Darby and Joan
SUMMARY: Set 3 weeks after "Beheading the Hydra: Ripper" in the Eyes Only AU, this slice-of-life fic could be called "Just Another Friday Night with Giles and Anya." Oh, and you know That Thing Anya Suspected But Rupert Doesn’t Know? It’s time he found out. This fic warrants a Schmoop Warning.
"A loving, old-fashioned, virtuous couple"-- Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1898.
"No, George, I insist. It’s the least I can do." Giles raised his hand peremptorily, and a black taxi swerved to the kerb outside the Council of Watchers building. Filthy rainwater splashed up at its approach.
Giles moved his assistant out of its way, but he wasn’t as smooth as he’d hoped to be. George groaned piteously, then put his hand to his side as if to hold in the pain. "Well, perhaps just this once."
"No. Until that injury of yours heals." Giles almost lifted him into the back of the cab, shoving a twenty-pound note into his hand as he did. "I don’t mean to labour the point, but I’m so very sorry."
"I should have been paying more attention yesterday. You do swing a wicked cudgel," George gasped. "But at least we know now that Anya’s healing powers do not extend to non-magic-related injuries."
"I think that we might have figured that out without my cracking your rib. Thank you for your forgiveness, nevertheless."
"But I’ll still meet you at Stamford Bridge tomorrow afternoon for the demon-hunt?"
George looked so pleading that Giles didn’t have the heart to cancel their reconnaissance. "Quite right. We’ll watch the match before searching for the Nazlutes."
"The ‘Nazlutes’? That some new kind of hooligan? You two narcs or somethin’?" the cab driver interjected.
"Um, yes, in a manner of speaking," Giles said. "Right then, George, ring me in the morning to finalise our plans. Not too early, mind, as Anya likes to have a lie-in on Saturdays."
"Do give her my regards, please!" George managed to say before the taxi sped away into traffic.
Giles jumped back from the farewell splash. His other bag smacked against his briefcase and then his knee. He had to check on the treasures therein; even in the lamplit gloaming, though, he could see that they were unharmed.
He shot a cuff to look at his watch: time to meet Anya at the shop. Her mysterious "appointment" should be over by now, surely.
Even though it was rush hour, he decided to brave the Tube. He walked through the December evening mist to the Russell Square station, and pushed through with the crowd of Museum-goers and academic types. In fact, so many people jostled him through the ticket-stiles and down to the trains that he completely missed the noticeboard.
It wasn’t until he’d fought his way onto the stuffy car, which smelled of humans and grime and (if he wasn’t mistaken) a rather stinking sausage thing held by that woman wrapped in shawls, that he heard the tannoy announce that Leicester Square station was closed due to lighting difficulties. Bugger – he’d just have to get off at Covent Garden then. Hardly worth the aggravation of the sodding Underground, really.
Leaning against one of the support poles, he pulled his bag closer to his body so that it wouldn’t get crushed by the shawl-woman. The darkness outside the car seemed to sway and flicker with each jolt of the train, each corner taken a little too fast. The movement made him a bit sleepy.
Of course it had been a long day – morning run in the park; Inner Council presentation on his Dresden trip to clean up remaining Security Answers mess; research on the demons preying on the patrons of Premiership matches in London; reading stacks of reports. Worst was the brief trip home to the new flat, after which bad news he’d rushed to the shops to prepare a little something in order to appease Anya’s inevitable wrath.
And of course his bad dreams had never gone away, either. Images of loss, the circling visions of grief and pain and dragons, stabbed him awake most nights. Perhaps he’d never have a normal night’s sleep again.
He yawned, eyes closing briefly, as the train shuddered to a stop at Holborn. Two bodies pressed close to him as they got on, and he felt a warning trail across his nerve endings. He looked up to see two yobbos standing near enough to crush his food-hall booty.
"I beg your pardon," he said coldly.
Teeth – too many teeth– gleamed in response. "Sorry, mate," said one of the two. They took a step back, crowding a poor woman trying to read her massive Peter Aykroyd doorstop.
