Fortress Around Your Heart - Part Thirteen
DISCLAIMER: The title belongs to Sting. Referenced in this chapter are written works by Lewis Carroll and Jane Austen, and songs by Pete Townshend, Doves, and Silverman.
SPECIAL THANKS: Lesley and Magpie, the Supportive Two.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When last we saw Our Heroes: the Five swooped in and saved Wes; with his help, they defeated the Great Moebiuk and the even worse Lilah Morgan. Spike and Giles had a nice heart-to-heart, and then Giles blew up the Wolfram and Hart files which he and Spike had trashed. Because they're naughty that way.
21 DECEMBER 2007. LONDON. EVENING.
"Bless you, Rosemary." Imran set aside the cup of tea his wife had just brought him and caught her hand. "Let me finish this incident-and-damages report for Commander Marks, and then I'll be ready to go home."
She brushed his hair off his forehead. "Fine. I'll be in my office with some personnel reports, which most supervisors actually have completed, darling-"
"Hang on, hang on!" Darren slammed through the office door, a blast louder than a lorry backfiring on the nearby Euston Road. "Got something for you, Imran, something I know you'll like."
Imran took the file he handed him and began to flick through it. "Why, Darren, how kind of you to stay. You've decoded the prophecy?"
"Not just the Cornwall lines." That lager-lout voice deepened, the accent becoming more educated. It was moments like this, Imran thought, which reminded one that Darren Cunningham was not just another football fanatic in a track-suit. "While I was playing Black Van Man I worked through the sixth line, and it struck me: another prophecy from roughly the same time period. Do you recall the Satterthwaite Discovery of 1872? I've cross-referenced lines and context-" he leaned over and pointed out two pages in the file-"and the two are related. In my professional opinion."
"And what significance did you find?"
He grinned. "Ah, mate, that would be telling. Read it yourself." He went to the door, then paused. "I'm off to Middlesbrough in the morning, and the rest of tonight will be devoted to my Shaz and a couple of pints of Stella. So, Imran, don't call me even if the bloody Thames rises again-and you two have a happy Christmas!"
His retreating footsteps echoed loudly in the near-empty Council of Watchers building. "Will this improve his performance review, dear?" Rosemary said with a smile. But Imran didn't answer; he was too busy reading.
***
"You should have been dead. You should have been dead. You should have been dead...."
The words echoed in Wesley's brain, and no amount of water beating on his head could wash them away. He turned off the shower. Clean enough, he reckoned.
His skin scraped raw as he toweled himself dry. Or perhaps it was just he, over-sensitive to the slightest touch. Of course, he shouldn't be here to feel the burn. When Emily had finished her examination that afternoon, she'd folded her hands and stared at him. "Wesley. Everything I can see, every test I've run, confirms it. You were given a lethal dose of the yew, and Anyanka's emergency treatment was quite late; your body should have absorbed the poison before she administered the antidote. I can't explain-well, it's a miracle that you're here. That you seem essentially unaffected? It's magic."
He pulled on his jeans and sweater. Warmth against a body that shouldn't be standing or breathing or clean. Softness against a body that shouldn't feel it. Yet here he was. "You should have been dead."
Which was what he'd slept like, after Giles had driven him and Spike back to the house. He'd fallen into his bed and succumbed to healing rest, and to dreams. Dawn had been the center of every one of them. No surprise there, of course.
And it wasn't really a surprise when he opened the bathroom door, walked into his living space, and saw Dawn sprawled on his couch, reading. She wore one of his shirts over her jeans, and her bare feet were propped up on the arm of the sofa. She was finishing one of those Patisserie Valerie cakes she liked so well. He could almost taste the chocolate on her lips.
She looked up as he entered, hastily swallowing the last bite of pastry. "Wes!"
"Hullo, Dawn." He couldn't say anything else - words gone, completely. He crossed to the sofa, and after hesitating a second, moved her feet so he could sit down.
She snuggled her toes under his thigh then leaned forward, examining his face. "You look good. Amazingly good. Can I get you something, though? Tea, a bite to eat? Cake?" She flicked a glance up at his hair, and added, "Blow-dryer?"
Chuckling, he laid his head - yes, with damp hair - against the sofa back. "No, thank you, I'm fine."
When her toes slid against his leg, he felt the touch everywhere. He shut his eyes. It was a dream of warmth and softness: had to be. He couldn't believe he was here.
