Cracking the Shell - Part Two

 

Although as a human it was her first time out in London, it didn’t seem any different from her recent visits as a demon. When she and Rupert crossed the lobby, for instance, Terry the porter looked up from his ever-present crossword puzzle and called, "Miss Jenkins! I didn’t see you come in – how long have you been here?"

"Oh, a while. I was very quiet when I arrived; that’s probably how you missed me," she said. Rupert choked back an inappropriate laugh. He really shouldn’t be amused by her highly dramatic arrivals accompanied by vengeance demons, she thought.

"The herbs you recommended have been doing wonders, I’ve been meaning to say," Terry said. "I like the hawthorn and heather in particular. Healing and all."

She smiled at him. "I’m glad that I could help you. And I hope that your wife appreciates the newly purified atmosphere at your home, so that there are no more flying saute pans at your head."

"Indeed. You do good work." He looked at Rupert and nodded, then returned to his crossword puzzle.

Once outside, Rupert said. "What was that about? You notice that I don’t get so much as a ‘good evening’ out of the man."

"Well, I had a long talk with him last week, when I was waiting for you to fetch your coat. Did you know he was having domestic difficulties? His wife had been hitting him, and he wanted vengeance, but I thought that burning the proper herbs might be better – " she began, but she found herself crushed in an impetuous hug. "What was that for?" she said, when she could.

"You." He smiled down at her. When had he gotten so impossibly young-looking? Or perhaps it was just this particular smile.

She shivered as a cold breeze hit the back of her neck, and his arms tightened. He was very warm, and she could have stayed there all night, but she had to say it: "Rupert, I really am hungry."

"Oh, right. Of course you are." He shepherded her across Sloane Avenue – they narrowly avoided being smushed by a speeding taxi – and toward the Sainsbury’s Local further down the street.

Once out of Rupert’s arms, she wasn’t very comfortable. The autumn wind cut through her California clothes. She knew she shouldn’t be so sensitive, but it felt like frost-burn on her new skin no matter how much she huddled into her jacket. She moved closer to him, and his hand went to hers. That felt much better, she thought.

The shop wasn’t crowded, late as it was. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, revealing row after row of depleted shelves. As a retail specialist she didn’t know whether to applaud the emphasis on freshness or critique the lack of variety.

Rupert didn’t seem to care either way. After he picked up a basket, he headed straight for the produce aisle, and then paused in front of the shallots. "Do you like these at all? I rather enjoy them chopped up for the omelette."

"Yes. But, um, Rupert? They’re onions, which are rather pungent and long-lasting on the breath."

He looked at her steadily. "I don’t mind, if you don’t." And then he smiled, just as he had on the street earlier.

"So you’re saying that this agreement is important, because we will be kissing later?"

"I had thought so, yes."

She reached out and put the shallots in the basket. "I don’t mind, if you don’t."

He leaned forward, eyes on hers. Their mouths almost met, and then –

"Hey, Giles! Anya!" The incredibly annoying male occupant of Flat 804 appeared, grinning like a fool at interrupting them. She’d met him twice, once at the wine bar up the street and once in the lift at Rupert’s; disliked him at first, hated him now. The idiot definitely needed to have a sledgehammer brought down upon his stupid, floppy-haired head.

However, that would be wrong. As a human, she could accept that.

Rupert closed his eyes just for a moment. When he opened them, they sparked anger-blue. Anya was proud of the normal tone he managed, however, when he said "Good evening, Jeremy."

Idiot Jeremy said, "You two shopping?"

"As you see." Giles – he was definitely Giles, tall and threatening – bared his teeth in what might pass for a smile, and Jeremy stumbled back a step. "And you?"

"Ran out of lager." He presented the said beer in a gesture that practically screamed ‘Take it if you want, just don’t hurt me.’ She had to stifle a laugh, hiding her face against Rupert’s coat.

"Yes. Well, do enjoy yourself." Giles was very close to a growl.

"Right, right. You two as well, obviously. Helen and I promise to be very quiet tonight, won’t disturb you further," the Idiot stammered. He sidled past them and then broke into a trot as he headed for the check-out.

Rupert’s fingers tightened on hers, and she could swear that a shock passed from skin to skin. His eyes were once again that calm green, though. He smiled, back to normal, and then gave her a quick kiss. "How do you feel about mushrooms, Anya?"

She felt quite enthusiastic about them, actually, and so she put some into the basket. In addition they chose some milk, eggs, and butter, some fresh Parmesan (after a heated discussion of the respective merits of it versus some Double Gloucester, which he wanted), and the last of the French bread. Rupert also threw in a couple of muffins – "for breakfast," he said without looking at her.

She thought about that while he paid for the food. In the past few weeks the two of them had fallen into an easy partnership, what with the buying of household goods and her saving him from his idiotic bravery and everything. It was the identity of her partner that suddenly made her pause.