Giles narrowed his eyes. Vampires: he was fairly sure of it. Not much he could do at the moment, of course. It wasn’t exactly practical to incinerate the undead in the middle of a rush-hour Tube carriage.
The two whispered something to each other, and then looked away.
A bit of a problem, he thought. He should be getting off at the next stop, but if there were vampires on the hunt, it would behoove him to follow them. Of course then Anya would eviscerate him (metaphorically, thank God -- but still). Bit of a problem indeed.
The mechanised voice announced that they were approaching Covent Garden. Not much time to decide – but the decision was taken out of his hands when the vampires jumped out of the carriage first and onto the platform.
Inside the carriage, bodies shoved, shifted, blocked; the woman with the Peter Aykroyd tome stumbled in front of him, and it took him a valuable moment to slide around her. By the time he got onto the platform, the vampires were nowhere to be seen. Fine. He’d alert the Local team that two more biters had been spotted in the area, and have done with it.
He shouldered his way onto the full lift going to the surface. He much preferred escalators to these steel boxes crammed with silent strangers --
Especially when his mobile went off. Every head turned to him when the tinny tones of "Stairway to Heaven" began, and he couldn’t help the blush that rose to his ears. "Sorry," he mumbled, and struggled to pull the phone out of his overcoat without elbowing the OAP next to him.
Thank heavens the lift doors opened so that he could hurry out while he clicked on the Talk button. "Giles," he said, trying not to broadcast his name to the general public.
"Rupes, old man!"
"Spike, hang on." Giles maneuvered through the exit stile and out onto the street. It was spitting ice-drops by this time, and he pulled his coat collar up before saying, "Yes, what?"
"Who’s a cranky bastard, then?"
"I’ll start again. Hello, Spike. Now what do you want?"
"Why do you think I want something?"
"Because it’s the middle of the day for you. Most expensive time to call."
"Using the phone card you gave us, mate, not a problem."
"That phone card was for emergencies or the miracle of Buffy checking in, you little prat – oh never mind. You and she all right? No patrol problems with the Brudot demons, were there?" He began to stride down Floral Street as he spoke, careful to dodge the slow-going pedestrians.
"Demons dead, Spike and Buffy blissful," Spike said. "Well, mostly."
"Oh dear. What’s wrong now?"
"Nothing a’tall, wanker, at least not for your delicate paternal ears. Reason for my call was actually to see what you’re giving Anya for Christmas, solstice, whatever."
"Right, of course, the very definition of emergency." Giles sidestepped a large tourist with a larger backpack. "As I’ve told you five times already, I’m taking her to Rome for a long weekend. Belated honeymoon."
The whistle was piercing, even halfway around the globe. "Too rich for my blood, mate. I’d be lucky to afford a weekend at a no-tell motel for me and Buffy. Can’t imagine what I’m going to give her for our first Christmas together."
Giles managed to roll his eyes and slide around a heap of rubbish at the same time. "Yes, well, as Anya is your financial advisor and has been known to read her reports in bed – you know, the one I share-- you might reconsider crying poverty to me."
Even in the midst of Friday evening traffic, Giles could discern the heaviness of the silence on Spike’s end. He’d gotten all the way to St. Martin’s Lane before Spike sighed, "That money still doesn’t seem right, what with Ethel being gone and all."
"Spike, I know, I’m sorry –"
"‘Sides, not like probate’s gone through yet, Dad."
Giles blew out a breath. "Look, I take your rather clumsy hint; you’d like a loan to cover the present-buying. Astonishingly, I even sympathise. But unless you want to try Wesley first, you need to talk to Anya."
"Why’s that?"
"Because she’s MY financial advisor, you stupid git." He cut through a giggling mass of teens outside the fast-food restaurant on the corner and headed toward Cecil Court. "My bride holds the power of the family chequebook. You want to borrow more than fifty quid, you have to ask her."
Spike hooted. "Got you trained like a performing poodle already, hasn’t she!"