Dawn misinterpreted his silence, though. Her voice was sharp-edged: "Oh, and I didn't break in, by the way. The door wasn't locked."
He looked at her. Really looked at her, shining and beautiful and (just at the moment) irritated as hell at him. He couldn't avoid her, couldn't run any more. Didn't want to. He was alive. And so he shifted a bit and took her feet in his hands. While his thumbs began to caress her arches, he said, "No, I know it wasn't. I didn't lock it."
***
What was Wesley saying? It was hard for her to think or speak when his fingers kept brushing awake nerves that she had no idea existed - but this was important. "You invited me?"
One thumb pressed down hard, releasing a knot in a flash of pain-pleasure, and she gasped. A smile quirked his beautiful mouth. "You told me you would be here when I got back. In fact, I rather expected you earlier."
"Okay, now you're just trying to confuse me." With a second of regret, she pulled her feet into her own space and then knelt on the couch. When his blue eyes blinked at her, she said, "Let's recap. When we were last together in this room, you said that I wasn't allowed in. When I tried to help you last night-" she saw him control a shudder- "you told me to leave you to do your job. Actually, you cursed at me. You used my love for you against me, to make me leave."
"Dawn, I'm so sorry-"
"No, see, the thing is that you're not sorry you told me to leave. At all. Are you?"
"I'm so sorry. I apologize for running away without talking last night, Jesus, for doing it three months ago. I apologize for cursing at you. I apologize for manipulating you." He looked away. "But that's what I do, Dawn. I do use what I know against people when I want something. It's vile, I understand that, something you shouldn't-"
"Wesley, don't even BEGIN the self-flagellation, it takes you days to get over that crap and we don't have the time. Again: are you sorry you told me to leave?"
"No." His eyes locked on hers. "I had to stay. Others depended on me. But I'm desperately sorry that I hurt you, that I couldn't put you first."
She reached out her hands to clasp his, and they interlocked fingers. "I would be much more hurt, sweetheart, if your priority wasn't the mission. I get that, its importance. The past twenty-four hours has shown me that."
He bent his head, brushed his lips against her wrist. She shivered in pleasure. He said, "Thank you, Dawn. I don't deserve you."
"Hey, I haven't even accepted your apologies for all the other terrible behaviour yet." When he looked up, alarmed, she smiled. "We're good. Just don't do it again."
When he moved his thumbs across the skin he'd just kissed, she almost purred. "Dawn, do you remember what else I said, even while I was hurting you? I told you that I was yours. Forever."
Oh, the darling. But she had to be strong, couldn't give in just yet. "I hadn't forgotten, Wes. But we're not finished. So, you and Lilah? What the hell?"
In an even, matter-of-fact tone, he said, "I slept with her a few times. Just before I came to stay with you that first time in Sunnydale, as it happens. I was all but suicidal; hence, Lilah the killer in my bed. Oh, and I also cold-bloodedly seduced her during our visit here for Giles and Anya's wedding. It was to get the information about where the Portal on the Thames might be opened. And when I say 'seduced,' I mean-"
"Geez, sweetheart, don't you get the whole 'happy-medium' concept?" she protested. "I was looking for something along the lines of 'we had a tawdry fling and it's way over.'"
His mouth quirked again. "Just following your lead. After all, you're the woman who spent an hour confiding to me the context of her first sexual experience with Kadir Cumberbatch. I practically had to stop you from drawing illustrations."
"Oh, Wesley!" she huffed. "I did not...well, okay. Gaah. And why you didn't just tell me to shut up, I'll never know."
"More self-flagellation, apparently."
"Well, we'll have none of that any more. So you're saying you didn't love her?"
"Dawn, you've got to be kidding."
"Well, okay. I'm sure we have more to talk about, but for right now -- come here, forever guy." Smiling, she opened her arms.
"No, wait. Let's do this another way." What was he thinking -- he took the book she'd been reading, smiled at the title, and put it on the table. And he stood. "I have an idea."
She watched him walk across the room, enjoying his lightness, the lines of his back. Her Wesley, hers, hers. Hers at last. After he messed around at the stereo for a moment, he turned. Smiled. And doors opened in her heart. "Dawn, would you care to dance with me?"
