TITLE: Emergency Repairs
AUTHOR: Head Rush
PAIRING: Giles and Willow (friendship)
RATING: 15 for some dark themes.
EMAIL: head_rush100@yahoo.co.uk
SUMMARY: Post-Grave. Willow and Giles in England.
SPOILERS: Up to s.7, `Lessons'.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome, but please be gentle.
THANKS: To Kim, Vatwoman, and KathyP!
ARCHIVES: Sure, but please email me so I know where it's going.
DISCLAIMER: All belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. This was written for fun, not profit, so please don't sue.
Willow collapsed to the wet grass. The shock of what she'd tried to do was worse than the wounds themselves, ragged gouges across the insides of her pale wrists. She pressed them hard against her jeans, trying to stop the bleeding. Almost as frightening as the fact that she had tried to kill herself was the fact that she didn't remember doing it.
Fright was an emotion, right, so at least she was feeling *something*. She *should* be scared. It was *right* to be scared, so she was feeling the right thing. That was good.
There was blood all over the bathroom; she couldn't go back into the house. She didn't know what they'd do when they found out.
Everything was fuzzy and unreal. Still the witches never let up. They apologised for what they had to do, but they still did it. She'd borne it all because she owed it to everyone they'd told her she hurt; but another session like this afternoon, and she'd be dead. There was nothing left.
The magics were so strong, straining constantly for release, and she just couldn't fight them anymore. She'd been getting weaker for the past month, since Giles had brought her to the coven. She could hardly keep any food down, and the thought of going to sleep made her heart race. She wanted to get better, but she had no strength to do it.
She was going crazy, and all she wanted was Tara to hold her, but she hadn't even come to visit. She must hate her, like everyone else.
She had to get away before she lost it completely, and maybe hurt someone again.
"Why don't you catch a train, sweetie?"
The hairs on the back of Willow's neck stood up. "Tara?"
Tara smiled at her and moved out of sight around the side of the house. Willow got up on legs almost too shaky to work, and followed.
***
Willow opened the front door a crack, reached inside, grabbed her coat, and made it to the pub down the road, where she covered her bloody clothes as best she could and asked them to call her a taxi. She had to change trains at Bath to get to London, or however far she could make it on what she had in her coat pocket.
It was pretty dark when she stepped off the train, stumbling as she hit the platform. Her palms were suddenly sweaty, and everything started to get blurry. Oh God, not now, not now.
Then she saw him. He was standing by the stairs to the platform she needed to get to. He couldn't see her like this. He wore a long black overcoat, black jeans, and heavy shoes. He hit her with a bolt of energy more powerful than anything she'd ever felt, and she fell to the ground. She gagged on the stench of burning wires. Sparks fell from the overhead lights, and something electrical popped and hissed overhead. A breeze brushed her face, and she was back at the station, but as soon as it came back it began to fade again. She got on her knees and scraped her palms back and forth across the tiled floor; no, it was the concrete platform again. Wasn't it?
She had to stay *here*, and this was the only way. And she couldn't get away if she wasn't *here*, she had to… A hand on her back made her gasp and jump.
"Willow, stop it."
He sounded far away, and she almost couldn't hear him at all over the ringing in her ears. She grated her hands harder. He was kneeling behind her now, his arms coming up under hers. Once he had her standing, he scooped her up like a little kid.
Someone had caught up to them, and was talking.
"It's all right," she heard him say as he walked along really fast. "I know her. I'll deal with it. No, thank you, that won't be necessary."
Then he was putting her into the front seat of a Land Rover and his hands were everywhere; not overly gentle, but not rough either.
"Giles, get off!" she said, but he didn't.
"There's blood all over you."
The seat was fake leather; deep and comfortable.
"I haven't anything to bandage you with," he muttered. He shut the door and jogged around to the driver's side.
When he started the engine, she woke up to where they were going. She fumbled with the seat belt clip, but her hands wouldn't move the way she wanted them to. Giles was watching her. She couldn't tell if he was angry.
"I have to go," she said, cringing at the pleading note in her voice, but she had to get away before he saw what she was like and told Miss Harkness.
"Go where?"
She didn't know.
"We're not going to the coven, if that's what you're worried about," he said. "It's too far, and I can't take you to the hospital. We're going to my flat." He put the car into drive, and pulled out of the parking space.