"I rather pride myself on being slightly more useful than a pet, thank you." Giles’s retort was automatic. Most of his attention had gone to the sound of footsteps approaching rapidly from behind; his nerve-endings sparked again. "Spike, I don’t mean to –"
And he was spun around by vampire strength. He managed to hold onto his bags, but the mobile went flying into a puddle. The two vamps he’d seen in the Underground pinned him against a building, the three of them in what passed for shadow on the well-lit street.
"You that Watcher, ain’t ya?" The grip on his arms tightened, twisted, and he let go what he was carrying.
"I’m *a* Watcher." Giles could scarcely get the words out. He began to calculate what it might take to slip out of the supernaturally strong grasps, and just how much it might hurt.
"No, mate. The famous Watcher what killed the Night-Crawler." The taller of the game-faced yobs lifted his hand away from Giles’s neck, just for a bit, so that he could breathe--
So that he could drop below the pinioning arms and stumble away from them. He cast a quick glance up and down his side of the street – one of those inexplicable lulls in London traffic. No one was closer than half a block away.
He stripped off his leather gloves and stuffed them into his coat pockets.
"You must be him, fit the description and all," the shorter vamp said, yellow eyes gleaming. "Reckon it’d make our name if we turned you."
"I hardly think so," Giles said. He lifted his bare hands and thought of fire. When he lowered them, there were two drifts of ash falling on the slick pavement, instead of badly dressed attackers.
He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that.
He picked up his bag and briefcase. Now, where was that mobile, ah – after a wait for traffic, he bent down and retrieved his phone from the water. Smashed to bloody hell, of course. "She is going to kill me," he said to himself.
"You aren’t kidding." The bright voice of his beloved rang from across the street.
He looked up. There stood Anya, all tidy and gorgeous in her crimson suit and her long coat, with one hand holding a stake and a martial light firing her eyes. But did she look pale? He’d been worried about her the past few days, she’d not been sleeping well either – stop, she was saying, "Rupert Giles, did I just see you face down two vampires?"
"Er, yes. Hello, darling." She shoved the stake into her purse while he crossed to her. When he bent to kiss her, she leaned into him, mouth softly seeking his, for too brief a moment.
Then he was pushed back. "Where is your new staff? The one I brought back specially for you from Devon this weekend?"
"At home?" he hazarded.
"Huh. And where should it be?"
"Honestly, Anya, I have too much to carry, can’t worry with that thing. Especially today." He shifted his bags to one hand, and interlaced the fingers of the other with hers. Her hand was cold.
Leading her gently, he began to move into the pooling shadows of Cecil Court. She went with him readily enough, but her tone was burnished steel. "Will you be leaving home without it again?"
"Apparently not." His fingers tightened on hers. "And may I ask what you were planning to do with that stake?"
"Save you, obviously," she said, pulling him into the splash of golden light in front of Wycombe and Faerie.
Their shop had the most profoundly stupid name, he thought for the hundredth time. He said nothing, however; the first and only time he’d mentioned it, he’d gotten an hour-long lecture on the difficulties of re-branding a currently successful retail entity. Instead, he opened the door for her, breathing in the scents of candles, herbs and good magic.
"Ah, you two – Giles, someone wishes to speak to you," said the third partner in their shop, Peregrine Holt. He straightened from his indolent pose against the counter, and tossed the cordless receiver at Giles’s head. The throw, like Perry himself, was extremely fast and accurate.
Giles dropped Anya’s hand in order to catch the phone. "Thank you," he said dryly, before answering, "Yes?"
"What the bloody hell happened to you, old man?"
"Two vampires mugged me, resulting in the tragic death of my mobile and their dusting. Did you wish to speak to Anyanka about that matter we were discussing?"
"No, mate, I haven’t prepared my –" Spike began.
Ignoring the squawking, Giles held out the phone to his wife. "Spike wants to talk to you about a loan. Make him work for it."
She smiled at him; he knew how much she liked torturing this particular financial client (not that she charged Spike for her genius). Her first words were "Let’s begin the negotiation with ‘No.’"
Perry shrugged on his overcoat. "I’m off then – past time all good boys were home in Peckham. Got a date."
"Was it a good day?" Giles asked.