She glanced at the book, the Jane Austen he'd given her long ago, then grinned as she got up. They met in the center of the room under the skylight, and she extended her hands to him. Curtsied. "'Indeed I will. You have shown that you can dance'"- as he recognized the words, he laughed - "'and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.'"
He brought her into his arms. "'Brother and sister! no, indeed.'" And they smiled at each other.
The stereo clicked on, and an old rock song began, with a deep, heavy bass beat. She wrapped herself close, and he began to move them, just their bodies swaying in place, to the music. Under her hands his back muscles rippled, and one of his thighs slipped in between hers. She inhaled the scent of woodsmoke and sex. She was home.
In the midst of her building pleasure, she actually caught a line of the song. And she laughed. "Oh, Wes. 'Let my love open the door'?!"
His mouth brushed her neck, and she shivered. "The woman I love has a thing for architecture metaphors," he murmured in her ear.
***
"'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?/Come to my arms, my beamish boy!/ O frabjous day! Callooh, callay!'/He chortled in his joy.'" Anya cast a glance at her darling daughter, tucked in so sweet and drowsy in her bed. Hah. Double-hah.
Lizzie said, "Sounds like Daddy. The slaying person with the sword, I mean."
"Yes, it does." Resolutely Anya put away the vision of Rupert charging, weapon in hand, against the assorted nasties they'd encountered today, and she read the last stanza: "'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:/ All mimsy were the borogoves,/ And the mome raths outgrabe.'"
Lizzie sighed, snuggled in and closed her eyes. Sleepily she said, "I had a frabjous day too at Nanny's and then when Daddy fed me spaghetti and now you've read me my poem. Frabjous, Mummy."
"I'm glad. Now you have a wonderful sleep, Lizzie. I love you," Anya murmured, kissing her on the forehead. She snapped off the bedside light, then walked out of the room. Her daughter seemed so cozy, so compliant.
The first teleportation attempt usually happened five minutes after the lights went out.
She hesitated in the hallway. She could spend a few minutes in her office, waiting for the energy-surge, or- She stopped when Nanny Tina moved noiselessly out of the next room. "Tina!" she said as quietly as she could. "Didn't you go back to your holiday? The danger is over."
"Giles asked me to stay tonight." The nanny's red lips smiled, and she swung those curvy hips. Anya knew that this was just Kindak behaviour, which meant nothing but was irritating all the same. Tina added, "He gave me an extra two days off next week in exchange."
And he hadn't even asked her. Not that she begrudged the nanny her holiday time -- the demon was a treasure and the stock markets would be closed at least one day for Christmas -- but really. "Thank you, Tina, that'll be fine. And where is my husband, exactly?"
The Kindak shimmied a little. "In the master suite, I believe. He said something about an early night. Still tired after all your adventures, probably."
"Uh-huh." She nodded, said good-night, and moved down the stairs toward the bedroom. It took a conscious effort not to stomp. Above her she could hear Tina's firm, "Elizabeth Ann, I know what you're doing. Covers to chin at once."
Anya opened the door to her and Rupert's room, then closed it behind her. Well, that was strange. Unlit candle-pillars were arranged on the bedside stands and on her vanity table. Rupert, wearing only his pajama bottoms, reclined on their bed, sipping from a brandy snifter and reading something. She subdued her initial melt, the impulse to crawl up the bed with him then run her nails across that solid, just-right chest. Instead: "So you're going back to sleep? I know your afternoon nap wasn't enough for you to catch up."
"I will eventually." He put his glasses and book on his table, then looked at her. "Shall we talk, Anyanka?"
Well then put some clothes on for talking, stupid husband, she thought but did not say. He was being so deliberately-something, she couldn't quite tell. Sighing, she kicked off her shoes and got on her side of the bed. On the far side of her side of the bed. "All right, Rupert. What would you like to talk about?"
He raised his eyebrows. "I sense a bit of a chill. Why don't you begin?"
He asked for it, she thought. "Okay, fine. Why on earth did you ask Nanny to stay tonight? She could have gone back to her holiday- it's tomorrow there. Or yesterday. Something." Human time zones were worse than hopping demon dimensions, honestly. "And you gave her two more days off, and you didn't ask me."
Rupert sipped again at his brandy. "Ah, so it's the not-asking which upsets you so much."
Oh for D'Hoffryn's sake. "Rupert Giles, if you're using our child-care provider's holidays to teach me a lesson about communication or about making important decisions with one's partner...I swear I'm spending the night in the guest room. Or on Arashmaharr."
