem so much to ask, considering.

His fingers are firm where they grasp her wrists, gently prising her free. He astonishes her by not letting them go, encircling them effortlessly within his gloved grip as he rises from his seat. Looking up, she is met with the blank expression of the visor and without thinking, Willow reaches up to tap at it again. It's too easy to think of him as a stranger like this; she needs to be able to see at least his eyes to know that all of this isn't some weird sort of Hellmouth nightmare.

He does so without speaking, seemingly waiting for whatever missive to part her lips. She just smiles---well, it's almost a smile. Her mouth has moved even if it hasn't met her eyes. But it's enough, for both of them, and he releases his hold to move to the rear of the bike.

Wesley is silent until he has stepped into the room after her, setting aside his helmet and the satchel he'd removed as she hovers expectantly near the door. "You should go clean up," he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. "Take those off so that your...injuries can be adequately cleaned."

He seems reluctant to look at her for some reason, and she frowns when he crosses to the clothes rail, removing one of only three shirts hanging there. "You'll probably wish to wear those when you leave in the morning," he says, and she realizes he's referring to her clothes and the fact that he's offering her one of his shirts to sleep in and I'm sure Buffy would have something clever to say about right now, but I'm just so tired.

So, she just thanks him and takes the shirt, disappearing into the bathroom to peel away the cotton that has dried to her skin. She winces as the tights come away, seeing her skin stretch along with them, reluctant to part company, only to tear open again with fresh vigor, the scarlet beads trickling down her kneecaps as she starts to bleed again. He shouldn't have given me a white one, she thinks, as she changes the rest of her clothes. But, though it hangs on her in a size comfortably large, and she has to roll the sleeves up quite a few times in order to have use of her hands, its length stops at the middle of her thighs, leaving its hem stainfree as she steps back into the main room.

He has changed in the time she's been gone, from the black leather to a navy tee and similarly shaded sweats, but this still isn't the Wes she remembers. This is someone looking frightfully young, maybe a graduate student she would see roaming around on campus. His glasses are back on his face, though, and with the first aid kit spread out on the nearest of the beds, his position of concern is unmistakable.

Willow pulls the white cotton tight around her thighs as she sits on the edge of the mattress, keeping her eyes down as he kneels before her to minister to her wounds. His touch is light, and the antiseptic stings where the cotton wool catches on the broken skin, but her face remains stoic, all her discomfort registering instead in Wesley's furrowed brow.

"So what are you doing so far away from Sunnydale?" he finally asks quietly. He's still not looking at her, and she's beginning to wonder if she's grown a huge wart on the end of her nose or something that he doesn't want to be forced to see for extended periods of time, but she answers him anyway.

"Oz was playing." Thinking his name was hard enough; it ached even more to have to say it out loud.

"Oh." Silence. Then, tentatively, "Did you decide against seeing the show?"

"It was cancelled."

"Oh." More quiet. The only sound in the room was the plastic rattle of the antiseptic bottle as he twisted the cap back into place. "So, why---?"

And she's tired of the questions, and because he's been so nice to her, she tells him, tells him all of it, the words jerky and halting at first about how she'd come hoping to see her old boyfriend, lying to her friends so that they wouldn't try to stop her or tell her she was hanging onto pipe dreams when she knew exactly all along that that was what she was doing. Then, faster, smoother, streaming forth as she relayed the excitement of wandering around the town, and how it had backfired on her because that was obviously how Oz had seen she was there and run off before the show could even start, leaving her to go heedlessly off to the point where Wesley had seen her.

He remains mute throughout her confession, sitting back on his heels as he listens. And this time, those bright blue eyes bore into hers, never wavering, never judging, just watching and accepting and it almost looks like understanding. It's so different from spilling it all out to the gang at home. Oh sure, they'd been great at first, but with every look Anya gave her watch, and with every offer from Xander to make a food run, and with Buffy's incessant need to patrol, it had been obvious they were tired of listening to her. She wasn't dumb. She was just sad.

He did have something to say, though, and he looks thoughtful as she stops to gulp in large mouthfuls of air. Somehow, she must've forgotten to keep breathing while she was telling him, she thinks.

"Oz is a werewolf," he says simply. "With a highly attuned sense of smell. He probably didn't see you at all. You did nothing wrong by enjoying your day in the sunshine. And frankly, if he ran without even deigning to give you an explanation why, I'd say he's a coward and hardly worthy of any more of your tears, Willow."

The simplicity of his observation makes her stop, lips parting, almost smiling as she gazes at him in wonder. She hadn't thought of the smelling thing, which she really should've since he'd done it more than once back in Sunnydale. But it was the other, the part that sounded vaguely like a compliment, that took her the most aback. Watcher Wesley wasn't concerned in how things made you feel. Watcher Wesley was only interested in careful translations of archaic texts, and doing things by the book, and trying to convince everyone that he was the only right one in the room.

Of course, Watcher Wesley didn't wear leather or tool around the countryside on a motorcycle calling himself a "rogue demon hunter," either.

"You weren't on the prowl for a werewolf, were you?" she jokes, trying to shift the conversation away from her. "Is that why you're coasting the sunny California streets?"

His lips thin, and she wonders for a moment if he's going to answer her at all, but he only shakes his head. "A Jwa'hra demon. Unfortunately, I...missed it. It's left town already." He straightens, and she is forced to bend her neck backward in order to look up at him. I don't remember him being so tall. "You should rest," he says. "I'll set the alarm so that you don't miss your bus in the morning."

Her voice stops him as he heads for the bathroom. "Maybe you should come to Sunnydale, too," Willow suggests. He wants to find a demon; it certainly seems like the most natural thing in the world to offer the Scooby services, especially since he's hardly a stranger.

This time he actually smiles at her before hesitating at the door. "Not all demons end up at the Hellmouth," he says, and she can't tell if he's kidding or not because it sounds so drastically different than anything Watcher Wesley would've said. "But I do appreciate the offer."

The door is shut before she finds her voice again, but it comes out a whisper, pensive and lost and tremulous in the barren atmosphere of the hotel room. "Thank you for listening to me."

WESLEY

Even going slowly, the ride is too short, and Wesley chides himself for enjoying the added weight having her behind him gives to the motorcycle. He's fooled himself into forgetting what it felt like to be lonely, and the sudden onslaught of familiar, especially in the shape of Willow Rosenberg, strips the delusions away. Dallying to further the false sense of camaraderie is foolhardy to his survival, but even when she doesn't pull away once they've arrived, it is impossible to let his irritation linger.

She is in need of a friend right now. He is determined to give that to her.

So he doesn't let go when he gets off, the question of whether she is still crying turning his head to look at her. In what seems to be becoming a characteristic gesture, Willow reaches up to tap at his helmet, and he bares his gaze to her, wondering just what it is she wants, what it is she is going to say.

Confirmation perhaps. A request to get her a different room in spite of the fact that there are two perfectly good beds in his. It would hardly be uncalled for; of course, the gentlemanly thing for him to do would be to offer first, but somehow, Wes can't bring himself to do it. He's gone too long hearing only the sound of his own voice or the various snarls and grunts of demons to casually toss aside an opportunity for adult, human conversation.

When she smiles, though, he is startled by the sad resignation in her eyes, as if she's already decided to catalog her evening escapades as yet another unfortunate occurrence in the life of a Sunnydale citizen. Like she doesn't have a choice but to bear the pain. And the pang of empathy slicing in his chest takes him by such surprise that he releases his hold, returning to the semblance of rote work---retrieving his few possessions at the rear of the bike, removing his helmet---in an attempt to regain control.

Too much, and too little, tumbles around inside his brain, searching for order as he leads her to his room, every step anticipatory of her request for someplace else. It never comes, which only makes his thinking even more confused when he finally pushes the door open for her.

She speaks like Willow Rosenberg, she dresses like Willow Rosenberg, and she smiles like Willow Rosenberg.

So why does she seem like only half the Willow Rosenberg I once knew?

Why does she seem like more?

So many possible answers. Her mood throwing him off, his mood throwing him off. She's older, granted only six months or so, but still...

He is distracted for a moment when he sees that she is waiting for him. "You should go clean up." Yes, her encounter. Focus on her...