As they pulled out of the city centre and started up a steep hill, he kept glancing at her. Finally his cell phone rang.
"Yes… That's what I'm doing…No, I don't think so… No, not the hospital. My flat… Yes, I think so… Yes, I will… Right. Speak to you later… Yes. Goodbye." He snapped the phone shut and drove on in silence.
The dark streets went by in a blur of black and orange, until Giles pulled up in front of a row of white stone townhouses. He put the emergency brake on so hard it made a wrenching noise.
He got out and came back to her side of the car, reached across, and freed her from the seat belt. "Can you walk?"
"Yeah," she said, though she had no idea. She turned sideways on the seat, and he steadied her as she slid down till her feet touched the ground. He shut the door and locked the car, and took hold of her upper arm. It might just have been support, or it might not. He looked mad, but also he looked like that when he was worried, so it was hard to tell.
***
Giles shut the door and locked it behind them. He put the light on and walked her through his living room, past the built-in bookshelves and half-empty cardboard moving-company boxes, and down the hall to the bathroom. As he steered her in, he hit the light switch. The floor, counter, and bath were splattered with blood. It ran down the mirror, obscuring her view of herself. She staggered back and fell against Giles, then tried to dodge around him, but he blocked the doorway.
"What is it?" He pushed her back against the wall and held her there while she scrabbled blindly to get free. "Willow, what is it?"
"There's blood everywhere!"
"Yes, we're going to wash it off so that I can see to your injuries."
"No, *here*!" she looked around the bathroom, and he did too. The blood was gone. She blinked slowly. "It was here."
He cocked his head, and she saw something click into place.
"When did you last sleep?"
"Huh?"
"When did you last sleep? Was it within the last few days?"
"I guess."
"That's not what Miss Harkness said."
Oh God, he'd talked to her? Of course he had, how else would he have known she was gonna be at the station? "Then why did you ask? You know I hate that."
"Because I want to know if *you* know."
She knew she ought to have understood what he just said.
"I think it's been long enough for you to start hallucinating."
He really had her attention now. "What?"
"If you go without sleep for long enough, your brain will attempt to protect itself by initiating some of the processes that you would normally experience while asleep, but it'll impose them on your conscious mind, instead of the subconscious."
She rubbed her eyes hard, as much to break contact with him as anything. "I don't..."
"Your brain gets confused about what's real and what isn't." He squeezed her shoulder, and she was pretty sure that this time he meant it in a nice way. "And it becomes harder to think clearly." He smiled slightly. "Yes?"
She nodded.
He nodded back, still with that analytical Gileslook. "What's stopping you sleeping? Nightmares?"
"Yeah. Well, no... I have nightmares, but they're not the worst of it."
"Flashbacks?"
"Yeah, but they don't make any sense." She just knew they were part of something she must be afraid to let herself think about. "I hear Tara's voice even when she's not there."
He nodded, and sighed. "After Jenny was killed, I could have sworn I saw her come into the library one day. She walked slowly across the floor and disappeared behind a bookcase." His voice was softer now. "I went into the office and cried for the better part of an hour."
Where had she been when he'd been doing that? "But Tara's not – " The look on his face stopped her. "She *is* dead."
"Yes."
She stared down at the colourful, mosaic tiled floor.
"What happened to Tara?" he questioned softly.
The ever-present mass of pain and pressure in her head and chest instantly expanded. "I saw her in the kitchen the other day. I talked to her, but she didn't hear me."
"Tara's dead," he said gently. "It was just grief making you see something you desperately wanted to see."
"I'm really scared I'm going crazy."
"No. What you're describing is quite common, actually." He turned on the faucet and let the water run. "You're suffering from the effects of sleep deprivation, grief, and what I'm inclined to think is post-traumatic stress disorder. It's psychological, not mystical, if that's any comfort. Have you told anyone at the coven about this?"
She shook her head.
"Why not?"
"I freak them out enough as it is."
Giles nodded. He checked the temperature of the water and gestured to her. "Well, let's deal with one thing at a time, starting with your hands. Come here."
She put her hands under the running water and God, it hurt. It was all she could do to keep them there while he got the grit out of her palms. Some of it was embedded deep, and he took his time getting it all out.
When he was finally satisfied, he wrapped her hands in a towel and showed her to a warm, comfortable bedroom.
"Sit down."
Willow dropped onto the bed. Thinking wasn't possible, but she could obey orders.