"Very successful. Cleared out a shed-load of candles and those volumes on truth spells I thought we’d never shift. Oh, and there was this one voodoo practitioner who wanted some distinctly dodgy ingredients, but I sent her about her business," Perry said as he went to the door.
"Oh dear. Any trouble there?"
"No, man. It was my aunt Mabel, who bloody knows better." Perry squeezed Anya’s shoulder in passing, said, "I’m opening tomorrow – see you at two," and disappeared out the door.
Giles locked up behind him and flipped over the "Closed" sign. Anya raised her eyebrows at that, but she didn’t comment; still on the phone, she must be thunderstruck by an elaborate speech about true love and the importance of gift-giving to mark one’s grand passion, etc., etc.
He had gifts of his own to prepare. Bags in hand, he ran down the narrow spiral staircase to her private office.
***
As she listened to Spike go on and on, she switched off the shop’s main interior lights, leaving the fairy lights on the counter twinkling in the half-dark. And she sighed.
Although Spike’s nonsense was sometimes entertaining, right now she was hungry and holding back news she wasn’t at all sure how Rupert was going to take. She interrupted with, "Never mind that crap. How much?"
"Two hundred dollars. Make it two-fifty."
"And how do you propose to repay this loan?"
"Haven’t thought about it yet, exactly. Rupes didn’t give me a chance to –"
She snorted. Really, what was the idiot vampire thinking? "E-mail me with your proposal once you actually have one, make sure it’s detailed, and I’ll let you know then. Say hi to everyone for me, okay?"
"Now, Anya–"
"I’ll think about it when I see the specifics. Goodbye, Spike." Already at the counter, she put the cordless back in its cradle. Cradle....
From downstairs, the sound of violins and piano drifted through the shop. "And we’ll be pleased to be called the folks who live on the hill --" a smoky female voice was singing.
What on earth had Rupert planned for the evening? He was very good at making and executing plans.
She hoped what she had to tell him wasn’t going to ruin any of them.
Warm gold shone out of the office, gleaming off the wainscotting. Rupert had turned on the floor lamp, which threw a pool of light over the desk and Persian rug, lapping onto the two battered leather armchairs in front. His coat and suit jacket were already on the coatrack, shirtsleeves rolled up, and his tie loosened – the easier for him to move as he dug packages out of his bag and arranged them on her desk.
"What’s this?" she said.
"An early supper." He shot her a quick smile. "Thought we might picnic here at the shop. I’ve got, er, crackers, pate, cheese, and some smoked salmon...lots of fruit, bit of chocolate." His hand went back into the bag, and he pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The accompanying smile was neither quick nor innocent.
She had to sigh again. He was so sweet, and so incredibly transparent. Once by his side, she put her head on his arm and slipped a hand under his braces so that she could rub that warm, broad back. "All right, Rupert. What did you do now?"
Chewing on a grape, he mumbled, "I beg your pardon?"
"Classic over-compensating. I’ve seen it a hundred thousand times over a millennium." She waved her free hand at the spread. "Unexpected comestibles and alcohol signal a guilty conscience. If you’d added flowers, for example, it might mean you flirted with that Lydia woman at Council meeting and felt bad about it later. But I don’t see any."
"I would never flirt with – oh for God’s sake, Anya." He frowned at her, then shoved a grape in her mouth. As she struggled to chew, he took off her coat and hung it up next to his.
"Mmm, that’s yummy," she managed. "So--?"
"I didn’t do anything," he said. Coming back over, he picked up the bottle of champagne and began to work on the foil top. "And why on earth would you think I’d flirt with Lydia?"
"Oh, I don’t really. You’re kind of attractively oblivious." The pate looked really good, so she dipped a cracker in for a taste. Mmm, salty richness. "I mean, you didn’t ever pick up on all the signals Regan was sending you, did you."
When he jolted, the foil ripped in half. "Regan? Regan from the coven? Darling, you’ve lost your bloody mind."