And he rips his eyes away when his gaze slides along the curve of her calf instead of staying on her hidden knees, suddenly embarrassed at his obvious behavior. "Take those off so that your..." Don't say legs. Don't let her think you're looking at her legs, you prat. "...injuries can be adequately cleaned."

The offer of his own shirt for her to sleep in is out of his mouth before he can stop it, though, and Wesley wishes desperately that she will merely construe it as a concern for her clothing and not as anything more. More would be unseemly, and most definitely not his primary intention, though for some reason his body is arguing otherwise.

When she accepts and disappears into the sanctuary of the bathroom, he exhales loudly, frantically grabbing his own clothing to change from the bindings that are now constricting his skin. Just need to breathe, he tells himself. Wash away the detritus of demon hunting. Get Willow sorted, brush my teeth, then a good night's sleep. It's been a long day.

Yet his resolve is shattered when she steps from the bathroom and sets her carefully folded clothes by the sink, pale fingers twisting and knotting with each other once they are bereft of something to keep them occupied. She looks both younger and older in his white shirt, short hair burning incandescent in the artificial light, green eyes luminous. It is far too big on her, hiding every hint of femininity beneath its crisp waves. But as she fusses with the cuffs that are miles too long, there is an echo of a breast, a casual promise of maturity that roots him to his spot, and he is frozen as she sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to tend to the bleeding knees she exposes for him.

"So what are you doing so far away from Sunnydale?" he finally manages to ask, searching for that normal conversation he'd been dreaming about on the ride to the hotel.

"Oz was playing."

Oz. The boyfriend. Of course. The other questions come more awkwardly as her replies don't truly clarify the picture. When she launches into the story of why she's in town, he sits back and just listens, judging by the raggedness of her voice that tears would be flowing if not for an amazing amount of control on her part and knowing without having been told that these are words she desperately needs to unleash.

He gives her the only rational explanation he can afterward and then hesitates, his heart thumping in his chest as he tentatively rests a hand on her knee. Barely there really. Doesn't even count as a touch.

"...frankly," he says, and prays she sees that he means this, that she'd be a fool not to believe him, "if he ran without even deigning to give you an explanation why, I'd say he's a coward and hardly worthy of any more of your tears, Willow."

His words act as if he's switched a light on inside her. The green of her eyes become brighter. She almost smiles. And then there is the Willow he remembers, the cheerful, optimistic one who tackled her problems in a quiet desperation unnoticed by her friends, and he relaxes for the first time since she's stepped inside his room. He did the right thing. Sharing a few hours of companionship is exactly what both of them needed.

And she certainly doesn't need to know he probably lost the trail of his prey just to tend to her, so he carefully sidesteps her joking questions before suggesting she sleep. Her eyes are weary, more so than he thinks he's seen outside of his own mirror lately, and he doesn't want to be the one to add to her aches.

His heart jumps into his throat, however, when her quiet offer to go to Sunnydale stops him at the bathroom door. Searching her face, he sees no guile and can't help but wonder if mind-reading has become de rigueur for her campus Wicca group. How else to explain her tacit understanding of his very thoughts only hours earlier? Smiling, he replies, "Not all demons end up at the Hellmouth, but I do appreciate the offer." Hopefully, she'll think he's joking about his hunt and not see that he is in fact referring to himself, disappearing into the bathroom before giving her the opportunity to say anything more.

When he emerges again, she has already crawled under the blankets and fallen asleep, lashes so delicate against her cheeks that they appear as cobwebs in the shadows they create along her cheek. He stands between the beds and gazes down at her in the darkness, fighting the urge to push back the hair that has fallen across her brow.

"Thank you for talking to me," he murmurs, before sliding between the sanctuary of his own sheets.

WILLOW

Not surprisingly, she dreams of Oz.

She knows right away it's prom. Everyone is there. Buffy and Angel, acting as if he isn't a vampire but merely an older-type boyfriend. Xander and Cordelia, smiling and laughing like the whole incident with him being caught with Willow never even happened. And she and Oz, his arm casually tossed over the back of her chair as she looks around her friends at the table. In the distance, she can see a dapperly trim Giles standing by the punch bowl, and is reminded yet again of why she had such a crush on him sophomore year.

And even without having to see Jenny chatting with the librarian as if she had never died, Willow knows this is a dream.

Because she's happy.

It's enough to just sit back and enjoy everything.

The cacophony of voices and laughter and glasses clinking and forks scraping along china, all melding together in a heartening melange.

The floral scents that waft from too many corsages to mingle with the perfumes and colognes of all the bodies pressed into the crowded room.

Warmth. From those same bodies, heating and rising and wrapping around her bare arms to cocoon her in safety.

She smiles at a joke from Xander, and feels a gurgle rise in her stomach as a waiter with food passes behind her. Food. Oh, she's hungry. She waits for a reasonable break in the conversation, and then turns to Oz, her mouth opening to ask him to get her something to eat.

Except nothing comes out.

Her lips are moving, and she's thinking the words, but Oz doesn't even turn his head, doesn't even notice that she's trying to speak. She pulls on his sleeve, but not even that is enough to get his attention. The gurgles come back, louder and more insistent, and she realizes she's not just hungry, she's ravenous, like she hasn't eaten in days.

That's OK. I'll just get food for myself.

So she pushes her chair back and rises, opening her mouth to automatically excuse herself and then laughing silently at her own forgetfulness. Nobody else notices. They don't glance up when she walks away, and she wonders if they ever even realized that she was there.

Halfway across the room, she hears the music start up from the stage, and looks up automatically to see what band is playing. Her feet stop, forcing her to stare at the idle form of Veruca before the microphone, and slowly, her head swivels to see Oz transfixed by the sight of the singer, his hands lengthening into claws as they curl around the back of his chair.

Willow's eyes grow wide. Salty, fire-tinged panic curls its lethal fingers around her heart and squeezes, savaging rational thoughts and questions of how she could've gotten the moon wrong, and instead propelling her back to stumble like a madwoman through the throng, pushing aside the bodies that seem to have multiplied as she tries to return to the table and her friends.

They don't see. He'll hurt them and he'll hate himself. I have to stop this.

It becomes obliterated from her view as people rise from their seats to move to the dance floor, and she is trying to tell them to get out of her way, to clear a path, but no one can hear her. There is no sound but that of Veruca's voice, and they are in thrall to the song she sings for them, ignoring the clumsy redhead pushing and falling against their eveningwear, loose petals from the corsages she knocks fluttering to the ground to be crushed under their feet.

He is gone by the time she gets there, as are the others, and Willow's head whips around to see him approaching the stage. Look at me, she wants to shout, but of course, cannot. So she runs instead, toward him, trying to reach Oz before it's too late. And the questions of where Buffy is, and why isn't Buffy dealing with this, and shouldn't Giles be going for a weapon or something are lost in her dread.

Even when she's on the stage, and Veruca is turning to look at her, a gleam of satisfaction in those eyes---god, I hate those eyes---it's only then that she sees that the room is empty. All that is left is her, and Veruca, and the growing realization that the singer is changing right in front of her, the music from the band still playing as if they are there.

Run. Run. Gotta run.

But she can't. Veruca springs before the synapses that have fired can speak to her feet. And she is pinned to the stage, the werewolf's claws pincering into her shoulders, its jaws still working as the words of the song continue to fill the air.

She tries to call for help, over and over and over again. I have no mouth and I must scream, only this isn't AM even if high school can feel like one big machine, and wouldn't Giles be proud of me for having a literary reference as my last dying thought, even if it is Ellison, but still that should count for something...

The song quits in a strangled rasp, Veruca's back arching as she howls in pain. Willow freezes, drowning in the coppery smell of her own blood, and watches as the werewolf explodes in a cloud of dust---But she's not a vampire, that's not how she should die---showering her in a fine mist that makes her cough and sputter as she fights now for air.

The demon's claws are replaced by strong hands pressing compresses into her wounds. When she opens her lids, she is immediately greeted by bright blue eyes, concerned behind his glasses. Blink once. Blink twice. It can't be. He's long gone. And...