She looked around the room, recognising some of the books and knickknacks he had lying around. She could see them in their places in Giles's old apartment. They'd grown as familiar as objects in her own house, if not more so, when she'd hung out with him, researching and talking and really becoming his friend.
It was a relief to be somewhere quiet, somewhere there wasn't a guard posted outside the door. Of course, that was because the guard was right there with her, crouching down to untie her sneakers. He did not comment when he realised the laces had been taken out of her shoes, but straightened up and took off her coat. There was no doubt that it was more a requirement than a courtesy. He was looking at the raw cuts higher up on her arms, but he didn't comment on those, either. She didn't know whether to be worried or relieved.
He held her shoes in one hand, and her coat with her money in it in the other. He was going to take them with him. "Would you like anything to eat or drink?"
She shook her head, too tired and queasy to contemplate it.
He left the room, and she lay down, curled up on her side on top of the comforter. When he came back he was carrying a bowl of water and a washcloth. He put them down on the bedside table, left again, and returned with a first aid kit and a blue glass jar.
"When are they coming?" And what would they do to her for running away, or more accurately, *escaping*?
"Who?"
"The coven."
"They're not. You're in my custody for tonight, and I'll take you back in the morning."
Giles sat beside her with a wince, and she wondered if he was still hurting from whatever she'd done to him.
Without thinking, she started to take hold of his sleeve. He jumped and started to pull away before stopping himself.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to…"
He shook his head. "S'all right, Willow."
"Is she mad?"
"Who?"
"Miss Harkness."
"Well, as you would expect, she's not thrilled. But I think she was more concerned."
"Is she afraid I'm gonna hurt you again?"
"There may be an element of that."
She swallowed. "Are *you* afraid I'm gonna hurt you? Because I'm not. I'd never… I mean, not now. I wouldn't, Giles."
He nodded, but didn't say anything. Avoidance. He always did that if he didn't want to answer something.
"Do you… do you want to test my magics?" she said.
He gave her an appraising look. "Would you mind?"
She shook her head. She wanted to give him a reason to trust her.
"All right, then. Thank you." He put his hand on her forehead and she felt him start to do what the witches did several times a day, testing her power. Adrenalin spiked; she panicked, and struggled to get up, get away.
"Stay down!" he snapped, and they both froze. She wondered if he could smell the electrical fires too.
She had long since learned when he was bluffing, and this was not one of those times. Whatever she'd done, if it was bad enough to make him react like that, she probably deserved it. "I'm sorry."
He nodded, and smiled a little. "So am I. It seems we're both a bit jumpy." He put his hand back on her forehead and pushed his way through the binding spell and into her energies. It wasn't a good feeling; in fact it hurt like hell, and, like his examination of her physical injuries, he took his time about it. She tried not to writhe around too much, tried not to even attempt to block him, not that she could do much anyway, what with the binding, but when she couldn't help it he warned her, and forced her wide open anyway.
It was only when she actually begged him to stop that he eased up. He pulled back slowly, replacing each layer of the binding spell as he went.
Then he was all the way out. His hand still rested lightly on her forehead, and he brushed her hair back. His expression was a lot softer now, and more concerned.
"Everything's fine. I'm truly sorry, Willow. I know that wasn't what you needed, and I know you weren't trying to be obstructive any more than you could help."
The covers were twisted in her hands. She couldn't speak, couldn't feel any of the outrage or upset she supposed she ought to be feeling, but nodded her acceptance of what he'd done.
"Are you all right? Relatively?"
Another nod.
"Sure?"
"Yeah. Just a little weird to have *you* doing it."
"I should have done it long ago."
She didn't feel up to having that conversation yet. "Are they okay?"
He frowned. "What?"
"My energies."
"Oh, yes, sorry. You're doing extremely well, believe it or not." He smiled, and squeezed her shoulder again before moving the bowl of water, glass jar, and first aid kit within reach, and turning on the bedside lamp. "Give me your left arm." He put the towel over his jeans and Willow propped her hand against his leg.
He indicated the livid cuts up and down her arms. "Are those from the purging spells?"
She nodded.
He reached out and gently turned her wrist over. She tried to pull away, but he held on. "And these?"
"Not from the spells."
"How long ago?" he asked quietly.
"Honestly? I'm not sure." It must have been today. "I don't remember doing it."
"Sorry, I didn't catch that. Your words are a bit slurred."
