Since I don't have Frost to post, I was going to post a snippet from my William fic that I've written already, but I saw that I totally missed WIP day. So, I'm going to do two things. I only have one WIP that I've abandoned and still have around. It was the 2nd fic I tackled, started before I did Rhapsody, and was only going to be Spuffy in a roundabout way. I have 4 chapters of it done, but I'm only going to post the first 2 of them unless people want to see the other 2. But I'm going to do those in other messages. I'm still going to put up the Williamfic snippet in this one.
The story takes place the summer after high school, and Giles has taken Buffy to London for some R&R because she isn't sleeping very well, post-Angel's leaving. Willow tags along, and creates a sleeping potion to help Buffy sleep. That's when Buffy first meets William, and this scene occurs around a third into the story. The fic still isn't titled, and this will most likely be fleshed out, but I wrote it down before I could forget it.
If she focused on the clouds, watched the wisps drift like chiffon against the blue, Buffy was convinced she could feel the earth spinning beneath her, leaving her slightly giddy from the dropping sensations originating somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Only the soft trail of his fingertips along her arm, up and down and up again in a breath more comforting than if she’d been hugged tight within his embrace, kept her from falling completely, and Buffy sighed as she wiggled her bare feet through the grass.
“Have you ever wished you could fly?” she asked.
William’s lips quirked. “I don’t suppose I’ve given it much thought,” he commented, never ceasing in his strokes along her skin. Stretched out beside her, his head was propped up in his hand as he watched her instead of the sky, his inks and paper lying forgotten in the green behind him.
“Big fat liar,” she teased, and jabbed him with her elbow though her eyes never left the expanse overhead. “I’m going to bet you’ve written at least a dozen poems about birds. Probably comparing them to a summer’s day or something.”
“Wrong William,” he said. “Though your estimation of my endeavours is perhaps more correct than you might imagine. I find myself inspired more often than not since our first foray.”
She looked at him then, the grass tickling her cheek as she turned her head and met his steady and soothing gaze. “I wish you were real,” Buffy murmured. It was getting harder and harder to accept the dreams as the non-vital part of her life, not when each and every night brought her to the same bench where he sat, to the same park in the same unknown somewhere they had once jokingly christened Eden. Being with William banished the grey from her life, made her forget for a few stolen hours how hard it was to wake up and remember the loss.
Being with William was frighteningly easy.
His amusement faded, the blue behind the spectacles darkening. “And yet,” he said softly, “those are the very words I repeat to myself when I find myself bereft of your presence. Do you read my mind as well as my heart, Buffy?”
She had no answer to that, not one she could voice out loud without sounding like a crazy person. How could she admit, even to the fantasy itself, that she was falling in love with a dream? That she woke up from their rendezvous and counted the minutes until she could go back to bed and summon him back to her side? Giles was already noticing the differences, though refrained from making anything more than the obligatory noises about concentrating on her slaying. And Willow was just so glad she was sleeping again that she overlooked Buffy’s growing distance.
But Buffy knew. And part of her was terrified of her desire for this fabrication of a man. Even as another part screamed at her to make it true.
Breaking away from the solemnity of his gaze, she looked back to the cirrus floating overhead, trying to block out the sensations his gentle fingers were stirring in her thighs. “I always wanted to be Mary Poppins when I was little,” she said brightly, forcing the levity when all she wanted was something much more serious. “I ruined more than one of Mom’s umbrellas trying to get caught up in the wind.”
If she tried, she could pretend that he hadn’t breathed her name, that it had just been the wind whispering in her ear. If she tried, she could pretend that he hadn’t stopped the stroking, that it wasn’t the wind that was now stirring the small hairs on her arm. If she tried…
She didn’t want to try. Trying was what she did when she was awake.
“Don’t.” Her eyes were luminous when she looked at him again, his serious countenance eclipsing the summer day surrounding them. “This is supposed to be fun, remember? Ha ha, let’s have a laugh, William and Buffy sitting in a tree. We’re not supposed to be---.”
“I would very much like to kiss you.”
The statement came out in a rush, his breath heated on her cheek even separated as they were by the many inches he insisted on maintaining. It was uncharacteristic of him, this courage to not ask but state his request, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was her influence that made him so brave, remembering the diffident young man who’d been tongue-tied at the sight of her bare calves beneath her skirt at their very first meeting. Now, just as then, the slight breeze lifted a loose curl from his forehead, revealing the slight sheen of his brow, his nerves belying the smooth baritone.