"Oh, god," she sobs, the relief at seeing Wesley melting away the adrenaline that had leadened her muscles. And she's crying, not because of the pain, and not because it wasn't Oz that rescued her although why he isn't there she can't help but wonder. She cries because she heard her voice again, just hers, saying what she wanted it to say.

He's cradling her against his chest, the soothe of his words a whisper into her hair. She can't discern them, but their actuality is not what matters. What matters is their intent, and Wesley only wishes to make her feel better, to make the pain go away. She knows this, can feel it with every fiber of her being, and as the minutes tick away, her cries lessen, slipping away until the velvet blanket of unconsciousness descends.

She's not afraid this time. This is good sleep. This is safe sleep. Because Wesley is there to contest any demon that might wish to attack her again. She heard him give her his word.

WESLEY

Surprisingly, he dreams of Willow.

What surprises him is that it's so vivid, every sensation so vibrant and pulsing in life that he would swear he was actually awake. Because Wesley doesn't often remember his dreams, though he knows he does have them. Only the ones that feel so real make it into his conscious thoughts. And he knows without having to question why, that this one will effortlessly join those ranks.

He's back in Sunnydale, the bane of his profound failure. More specifically, he's back in that damn school library, though he knows with his rational brain that he aided in destroying it just several months earlier. In his head, though, it glistens from newness, the fresh aroma of papyrus combining with the dust of tomes long-forgotten to prickle at his nose, making him smile in spite of the bitter taste of memories the archives contain.

The room is empty and a quick glance into the office tells him that Giles isn't about either. "Hello?" he calls out, and hears an echo from among the stacks. He frowns, taking a cautious step forward, and repeats his greeting.

"Hi!"

Her exuberance takes him by surprise, and Wesley stumbles back against the checkout desk, all long arms and long legs that never seem to balance correctly when he's caught off-guard. When Willow bounces from the upper stacks, a heavy leather-bound book in her arms, to settle in a comfortable heap into one of the chairs, he straightens his glasses on his nose and relaxes.

"I didn't think you were going to come," she says with a smile, and lifts her legs to sit Indian-style in the seat. Her thighs become the bridge upon which she rests her reading material, and he watches as she opens it up to the middle. Only then does he notice that she's wearing his shirt, untucked from whatever skirt lies hidden underneath it, and her feet are bare. He realizes that's it probably a good thing she's set the book in her lap because otherwise his vantage point would allow him to see more than the smooth expanse of curved calf and ankle she has exposed already. What shocks him, though, is when he realizes that he's disappointed he can't.

"You invited me," he replies, as if that is the only explanation necessary.

Willow giggles. "You wore the leather pants. Buffy is so not going to believe me until she sees you."

He looks down then and sees that her observation is indeed right. He is dressed in his motorcycle gear, minus his helmet, and when he steps forward, he feels the unmistakable burn along the inner seams. "Is Buffy here?" he asks, easing himself into the chair next to her.

She shakes her head. "Just you and me." Her smile fades slightly. "That's all right, isn't it? After everything you said, I figured you might want a little downtime before the gang pops around. Get used to the place again. Once you take a look around, I'm sure you'll see it's not so bad."

After everything I said...? He wonders how much he actually revealed but lets it go, focusing instead on her insecurity about her arrangements. "That's fine. I'd rather thought I wouldn't be staying long, though."

Her face falls. "But...you came all this way. Why would...I don't understand. Is it me? Have I messed up already? Is that why you're running away?"

"It's not you," he tries to assure. "It's me. I just...this place." How can he explain that his distaste for the Hellmouth has nothing to do with the beautiful creature before him and everything to do with the ugly one inside? His hand runs through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the tiny pinpricks of pain will sharpen his reasoning.

Her hand is on his shoulder then, fluttering and hovering with the weightless effort of a small bird, and when Wesley lifts his head again, the book is gone, her legs are down, and he can see that she isn't actually wearing anything under his shirt. His unexpected arousal makes the leather trousers all that much tighter, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, embarrassed at his own audacity and wishing desperately that it would go away.

"Don't run," she says. "Please don't run. Everybody does that."

"You did," he can't help but retort.

"I was running to something. That's different."

"So am I."

"To what?"

Only, he doesn't know the answer to that question. She is leaning into him now, eyes luminous and thoughtful, but all he can see are the freckles that are scattered along her neck. "How long have you had those?" he asks, and lifts a hand to brush cautious fingers over the pale dots. Definitely a dream. I'd never have the nerve to do this while I'm awake.

She tilts her head so that he can more readily touch them. "All my life. I hate them."

"You shouldn't. They're lovely. They're...real." Without even realizing he's doing it, Wesley leans forward and runs his lips along the line of her neck, down into the curve of her shoulder, tasting the salt of her skin with the very tip of his tongue. Her sigh makes his flesh warm, and when he feels her hand cradle the side of his face, he can't help but lift his gaze to see her.

"Thank you," she says softly. As he begins to smile, though, the seeds of contentment brewing deep inside his gut, her eyes well with tears, flooding and shining and spilling down her cheeks until the sobs get sucked from her throat.

"Don't cry," he rushes in a panic, and straightens to take her by the shoulders, trying to comfort her. "Don't cry." Why is she crying? But all he can hear is her pain.

When his lids shoot open to see the hotel room ceiling staring down at him, it doesn't surprise him that the same noises in his dream are coming from the bed at his side. He rises like a shot, and mimics his dream consolation, pushing a writhing Willow back into her mattress by her shoulders, all the while a stream of what he hopes are comforting words issuing from his mouth.

Her eyes open, staring blankly in front of her as the cries of pain quiet in her chest. For some reason, he can't tell if she's awake or asleep.

She blinks once.

Then, again.

And just when he thinks that maybe she's still slumbering, her face crumples, a breathy "oh god" evaporating from her lips.

He goes on instinct then, and cradles her against his chest, feeling the sobs wrack her thin body as her tears wet his tee. "It's all right," he tries to soothe, repeating and repeating, in every way he's ever heard and every way he's ever wished to hear. "Nothing's going to hurt you. It's only a dream. It's all right. I won't let anything hurt you. I promise." Over and over again until it finally seems as if she's beginning to hear.

The tremors in her shoulders lessen, softening into the faintest of ripples until they are gone. When he finally looks down, he sees her lashes against her cheeks, the gentle rise of her chest. She is sleeping again. Not deeply, though, not yet, because as he tries to rise, she whimpers and clings to his waist.

He can't remember the last time someone did that.

Wesley smiles in the darkness. He'll just wait until she doesn't need him anymore. It isn't as if he requires a lot of sleep. And there will be plenty of time for sleep after she is gone.

WILLOW

The first thing she notices is how warm she is. Cuddly, pressed against another body kind of warm. The kind of warm she'd been hoping for when she started out on this crazy trip.

Except Oz is little. And the body her arms are wrapped around is...not so little.

Slowly, her eyes blink open and she sees the blurry expanse of navy spreading out before her, feels the cotton soft against her cheek. She has a crick in her neck from the awkward half-sitting position in which she spent the latter half of the night, and carefully eases herself away from the other slumbering form, not horribly surprised when she lifts her gaze to see Wesley leaning against the headboard bolted to the wall.

Not so much a dream then, she thinks, and remembers the flashes of the nightmare as its serrated fingers crawl along beneath her skin, congealing her stomach in its familiar ice before the flush of how it ended swathes her back in heat. Just a dream. Not real.

Wesley mumbles in his sleep and shifts, his head slumping as his body readjusts to her absence.

Willow smiles. But this is real.

Carefully, she rolls off the far end of the bed, staying as silent as she can as she carries her clothes into the bathroom. No reason to wake him. Daylight is already obvious through the crack of the curtains, and she has plenty of time to walk to the bus station herself. Wes has done more than enough in her little adventure, she reasons; he deserves his rest. Time to put it all behind her and go back to Sunnydale and pretend the little debacle never happened.

She won't forget, though. She doesn't think she'll ever forget.

Dropping her ruined tights in the garbage, she goes to the desk and looks for something to write him a note, to let him know she's all right and not to worry. Nothing on top, which means opening the lone drawer, but as it squeaks in protest, her muscles freeze, her head jerking around to see if the amplified sound is enough to rouse Wesley.