He chuckled into the brandy glass, and she felt like pushing his nose in it. And then she'd lick the spilled alcohol from his chest - no, focus, Anya, that was what she did. He set aside the snifter, then took one of her hands. "Apparently, dear, if you pick up the comparison without my mentioning it, the subject is already on your mind."
The hurt she'd held tight all last night and even through the day's stress bled through. "Because I've worried about it all day. I just don't understand why you're so mad, Rupert. If I said you couldn't fight any more because you were growing old, that would be one thing. But I didn't say it and I don't think it. I just...I just want you here." He reached over and took her other hand. Eyes down, she finished, "I don't have you forever. I just want to have you for longer."
"I love you, Anyanka. I know you love me." He kissed her hands. "But learning of your action the way I did? It felt like...like you thought I was growing too old, too weak, for you. And that hurt me, which made me angry."
"Oh please. You're amazing, Rupert. And it's not like you even notice age, you haven't noticed-" Oops.
He sat up. "Haven't noticed what?"
Fine. "That I cast a glamour on myself at the same time you were charmed, all right? My human guise appears to age at the same rate you do." His mouth fell open, and with a fingertip she gently closed it shut. She lingered for a second on his lower lip, so firm, so pleasure-giving. "I found two grey hairs yesterday; apparently the glamour makes me grey prematurely. Luckily it's almost time to visit my colourist." She took her hand away. "But you didn't notice, so I don't know why I bothered."
He drew her to him, then kissed her. Rupert-taste and brandy: her favourite combination. He whispered, "Of course I wouldn't notice, you silly girl. You are always and forever my beautiful Anyanka."
***
She was always his, even when she infuriated him. His practical darling. He repeated, "Of course I wouldn't notice."
"Well, you only occasionally miss things. It's part of your charm." She snuggled against him, hair (with its two magic grey strands) brushing against his shoulder. "So are we done talking?"
"Not quite." He took her face in his hands, thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. Perfect fit, now and always. "When you told me last night, when I got so angry, it wasn't just that I felt old. It was that I felt I wasn't in control. As if you were directing me without my consent."
"But I explained-" she began.
He stopped her with a kiss. "I think we need to strike a bargain. Even though I'm so grateful to you, darling, I need to regain some control. And you need to feel appreciated for your actions- what Will called 'a festival of flowers and jewelry and shagging.'"
"I buy my own jewelry." Then she smiled. "But keep going, Rupie."
There, he had her. He took one last pass over her cheekbones, then got them both to their feet.
"You're going to show me how much I please you. Because sometimes I don't notice things." His hands already were moving, caressing as he unbuttoned her silk shirt. She arched up, and he stopped his fingers. "Stay still, darling. I'm in charge tonight."
She stood motionless as he nipped down her shoulder, discarding the shirt and her bra as he went. He allowed himself a moment of kisses skin to skin, her breasts so perfect against him, before leading her to her vanity table. "Give me your hand, Anyanka." When she did, he brought her thumb and index fingers to his mouth, tongued them. He could tell she wanted to move, but she obeyed in stillness. Then, his body pressed into her back, his hand guiding her fingers, they treated each candlewick. "Burn as she burns," he murmured for each candle, each slide of their hands.
They repeated the process for the candles on each bedside table. "And now what-" she began, breathless.
"Quiet, Anyanka," he growled in his Ripper voice. Her eyes grew wide, her smile wider, but she indeed kept quiet. "Take the rest of your clothes off, please."
He took off his own pajamas with as much grace as a man craving his wife could manage; she of course slithered out of her trousers and underwear in the most inflaming way possible. It made his throwing her onto the bed a little rougher than he intended, but she didn't seem to mind. "Stay there. Hands around the bedframe."
Ignoring the picture (oh dear Lord, oh God) she made, open and inviting on their bed, he turned on the Doves CD he'd chosen earlier. A wash of guitars, sensual and hypnotic, came through the speakers. Then he snapped off the lamp; the room went dark.
"Rupie?" He should punish her for speaking, he thought, but at least her voice got him over to the bed without his tumbling on his arse. He crawled onto the bed with her, covered her. Warmth to warmth.