"I don't remember." Was she really not making sense, or was it a watcher thing, making her repeat stuff, like he did with Buffy after she sent Angel to the hell dimension? She knew him well, but maybe not well enough.
He held her gaze, obviously still trying to figure out if she was telling the truth, or if she even knew what the truth was.
"All right."
She watched as he used the washcloth and warm water to clean the cuts and half-healed scabs from her fingertips to her elbow. He went very carefully over her wrists. They seemed to have stopped bleeding, and he sewed them up. He gave her something to numb them first, but it still hurt.
Then he unscrewed the lid of the glass jar and dipped two fingers in to scoop out a blob of some greenish-white, herbal-smelling cream.
"This is good stuff."
"Did it help you? After… before?" She knew of no other way to bring up the subject.
He looked into the distance, frowning slightly, and she could tell he was translating her words into English.
"Yes."
"They… said… I almost killed you."
He nodded.
"What happened to you… afterwards?"
"They kept me at the coven. Wouldn't let me leave once I'd handed you over. They got me sorted eventually, but I won't be one hundred percent for a while; if ever, as far as my magics are concerned."
"God, I'm sorry, Giles. I don't know what to say."
"Well, I could have done without it."
"I don't even know how to tell you how sorry I am." There might be no end to it; she might have damaged him permanently. She wanted to beg for forgiveness, but didn't deserve it.
"I know."
Giles swirled the stuff coolly over her injured wrist and hand, his touches sure and gentle. It was such a relief just to lie there on his comfortable bed and let him take care of her. It was even more of a relief that he seemed to want to do it. Even if he never said a word, she could feel in his hands that he still cared, that they were still friends, that there was hope. She wondered if she was hallucinating again. She didn't deserve for this to really be happening.
"Giles… why are you doing this?"
He worked on in silence, until she'd almost given up on getting an answer.
"Because I love you. Because I feel partly responsible," he cut off her protest with a gesture, "because I know some, if not all, of what you're feeling, and what a vulnerable and dangerous position it's left you in. That'll do for now."
The cream soothed her inflamed skin almost immediately. When he was finished he put band-aids on the bigger cuts, and left the smaller ones open to the air. Then he started to bandage her wrist.
"Can you leave it off? I don't wanna look like…"
He stared at her. "Like what?"
"Like I-I tried to… to…" She couldn't do it.
"To commit suicide," he said gently.
She nodded.
"No, I'm afraid not. Wear long sleeves if you're worried about people seeing." He put gauze over the stitches, fastened the bandage, and looked up. "How's that?"
"Better. A lot better. Thanks." She tried to smile, but didn't quite make it. "I really appreciate it." The weight of all that was unsaid was behind it.
"Good." He smiled back, a real Giles-smile, the first time she'd seen it smile in almost a year.
He moved around to the other side of the bed and repeated the whole process with her right arm. "Tell me something," he said. "How likely did you think it was that Miss Harkness would call me when she found out you'd run off?"
Heat flooded her face. "Pretty likely, I guess." She took a breath. "Okay. This month has been…" She had no words to describe the freefall she'd been in. "I was really scared that they told you… and you… didn't want to…"
"I would have come," he said. "I'm sorry, Willow. They didn't tell me. They'd have been protecting your privacy."
It was getting hard to breathe, and darkness was pushing into the edges of her vision. She could smell the contents of the Magic Box burning, see Giles on the floor with blood all over his face, but none of it made sense. She blinked hard and fast and started kneading the covers.
"Willow, what's the name of the town we're in?" When she didn't answer, he pinched her under her collarbone, hard enough to hurt.
She jerked, and woke up to the fact that she was gasping for breath and sweating, ramming her hands into the covers. Warren, his skin ripping off with an ungodly tearing sound.
"I'm gonna – " she managed.
He hauled her upright and shoved a trash can in front of her just in time. As usual, she almost blacked out while it was happening, the combustion of emotion and magics too much to process. Blindly, she sputtered, "I can't take this."
"Breathe." He rubbed her back very gently. "Just breathe. It'll pass. I'll get you something from the chemist in the morning."
After forever, the heaving stopped. Slowly, she blinked away the spots and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Comes on you suddenly, doesn't it?" he said.
She nodded, and tears dripped down her nose into the can. She couldn't sink any lower. "I'm sorry," she said for the millionth time.