It's not. He doesn't even move. He must really need his sleep, she thinks.

Sitting then, and scribbling her note, the pen scratching across the paper in her haste. It feels odd to thank someone for saving her life with just a few written words. Odd and remotely unfulfilling, considering how much he's already done for her, even if he doesn't really know it. Crying on his shoulder---OK, against his chest really, but it's all just words anyway, isn't it?---had been more cathartic than weeks of venting at her friends, and she doesn't really understand the why of it.

Maybe because he had no vested interest in cheering her up and was there anyway.

Maybe because he listened to her without judging, comprehending the need to just spill the emotions onto the floor and watch them run around the edges and seep into the cracks.

Maybe because it had come on the tail of both knowing Oz was really gone and getting attacked.

Maybe because of all of it.

She only has to sign her name now, and the urge to merely put a W is strong, lending an intimacy more conducive than the awkwardness of her full appellation. Her pen hovers over the paper, though, lethargic in its power to finish the missive, and she wonders why it is that goodbyes are always so hard for her.

"You're already dressed."

His voice startles her into dropping the pen, and she swivels in her seat as she leans over to pick it up, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He hasn't really moved except to straighten where he's leaning against the headboard, eyes open and bare of his glasses. His hair is mussed, and one side is flattened with the ends sticking straight up, but he is oblivious to his disarray.

"I didn't want to wake you," she says. "I was just writing a note."

He nods as if he expected nothing less. "You'll be hungry, I expect. If you wait, we can have breakfast before you go."

"I'm fine." She's not. Her stomach is growling so loud, she's sure he can tell that she's lying. "Really."

She doesn't know what else to say because suddenly, the air is awkward and thick and she is feeling very much like a one-night stand sneaking out of the house before the guy can wake up and remind her that it really was just a one-night stand. Silly. It's just Wesley. And he saved your life, remember?

Oh, she remembers. All too clearly. She remembers leather and dust and motorcycles and crying and nightmares about boyfriends who disappear and unexpected allies lending their support in the form of strong arms and capable shoulders. It's just like Sunnydale, except not, and it's the not that's creating the k brand of that word in her stomach. Because she doesn't really know what to think right now. Her next step was much easier before she had to look him in the eye and tell him she was leaving.

The knock at the door takes them both by surprise, and Wesley frowns when he rises from the bed to answer it. The lines in his brow deepen when the squirrelly man slips inside, babbling away so quickly that even Willow has problems keeping up with him.

Something about a demon, and doubling back, and a burial ground under the docks, and Wes doesn't happen to know any really good Maluschna counterspells, does he?

And he's changed yet again before her eyes, straightening and squaring and he even looks taller, how does he look taller, and as Willow watches, Wesley marches to one of the bags he'd brought in from the motorcycle the previous night, extracting an ancient book to begin thumbing through its pages. He's not the Watcher from the rescue, and he's not the Comforter from her dreams. This is the Demon Hunter he is striving to become, and she can't help but feel a swell of wow creep up her neck, unexpected awe and envy at how he is trying to redefine himself, at how well he is succeeding, forcing her lips to curl into a smile.

"There's nothing here," she hears him mutter, and he closes the book with a solid thump that relays his displeasure. "Perhaps a different---."

"But it's gotta be Maluschna," the visitor rushes. "You know that's the only thing that works against his kind. And if you don't stop it, there'll be no telling how far he's going to go."

She knows that name, and the energy that's now buzzing around the room is contagious, thrusting her back into the middle of the most heated Scooby meeting except with a plus because here there is no Buffy to drive the fists over thinking method that Willow often finds so frustrating. Her mouth is opening before she can even stop it, the words tumbling out almost as quickly as the new arrival's.

"I know some Maluschna counterspells," she says.

WESLEY

The first thing he notices is how cold he feels. Somehow, his mind registers that he had been warm, and that that warmth was now missing, and a grimace of irritation crosses his features as his eyelids flutter open.

Alone. He's alone. And sitting in the most godforsaken position imaginable.

He remembers then, spying her hunched over form at the desk before glancing at the unmade bed to his side. Willow. Following her through the streets before saving her from the vampire attack, and then bringing her back here to tend to. Then...her nightmare. Now it all makes sense.

She has changed into her other clothes, that knit cap pulled low over her head, shoulders rounded as he listens to her writing away at something. Most likely, a note of departure, he reasons, especially since she is clearly dressed and ready to leave. He is oddly saddened at the thought of her sneaking out without saying goodbye, and feels slightly sullied at the thought of being used so.

Can't truly be used if I offered, though. To think otherwise is hardly fair to her.

So, he watches her write in silence, heeding the stopping and starting and stopping again, the soft click of her teeth against the pen when she bites at the end of it to aid in her thinking. Watches, because that's what he does. That's what he's always done. Or rather, that's what he always did. It still surprises him that he manages to forget that sometimes.

It's her last hesitation, the one that stretches into a minute, and then two, and then four nearing five, that prompts him to finally speak.

"You're already dressed." Stating the obvious because anything else could lead down paths he's not sure she wishes to traverse.

He pulls himself into a straighter position against the headboard, wincing slightly at the ache across his shoulder blades but registering nothing on his face when his voice startles her into dropping her pen. She scrabbles to pick it up, and he sees the flush creep up her neck, shining her eyes, before she turns to look at him.

"I didn't want to wake you. I was just writing a note."

Polite and considerate Willow. It's nice to know his instincts haven't been wrong about her. He nods because he's unsure what to say next, hoping it makes him appear wiser and more confident than he feels. He'd known all along how this was going to end, and the fact that it comes so abruptly shouldn't leave him feeling so disappointed, but that's what it is, a hard lump in the back of his throat as the realization that he will be on the road again today, alone, without the comfortable weight of a partner behind him, grips him in silence.

Food, he suddenly thinks. She has to eat.

And he's like a drowning man desperate for a preserver as he makes the observation, suggesting she waits so that they can have breakfast together. It would only delay the inevitable, he knows. He'd gain an hour, two at best. But those would be minutes where he didn't have to rely upon the voices of his memory to entertain him, the call of another demon down the road to distract him from the disquiet of his own failures.

Her quiet refusal shatters his hope, and his mind scrambles to find another reason for her not to just walk out of his hotel room. His desperation for her company annoys him, the neediness and desire for companionship countering everything he thought he'd been working for since leaving Sunnydale, but his brain doesn't seem to want to listen to him, searching and refusing and searching some more to find an excuse for just a few more minutes.

The knock at the door jars him from his hunt, though. He frowns as he rises automatically to answer it, questioning just who it could be since only his local contact knows of his whereabouts, and surely that avenue was closed when he deliberately opted to aid Willow instead of pursuing the trail the previous evening.

But it is his contact, and he pushes his way inside the room without an invitation, babbling away about how it was all just a set-up, that the Jwa'hra circled back and was at that very moment staking out his altar underneath the dock so that he could cast the spell that would resurrect his slain brethren.

"We gotta do something," Manny says. "I don't suppose you have any good Maluschna counterspells hanging around here, do you?"

Everything else is forgotten as the opportunity to refocus his energies is presented. Wesley straightens and marches to his bag, extracting the one book that might actually be useful and thumbing through its pages. "There's nothing here," he mutters with disappointment, and closes the book with a sigh. He mustn't give up, though, and says, "Perhaps there's a different---."

But Manny is cutting him off, reminding him unnecessarily that Maluschna spells are their only option before things get out of hand. He mustn't let that happen. He's worked too hard to stop this revivification from occurring, and he's not about to---.

"I know some Maluschna counterspells," he hears Willow say unexpectedly behind him.

Manny shuts immediately up, and Wesley turns to look at her with a frown, his momentary forgetting of her presence erased by her few words. She blushes under their scrutiny and explains, "I did a bunch of work for Giles over the summer, and memorized some to keep myself from falling asleep on the job. I could probably write them down for you."

The tension bracing his back lessens, and his eyes lock on hers, searching the guileless green for answers...deceit...anything, any reason for him to deny her. It's a fruitless search, and instead, he wonders on just how much growing up she's done since he left Sunnydale. Not Willow, and more, he muses.