Through his magic, each candle lit. Just a spark, barely burning. He wrapped his hands around hers on the frame, leaned in, kissed her. Her body melted beneath him; her legs entwined, bringing him almost home. He wouldn't let her, though, not at first. With each twist of his body on hers, each lap of his tongue, the stronger the candle-fires got. Light flickered around them, and he could see her brown eyes shining. For him.
"Love you, darling. If you're enjoying yourself, you may speak now," he murmured as he slid in.
The flames soared, matching the music, in time with her body's clasp of him. It was her magic at work now. Dimly he heard her say something like "Callooh, Callay..." before he lost all control of his thoughts.
***
Spike thought that if he heard one more word, his brain would bleed out of his ears. He tried to distract himself with his report and his brandy- describing the ramifications of the Moebiuk's presence above; lingering on the taste of the warm golden fire - but it was no use.
That thick bastard of a grandsire, squawking away on the speaker phone, just would not shut up.
"So I asked around, and my sources said that almost half of the demonic scams in Los Angeles have fallen apart overnight. Gunn and Fred did some preliminary checking too, and these were all accounts held by Lilah. Of course, we have to do more investigating, but-"
He couldn't stand it. "Yes, Angel, I got it. The vengeance wish has made your unlife easier. You can afford to take the missus and the speed-aged sprog on a short holiday, perhaps."
There was a second of blessed silence on the other end of the line. Spike started to close his laptop, thinking the conversation over, but the git spoke again. "That's not funny."
"Nothing is to you, Peaches. Now if there's no other information the Council of Watchers can give you-"
"Well, maybe one thing. Um, Wes- taking care of one of my worst enemies- he wasn't trying to send me a message, was he? To come back? Because I'm still not sure I could forgive him--"
"You'd have to ask him yourself." Spike felt a growl coming on, but he repressed it. "However, since he has home and people who love him here, I bloody well wouldn't brood about it. Goodbye, Angelus -- peace and an eternally crap haircut be with you." The happiness he felt when he slammed his hand on the disconnect button was almost perfect.
It was fleeting, however. He fell back on the sofa in his living room and dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, digging at the pain behind them. Still had a bit of a fever, but Emily had assured him it would pass. She'd run a few arcane tests on him, then said that he was fine. Residual energy from being resurrected and what all, a few jolts of the Fissure's power to get the re-reanimation of his body going: that's all the heat and headache was. "You just came back a little different," Emily had said.
Yeah, right. The second of fright as he went into the Fissure, then the slashing teeth; the seemingly endless light and solitude of afterward; the aftershocks of the return. Different, hell. And he hadn't even been to heaven. "You just came back a little different."
"You came back wrong." The echo of his words so long ago pounded in time with his headache. How could he have ever said that? In the list of his crimes against her, that wasn't the worst, but it rang in his ears. He should have cherished her, taken care of her, not-done what he'd done.
Buffy was up in their bedroom. If she was asleep, he wouldn't wake her, but he longed for her. Closing his eyes, he reached out, connected-
And felt her crying.
Heart in his throat, he sprinted up the stairs. Through the empty, half-lit bedroom. Into their bathroom, where she huddled in scented bath-water, sobbing as if her heart had broken. "Love, are you alright? What is it?" he said as he fell to his knees beside the tub.
She wouldn't answer, just cried into her folded arms. He dipped a hand down into the bath-it was cooling rapidly. Time for her to get out.
After grabbing a bath sheet, he pulled her up and out of the water. He dried her chilled skin gently, thoroughly, trying to get her warm. Yet she still shivered through tears, wordless. He bit his lip, then took her into the bedroom. "Hop under the covers, Buffy-love. You're cold."
She leaned against him, burrowing as if to get inside. "I'm not going anywhere without you."
***
"I'm not going anywhere without you," she repeated, and wrapped her hands around his bare torso. He was still warm to the touch, although cooler than he had been that afternoon. He was solid. He was here. He was hers.
He'd been lost.
All afternoon she had avoided thinking about it. She and Dawn had made a Patisserie Valerie run, and they'd planned Dawnie's Wes-strategy (although whoever listened to Buffy Summers's thoughts on romantic tactics was an idiot). She'd e-mailed Willow and Xander. She and Anya had gone food-shopping at M&S, and not killed each other. It was all normal, post-world-saveage stuff.
And she couldn't stop thinking about those moments without him. He'd been lost to her.
