Am, finally caught up. You do Giles voice so very well. I could hear him in my head. I don't often do that with Giles in fanfic for some reason. He sounds so earnest and sincere. I think it needs a wee bit more explanation of how they got together, but that could be because Giles has always seemed pretty het to me (I know, that's heresy). I really like it, though. I think the first person POV gives it an immediacy; it seems different. I would enjoy reading more.

Well, since you ask...

It took two long months (yes, too long) before I was recovered fully from the infection that the demon gave me. During that time he cared for me as Drusilla could not: with patience and true sympathy. The spell dealt with the bacteria, but it further weakened me -- though I will admit, now, on paper that will never be read, that I enjoyed the feeling of being cared for and acted up a bit. I’m sure he figured that out, but he never mentioned it.

Since then we’ve had a quiet spell—well, for Sunnyhell—and he’s been giving the Slayer (Buffy—he likes to know that I can use her name. Maybe it reassures him I’m not in love with her anymore, because I can’t say Dru’s name aloud, though I never stop thinking it) more evenings off. We spend them together, sometimes patrolling, more often at home. I still go out alone in the evenings, for a smoke or a drink, but I don’t pick fights anymore. Why waste my time on violence, when I could have something so much better without the ‘kill, torture, maim, make blood run like wine’ bit?

Tonight we’re curled up in front of the television, not really watching but a bit tired to do anything else. It isn’t a good kind of tired either; it’s the stayed-up-all-night-to-save-the-Slayer-and-her-friends-and-then-had-to-hide-in-the-shop-all-day kind. The kind I’m not very keen on. I twist round so my back is to the telly, and I’m sitting in his lap, looking straight into deep, heavy-lidded eyes. I kiss him, gently, always aware that he's just a human and can't take all my strength, before murmuring, "Wanna go to bed, Rupert?"

When it’s just us, I mostly call him Rupert. Giles in company, luv or pet to tease, and Ripper when he’s drunk or bossy, but mostly Rupert. He calls me William, especially since I let my hair grow out, back to its natural colour- to please him, though I said it was because I was too lazy to keep bleaching it. He says it’s ‘honey blond’ but I think it looks like porridge with mud in. And don’t say—'no mirrors, you can’t see it' because now it’s got long enough that I can. If I want to. The bloody Scooby Gang are having a fine old time of pestering me about it—Xander in particular.

"Carry me, William." Dear lord! My brain works much too fast. Maybe I was trying to block—no, it must be that babbling is infectious, but vampires only get it in the brain, not the mouth. I hope so, anyway. Inside my head babbling I can deal with. Have to.

I stand, trying not to groan as my cramped muscles complain. I have developed a sudden deep-seated hatred for sleeping in shops, I note, bending to slide my arms under his body. It’s been a while since I last did this—he is noticeably lighter than before.

"Bed it is, then." He snuggles—that's the only word for it—up against my chest as a reply.

"Shall we attempt undressing, or just crash?" My accent wanders more when I’m sleepy, and with him around it starts to try and match his. It frightens me how easily I slip back into William’s habits, the ways of being proper and nice that I worked so hard to lose because only evil brought me love.

"Crash," he says, so I do, careful to keep him on top. He is asleep within minutes, but I remain awake a little while longer, comforted by his presence, but still feeling a little scared at the changes he invokes in me, and my inability to protect myself. I’m still not sure if he knows that what I’ve been referring to as ‘the germ demon’ was a human. I don’t really want to think about it, but something honest (something I should have killed long ago, if I knew what was good for me) prevents me from sinking all the way into Sunnydale denial syndrome.

When I wake, hours after dawn but early by human standards, I have a brief moment of panic—he's gone. Then I hear noises in the kitchen, and realise: it’s a weekday. He’ll have got up to make breakfast and get ready to open the Magic Box. I consider lying under the covers for a while longer, but then decide against it. This is my last chance to see him before sunset, unless he closes the shop during the day.

And Anya will be there. It's going to stay open all day.

Still fully dressed from last night, I roll off the bed, only narrowly escaping a belly flop onto the floor.

Woken up enough to walk, I stumble downstairs to the main area of the apartment and stand on the last step for a moment, watching him as he pours boiling water into his teapot, turns the toast under the grill—he can’t cope with the toaster, mornings like this, or so he says—and puts a bag of blood in the mirocw…

Hang on just one bloody moment! He doesn’t know I’m awake yet—I haven’t—

"I heard the floorboard creak, Spike," he says, coming to the foot of the stairs and grinning at me. I take the last step down and grin back—into the kiss. He’s changed his clothes—one set of tweed for another—but he still tastes of the pizza we had for dinner last night. The man is coming round to pizza as a good thing to eat, particularly when you’re half asleep already, and would be fully given over to slumber’s embrace if your stomach weren’t rumbling like a tiger in a cage. See? William the Bloody Awful Poet again.