Manny's on the offer like a shot. "No time, no time," he says. "You rogue demon hunters can just do it all up close and personal. Slap some clothes on, and let's get rolling, English. Your girlfriend's got you beat already."

Wesley colors at his contact's casual bandying of the term "girlfriend" and is about to argue otherwise when he notes the amused crinkle of Willow's mouth. She is fighting back the laughter, and the shine in her eyes tells him that she's all right with this, with getting lumped together with him like a prepaid package.

"You'll need a weapon," he says carefully. Am I reading you right? Please tell me that I am.

Willow rises to her feet. "Got any good crossbows handy?" she asks brightly.

WILLOW

In the end, they leave the motorcycle at the hotel.

"Don't think I'm not going with you," the new arrival says. "And if we're doing the three Musketeers gig, no way can we take your bike. We'll just toss everything in the back of my pick-up. Not your girlfriend, of course," he adds, grinning at Willow. She smiles back, but not before flushing, her gaze darting to Wes and then to the mussed beds. OK, funny the first time, she thinks. Not so funny the second. At least we're both dressed, though, and why doesn't Wesley correct him?

He just nods, only cursorily meeting her eyes as he grabs his clothes and disappears into the bathroom, leaving her alone to smile too wide and to fidget too noticeably. "I'm Willow, by the way," she offers.

"Manny. You must have some serious mojo if English is working with you. I thought he was pretty much the lone wolf."

"Oh, my mojo's more of a mo than a full jo," she rushes to assure. She's beginning to regret mentioning the counterspells. Memorizing them and actually being able to do them are two entirely different things, and what if she can't do it? Or what if she remembers them wrong? She could end up getting Wesley killed, which would hardly be fair since he did the exact opposite for her just the previous night.

So, OK, don't let it happen that way. Just be extra careful. Say the words and help him out. Balance the score sheet, and everything will be hunky-dory.

Except it's more than just the words, and her regret blossoms into terror as she remembers the other, wishing fervently that her mouth would listen to her brain just once and not get her in over her head when there's no way she can swim to safety, let alone take anyone along with her. She is hovering outside the bathroom, rigid and red and clawing her chewed-down nails into her palms, when he emerges, his hair damp from having wet it in the shower.

He immediately stiffens. "What's wrong?" he asks, and he steps so close to her that she irrationally wonders if he's going to touch her.

"Ingredients," she blurts. "I forgot about the ingredients for the spells." She gnaws at her lip, disappointment quivering her thin frame. Nothing ever goes right, she realizes. Nothing she ever wants to work goes in her favor.

He asks her if she knows the list, and when she nods in the affirmative, the tension in his body eases, a small smile canting his lips. He looks to Manny. "Get my weapons bag out to the truck. We'll be right out."

She hovers and waits until they're alone, not understanding why he suddenly seems so confident again. He pays her no heed, running a comb quickly through his hair, not speaking again until he has picked up his shoes from the corner and is perched on the edge of the bed.

"The leather satchel," he instructs. "My supplies are in there."

And even before she reaches it, Willow is chastising herself for doubting. Taking away his title doesn't change who he is. Of course he's prepared. Would I expect any less from Giles? Except Giles would've taken charge more, and been the first to remember such an important thing as ingredients, reminding her in his indirect way that she was still young and inexperienced and maybe should consider leaving off the really important work until she was better equipped. Perhaps even Wesley would've done the same thing, once upon a time. But not now.

Now, he only sits in silence, nodding in agreement as she pulls the items she will need from his bag, letting her take the reins as if it is something she was always meant to do.

And it shocks her how good it feels to be trusted so.

Her back is to him, her hand only just emerging with the last of what they'll need when she feels him standing behind her. He is warm, and solid, and the fresh, clean smell of him evokes vague memories of crying against his chest that make her tongue prickle. When she realizes she is waiting for him to reach out to her, the prospect of being wrapped in the sanctuary he extends tempering the contagion of wanting to do something about the demon, her face screws up in embarrassment at her own expectancy.

It's Wesley, she reminds herself. And he was only interested in making you feel better. Didn't Oz running teach you anything?

The shattering thoughts distract her, her hope ebbing further when no touch is forthcoming.

See? Told you so.

"I...appreciate your help in this," he says, and she can feel his words like a warm breath on the back of her neck as she looks down at the items before her. "It truly wasn't necessary."

"That's what friends do, right?" she replies as perky as she can manage. She slaps on her widest smile and steps to the side so that she can see him. And distance. Mustn't forget distance.

His response is merely to smile and nod, but his eyes seem darker, further away than if they'd been masked by his spectacles. She watches for a moment while he begins placing the items into the plastic bag he has brought over for the job, and then takes a hesitant step forward, her hand fluttering to a rest on his forearm.

"I know you're probably going to get sick of me saying it," she says. She doesn't wait for him to look at her; she'll lose her nerve if she doesn't keep going. Somehow, things seem different by the light of day, although oddly enough, he doesn't. "Last night...you didn't have to...but, it was so nice, and I just wanted to say thank you."

He smiles, and she wonders if he's going to pull away, if her touch is too forward. She still hasn't figured out what exactly is enough with him, without being too pushy or too American. But he doesn't move, even goes so far as to lightly brush his fingertips against the back of her hand. "You said that last night on the motorcycle," he says gently, "so it's hardly necessary to repeat it here."

Last night? But she didn't... "Oh! No. I meant...my dream." She colors at his misunderstanding. "The...holding, when I was all sobby from the nightmare. Thank you for that." And the next is asked before she can stop herself. "It wasn't weird for you, was it?"

"Weird?" He shakes his head. "No. Definitely not...weird."

Her relief surprises her, and it takes her a full minute to realize that her hand is still on his arm, though neither of them is speaking. With the flash of a smile, she pulls away and finishes gathering the ingredients for the spell, comfortable now in the bloom of his presence. All's well that ends well, she thinks.

Now, let's just hope I don't act accidentally blow us all up with my spell.

Even on their way to the docks, Willow isn't flustered, squeezed into the seat between the two men, with Wesley's thigh pressing against hers. Manny has country music blaring from the truck's speakers, and every time he shifts, his hand manages to brush against her skirt-covered knee where it gets in the way of the gearstick, but not even that can shake her mood.

In a way, she has what she came for. It was supposed to be about getting some answers, finding a path for her future, and though her first assumption had been that that path would be one for two---her and Oz walking into the sunset, as corny as that sounded---what she has gained is just as powerful.

She has closure. By running, Oz made his choice perfectly clear, and while she wishes that it didn't have to be that way, it gives her the answers she needs to put it behind her. It hurts---holy moly, does it ever hurt---but the pain seems different now. More...manageable. And she has no doubts that it is completely due to Wesley's influence.

Well, and one heck of a nightmare. That pretty much makes her want to slam the door on the whole mess.

So she pays him back as best she can, following his instructions to the letter when they get to the dock, fumbling with the crossbow as he and Manny take the lead. Even when the Jwa'hra turns on them in the middle of its preparations, and her feet are trying to convince her to run in the opposite direction, Willow does exactly as Wesley tells her, chanting the spell that will dissolve its power while Manny sprinkles it with the necessary powders.

She only falters once, when it manages to snag Wes' shirt sleeve with one of its horns, leaving a jagged crimson line in its wake. Panic for the Englishman chokes the words in her throat, but as she sees him fight back, his face even more grim as he lunges with the dagger he holds expertly in his hand, she trundles on, finishing the incantation and then stepping back when the demon seems to implode upon itself.

Manny is awash with grins, his laughter ringing along the sands, as he wades from the shallows back onto the beach. His congratulations roll over her, but Willow only half-hears, focusing instead on the sleeve Wesley is ripping from its seam in order to expose his injury. Before she can even reach him, he has knotted it around his arm, staunching the blood flow in a makeshift tourniquet and then turning to her with a smile that explodes into the blue of his eyes.

"Well done," he says.

It's only two words, but for some reason, they make her beam, forgetting the dismay at seeing him hurt. "Not so bad yourself, mister," she replies. Her stomach growls, and she realizes she hasn't eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. "Now, who wants pancakes?"

WESLEY

He disappears into the bathroom with his clothes as quickly as he dares. Out in the other room, he can hear Willow and Manny talking, but their words escape him. No matter. His head is awhirl with words of his own, questions without answers and images that are bewildering at best.