"No, she so wanted you. Even admitted it to me last weekend after my healing-arts lesson." She reached up a finger and closed his open mouth. Even though an extremely intelligent man, he had the occasional spot of stupid. "Really, I sometimes wonder when you and I would have had sex for the first time if I hadn’t brought it up....probably as a treat for your 50th birthday or something."
"Oh, I was getting to it." He began to untwist the wire around the metal cap. "And if I might remind you, I’m only forty-seven."
"Yes, my point was that it would have taken over two and a half years for you to ‘get to it.’" She took another mouthful of pate and cracker.
"Haha. I assure you, it wouldn’t have taken more than an hour beyond your first mention. I had big plans that night." He took off the metal and then used his handkerchief to help him work on the cork.
"If you say so, Rupert. Oh, I should have mentioned earlier -- I don’t want any champagne."
At the soft pop, he set the cork aside. Mist rose from the bottle, and her mouth watered just a bit in spite of her words. "You don’t?" He frowned at her, then at the bottle. "It’s Pol Roger; isn’t that your favourite?"
"Yes. But I’m not supposed to drink any alcohol." Damn, too soon, too soon: she didn’t want to tell him just yet. Not this way. "Um, I might have some later, though. I just don’t want any now, and not for any specific reason that you might be, um --"
He stared at her. She practically could see that enormous brain gearing up, racing to the correct conclusion. Her heart stuttered. Suddenly terrified, she felt the words freezing in her throat, and so she spun away toward the office mini-fridge. "That pate makes me thirsty, think I’ll have some water."
His hand closed over hers, pulled her back. "Anya, what’s going on?"
"Water!" she said, with what sounded like lunatic cheer even to herself.
"Anyanka. Tell me about your mystery appointment."
Ice trailed up her spine, and to compensate, she snapped, "Well, you haven’t told me why you fixed the picnic supper. You go first."
His hands went to her face, thumbs resting along her cheekbones. "All right. It’s not a huge problem, but -- after the men from the kitchen place took out our old cooker this afternoon, they broke the new one trying to install it. We can’t get a replacement ‘til next Wednesday." He kissed away her squeak of protest, and then said, "Now. What’s going on with you?"
"Oh my God, I can’t believe it! We don’t have a cooker until Wednesday? Well, did you get a refund from them, or talk to their supervisor, or –"
"Anya. Now." She knew what that tone meant.
She raised her hands to his wrists, her fingers finding his pulse. Their connection sparked, enough to unfreeze the words: "I went to the doctor’s today just to check, you know, to confirm what I already thought, what Regan told me... Rupert, I’m pregnant."
She could feel his pulse speed up. "P-p-p... we... we’re going to have a baby?"
"Well, I’m the one who’s actually carrying our child and who will get fat and endure the agony of childbirth, but yes–"
And she found herself swept off her feet, cuddled into his lap as he sat back into the nearest of the armchairs. One of his hands dropped around her waist, caressed, and then his mouth found hers.
He was taking the news better than she’d expected, she thought.
***
He couldn’t breathe. Of course the fact that his wife was sucking on his tongue and working her hands under his shirt might have something to do with it–
He had to breathe.
"Anya, stop." He moved back just an inch or two. "When? What... are you all right? Is everything fine?"
"As for when, they think I’m eight weeks along. And the doctors say that everything looks good now, but we’ll have to have the full range of tests anyway. Regan thought that I checked out too, and actually I feel great, but I wanted a second, medical opinion. Not that a healer isn’t medical."
"Right, of course." He couldn’t think. He had to think. "Eight weeks –"
"Yes. It would have started with one of the many times we had unprotected sex, that first day and a half after I became human again."
He rested his head against hers. "Thank you, darling. I guessed that much."
Why hadn’t he guessed the rest, he wondered. He should have noticed, should have been paying attention to her. He raised a hand – shaking a bit, he realised – and threaded it through her hair. "And you’re fine?"
"Yep." She smiled at him.
God, she took his breath away. He kissed her again, which had the odd side-effect of restarting his brain. Something wasn’t quite right; he was missing something. When he pulled back, he said, "When did you first suspect?"
