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Epilogue,
by Bogwitch
Twelfth Night, Epiphany, 2005
Bam! Spike’s fist hit the wall again with a shuddering thud and it shook the flimsy motel room like a low magnitude earthquake. Illyria ignored it as she always did; he’d been doing that to vent his frustrations, on and off, for the last twelve days, and she had become quite bored with it.
It was Twelfth Night, and Christmas was officially over. Celebrating the season had proved difficult and impractical while on the run, and Spike hadn’t understood why they were bothering at all, but Illyria had been insistent, keen to experience the holiday first hand. Filtered through the twisted lens of her demonic translation, the holiday had become a twisted parody of itself. For a start, Illyria had insisted on a living tree, and once a suitable one had been found, it had been a triumph of makeshift splendor; as long as anyone didn’t look too closely at the threadbare tinsel - liberated from the main motel tree - the homemade ornaments made from sweetie wrappers and various demon parts still dripping with goo, it could look quite pretty in the candlelight. But they had left that tree miles behind them.
A few days after Christmas itself, they’d had to move on. A chance encounter in Walmart with Jackson from Accounting had seen them take to the road again in case their hideout was found. After that, they had dared not go out, except for travel and essentials, and they had spent the time watching hours of Christmas themed films or TV. Without the opportunity to go out and hit something evil, Spike had grown increasingly frustrated and there was no way to let off the head of steam that that had built inside him.
To that end, Spike had been stripping the room of its meagre decorations, pulling them down with a violence usually reserved for pummelling the local vampires to dust. Paper chains and snowflakes made from torn up magazines, unsent Christmas cards and the remains of a small plastic tree with a beheaded angel on top, all joined the heap made by a cheap Nativity set Spike had never been comfortable with, in the trash. But the task didn’t take long.
The job done, Spike sprawled out on the room’s only bed, and was staring at the TV without interest like he had for the past few days, as though his thoughts were really elsewhere. With him quiet and distant, Illyria decided this might be a good time to execute her plans.
Since their journey, Illyria had noticed that all was not well with her Pet. Spike was edgy and preoccupied, at times sullen, mopey, and uncharacteristically quiet, at others agitated and restless, snapping at her simple questions. Any attempt at inquiry was cut off curtly. She was displeased with this disrespect and she wondered if there was a way that she could regain his attention.
Over the next few days, with her decision made, Illyria watched Spike closely, pondering what gift she could give that would best suit her aims. She had learnt many things about this strange festival when Spike had shown her the Twelve Days, even if she had ignored much of what he’d said. He spoke in a strange manner, of things that meant nothing to her and she had learnt all that she needed through her own observations, or so she’d thought.
Much of it was confusing and contradictory. Christmas appeared to be a time of extravagance and indulgence, yet also of charity and kindness. The humans made great efforts to spend the holiday with families they hated or with friends they saw all year. People were meant to be happy, yet many were miserable. She didn’t want her Pet to be unhappy; this human world was human and loud, chaotic with individuals, she still relied on him to escort her. She would need to give something that would mean something to him.
She no longer had treasure beyond imagining, so jewellery was out, nor would she yet deign to visit a shop on her own. Attempts to contact his friends had proved pointless and irritating. One conversation had been particularly perplexing:
"You are the one called Buffy." Illyria had said.
"Yes, and you are…?”
"I am Illyria. My Pet needs you."
The voice on the other end of the line was confused. "Your Pet? You'll have to take your dog to the vet yourself. I can't help."
Illyria tried again. "My half breed misses you."
"I don't care if he's a half breed or a mongrel. I've never met your mutt." The voice was irritated now.
So was Illyria. "My half breed is not a dog. Spike needs to copulate."
"Er… I think you have the wrong number."
Click Brrr…
The phone line dead, Illyria realised that she needed to try something else.
The Tara witch had made a point of giving, even though she had little but her own time to offer. She’d touched Spike with her thoughtful kindness. Maybe something such as this would help to alleviate the feelings Illyria knew he was suffering. Like Tara, what Illyria could do was give a little something of herself.
Illyria did not experience love and wouldn’t have recognised it if she had. It was an emotion that she saw little point in. She had felt something akin for Wesley before his death, and it revolted her to think that she was that vulnerable, even if it was all but a shadow that had remained with the shell. Her Wesley was gone and would never return, and to her disgust, his death grieved her. She would not feel such emotion for her Pet, although she and Spike were similar that way, both separated from those with whom they had the deepest connection.
Of course, copulation was beneath her. She was Illyria, God King of the Primordium, she was not going to sully herself by fornicating like the beasts. Still, since their trip, she had understood that there was more to the abominable half-life that the mortals lived. Was she not fallen already, long separated from the glory of her reign? Did she not want to experience this domain, so that one day she could learn to control it?
The time was ripe and she approached the end of the bed, looming large in his line of sight and blocking his view of the television screen.
Illyria looked at Spike.
Spike looked at Illyria.
She looked some more.
“What?” He snapped, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Get out of the way, I’m watching this!”