She didn't have to offer to help. She could've just kept mute, and he would've attempted to stop the Jwa'hra using more mundane methods, and they would've parted ways as had been the original intention. Instead, she volunteered her assistance, with a girlish smile and a twinkle in her eye that made him feel his actual age rather than decades older, and all Wesley can wonder is why he'd gone alone on it for so long.

His body isn't helping the matter, either. There'd been a respite, when business had distracted him from her presence, but all too quickly, he is back in the sticky strands of the web she is unwittingly weaving, sinking into the emerald while her proximity leant a growing familiarity of fervor somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He is just lonely, he tries to reason, but suspects it's more than that, that it's the knowing and the not knowing combining to fascinate him, to baffle him really.

And he would be lying if he dared to deny the fact that for the first time in months, he is excited beyond belief.

He's grabbed his lone pair of jeans---one advantage to not taking the bike, can't handle the leather today---and a quick dunk of his head under the shower cools the flickers that are agitating his muscles. Deep breath. Control. You have a demon to stop. A job to do. Focus.

Right. Much better.

Until he opens the door.

And sees her standing there, red-faced and twitchy, eyes too large for her face. And he immediately stiffens.

"What's wrong?" Before he realizes what he's doing, he crosses the distance between them, glancing at Manny out of the corner of his eye. What did he say to her? What could he have done?

As he listens to her stutter over her fears regarding the spell, he can practically feel her quivering, his own body picking up her rhythms until he understands that she's merely fallen victim to her insecurities again, relinquishing what control she'd regained. So he relaxes, dismissing Manny, and sets about to finish getting ready, allowing her the purview to compose herself.

"The leather satchel," he says as he puts on his shoes. "My supplies are in there."

He bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from smiling when she literally changes before him. Gone is irresolute Willow, and back is the woman who'd requested a crossbow. Or almost. She just lacks confidence, he muses, which is hardly surprising given her circumstances. And I'd be a fool to allow her not to see just how much stronger than that she is.

Her back is to him, and he has no more excuses, not for himself and not for her, and he rises, his feet carrying him to within inches of her frame, stopping before touching is possible. And his fingers are itching to reach out and trace the pale line of her neck again---too much time obsessing about vampires, I imagine---but he doesn't, though it's killing him to stay his hand.

"I..." What? Am glad you're here? Wish you'd stay? "...appreciate your help in this." Chicken. "It truly wasn't necessary."

"That's what friends do, right?"

And then she's moving away from him, taking away the temptation, and he doesn't know if he's grateful or disappointed. So he smiles, and nods---is this all I do around her? Where's that expensive education when one needs it?---turning to the work at hand, placing the spell's ingredients into the carrier bag he has brought over. When she touches his arm, it takes all his control not to jump, and why is she thanking me again?

He doesn't care. He just looks down at her and risks lifting his own hand, stroking the fine bones along the back of hers as he says gently, "You said that last night on the motorcycle, so it's hardly necessary to repeat it here."

He feels foolish when she clarifies her gratitude, about to speak up and try to cover his ineptitude when she queries, "It wasn't weird for you, was it?"

"Weird?" Hardly the word he'd use to describe it, so he shakes his head. "No. Definitely not...weird." His mind is searching for another word to explain it, one that is safe to share without revealing too much of the havoc that is his head currently, when he feels her grip tighten for a second, a reminder that they are still touching. When he looks down, she gives him the most brilliant smile yet, beaming and genuine and he's certain designed to break his heart, and pulls away, setting back to the work at hand.

Work. Yes. He has a demon to stop.

It's his mantra as they take the rest of the supplies out to the truck, tossing them into the back as she slides into the cab. The fit is tight when he squeezes in, and she is pressed against him, leg to leg, thigh to thigh, bouncing into his shoulder every time Manny takes a turn too wide or hits a bump in the road. More than once, he sees the casual brush of his contact's hand against her knee when he shifts gears, and files away a note to have words with him about it later, his mouth tight in determination.

That disgust actually makes it easier to concentrate. When they reach the docks, he barks orders to the other two, ensuring that Willow stays behind so that she can be protected from the worst of the fray. He is absorbed by the fight, listening to her voice begin the chanting, redoubling his efforts when the Jwa'hra turns against him.

This is one of the parts of demon hunting that he adores. Research and magic were all well and good when fighting against evil, but Wesley had learned at graduation, during the battle against the Mayor, just what a sense of power could be obtained by tackling the demons head on. Not that it is easy. Each prey offers a different challenge, and there is always the possibility that he won't come out of it alive. And then there are the times when it goes horribly wrong, and he is left feeling weaker than when he started.

But the rush, the power, the sense of control. He loses himself in it with the Jwa'hra, ignoring the slice across his arm to fight back harder, listening to Willow continue behind him until it is done and the demon disappears.

His breathing is rushed, adrenaline crisping through his veins as he listens to Manny splash to the shore. Through the other man's raucous banter, he becomes aware of the blood dripping down his arm, and the sting prompts Wes to tend to the wound quickly, all efficiency and business as he staunches the flow. When he looks up, he realizes that Willow is watching him intently, her eyes jumping from his face to his arm with what looks remarkably like worry. For me? His smile is frank, automatic, and he says the first thing he feels surging within his pride.

"Well done."

The reward of her answering smile is all he needs, so hearing her light-hearted teasing in return makes him want to duck his head in an embarrassment of riches. He looks back up at her when she suggests breakfast, though, and meets her gaze.

"Pancakes sound lovely."

WILLOW

She stands by the locked truck, waiting for them to finish whatever it is Wesley was so insistent they discuss. She can see them at the edge of the sand, Manny shuffling in his place as the other man towers over him, Wes wearing that I'm-in-charge-and-you'll-do-exactly-as-I-say face that always used to infuriate Buffy and Faith. Whatever is being said is lost to her, only the occasional word filtering back to her ears on the ocean breeze.

...inappropriate... respect...won't tolerate...skewer...

Manny becomes more and more agitated, and she frowns because though it's obvious something is going on between them, Wesley's body is straight and still and deadly, the dagger still hanging dangerously from his hand. She wonders for a brief moment if he plans on using it on the smaller man, and then shakes her head for being silly. Don't be a dunderhead. Manny's not a demony threat.

It's only then that she notices the line of scarlet trailing down Wesley's arm, dripping from his fingertips to soak into the sand. He's bleeding again, she realizes, though he seems oblivious to his wound as he continues talking. Hesitating, she debates whether it's worth it or not to interrupt their discussion---OK, maybe not the most apt description as Manny isn't really saying anything in response so probably more of a lecture---and then decides that nothing Wes could be saying merits his passing out from blood loss. So she marches over to their sides, even if it is more like slipping and sliding because of the gritty boardwalk, and reminds herself to yell at him later when Wesley stops talking at her approach.

"You're bleeding again," she says.

He looks down then, and frowns. "Oh," is all he says, and is about to adjust the makeshift tourniquet when Willow's hands are on him, daubing the drips with a cloth she grabbed from the first aid kit in the back of the truck.

The cut looks worse up close, angry and oozing as the scored edges of the skin outlining it refuse to meet, and she wonders both if he's going to need stitches and just how much pain he can tolerate because he isn't making a sound and it looks to her as if it should hurt like heckfire. She doesn't look up as she presses the cloth into the wound, wincing when he doesn't, and wishing she didn't have to be the one to hurt him like this. It's for his own good, she thinks. The idiot would've bled to death by the time he noticed.

"I guess we're going to have to wait on the pancakes," she jokes, and is oddly OK with that. It was selfish of her to put her stomach first when he's been hurt.

"Don't think I'm letting you sit in the front now," Manny says. "I just had it detailed. No way do I want you bleeding all over my upholstery."

"That's OK," Willow hears herself saying. "Wesley and I will just sit in the back." Because being alone with Manny? A huge pile of yuck.

Both men seem surprised at her announcement but neither question it, staying silent as she waits for Wes to take the cloth from her hand. His fingers linger on hers in the transfer, and only then does she look up, scanning the inscrutable of the sapphire and finding only more questions inside her head. She doesn't understand why he looks at her that way, as if she isn't real and might disappear at any given moment, and wants to ask, stopping from doing so only when Manny clears his throat behind them.