When the microwave beeps, I break the kiss, and say, "Food now, naughties later, Rupert?"

He nods, and goes to see if his toast is done. I put my blood into a mug, and fetch the marmalade for him as well as picking up his glasses. It seems he needs all the help he can get with getting sorted out today.

We hardly speak over breakfast, choosing to maintain our companionable silence until he's by the door, ready to leave. I get up from the table and saunter across to him.

"Come home early," I say. "Buffy can use a night off after yesterday’s fiasco, and so can you."

He looks torn between smiling at my mock-stern tone, and sighing at the reminder of yesterday’s events. I lean in for a goodbye kiss, to spare him the trouble of doing either.

This time he breaks it first. "I really must be going. Don’t sleep too much without me, or you’ll be bouncing when I’m collapsing."

With that, he goes, closing the door behind him and leaving me with all day to prepare a surprise—something romantic, something restful, and something, well, surprising, I suppose is what I’m aiming at. I sit down to think—don't want to overheat the old little grey cells.

So. Romantic. Come on, William, you were going to be a romantic poet; you can summon a little romance. What makes a good romantic evening? Candles. Good food. Wine. Music. Declarations of love. Gulp. Sort out the food first, and don’t think about the last one—what if you say and he doesn’t… or if he just laughs? No. Don’t even go there, as the annoying kids say. Just set up a nice, relaxing evening for Rupert, one step at a time.

Candles. Food. Music—it's like the preparations I made when I was courting Cecily. Then it took me all day to prepare: wash, dress, clean the room, set the table, cook the food, chill the wine, write a poem, rehearse the speech in front a the mirror—and that was just for the five minutes of sandwiches-and-conversation my mother expected me to provide between a guest arriving and her deigning to come down to see them. Cecily must have hated me for those times.

They were awkward all round, but there was no other way I could express my feelings. Damn Victorian codes of etiquette. I think I can probably leave some of it out with Rupert—the poem, the looking in the mirror, for example—but Dru used to like it when I set the table properly, even Angelus and Darla approved—we'd serve wine and young girls.

I can probably leave the young girls out, too—that might be a less pleasant surprise for Rupert. But they might still be able to help. I’ll need ingredients, good wine, and my box of posh clothes from the old factory.

This, William old boy, is turning into a plan, albeit one involving the begging of mortals for assistance. Probably not Buffy, things are still too tense between us; but Willow and Tara like me, even if it’s only because I make their precious Giles happy (at least, I hope I do. I’ll never really know, while I can’t ask him). They might be persuaded to bring stuff over. I’ll give them a ring soon.

What shall I cook? Old traditional British things that would be what he’d like. What did mother used to make? Besides cucumber sandwiches? We would have meat and two veg, that’s the formula. Lamb, or mutton, with potatoes and peas or carrots. Maybe Yorkshire pudding too, because dad liked it—he came from ‘up north’. We didn’t have it after he—focus, Spike. You are doing something nice for the man you love, even if he doesn’t know that, not to earn anyone’s approval, parent or Sire.

If you ring the magic shop, you can ask Anya to give you a warning when he’s on his way home—speak to him, too, tell him—well, say you’ll look after dinner, anyway. He’ll just think you want to order pizza again.

I’m not sure why he didn’t just phone Anya this morning, tell her to open the shop on her own. She wasn’t fighting last night, just hiding and spell casting with Willow. It can’t have been that tiring that she needed help today—maybe he wanted to get away from me. I see it in his eyes sometimes, the exasperation when I wind him up, and the fear? Relief? when I tell him I’m going out for while.

He doesn’t really want me around, he just puts up with me. Oh, sometimes he’s kind, and there are benefits to keeping me here—I can fight demons, I don’t try to pay someone to kill Buffy (not that I would, now, but I don’t tell him that), I can help with research, but really he just puts up with me.

But focus, William. Spike. Whatever. Focus on dinner. Phone the shop, ask Anya to give me a bell when he leaves, and then ring the witches’ dorm room.

"Hello? Magic Shop, how may I help you spend money here?"

"It’s me—Spike."

"Oh.."