His tone was insolent, and not a mode of address befitting to her company, as he was but a Pet. He was nothing to her glory. But she was sure he was pleasing in shape, and her eyes wandered over his bare chest and the ripple of muscle engraved there, in the same cold manner that she might have appraised a racehorse, if she would have done such a thing.
Suspicious, of her strange expression – or an expression strange to her – he sat up quickly. “What are you starin’ at?”
She tilted her head curiously. “Do you wish to copulate?”
Stunned for a moment, he spluttered. “Bloody hell, Blue! Was that an offer?”
“You are lonely. You long for the human you cannot have. You have sought comfort in fornication with the half-breed called Harmony. The shell I inhabit can be used for this purpose, even though the thought sickens inside me and I swallow my gorge as I think of it.”
Spike raised an eyebrow. “You really have a way with the sweet talk.”
Illyria stepped closer and her clothing began to melt into transparency, showing a lot of milky white skin dusted with cobalt.
“Whoa there, missy!” Spike panicked. “Stop!”
Her covering opaque once again, but in no way embarrassed, Illyria tilted her head. “You do not wish this.”
“No…”
Illyria morphed into her shell’s true form; Fred’s face, Fred’s eyes, looked at him chillingly from the dead. Fred’s voice said. “Maybe this is better.”
“No. No!” Spike jumped angrily off the bed and put it between them. “Don’t do that! That body happens to belong to a friend of mine and you don’t belong in there.”
Fred became Illyria once more. “The Winifred Burkle you knew is gone. What is left is but a shell and holds none of her essence, yet you are repulsed as Wesley was.”
“And quite right too,” Spike started to pace uncomfortably. “Look, I know she isn’t coming back, but I still see her, you know.”
Illyria’s eyes tracked him, unblinking, but she listened.
He sighed and looked at his feet. “Besides, there’s only one woman that I want.”
Illyria thought this over. She had surmised that at the root of his mood could be the Slayer called Buffy. He’d ranted endlessly about Angel, but Buffy was a door he’d firmly shut on her. Their journey had been difficult for him at times, but seeing Buffy especially, had only seemed to underline just how much he missed her.
Illyria didn’t understand what it was that drew Spike and the Slayer together, and she pondered the pointlessness of feeling so much for someone they couldn’t be with. The humans were all weakened like that. They had emotions, feelings that drove their decisions and their desires. Even the half-breeds, their demons defiled with the taint of humanity, were driven by their emotional needs. Spike had told Illyria once that she didn’t have the capacity to understand, but she did, in her own fashion. She wasn’t offering to replace the Slayer, love was an emotion she did not wish to feel for her Pet, but there was comfort to be offered if he needed it.
“Your view at the birth of the New Year was different.” Illyria stepped round the bed, intent.
“Look, I was pissed and it was dark…” Spike backed away from Illyria’s advance. “’Sides it was only a peck to see the New Year in.”
Illyria stepped closer again. He went to evade her, but he was not quick enough to avoid her grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back into the wall. Before he could protest, her mouth was on his. It was an awkward, sucking kiss, devoid of passion or feeling, and her rubbery tongue felt more like a squid objecting to being pulled out of water, than an organ of sensuous connection. Her only attempt at technique was based on a hazy memory from a dead woman and she couldn’t comprehend its purpose, but overall she thought she’d done rather well.
“Bleugh!” He spluttered when she’d finished.
Revolted, he squirmed out of Illyria’s grasp, only to find Buffy and Willow standing speechless in the middle of the room.
“Er…” Spike started, embarrassed. He gestured to the God King who was now surveying the newcomers with interest. “Have you met Illyria?”
Willow looked at Buffy, worried.
“She is blue.” Buffy said, as her lower lip started an uncontrolled wobble.
“Buffy! It’s not like that! She doesn’t really know what she’s doing…” Spike shoved Illyria out of the way and gave Buffy the most honest look he could muster.
Luckily the expression had improved since regaining his soul and Buffy looked up at him with wide eyes wanting to trust, but they betrayed the hurt inside.
Illyria looked at Willow, inspecting her closely. “This one brims with power I have not seen yet in this world, but she is human.”
Willow, uncomfortable under Illyria’s stare, gave the God King a small wave. “Hi.”
Illyria glared back.
As always in times of need, Willow was as eager as to talk of her magic. “Buffy asked me if I could bring her here. She had the weirdest phone call…”
Illyria straightened and looked at Spike. “I called the one named Buffy. You were lonely. I wished my Pet to be happy again. Your demonstrations were distracting and annoying. I thought she would not come.”
“I used the mistletoe you gave Buffy to fix your position, and I zapped us here.” Willow finished with an ‘aren’t I clever?’ grin.
Spike nodded, thanking her. “Very nice, Samantha. Owe you one.”
“What’s going on?” Buffy asked, confused. “One minute you’re dead and see-through and all ‘I’ll get back to you’, the next you’re shacking up with some demon skank!”
“Skank?” asked Illyria, tasting the new word.
Spike gently took Buffy’s arm, which she quickly snatched back, and guided her to the door. “Let me explain somewhere quiet.”