"C'mon, Romeo," he says. "I'll get you back to your hotel. I'm sure you want me to take care of that bank transfer anyway. Make all your bleeding worth it."

So they walk back to the truck, each voiceless as internal words maintain rule of their minds, and it isn't until Manny is easing out of the parking lot that Wesley speaks again.

"Thank you," he says, and she looks across the truck bed at him, noting how long his legs seem stretched out parallel to hers. He isn't smiling but she suspects that he wants to, his mouth soft, his eyes kind, and so she encourages him by smiling herself.

"We're all even steven now," she replies. "You save me from a demon, I help you with yours. You take care of my cuts..." She gestures toward his arm and the blood-soaked cloth he is pressing to his wound. "...and I take care of yours."

"Ah. Yes. That...rather balances the books, doesn't it?"

And for some reason, the awkwardness between them has returned, settling over them like cotton wool, and Willow wonders what she did now, why he has vanished inside his head again. After everything, after all the tears and the talking and the back watching, Wesley was seeming more and more like a friend and not an acquaintance from her no-so-long-ago past, and she liked it. Likes. Present tense. Did I make him mad?

"You will have missed your bus," he is saying. "Of course, I'll pay for your new ticket. If you'd like anything else, just say the word. Manny's employers are paying me very handsomely for this particular job."

Her bus. She hadn't even thought of that. Thinking about it stabs somewhere deep inside her chest, and her eyes drop to her hands in her lap, watching them as she bounces along. Sunnydale. Oz-less. Getting back to the mundane and living with the reality of being unextraordinary. Which would be just ordinary if she wanted to be grammatically correct about it. But somehow that sounds even worse.

She doesn't want to talk about it, so she changes the subject, quizzing him on his demon hunting and clarifying his purposes in doing it. It's not about the money, he is quick to say, not that she really thought it was but better to have him talking about that than dwelling in the cacophony of her thoughts. And she listens to him regale some of his exploits since leaving the Hellmouth, a few of them surprisingly droll, relaxing and smiling until the laughter comes naturally.

"I can't wait to tell Buffy about this," she says.

His face immediately closes at the Slayer's name. "I'd rather you didn't."

She doesn't understand and it shows in her eyes. "Why?"

Wesley shrugs, his gaze turning to see the hotel looming before them as Manny pulls into the parking lot. "Isn't it enough to ask you not to say anything?"

Of course it is, but she doesn't get why he wouldn't want them to hear about how well he's doing. She says so, but he doesn't answer her, only begins gathering his things as the engine is turned off. Before he can climb from the truck, though, she takes the bags from him, shouldering the burden in the face of his injury, and ignoring Manny's questioning look as she marches for the hotel doors. Stupid, stubborn Englishmen, she grouses. Guess it's a cultural thing, being all stiff upper lippy. Can't he see that I mean well?

Of course, meaning well and executing well are two entirely different things in Willow's experience, and she has the history to prove it. She listens at the door of the room as the two men say their good-byes, maintaining her silence until she and Wesley are inside.

"It's only Friday," she says as she drops the bags on the table. She takes a deep breath before her nerve fails her. "And since I don't have class again until Monday and I don't have a ride back to Sunnydale anyway, what with the whole missing my bus thing, I was thinking that maybe, if you didn't have something else you had to do or some other demon to go hunting for, because that would be more than understandable if you did...I mean, that's your job and everything..." She's babbling now, lost in her train of thought, and she realizes that he is just staring at her like she's grown a second head, and she wants nothing more than to just have the floor open up and swallow her down whole. If we were in Sunnydale, that could actually happen.

But she's not in Sunnydale. She's in Wesley's hotel room, and she's making a mess of what she had thought was really a simple proposal.

"What I meant to say was..." Geez, needy much, Willow? But she knows she is, reluctant to give up the camaraderie that she had thought was growing between them, and plunders onward. "...maybe you could give me a ride back. On the motorcycle. You know, maybe give ourselves a mini-vacation after our successful slayage this morning by taking our time getting there."

And she's holding her breath, but she doesn't know why, standing there watching him watch her, feeling the seconds tick away as she waits for him to say something. Anything really. Because if he doesn't, she's going to start babbling again to fill the silence and divert some of the attention away from her hugely miscalculated request.

"You don't have any other clothes."

He's not saying no, she realizes, and grins in the face of the lightening weight inside her chest. "Nope, but I do have a credit card I keep for emergencies."

"Why?"

At first she thinks he means why does she have a credit card, but all too quickly, Willow understands that he is questioning her reason for staying. What do I say? How do I tell him that I've felt better about myself in the past twelve hours in his presence than I have in the past six weeks?

So she says the only thing that makes sense to her at the moment. The only thing that she thinks he will believe.

"Because I'd like to have the chance to talk some more. Because...I like the company."

WESLEY

He can see her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for them to join her at the truck so that they can go get some breakfast, but this has to be done first, these words have to be said. Regardless of how Wes might personally feel, he simply cannot allow Manny to continue treating Willow in the manner he has been.

"That type of behavior is completely inappropriate," he says. He keeps his voice low, his words even, refusing to show Manny just how disgusted with him he actually is. "Willow deserves every measure of respect that you can offer, and fondling her knee while you're shifting gears is about as low as you can go without becoming even more blatantly obscene. Now. She might be the type of person who's willing to overlook such acts, but I assure you, I am not. I will not tolerate you treating her in such a way, either in or out of my presence. And if I learn or see that you've done or said something to offend her, I will personally skewer you to the nearest Fyarl demon I find. Do you understand?"

Manny doesn't speak, only nods vehemently as he shifts back and forth in the sand. His eyes are jumping from Wesley's face, to the dagger that is twisting in his fingers, his fear shining brightly in their depths.

For a moment, he feels a twinge of guilt but then remembers the lascivious sidle of the man's hand against Willow's skirt and steels his resolve. "Good. I trust we won't have to have this discussion again---."

He hears her footsteps then, and stops speaking, turning to look at the redhead approach them with a cloth from the supplies dangling from her fingers. I certainly don't need her to overhear me upbraid him. She would never understand why I had to do it. "You're bleeding again," she says.

He hadn't noticed. When he looks down at his arm, he sees as if for the first time the sticky fluid running in rivulets down his arm. Odd, that. It looks like enough blood for him to have been aware it was seeping from his body.

"Oh," Wesley says, and reaches up to adjust the tourniquet on his arm, thinking he will just tear another strip from it to clean up the mess he appears to be making.

Her touch stops him, one hand grasping the back of his bicep to hold him steady while she uses the other---the one with the cloth---to wipe away the blood. It is firmer than he would've expected, the touch of one who knows what must be done and is set to do it, and he is transfixed as he watches her bowed head, oblivious to the sting of the cut even when she presses the cloth into the wound. Is she wincing for me? he wonders, and then shakes the thought away as whimsical, delusions of more thrust to the wayside.

But then she is joking about missing breakfast, and when Manny comments on not wanting blood stains on his upholstery, Willow's next words shock him into even more silence.

"That's OK. Wesley and I will just sit in the back."

He would've suggested it anyway, or insisted on riding in front, but hearing the offer come from her lips makes him stop, his skin warming but not from the morning sun. When he reaches to take the blood-soaked cloth from her hand, he can't resist allowing his fingers to remain on hers for that extra fraction of a second, feeling the fine bones beneath the skin, wishing he dared to do more than share a feather touch and wondering just what in hell he thought he was doing by wanting it. She looks up at him, and he is stricken by the clarity of her gaze, the emerald and amber reflecting back at him with an otherworldliness that can only be described as beautiful.

And for some inexplicable reason, he is choked with the desire to kiss her.

Manny's voice yanks him from the brink of taking that step too far, though, and they walk to the truck in silence, reloading it and situating themselves in the bed on opposite sides, their legs stretched out in front of them in parallel. He watches her through his lashes, questioning his own body's responses.