"Ssh, I don’t want him to know who’s calling, yet. Is Giles there with you?"

"He’s in the basement—he can’t hear us."

"Right. Now, can you keep a secret?"

"For a friend like you? Of course."

"I want to give him a surprise this evening, but I need some warning when he’s coming home. Can you ring me when he leaves? That should give me ten or fifteen minutes to put the finishing touches on."

"Yes, sure. Here—he's just come upstairs. I’ll pass you over. Giles, it’s Spike."

I manage to hiss ’thanks’ before I hear my lover's voice on the phone.

"Spike?"

"Hi, Rupert. How’s it going?"

"Fine. I thought I asked you not to call me at work."

"Yeah, I know. Just wanted to tell you not to worry about dinner tonight, I’m fixing it."

"Pizza again?"

"Maybe." I’d hoped he’d just assume. I’m not sure why, but even little white lies like that make me feel uneasy when I give them to him.

"Okay then. I really am busy at the moment, and there are more customers arriving every minute. Goodbye, Spike."

"Goodbye."

I’m not sure why I’m bothering—but I won’t let that doubt stop me. My feelings not being returned never stopped me before—I chased Cecily for months, and Buffy for nearly as long, until I turned round one day and saw Rupert, the man, standing there, not just Giles the Watcher.

Doorbell! That startled me. See what happens when you get too introspective, William? I open it, to find- the two girls I wanted to speak to.

"Willow, Tara! Hi!"

"Um, hi, Spike," Willow says. "I guess Giles isn’t in?"

"No, I’m afraid not. Anything I can do you?"

"Well, if we could come in, there’s something we want to talk to you about, actually."

Wondering what on earth they could have thought of, I step back to let them in. After all, there are some things I want to ask them, too.

When they are both seated on the sofa, I settle back into an armchair and look from one to the other.

When they are both seated on the sofa, I settle back into an armchair and look from one to the other. It makes Tara a bit nervous, but that’s all the better for encouraging Willow to get to the point. "It’s about Giles. Well, you and Giles."

"What about us?" I suddenly feel very defensive. "You two can hardly disapprove, can you?"

"No, no, w-w-we don’t," Tara says quickly, aware that her girlfriend isn’t handling this very well. "We approve, we just wondered, because you know you don’t get a lot of, um.."

"We thought you might like a bit of quality alone-time, so to speak, and as you saved us last night…"

"A-a-again…"

"We wondered if there was anything we could do to help."

This is amazing. ‘Great minds think alike,’ as dad used to say (and part of my mind can’t help adding, ‘fools seldom differ,’ in my mother’s voice). I look at them once again, pretending to consider. Since they’ve offered, might as well- oh, blow it, I’ll tell them the truth. More or less.

"Matter of fact, there is. I’ve been going to do something nice for him for a bit now, but it takes me more time to set it up—no going out all day, and such. If you girls could run a few errands for me, that would be great—then it could all be ready for tonight."

"Sure- just give us a list."

"Okay- but you’re writing it."

"If you insist."

"I do. So—got pencil and paper?"

Tara delves into her handbag and pulls out said items, handing them to her red-headed lover.

"Right," I say, quashing the voice that says, 'Spike? Have you gone *mad*?'. "Let me see—some stuff from my crypt, the suitcase that’s hidden under the coffee table; potatoes and peas; mint and fresh blood and…" It’s quite a long list by the time I’m done, quarter of an hour later, and Red has industriously scribbled it all down.

"We’ve better be off, then. I’ve got class fairly soon, but one of us will be back this afternoon, with the stuff. Okay?"

"That’s great," and then I say a word Spike would never say, for the second time today, "Thanks."

"You’re welcome," Tara tells me, as they rise and leave. I remain sitting, thinking hard and fast. Food coming this afternoon, say three maybe four, no reason to expect Rupert earlier than six, even if they shut the shop at five thirty—that gives me from now, ten thirty seven if the clock is right, about four hours to prepare myself and the apartment, before I need to be ready to begin cooking. Better get cracking.

I now understand people's complaints with WIPs, you can't peek at the end to see if it all turns out OK. I write too much twisted stuff to feel safe with simple preparations for a romantic dinner. Something's going to go wrong, I know it.

connie, my darling, this was written quite some time ago. I've changed a lot, and while the edits reflect that somewhat, I'm not changing the basic plot to be what I'd write now. Just to... warn you. And here's the next bit, while I'm at it.