"Oh." She began to unbutton her suit jacket, looking down at her hands. Her wedding ring flashed in the lamplight, a hypnotic alternation of gold, white, gold. "Well, a while ago."
He refused to be hypnotised. "What do you mean, ‘a while ago’?"
"A while." She threw the crimson material in the direction of the coat rack. "You know."
"No, I don’t." Her hands went to his shoulders. He could feel her nails on his shirt, digging in, scratching just a bit, before she began to tug his braces down. He stopped her with a touch, and said, "Define it for me.’"
"Okay. Three weeks." She managed to get the braces off his shoulders, his arms lifting around her, and then leaned into him. Between love-bites at his neck, she whispered, "Since I can’t have champagne, could we have sex to celebrate?"
"In a bit. Absolutely," he said, shuddering. But then he shook his head to clear it. "Three weeks? You’ve suspected for that long, and you didn’t tell me?"
"Well, I didn’t know exactly – "
Three weeks: as the number finally made sense, he had to crush a spark of rage. "Oh dear God. Do you mean to tell me, Anya, that you went with me to Surrey when you thought you might be pregnant?"
"Um. Yes."
He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, trying to beat back the words that were ready to explode out of his mouth. With every bit of restraint he could summon, he said, "So you’re saying that on our wedding night you risked not only yourself, from which I’ve still not recovered and probably never will, but the baby too?"
Brown eyes went dark, and she moved off his lap, away from him. "It’s done. Are you ever going to let that go, Rupert?"
"No. No, fair warning, I’ll still be shouting at you about it when I’m eighty." He crossed to her, pulled her back into his embrace. She didn’t go willingly, and stood frozen when he whispered, "What the bloody hell were you thinking?"
"I’ve told you a hundred damn times: fight the good fight, help save the world, save you. Besides, it was only a guess. I didn’t know for sure."
When she tried to shove him away, he caught her hands. "Don’t. Please don’t. Don’t hurt yourself."
They were going to have a baby, he was going to be a father, oh dear God --
"Do you know that you haven’t said you’re happy yet?" she said quietly.
She had no idea. He was blazing with joy, flames high enough to overcome the dragon-hiss of fear underneath. His fingers interlaced with hers, and he said, "I am happy, Anya. There are no words. What about you?"
"Yes. If you are."
"That’s not what I asked you."
She smiled – maybe at the echo of another question, another answer – and said, "Yes, I am."
They could discuss the bad faith of keeping secrets later, he thought. And he had hundreds of questions, she might have a few of her own too; they needed to start planning. But not right now.
He pulled her back to the armchair and into his lap. Their fingers still entwined, she sank into him. "Then let’s celebrate, beloved," he said, and took off his glasses.
***
His eyes had lost their anger-blue edge, she realised, but then his mouth brushed on that one spot right behind her ear, the one that made her lose all ability to focus, and she had to close her eyes. Warm breath in her ear: "Have you asked about this? What can’t we do?"
"It was the second thing on my list," she said. "At this point, you can basically go for it. Within reason."
"Right then."
She heard the slither of silk, and then felt a cool length of fabric wrap around her wrists. When she opened her eyes, he was knotting off his tie, so that she couldn’t move her arms. "Oh. Hello, Ripper."
"I’d planned this evening very carefully, you know," he said conversationally, as his fingers went under her skirt. She bit back a moan, let him further in. He flicked a finger against her garter belt (suspenders, England, she thought), then higher, and said, "My original thinking was that I’d tie you up and feed you slices of fruit drenched in champagne."
"Well, you could just leave out the champagne part. ‘Cause we’ve got a good start on the other, and I’m kind of hungry," she managed.
"No, my plans have changed. You keep changing them," he said. He maneuvered her so that she was astride him, her skirt riding up around her waist. He raised up just a bit, pressed into her. The wool of his suit-trousers was a little itchy, but in a good way. The circling motion was even better.
Then he lifted her bound hands up, putting them over his head.
His mouth went to the tips of her breasts. Even through the silk of her blouse and her bra, she could feel the twist of his tongue. The doctor hadn’t been kidding that she’d be more sensitive -- "Oh God, Rupert."