“I didn’t know dreams could be so polite,” Buffy murmured. It wasn’t no. She wanted it more than he did, she believed. She just didn’t want to be hurt again, and yielding to the phantom who haunted her sleep seemed the surest way for that to happen.
His hand returned to cup her cheek. “And I didn’t know dreams could be so radiant,” he replied.
His lips were soft when they brushed across hers, that full bottom lip she’d stared at during the poetry recitals sending tiny shivers glissading down her spine, and Buffy could feel the corresponding tremors in his fingers. Don’t be frightened, William, she wanted to say. I’m scared enough for the both of us. But she didn’t. Instead, she brought her hand up to cover his, holding it there while they sustained the gentle kiss, so tentative, so necessary, and felt the world fall away around her.
William’s breathing was ragged when he finally pulled back, his glasses slipping down his nose. “You must find me terribly forward,” he said, and his voice was husky with more than the simple rasp of the caress. Self-consciously, he cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’ve been wishing to do that for quite some time.”
“What if I told you I’d been wishing for even more?” Buffy replied.
His eyes widened at that, and he pulled back, staring down at her in confused disbelief. “You’re not…mocking me…are you?” he stammered. “I thought…I’m sincerely sorry if I’ve offended---.”
“Stop.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, and rolled onto her side to stretch next to him. The hardness of his thighs was a promise against hers, the draping of their clothes providing little relief from the desire she could feel in him. “No mocking. This is strictly a mock-free zone. Have I ever lied to you, William?” After a moment, he gave a short shake of his head. “I know I’m not exactly the go-to girl when it comes to the hearts and flowers routine, not like you, but if I didn’t want you to kiss me, trust me. I would’ve let you know.”
His manner eased at that, though his distance remained the same. “My most grievous error,” he said, his eyes almost too innocent. “How could I neglect to remember your veracity? After all, it is not as if you ever fell asleep during one of our trysts or anything.”
She colored at his teasing reminder, and slapped at his chest. “You told me you understood about that.”
“And I do.” William’s faux precision dissolved into a wide smile. “Of course, you must understand how your rather fantastic tales of monsters roaming the streets of London may taint your vows of fatigue, though my every fiber wishes to believe.”
The reminder of what she would wake to dampened Buffy’s mood, and her eyes fell from his, the doubts returning on rapacious zephyrs that widened the gap between them. “And we’re back to wishing you were real,” she sighed. “That this was real.”
His fingers tugged at her chin, forcing her to look back up. “It is real,” William assured. Belief burned in his eyes. “You give me voice as no other does. I wake, and I face the dreary day, and when I’m confronted with a situation where I fear I’ll crumble, I find myself asking…what would Buffy do? And I find strength in the answers I get. If that’s not real, then…” He shook his head, his momentary fervor fading. “And yet again, I have forgotten myself. You hardly wish to listen to me prattle on about such nonsense.”
“Not nonsense,” Buffy said. As her lips parted to try and explain it to him, she felt the familiar tug on her surroundings, the blurring around the edges that was always the precursor to her waking. Not yet, her body shouted, but there was no escaping the buzzing inside her skin, the siren song of consciousness drawing her away from his company.
Without further thought, Buffy threw her arms around him, pressing her body to his as her mouth sought his one last time. Nothing tentative now, not even a trace of hesitancy on his part when William returned the embrace, as if he could feel the world slipping away and was as desperate as she to cling to it. It was clumsy, and when her tongue brushed against his lips, he seemed momentarily taken aback as to what to do, but it was hardly devoid of feeling, their bodies flush with desire as their hands roamed over the other’s back. He was quick to follow her lead, letting her taste the honeyed breath of the kiss while savoring in kind, and he moaned as his need threatened to overwhelm him.
It didn’t matter. Too swiftly, Buffy sank into the dissolution of her environment, finding herself blinking into the dim light of her tiny room, alone and heated and somehow more tired than when she fell asleep. Rolling on to her back, she exhaled through her mouth, the air briefly lifting the hair that stuck to her forehead, and her hands sought the comfort of the leather binding of the journal that still rested on the bed beside her.
The dreams were getting too vivid. He was getting too vivid. It was getting to the point where she thought she could hear him speaking behind her, or smell him in a room she’d just entered, or catch him out of the corner of her eye as she rounded a street corner. It couldn’t be, of course. She had no illusions that it was just her overactive imagination creating someone for her to trust, someone who wouldn’t hurt her, someone who wouldn’t leave just because he thought it was for her own good.
Knowing didn’t make letting it go any easier, though.
Buffy’s eyes drifted closed again. She couldn’t go on like this. Maybe it was time she told someone what was going on.