Chapter Three

"Hi, Spike," I said as he opened the door, trying to hide my smile at his sleepy eyes and tousled hair. "Nice rest?"

"Better than on the table in the basement. And you’re early."

"True—but that could be a good thing. If you let me put these down inside, I’ll go and fetch the rest—Xander gave me a lift, but he couldn’t stay to help carry."

For the second time that day he stood back to allow me to enter. This time, I went back past him almost at once, saying, "I can help for maybe two hours, then I must be off again." Spike didn’t comment, just nodded, which I took to mean, "Yes, I’d like that." Given what I know of his organisational skills—and what I know he knows of mine—I hadn’t expected anything else.

When I returned, staggering under the weight of a large suitcase, he let me get inside and then shut the door.

"So, bossy, tell me what to do."

"Planning is a good beginning. You sound like you know what you want, but a bit precarious on the how-to-get-it-front. Yeah?"

Quietly, he said, "It’s been a long time since I last did this." I wonder if there wasn't a little undertone there, of not wanting to remember the last time. "Well…" I looked around, thoughtfully. "Cooking and cleaning first, then you chose what to wear, set the table, and wait for the man—or woman—of your dreams to arrive." He raised an eyebrow at that. "What? You can’t tell me you never dream about him."

"No comment. From the way you summarised that, it sounds like as case of, "what do you want, cooking or cleaning?"" He must have caught my look, because he added, "You did say you’d help," in his best you-don’t-love-me-anymore voice.

"Cooking, then. But you might have to give me some pointers on the proper British way of doing things."

"How about the proper British recipe book I was going to use?"

I grinned. "Sounds good to me. Let’s get going, then." No harm in chattering while we work, though. "You never did tell me if you ever dream about him."

"No? Fact is—and I’d rather this didn’t get around—I do, sometimes. The other night, I dreamt that he found a spell that would make me human, make him able to…"

"To what?"

"To…to… look, can’t we change the subject? I may not be able to bite humans any more, but I can tell when they’re trying to get me to say embarrassing things."

"What is it, Sp.. William? Do you think he doesn’t love you?"

"I know he doesn’t," he snapped, struggling to remain in human guise, his eyes glinting amber. "Now are you going to shut up and help, or leave?"

I ignored his threatening manner, seeing the gold in his eyes but confidant that I was right. "Neither. I’m going to help as best I can—and number one thing is you have to be honest about what you feel. No point aiming for romantic if you’re going to back out of the really important part. You’ve always prided yourself on being honest, haven’t you? Well, be honest now. You love him, he loves you."

"That’s easy for you to say. You’re beautiful. People love you. They have to be dead or nuts before they even want to be around me."

"Not true. I don’t know about in the past. I wasn’t there, and I suspect you’ve changed a lot. What I can say is—Giles loves you, I like you, Tara likes you, even Xander and Buffy could come round to it. They don’t actively hate you anymore, anyway. So there."

"Three people who like me. Yeah, that’s a real fan club." He turned away.

"Now you’re just being wiseass. You never said you wanted a fan club—it's asking a bit much—and one of the three loves you. Isn’t that enough?"

Subdued now and still facing away from me, he replied, "I don’t know. I’ve never had this before."

I stared at his back for a moment, and then realised. That's the absolute truth. I stepped across to him, cautiously, unsure how much I had hurt his feelings and aware that his shoulders were heaving with silent sobs, to put a hand on his back.

"That’s okay, William. You don’t have to know."

Seeming to need the touch, he turned around to bury his head in the little hollow between my shoulder and neck.

It was strange, I knew that much—but he'd cried on my shoulder once before, and… now he had a soul. Human, to all intents and purposes. I let him cry.

• * *

Later, when he'd calmed down, we finish cleaning and cooking, and when we stopped for coffee and blood, I got around to asking him what was in the box I’d been asked to bring from its hiding place in the crypt.

"Clothes," he told me, and I'm sure he knew that the vague answer wouldn't be accepted.

I just said, as if I hadn't noticed his attempt at concealment, "What kind of clothes, silly? Some of us were under the impression you only have the one set."

"Well, officially I do."

"But unofficially?"

"It was D…" His voice tailed off, pain suddenly flooding him again.

I went to sit by him on the sofa, ready to return to my role as vampire comforter, if need be. "Drusilla?"

He swallowed hard, and nodded. "She liked to… to play dressing up. Sometimes just her, but sometimes me as well. I kept…some things, for the purpose. Including some in that box. I thought maybe… but maybe not."