"Too much? Tell me." But he didn’t stop.
At the same time, his hands slid down her legs to her feet. He slipped off her shoes; his fingers pressed on every nerve ending from toe to ankle, sending flashes of blue behind her eyes, and then returned. Warm hands moved up, around, and then a finger slipped in and circled.
"Down, down," she said, not exactly knowing what she meant.
He did, though. The hand under her skirt cupped her ass. His other arm came securely around her. And then the world spun, so much so that she briefly thought she wouldn’t ever need champagne if he could do that.
She found herself lying in the pool of light on the carpet, her legs somehow wrapped around Rupert’s waist. He slid over her body, out of the circle of her bound arms, and then lifted her arms above her head. He kissed down each arm, licking through silk. "Don’t move those hands, or I’ll be very angry," he said.
Fine. If she couldn’t move her arms, she could lift up with her hips, catch his hardness right there and rotate, once, twice –
He gasped, and then growled, "Stay still." It was the voice she didn’t argue with, at least not in these pleasurable situations.
She stayed still as he unbuttoned her blouse, skin igniting with each touch, and as he unhooked her bra; as he slipped off her skirt, ripped her lingerie. It was difficult to stay still as his tongue moved down over sensitive flesh and then dipped in, but his hands helped her, held her motionless even as the ripples of heat washed over her.
She stayed still when he unbuttoned his own shirt, took off his trousers and boxers; when he rolled her to her side and lifted her upper thigh, circled around before sliding in hard and deep.
She didn’t manage to stay still when his thrusts up and around made her scream, but by that time he was willing to let her move. It wasn’t like it took more than a few strokes for either of them, anyway, before her bound hands came down to encircle him and she pulled him further with leg and breath and inner wetness while they both broke.
And then it was easy to stay still for a minute, lying in the pool of light, his warmth inside her.
"That was fast," she said, when she could find her speaking voice again.
"Not enough?"
"No, no, it was just perfect." She kissed him, and then said, "Especially because now I’m really, really hungry."
He pulled away, and then went for the goodies on the desk. "Of course you are. What do you want first?"
She stretched, feeling the ease and heat. "Pate. No, fruit. Everything." She slipped her hands out of the tie, which had come loose sometime around the first orgasm, and said, "You know, Rupert, next time you could make the knot a little tighter."
"I’ll bear that in mind." After spreading the bag on the floor, he brought down all the food and laid the feast out in front of them.
She made a dive for the strawberries, which were plump and bright red, nothing like the sad ones she’d seen in the shops. Where he’d found these, she had no idea, but damn they were good. "Honey, this must have cost you a fortune."
"Only the best for you, beloved." He grabbed the champagne bottle and took a huge swallow, not bothering with a glass.
The sight of him, half-dressed and tousled and completely debauched-looking, made her want to purr. She decided that she wouldn’t inquire about his budget, not just at the moment. After swallowing her mouthful of juicy strawberry, she said, "That’s absolutely right. I have you, don’t I?"
"That you do." He got up, put on his boxers and his glasses (in that order), and fetched her a bottle of water from the fridge. Then he settled back on the rug next to her. One big hand reached over to rest on her belly, and he massaged a little, sending sparks through her system. Without looking at her, he said, "So, what shall we argue about first? Perhaps why you didn’t let me know about the baby as soon as you suspected?"
"Huh." She pinched the back of his hand. "I’d rather discuss your not going on dangerous patrols all the time, or not walking around without your staff when vamps are attacking, now that you’re going to be a father. That is, an actual, official father to a little baby, as opposed to simply being the patriarch of the grown children-equivalents you currently have scattered around the globe."
"They’re all in California, dear. And speaking of danger, and motherhood –"
"Or of course we could talk about money. That’s a good one."
He threw a grape at her. Not very hard, of course. "There are so very many things to fight about, I don’t know where to bloody begin."
"That’s all right. I’ll start, I insist." When he laughed, she leaned up and kissed him. Their hands locked together, a spark flying. "It’s the least I can do."