He’d used to be just Giles. Watcher, paperwork guy, boss, enemy of vengeance demons. She vaguely remembered that person as if he were a dream – no, more like someone who had died centuries ago. With a shock, she realised that ‘Giles’ had receded into distant history like a mirage, fading more with every breath – just as Xander had.

He wasn’t just Giles to her now. When exactly had he become the man who could never find his keys, who always ordered the richest red wine on a wine list, who could curse more colourfully than Spike, who liked denim better than tweed, who had stopped resisting his own magic? When had he changed into the one she counted on, who counted on her? When had he turned into the man whose casual touch made her shiver, whose mouth she kept staring at when she thought he wasn’t looking?

It was Rupert, not Giles, who’d seen her fall apart. He’d protected her from the wind and fire. He’d put her together.

He took her hand when they left Sainsbury’s, pulling her close and blocking the worst of the chill. He was always so warm now. They walked in silence back to his apartment building, smiled but did not speak to Terry, and rode up in the lift without speaking. In the quiet, she could feel her edges begin to chip away.

He re-lit the pillars when they got into the flat, put his lighter to the tapers on the small dining table. Still quiet, she watched him walk into the kitchen. She followed. His movements were smooth, taking out the food for their meal, getting ready to cook. And she said, "Rupert, why haven’t you tried to have sex with me yet?"

"Bloody hell – " The eggs in his hand started to slip out of their container, and he sought to regain control. One egg fell out of the carton, though; he couldn’t save it from splattering on the kitchen floor.

"Maybe that wasn’t the best time to ask the question," she said. There was a roll of paper towels next to his (new) kettle, and she gathered up a handful so that she could clean up the mess.

"No, can’t say it was." He leaned back against the counter, watching her work at his feet.

After a minute of mopping up, she’d gotten all the mess. Wait, there was a splash of egg near the hem of his jeans-leg. She dabbed at it with a fresh towel, and he said roughly, "Anyanka, get up."

He’d called her Anyanka. Using his proffered hand to help, she stood, then tossed the paper towels into the trash can and moved forward to turn on the tap. He’d called her Anyanka. When the water ran hot, she thrust her fingers into the stream.

Over the splash she said, "I’m not Anyanka any more."

"Yes, you are." His arms reached around her. With one hand he grasped her wrists; with the other, he pumped out a handful of liquid soap from the dispenser. Letting her wrist go, he spread the liquid over her fingers and palms. She tipped her head back as he worked the sweet-smelling stuff into every hollow, every nerve ending. He said quietly, warm breath on her ear, "You’re both Anyanka and Anya. Don’t deny either side, darling. That never works."

He rinsed their hands clean. His weight leaned into her, hardness against the small of her back, as he moved to turn off the tap. One hand went to the dishcloth he had thrown onto the bottle of Fairy Liquid, and with as much attention as he’d given to washing, he dried their hands.

Blind, she reached back and found his mouth with hers. His tongue swept inside, tasting, but all too quickly he moved a step away. "I thought you were hungry."

Aching in a new way, she managed, "I am. But you know, you haven’t answered my question."

"I will after supper." He stared at her lips for a moment, and then he smiled. "Why don’t you put on some music? Open the wine, set the table. I’ll cook."

"You just don’t want me near a knife, after you leave me hanging like that," she muttered.

His smile deepened. "You are so right. Now go on."

She walked back into the main room, struggling to get her breath back. Okay, tasks to complete: stereo first. As she crossed to the small machine, she said, "Did you buy any new music, like I asked you to, Rupert? Something other than men having testosterone-fueled relationships with their stupid, phallic guitars?"

"Of course. I always listen to you," he said, over the sounds of food preparation.

"Oh, hah. When I warned you to be careful going out to Surrey, I didn’t notice you paying any attention whatsoever."

The oven door shut, then he said, "Well, I listened this time. Shall we hear the first one?"

Well, look at that: there in fact was a stack of new CDs on top of all the Clapton and Hendrix and Stevie Ray. She picked one up: "This, um, Joni Mitchell?"

"Right. An old favourite of mine. ‘Court and Spark.’" There came a hiss from the kitchen: liquid hitting a hot pan.

She’d felt like that when he’d touched her in the kitchen – as if she would burn away to nothingness, flavour into smoke.

Okay, that line of thought wasn’t accomplishing anything. She pulled herself together enough to put on the CD; a sweet voice poured out of the tiny speakers. Next step would be to set the table. No, maybe she should get the wine. Of course, that meant going back into the kitchen. The very small kitchen where Rupert was taking up a great deal of room.

He hummed as he scooped ingredients into a bowl. She edged behind him, feeling his body-heat. "What will you want me to open, Rupert?" she said.