"You thought they would be nicer than the jeans-and-t-shirt look, for the romantic dinner? I’m only guessing here, but based on what I’ve seen of her taste in clothes, I’d say you’re right. If you can’t stand wearing things with memories like that, then we’ll see about something else—I expect Xander or Riley has something smarter that would fit you—but I think we should look at what you’ve got, first."

My speech seemed to give him the fresh confidence that he needed, and he grinned. "Some of it’s a bit strange—stuff we took from the people we killed—but some of it’s passable. I hope."

"We won’t know if we don’t look," I said, and moved across to get the suitcase.

One by one, I took out the items, all carefully cleaned and neatly folded up, ready to be worn, barring the occasional tear or bloodstain. There are shirts on top—t-shirts and the red over shirts he wears every day, but after two or three layers of those I found more exotic things.

"White shirt, dressing gown, umm…"

"Norfolk jacket."

I frowned, looking at the pocket covered garment, before moving on. "Smart shoes, baseball cap, Zoot suit.”

“I’d forgotten I had that. Christ.”

I looked at it—long jacket, blue with pinstripes, with padded shoulders and a fitted waist. The trousers that match it taper to narrow cuffs, and it occurs to her that it probably really does suit Spike. The blue is a little darker than his eyes, just enough to bring them out, and I set it aside from the main pile. He frowned, probably wondering why, but I went on.

"Several ties, army jacket and finally…" I held up a pair of baggy trousers, too short to come much below the knee, made of a light cotton.

"Knickerbockers," he told me, half embarrassed, half smirking. "So, Red, what do you think I should wear tonight?"

I looked at the pile again, then at the zoot suit. "That. The zoot suit. It’s a good colour, and… snazzy. Is that a word? Anyway. I’d say a tux, if you had one, but since you don’t, I think the suit is good. With the white shirt, and the matching tie." Okay, babbling there, Willow. Stop it.

"I only wore it once. We killed the guy who was wearing it because D.. she thought the colour would suit me."

"She was right," I said, simply. "Go and put it on, let me see how you look."

He left for the bedroom, carrying the pile of clothes. This is either going to be great, or funny, or hideous. Or all three.

The only thing I'm a bit sad about is that I won't get to see the looks on Giles' face when he sees Spike wearing that.

Chapter Four

"Come in, Rupert," he says, opening the door as I’m getting my keys out. I look at him to smile my thanks, and do a quick double take. He’s wearing something very akin to a zoot suit and, strangely, it looks stunning. I’m not sure if it’s the clothes themselves, the body inside them, or simply the fact that they don’t include and denim or leather. Perhaps all three. Anyway, it renders me speechless.

"Like it, pet?" he asks. When I nod, he pulls me indoors and grabs a brief kiss prior to my taking any notice of what he’s done to the room. Not that it’s in any way bad, you understand, just—tidy. No books strewn all over. No coating of dust on the shelves. No old pizza boxes, on the table—instead, candles. China plates.

"You want to eat now, or later?"

"Now," I reply. Apparently my brain hasn’t completely seized up from the shock- yet. I sit at the table—a table with wine glasses—while he briefly disappears from view, only to reappear within seconds bearing dishes of food that smell—to be precise, they smell like the things like used to emerge from my mother’s kitchen. Alright, so now I’m extremely hungry, not just the very I was on the way home. So much so that my mouth is watering.

He lifts the lids one at a time, explaining as he goes.

"Potatoes with mint in, like the maid used to make; mushy peas, just the way you like them; lamb—it wanted mutton, but I settled for lamb; and Yorkshire pudding, because… well, it’s what you’re supposed to have."

He looks at me, his clear blue eyes brought out by the colour of the fabric and soft curls of honey coloured hairs hanging down his forehead. For a moment, I am captivated by the sight, but then I realise he is looking for something. Appreciation? Acceptance? Encouragement? I’m not sure, and so I plump for an honest reaction.

"It looks wonderful, William—and it smells better. Am I allowed to taste it, or am I to wait until I’m drooling onto the tablecloth?"

That earns me a grin much more Spike than William—and, dear lord, I sounded like I was channelling Xander. I still do. Shut up and watch William, as he picks up a spoon and begins to serve out. The way the suit…no, eat now, other things later.

Later, when my suspicions have been laid to rest (the food tasted just like it had been cooked from the recipe book my mother used, probably the same one William’s mother used, but certainly the one I keep on the shelf (the single shelf, now everything has to be here or in the shop) of non-demonology books.