"S'all right. It was the same with me after Randall." He paused. "And after Angelus. Not the same sort of experience, but the same sort of aftershock."
She knew he didn't mean to compare her with Angelus, but hadn't she tortured him as well?
"You remember what I was like," he said.
She did. She remembered how hard he'd tried to get over it as fast as he possibly could so that he could help her and Xander on patrol, and look for Buffy at the same time.
"Please tell me exactly what I did to you," she said. She couldn't remember, and she had to know, though she didn't want to know at all.
He shook his head. "I will if you want me to, but now is not the time."
"I don't want it to be easy," she said. "I *want* it to be hard. It *should* be hard." She was really dizzy now, and her ears were ringing. His hand stayed where it was on her back, supporting her so well she barely noticed it until it was gone and she realised how weak she was.
"It will be. But I'm not going to make it any harder than it has to be, and neither should you. There are other, better ways to atone." He gestured to the trash can. "Shall I take this away, or do you want to hang on to it a bit longer?"
She let him take it, and listened to him cleaning it up somewhere down the hall. When he came back he handed her a glass of water and a wet facecloth.
She stared down at them. "It's not right that I don't even know what I did. Not really."
"You will." He took the facecloth from her and pressed it to her forehead, then laid it across the back of her neck. It helped; she felt clearer, more solidly *here*.
"Drink," he said. "You're dehydrated."
She sipped.
"You'll eat something in a bit," he said. "Hunger's no doubt part of the problem."
He got up and picked out a clean pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the dresser. He tossed them onto the bed. "Change into these. Have a bath if you like. You should find everything you need in the bathroom. You can close the door, but don't lock it." He smiled, but clearly wasn't kidding. "Fair warning: any strange noises, or lack of noises, and I'll be in there with you. Equally, if you need help, just shout. Got it?"
She nodded, embarrassed.
"I'll give you some privacy, then. Needless to say, I expect you to be here when I return."
***
She was curled up on the bed again, newly bathed and completely shattered, when he came back in.
"I can't stay," she whispered.
"You need to be there, Willow. I know it's hard, but – "
"No, you *don't* know what it's like, Giles! It feels like I'm dying, like I'm going to explode, I can't breathe it hurts so much."
"Do you mean physically? Mystically? Psychologically?"
He cocked his head, such a familiar gesture, it was comforting. "I dunno. All of them. It depends." She composed herself as much as she could. "I know I should cry. I've tried, but..."
"When you're ready, you will. Believe me, there'll be no stopping you at that point. Perhaps the more pertinent question is, how do you feel right now?"
"Crazy." Some small part of her, way down deep, was reassured to see him almost smile.
"Yes, we've established that. Can you be more specific?"
She shook her head, trying to remember, and the pressure inside grew and grew until she was gasping for breath with the effort of keeping it in, down, contained.
"Have you any objection to a bit of acupressure?" he said suddenly. "It helped me, sometimes."
She shook her head, not even sure what he was talking about.
He put the radio on very quietly. "Oh good, `The Archers'."
As instructed, she lay face down on the bed, her face buried in her arms and the pillow. Soon she quit even attempting to make sense. All she could feel was heat and pain and power frantic for release as she hung on and hung on.
And Giles's warm hands going under her t-shirt and on her bare back.
This was something that she would never in a million years have expected to feel comfortable with, but right now it was the one thing she could latch onto, the soothing distraction of his hands sweeping over her skin, loosening knotted muscle, pressing all over, gently here, firmly there. He really seemed to know what he was doing, and the tension was easing. The radio burbled in the background, drowning out her thoughts with their soft, funny accents babbling about the flower arranging contest at the church fete, and who would get the prize for the best pig.
She remembered back in high school, when Buffy had told her about the first time he'd given her a massage after a training session; how they'd ended up in fits of teenage laughter, though Buffy had maintained that actually it was amazing, and not at all inappropriate, although, God no, she wasn't gonna be telling her mom about it. Since then, and especially in high school, Willow had secretly wished he'd do it on her too, just once.
It was worth waiting for.
"Have you ever done this on your girlfriends?" she asked. It just came out. He laughed; a real laugh, and she followed, though their reaction was less about the tease and more about the fact that she was able to tease him, and he was willing to take it.
"I have," he admitted, "albeit under rather different circumstances."