It's not as if he's lacked the company of pretty girls. If he wants, all he has to do is walk into a bar and begin talking to whoever catches his eye. Invariably, the accent is enough to seduce even the most reticent of women. Not that he has---well, twice maybe, but that was only when the loneliness got too unbearable and the solace of a warm body pressed into his was worth the revulsion he would feel the following morning.

So what is it about Willow? He doesn't know. He only knows that he's grateful for her presence, for the concern she is exhibiting for him, and so he thanks her before he can stop himself.

When she comments on the score being even, Wesley is frozen inside, the crash to reality her words bring jolting him from the luxurious reverie of his mood.

"Ah. Yes. That...rather balances the books, doesn't it?"

And it's better this way, at least that's what he tells himself, and he hides within the wounds of his bruised ego, chastising himself for considering anything otherwise and wondering how he can make it up to her.

"You will have missed your bus," he says. "Of course, I'll pay for your new ticket. If you'd like anything else, just say the word. Manny's employers are paying me very handsomely for this particular job."

There. That should make things better.

Only...he's not sure it has when a flicker of what looks like distress clouds her eyes, tearing them from looking at him to being absorbed by her hands in her lap. When she speaks again, her voice is low, questioning his motives for the demon hunting.

"Oh, it's not about the money," he hastens to explain. "It's about doing the right thing." And atoning for all my mistakes in Sunnydale, he adds silently, but there is no way he wants her to know about his incredible sense of failure.

So he distracts her with some of his more colorful stories, watching as his words slowly draw her back from whatever abyss she'd slipped into, taking pride as she smiles and then laughs out loud at his adventures.

"I can't wait to tell Buffy about this," she says, and he immediately feels the world drop out from beneath his feet.

"I'd rather you didn't," he replies, but when she questions him, he can't bring himself to tell her the truth. How is it possible to explain the sense of idiocy that overwhelms him when either of the Slayers are mentioned? That he knows he cocked things up in Sunnydale, but that he's trying to better himself and would rather they not continue to perceive him as the jester in their court of heroes?

But all he can say is..."Isn't it enough to ask you not to say anything?"

He is deaf to any more of her words, even when she takes the bags from him and marches toward his room. He watches the skirt swirl around her legs, the strong set of her shoulders, and feels Manny's eyes on him but doesn't care. Their goodbyes are perfunctory, repeating the details of the transfer for the job, and it isn't until he has unlocked the door, allowing Willow to go inside and relieve herself of her load, that he hears her again.

"...maybe give ourselves a mini-vacation after our successful slayage this morning by taking our time getting there."

He's staring at her, and he knows that, but her words have shocked him to his boots. Because...did she really just suggest they spend even more time together? Not that he was averse to the proposition. On the contrary, the same possibility had lurked beneath each and every one of his words since waking this morning. But why?

Does it matter?

Yes.

Maybe she's just being nice.

"You don't have any other clothes." There. That gives her the opportunity to back out of it, to realize that he understands the grander implications and will not hold it against her for being practical.

"Nope, but I do have a credit card I keep for emergencies."

And she's smiling---smiling!---as she speaks, not taking it back but making it even more real by overcoming his proffered hurdle with ease, and because he has to know---how can he accept such a proposal otherwise---the question tumbles from his mouth just as he's thought of it.

"Why?"

There is a moment of silence, but her grin doesn't go away, only softens as she looks at him, unwavering.

"Because I'd like to have the chance to talk some more. Because...I like the company."

He replies before his brain can talk him out of it. "I'd like that as well. Having you around has been, by far, the highlight of this particular trip."

When her eyes duck, the faint stain of a blush on her cheeks, he lowers his head, suddenly shocked at his own forwardness. Not that she hadn't initiated it, but it isn't normally like him to be so upfront about his wishes. Perhaps it's time for me to reassess such formality around Willow, he thinks. And it's a good thought, one that warms him as he settles with the first aid kit on the bed.

Yes. Perhaps she really will understand. Stranger things have been known to happen.

WILLOW

She has him drop her off at the tiny mall before they do anything else.

"Are you certain you don't wish me to join you?" he asks from his perch on the motorcycle.

"Are you certain you want to be with me when I pick out new underwear?" she replies, mimicking his accent playfully. "Besides, I'll only be an hour or so. You can pick me up back here and we can finally go get those pancakes." Her grin widens, her good mood spreading. "They're not just for breakfast any more, you know."

She waves to him as he pulls away from the walk, and then turns to step jauntily through the mall doors. Considering where she'd been just a few hours earlier, it doesn't seem right that her head is currently in such a shiny, happy place, but she doesn't question it. Too much time has been wasted languishing in the dark, and for the next two days, she is going to do everything in her power to forget about it, to live a life where smiles are her primary facial function and the company she keeps makes her feel good about herself instead of an empty shell unworthy of feeling anything real beyond pain.

Who'd've thought that company would be Wesley Wyndam-Pryce? Will wonders never cease...

So she bounces around the shops, picking and choosing what she's going to need with a careless abandon. A pair of jeans here, a sweater there. She splurges and buys a bra and panties set at Victoria's Secret instead of hitting the lingerie department at JCPenney's, only because she can. Not like anyone can call her on it, and though it will hardly get the play it might've if Oz had still been around---stop that! Oz thoughts bad!---she likes the decadence, adores the sense of freedom it gives her.

She lingers at Victoria's Secret longer than necessary, fingers caressing the various silks and satins of the sleepwear, looking over the tamer cotton items before leaving with her purchases. Splurging is one thing. Being downright extravagant is another. No reason she can't just sleep in her t-shirt for the next two nights. Although maybe I should buy some shorts. Just to be on the safe side.

All too soon, she is done, but when she glances at her watch, it betrays her by announcing just how little time she has taken. Fifteen minutes before Wesley shows up. What can I possibly do for another fifteen minutes?

When she passes the small caf on her way to the exit, though, the scent of coffee makes her pause, and Willow turns her head to glance through the glass at the menu posted on the wall.

Mmmmm...mochacchino...

And she knows she shouldn't, but Buffy isn't there to stop her, and Xander isn't there to nag her, and isn't this weekend supposed to be about a break from my life? So she goes inside, hesitates, and then steps boldly up to the counter, the order slipping from her lips with surprising ease, her mouth salivating in anticipation even before she has the paper cup in her hands. She sips, then swallows, then gulps, and before she realizes it, it's gone, and all she is left with is the long green straw with the whipped cream clinging to its plastic rim as she pulls it out of the cup to suck at its bottom.

Caffeinated goodness. And she sighs, because life doesn't have to be all doom and gloom, especially when icy chocolatey coffee is coursing through your veins.

She waits in the sunshine, her feet swinging beneath her on the bench, peering up and down the parking lot as she waits for Wesley to arrive. He's late, and this surprises her because he seems like the last person to suffer from chronic tardiness. In fact, he seems like someone who'd be the exact opposite, and begins to worry that something might be dreadfully wrong, that maybe he's gotten attacked or something in the time they've been separated---oh, it could be vampires! Except that would be ridiculous because hello, daytime, and enough sunshine to make George Hamilton think it was too much---but it could be something else, something just as dangerous, and wouldn't that be awful because---.

Oh. Nope. There he is. Worrying for nothing. Gotta stop that.

Her smile is huge as the motorcycle pulls up to the curb, but as she approaches the bike with her few bags, it falters when he flips up his visor and she sees the bleak expression in his eyes. "What's wrong?" she blurts out before she can even think not to.

He pauses. "How would you feel if we didn't do pancakes?" he queries as he reaches for her bags.

"Why?" Her arms seem too light without her purchases, and her eyes widen as the possible answer springs to mind. "Is the demon back?"

He visibly starts, and then shakes his head. "No, no, just...I thought...Perhaps it might be nice to..."

He is obviously having difficulty in trying to explain himself, unable to meet her eyes, and she rests a hand on his arm when he is done stowing her bags, assuring him that whatever he wants is fine by her. This seems to satisfy him, if only momentarily, but before she can swing her leg over to join him on the motorcycle, he is reaching for something unseen, straightening and holding out a brightly colored helmet.

"Yours," he explains. "Because your safety is paramount, of course."

Her eyes gleam in delight as she traces the rainbow decoration. Safety is good. And pretty is better. "Thanks." Smiling as wide