I also suspect that William didn’t do the cooking. He is incapable of following instructions to the letter, and my guess is that Willow or Buffy helped, maybe Tara. I deem it best to keep quiet, however- it’s the thought that counts, and he did set the table. He’s left handed, and always sets the knife on the left. It must be some measure of how I feel about him that I notice things like that, and spend time thinking about them, imagining those clever fingers handling the cold metal… but be careful, Rupert, you’re getting distracted). We move over to the sofa, but the television stays off, the only source of light the flickering candles.

He sits awkwardly, half facing me, half turned away. We are holding hands, so, watching his face to gauge the reaction, I lift his hand with mine and kiss the back of it. Immediately his eyes are on me, smiling at the gesture but also with a spark of nervousness, even fear, within their depths. As that was the general sort of thing I was hoping for, I twist all the way around to face him fully, left knee bent so that my foot tucks under my right knee. Then I let go of his hand just long enough to move it to my other one, and slide my arm up behind his shoulders, ready to pull him close.

I take the time to send whatever spirit is guarding me today a quick prayer of thanks that Anya didn't wake me when I fell asleep on the pile of new invisibility cloaks I was meant to be cataloguing, because that is the only reason I’m still awake, before I say, "Thank you, William."

He has been watching me all along, tensing his muscles so as to remain still, and now he widens those expressive eyes in surprise, asking for more details.

"Thank you for being here," I continue. "Thank you for dressing up for me, for supper, for not trying to make me talk when I was eating, for cleaning the apartment. Thank you for setting up this evening for me."

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything, apparently deciding that it’s now my turn to do the work. Which is fine by me—I've got plenty to say.

"I’ve really enjoyed it, but there is something missing."

• * *

Something missing, he says. Yeah. I’m not human, and he doesn’t love me. I don’t trust myself to speak without letting him see my tears, so I just concentrate on staying where I am, not snatching my hand away and running off to stake myself. Any time with him is better than no time.

"… what we’re missing is honesty. We’ve been a couple, living and sleeping together, working together, for nearly six months, but neither of us has ever really begun to talk about how we feel."

Ah, so this is where he asks me how I feel, and I…I should have written and rehearsed that declaration of love after all. Here it comes, the dreaded- no, it doesn’t sound like a question.

"I really don’t know how you’re going to react to this, but I’ve got to say it."

• * *

He continues to look at me, carefully hiding whatever he is feeling behind ‘the mask of Spike’, the picture of I’m-a-bad-vampire-with-no-feelings-and-I-don’t-care-about-yours. It must have been cultivated over many years to transform him into what he believed Drusilla wanted him to be, but now he uses it to hide when his emotions are in turmoil. When he’s wearing jeans and boots, it suits him very well, and must have protected him from much heartache over the years- if not the pain of feeling, then the pain of his feelings being known. On the other hand, it doesn’t quite go with what I can now see are patent leather shoes.

Stop thinking, Rupert, look down at his hand in yours and say what you have to say. He can’t- won’t- wouldn’t- bite you.

"William, I…I love you."

• * *

What! That’s supposed to be my line, and he’s supposed to reject me! Does that mean I should—no, William, you want this, react the way he does when you fantasize the ideal way of telling him about your feelings. Let a little smile out past the mask, turn around a touch, and lean forward into his embrace.

• * *

He frees his hand from mine, as I’d feared he might, but it is only to run it up my arm, and my fears are calmed as he leans forward into my embrace. It makes me supremely happy, even though the position is more than a bit awkward, because as he nestles up to me, I hear him whisper, "Love you too, Rupert."

I clasp him tight at that, and know that this will rapidly turn into something else. I know because he has begun to pepper light kisses up and down my neck and over my ear, all the bits of exposed skin he can reach. This evening will go down in my private diary as one of the best of my life.

Am, I'm loving this. But there's one bit that threw me enough to where I honestly didn't know who was speaking:

"True—but that could be a good thing. If you let me put these down inside, I’ll go and fetch the rest—Xander gave me a lift, but he couldn’t stay to help carry."

For the second time that day he stood back to allow me to enter. This time, I went back past him almost at once, saying, "I can help for maybe two hours, then I must be off again."

"Fetch" and "must be off" - you'd say it, I'd say "off again" as a half-half Anglo-American, but Willow? She's a nice Jewish girl from southern California. I can't imagine her using either of those terms. they're purely UK.

The rest? I am sooooo loving this.

Drat. USians don't use 'fetch'?

(Stoopid Canadian parents.)