She couldn't stop laughing, but it wasn't funny anymore. She was neither laughing nor crying; she didn't know what she was doing. After a few minutes of this she pushed herself up on her elbows, her eyes so sore and blurry she was practically blind. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm – "
Willow felt him move a little, urging her up higher. He pulled her into his arms, put her head under his chin, and began to rock her like a child. He hadn't hugged her since he'd left them at the airport, and he hadn't hugged her before *that* in she didn't know how long. He wasn't a hugger, except in emergencies. No one had hugged her since Tara. The firm pressure of the bandages on her wrists was oddly reassuring.
She had no idea how long they stayed like that, but it must have been hours. Now and then, if she was quiet or restless for too long, he felt her forehead or pulse, but he didn't try to stop her stream of incoherent babble, or to talk to her much beyond making comforting noises. She wasn't sure at what point he manoeuvred her under the covers and resumed his gentle ministrations as before.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt cared for. She just submitted to Giles. Whatever he did would be right, would be okay. She trusted him.
The desperately longed-for feeling of relief allowed exhaustion to overcome her. She didn't know she'd fallen asleep, or at least unconscious, until she opened her eyes and it was morning.
***
Giles was there when she woke up. He was sitting in a chair by the bed, watching her. He smiled his concerned-smile, and looked really tired.
"Good morning," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"
Willow blinked at the ceiling and waited for the room to stop spinning. It didn't. "Dizzy."
"That's normal."
For the first time since coming to England, she hadn't woken up panicked. Then she realised it was because for the first time she wasn't trying so hard to contain herself, as though clamping down on her power the second she woke up could limit the damage done by hours of having eased up while asleep. "The binding spells!" Immediately, she focused on her magics, her heart pounding way too hard. Automatically she started to sit up, but dropped back down on her back as soon as he moved towards her, not wanting a repeat of last night's performance.
Giles's hand came down on her forehead, and he pushed in without hesitation. It didn't hurt as much this time, and was a lot quicker. It wasn't as though she had anything left to hide from him, or even wanted to. She wanted him to know her; it made her feel stronger.
He pulled out of her mind, and smoothed her hair back into place. "You're fine. The spells are extremely strong. What made you think something was wrong?"
"I was relaxed," she said, groggily. He worked a couple of what had to be acupressure points on her head.
"And that's bad because…"
"I can't relax! If I let go of the magics, I'll lose control of them again."
"You were quite relaxed last night, eventually."
He was right. "Yeah. Thank you… I didn't deserve it." The pain was starting to go away now.
"Of course you did." He hesitated a second. "I spoke to Miss Harkness a little while ago. She's expecting us late morning."
The pain returned with a vengeance, and she sat up. "No, I can't go back."
He became more watcherly by the second. "I'm afraid you haven't any choice."
"Why not? What difference does it make? Who *cares* what happens to me?" Oh God, could she sound any more pathetic?
"I do, you idiot!" he snapped. "As I told you last night. And Buffy and Xander and Dawn and Anya and your parents do. If Tara was alive, she'd bloody well care! We need you, Willow. You have so much to offer. There's so much good you can do, and I'm damned if I'm going to lose you now! No one's fucked up more than I have, but I kept going, and so will you, because you know that you have a purpose that is beyond your ability to imagine, and because life is too precious!"
When she could speak again, she had to smile a little. "I've fucked up more than you, Giles."
His expression eased into a kind of grin. "Yes, you have. But not by much."
"Can we ever be okay? You and me?"
He nodded slowly. "I think so. I hope so."
She steeled herself. "I know I have no right to ask anything from you," she started slowly. It was still really hard to think. He sat down in the chair across from her. "But, would you come and visit me at the coven sometimes? If Miss Harkness says it's okay?"
He ducked his head and smiled, and she had a sudden memory of Miss Calendar telling her how cute it was when he did that.
"Yes, if Miss Harkness agrees. I'll keep as close an eye on you as the coven will allow. Perhaps I can even get them to give you the odd day off. I'll come and take you out. Show you around a bit." He gave her an evaluative look. "I think I might stay at the coven for a few days; help you settle back in. That is, if you'd like me to."
Willow sat up and wrapped her arms around him, feeling how warm and strong he was. He stiffened for a moment, as he always did, before his arms enfolded her and he was hugging her back just as hard. "I take it that's a `yes'," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
She nodded against his chest, and closed her eyes.
End. 12/5/05