"Knowing your taste, I’ve got a nice white in the fridge. Pouilly-Fume suit you?" He folded the egg mixture, then poured in the shallots and mushrooms. So skilled, the way he smoothed it out, the way he kept it on the flame –

He cleared his throat. She realised that her finger had somehow hooked itself in his belt loop while she stared at his hands. She tried to cover the blatant ogling with a quick "Oh, yes. Pouilly-Fume. Very nice, excellent, um, white wine. It’s the only thing the French are good for."

"That’s the spirit; I’ll make an Englishwoman of you yet. But if you’ll excuse me --" He shouldered forward, trapping her against the wall, and then tipped the finished omelette onto a plate.

Both of her arms went around him, and she rested her head against his back. "You cook amazingly."

"You haven’t tasted it yet."

"I already know." She squeezed hard, then released him. "Now move. And where is your corkscrew, anyway?"

They fell into an easy rhythm as they finished the preparation for their light meal: he divided the omelette between two plates and got out the bread and butter, while she poured the wine. The very small space meant that they brushed hands and bodies frequently, perhaps more than absolutely necessary. It made her hungrier.

When they had settled at the small table in the main room, he smiled at her across the candles. "To a new beginning. May it bring only good things," he said, as he raised his wine glass.

He thought she was drinking to his toast, but she knew that she was drinking to him.

They ate the food slowly – something that tasty required attention, savouring. Every mouthful melted on her tongue. When she asked him why he couldn’t cook anything else, though, he just grinned at her and wouldn’t answer.

They talked, of course. She asked him about his work, and he updated her on the day’s Council evils and his concerns about Spike and Wesley, Buffy and Willow. He asked her how she felt, if she was still in pain from the transformation. It shook her a bit to realise that she wasn’t. She felt just fine.

This led to his delicately broaching the subject of her official, human existence, and she remembered that she’d kept her identification in the safe at the Magic Box. "I must have known somehow that I couldn’t stay a demon," she said, eyes fixed on her wine.

"I knew it, too. You’d changed too much to go back," he said. And she smiled.

Together they decided that Spike could express-mail her passport to her – "I’m sure the wanker can break into the safe to fetch your papers, he’ll probably enjoy it," Rupert said. "I’ll call him later. Oh, and Wes too. I suspect you and I’ll be busy for the next day or so, and I won’t have much time for the computer."

"I’ll have to return to Sunnydale soon, though." Even saying it made her shiver a little. "We’ve got the shop and all. Karyn can run it for a couple of days, but...."

"We’ll figure it out."

"It’ll be harder to see each other now, Rupert. And much more expensive."

He finished his wine, then said, "We’ll figure that out too. Because it’s important." His hand caught hers, a spark passing between them.

"Yes. It’ll simply require planning, at which I’m very good." With one fingernail she played with the pulse at his wrist. With a great deal of pleasure, she felt his heart-rate jump at the touch. "And you know, you said this was going to be complicated."

"I had no sodding idea how much," he murmured. He pushed back his chair. "Are you finished?"

"My meal, yes." He gathered up their empty plates, headed toward the kitchen, and she said, "So, why haven’t you tried to have sex with me?"

The plates crashed into the sink. He hadn’t meant to do that, she was fairly certain.

"You did say you’d tell me after supper," she pointed out.

"So I did." He had his back to her, his hands braced on the counter. Exhaling, he turned around and flicked off the kitchen light. He stayed in the kitchen doorway, though, reaching up to grab the doorframe. All bunched muscle and solid breadth, he looked at her.

She could feel his heat from there.

"Oh my God I don’t care, I don’t care why you didn’t try," she said, leaping out of her chair. "I’ve got to have you right now. Rupert --"

He caught her, one hand tangling in her hair. "Glasses off, glasses off," she chanted; with his free hand he tossed them somewhere. And finally he shut her up, his mouth burning hers.

When she tried to get closer, her hands diving under his jeans, he pulled her head back. "Anyanka, are you under the mistaken impression that you’re in charge?" he growled into her throat.

"Well, I – " But she couldn’t talk any more. He’d lifted her up, and all her strength went into wrapping her legs around him. He kissed her again, and she moaned as his tongue went deeper.

They were moving then, and he let her fall onto the bed. Thank God for nice studio spaces, she thought dizzily, we don’t have far to go. He didn’t follow her, however. He stood between her legs, his thumbs caressing her inner thighs, and stared down at her.

"Three things, Anyanka." His voice was low, a bit rough. "First, you had a terrible experience tonight, and I felt how hurt you were. I know what you said, but -- I’d understand if you need time to recover. Are you sure you want this now?"

Choking back her initial response (which was, "are you insane, I’ve already tried to tear your clothes off, I’ve chosen you, get your ass down here"), she whispered, "Yes."