While he'd been safely downstairs, playing Watcher, she had thought she'd take a bath. She'd feel soft and warm again, with the bubbles and a relaxing CD as background music. But she'd forgotten what was in the mix she'd popped into the stereo. A female singer had begun to wail, "Don't leave this world without me," accompanied by violins and guitars. Buffy's heart had started to pound in time with the words.
And she'd lost it.
"Buffy, I'm here. Now get in bed, love, right? Let me take care of you," he said now, his hands soothing, arousing, over her back.
"Not without you, Spike. Please," she whispered.
Her hands went to his strong shoulders as he bent to pull off his sweats. Her fingertips bit into the muscles there: familiar, solid. But she understood now how temporary this could be. Even with his close calls every other Tuesday, Buffy had always believed that she would go first. She'd never faced what it would be like in a world without him. She couldn't face it.
He stood back up. "Now get in, love. I'm right behind you."
Holding onto his hand, she crawled into their enormous bed. He was inches away, yet too far. After he pulled the duvet over them both, they arranged themselves face to face, on their sides. One of his legs pulled her close; her arms wound around his waist. She finally felt a little warmer.
He blew into her ear, making her giggle through her last tears. Then she arched into him. His voice roughened, he murmured, "Talk to me, Buffy. Let me in."
"I can't live without you." She winced at the flatness of her statement. She so wasn't Word Girl. But she persevered. "That's all, Spike. Today reminded me."
"Oh, love. Love." He kissed her, a brush of the lips, a touch of the soul he'd worked for. "You're strong, you're the Queen. You don't need me to get by."
"You are such a jerk, Spike. Haven't you paid attention in the past five years? I need you always. Love you always."
He blinked away tears, then smiled at her. Ah, there was her William, she thought. Only she got to see that depth in blue eyes. She'd never told him how much she cherished it. She pulled his mouth to hers, tried to show him with breath and lips and tongue. He kissed back, giving more love with every touch.
When he tried to flip her onto her back, though, she used her Slayer-strength to resist. "No, not this time. Let's be quiet, Spike." He nuzzled against her, a lap of the tongue on her collarbone, and she briefly forgot speech. When she could form a thought, she said, "Did Emily say you were alright? This is okay?"
He hid his face against her. "Yeah, love. Still me. Came back, er, barely different."
She knew what he was thinking, the words echoing in his head. Her Spike never forgot the things they'd done to each other, the bad places they'd been. That was one of the reasons she loved him; he learned from their mistakes. And she would learn too.
Her finger caressed under his chin, lifting his head up. "Honey, would you say your vows to me again?"
"Yes." Then he grinned with just a trace of his wicked twinkle. "But need to be closer, if you don't mind." One of his long fingers drew down, down, teasing, dipping into wetness. Once reassured, he lifted one of her legs over his, then slid in. She moaned. So much warmer now. He whispered, "I, William, pledge myself to you, Buffy. I will cherish your spirit, your mind, your body-" and the evil man twisted just a bit, just right-"and I will love you forever."
"I, Buffy, pledge myself to you, William. I will cherish your soul, you mind, your body-" and she used Slayer-muscles in the caress he loved best. Hah, she thought fuzzily as he groaned; turnabout is fair play- "and I will love you forever."
He shifted deeper. As if it were wrung out of him, he gasped, "Will I be enough for you, love? Can I give you enough?"
She held tighter. She could feel his pleasure, her pleasure, soft and warm. "More than enough, honey." And she sighed as he began to move, further and higher.
Maybe she'd finally found the right words.
***
The words on her page were blurring. Rosemary dropped her head on her desk. God, she wished Imran would hurry; she was so tired.
Then she heard laughter coming from his office, ringing down the corridors.
"What is it, Imran?" she panted when she got there.
He patted his lap, and she crossed over to sit. "The prophecies. Look, here's the finish to the one I've been working on."
"Read it to me, dear."
Clearing his throat dramatically, he read, "London's evils, Above, Below, blow away./ The Six dance, the city sings. Winter's life."
"Well. Yes, I understand the 'blow away' phrase. But why are you laughing?"
He leaned forward, kissing her shoulder as he did, and flipped over the page. "Look at that, Rosemary. This is the cross-referenced prophecy."
As she squinted, she began to chortle. He chuckled against her shoulder. "Oh, Imran. Are you going to tell them?"
He slid a hand under her skirt, and she slapped at it. Not very hard, of course. "No, no. Let them find out for themselves." And they fell together in a laugh and a kiss.