He smiled. Leaning forward, he pressed his hand just where she was most sensitive, then rotated it. She arched off the bed into his touch –

And then he moved back. Torturer. "Second, you know how sound carries in this building. You’ll have to be very, very quiet, no matter what I do to you. Can you be quiet?"

"Yes." She barely could form the word.

He repeated his earlier caress, once, twice, and she bit her lip to keep back the moan. Then he left her.

Levering up onto her elbows, she watched him going around the room, turning off the stereo, blowing out the pillars and the tapers. Ambient city-light shone through the half-open drapes, and she could see him clearly. Then he pulled his sweatshirt off and tossed it onto a chair. She swallowed hard – he was just so right. Balancing with one hand on the table, he took off his boots.

"Rupert, please," she said.

Green eyes sparked just a bit. He moved forward, back between her legs. Then without taking his eyes from hers, he pointed to his bedside table. The candles there snapped into flame, and golden light flickered over them both.

Slowly, so slowly, he lowered herself onto her. Denim rubbed against silk as she pulled her hips up to cradle him. He kissed her again, his hands going to her breasts to tease, to pleasure.

It was almost more than she could stand. She couldn’t stay still: hands, lips, her body rocking against his hardness. It felt so new, she felt so new. Even through the shudders she couldn’t control, though, she managed to free her mouth for a moment. "Rupert," she whispered. "What was the third thing you wanted to say?"

"Tell you in a minute," he said. He lifted off her, then slid his hands under her dress. Slowly, so slowly, he pulled the dress over her head. With every new inch exposed, he followed with his tongue, tracing patterns on her skin.

She had to cover her own mouth to keep back the cries. She’d promised to be quiet for him.

He brushed away the rest of her clothing, hands and mouth worshipping, and then with very little ceremony he shed his jeans and returned to her. Oh God, he was radiating heat; she couldn’t get close enough, she was melting –

Two fingers. No, three. Thumb flicking, over and over. The other hand tracing around her throat, now over her mouth. She bit down – oh, so hard to be quiet -- and tasted warmth and salt. He groaned a little, then laughed. "Ah. I can take a hint, Anyanka."

He pulled two pillows from the top of the bed, positioned her, and then slid inside. As he went deeper, she could feel herself breaking around him, re-forming. God, so heavy, so good. She pulled him even further, using every new muscle she’d been given, and he twisted with each stroke.

She saw colours behind her closed eyes, sparks with his every move. But she managed, "Rupert. The third thing?"

Without stopping, he reached a hand down between their bodies, thumb flicking once more. He whispered, "I love you. Love you so much."

And she broke. She couldn’t keep back the scream. His name.

He drove forward one last time, then groaned into her hair. She felt him shatter – and then she heard the cracks outside and in, the pop of overloaded circuits. There followed a sudden, profound silence.

"Rupert." He murmured something unintelligible. "Rupert. I think you shorted out the electricity in the building."

"Can’t imagine how that could happen," he managed to say.

"Oh, really. I think it was when you came." He laughed, a tickle into her ear. "Well, you should probably fix it, don’t you think?" She brushed his damp hair back off his forehead.

"Mmmm." He didn’t move, though, and she felt compelled to pinch his arse. That got his attention. "Ouch. Right."

He pulled out of her, heat-loss which made her sad, then rolled off. Sprawled on his back, he threw out his arms and said something that sounded like "lumino." With the word, the electricity came back on.

She moved over to cuddle into his arms. "That was surprising."

"Um-hm. One never actually expects to shut down an electrical system, just because one has had the orgasm of a bloody lifetime." He moved them up to lie spoon-fashion, sharing the lone remaining pillow at the headboard.

"No. Well, yes, obviously, but I meant something else." His hand curved around her stomach, but he didn’t move otherwise. She tugged at the hair on his forearm, with no effect. "Rupert, the surprise was, well, I thought I’d have to tell you I loved you first."

He smiled against her shoulder. "You love me?"

"Yes, you stupid man."

"Sweeter words have never been uttered." He yawned widely, then his head sank into the pillow. "Love you more, Anyanka," he murmured.

Poor darling, he was very tired, she thought. In the morning they could argue about who loved whom more, and her travel arrangements, and how he should stop risking his life all the time, and about everything else in their extremely complicated lives. Right now he’d earned a good night’s rest. She closed her eyes, then jolted awake at a sudden, unnerving thought. "Rupert? Rupert, we forgot something."

A gentle sleep-breath, very close to a snore, answered her.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, she said, "Note to self: it would probably be a good idea to use protection when we have sex." His hand was so warm against her stomach; she covered it with her own.

Above their heads, something thudded on the floor of Flat 804, and she heard a squeak and a laugh. That Idiot Jeremy. Deserved vengeance or something. Lucky for him that she was human again.

Luckier for her.

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