When Spike and Buffy returned, Spike was nursing a black eye; despite this, the pair looked happy and at ease with other.
“Willow?” Buffy asked. “Angel, Spike and Whatshername here have been having some trouble with Wolfram and Hart.”
Illyria has been telling me,” Willow looked at Illyria doubtfully. “Sort of. So what are we going to do?”
Spike objected. “You don’t have to help us, love. Used to fighting our own battles…”
“You need help. I am help!” Buffy told him. “Andrew and I took down their Rome office in the summer, I don’t think the rest will be a problem.”
“Ilona left a bug in your room.” Spike told her, concerned. “We saw her.”
“Oh that, Dawn found that ages ago when she broke my favourite vase. We put it in Andrew’s room.”
Spike blinked in surprise. “What about Ilona?”
“Oh her,” Buffy smiled. “She’s history. We sent her packing.”
“A waste of a good pair of breasts…” Willow mused before she caught herself.
Illyria watched the conversation from the sidelines. She didn’t understand the strange speech of the girls, but she understood they were making plans to take down Wolfram and Hart for good. The Slayer fascinated Illyria. On the surface she was a young, frivolous, if rather shallow, girl, but underneath Illyria recognised the steely warrior. She respected that strength, it was sorely lacking in most mortals.
When she spoke, it was in a tone that would tolerate no argument. “We will employ the warrior as she offers.”
All eyes turned to Illyria in surprise. Spike went to protest. “But…”
“Despite her feeble appearance,” she stared at Buffy. “I detect strength in her. She will be of use to us.” She looked over at Spike to add “And it will give my Pet pleasure to have her near. I tire of his moods.”
“Pet?” Buffy mouthed at Spike.
Spike gave an embarrassed shrug. “No idea.”
“You will explain to me why you have this power over him,” Illyria frowned at Buffy, as if resenting her already. “I wish to know the meaning of this ‘love’.”
Buffy gaped. “What?”
“No!” Spike held up a hand. “No more explaining! Not goin’ through all that again!”
“So, that’s it then? A deal? Me, you, Willow and Whatshername against Wolfram and Hart?” Buffy moved over to Spike’s side, keen to distance herself from the bizarre woman. She smiled up at him, getting as close as she could. “They don’t stand a chance. They’ll be gone by the end of the week!” She rested her hands on his chest, and traced small circles against his skin with a finger “and then…”
Her touch diverting him from any other thoughts, he wrapped his arms around her waist and looked down at her with a seductive half smile, one eyebrow cocked. “And then?”
“And then...” she said softly near his mouth as he closed the distance between them. “We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up.”
Willow sighed and smiled as the couple finally kissed, happy to see them together at last. Illyria bedside her, studied them more carefully, closely analysing their technique. So, that is how it’s done, she thought. As the kiss deepened and lengthened, her head tilted with curiosity.
She could almost see the attraction.
Twelfth Night, Epiphany, 2005
Bam! Spike’s fist hit the wall again with a shuddering thud and it shook the flimsy motel room like a low magnitude earthquake. Illyria ignored it as she always did; he’d been doing that to vent his frustrations, on and off, for the last twelve days, and she had become quite bored with it.
It was Twelfth Night, and Christmas was officially over. Celebrating the season had proved difficult and impractical while on the run, and Spike hadn’t understood why they were bothering at all, but Illyria had been insistent, keen to experience the holiday first hand. Filtered through the twisted lens of her demonic translation, the holiday had become a twisted parody of itself. For a start, Illyria had insisted on a living tree, and once a suitable one had been found, it had been a triumph of makeshift splendor; as long as anyone didn’t look too closely at the threadbare tinsel - liberated from the main motel tree - the homemade ornaments made from sweetie wrappers and various demon parts still dripping with goo, it could look quite pretty in the candlelight. But they had left that tree miles behind them.
A few days after Christmas itself, they’d had to move on. A chance encounter in Walmart with Jackson from Accounting had seen them take to the road again in case their hideout was found. After that, they had dared not go out, except for travel and essentials, and they had spent the time watching hours of Christmas themed films or TV. Without the opportunity to go out and hit something evil, Spike had grown increasingly frustrated and there was no way to let off the head of steam that that had built inside him.
To that end, Spike had been stripping the room of its meagre decorations, pulling them down with a violence usually reserved for pummelling the local vampires to dust. Paper chains and snowflakes made from torn up magazines, unsent Christmas cards and the remains of a small plastic tree with a beheaded angel on top, all joined the heap made by a cheap Nativity set Spike had never been comfortable with, in the trash. But the task didn’t take long.
The job done, Spike sprawled out on the room’s only bed, and was staring at the TV without interest like he had for the past few days, as though his thoughts were really elsewhere. With him quiet and distant, Illyria decided this might be a good time to execute her plans.
Since their journey, Illyria had noticed that all was not well with her Pet. Spike was edgy and preoccupied, at times sullen, mopey, and uncharacteristically quiet, at others agitated and restless, snapping at her simple questions. Any attempt at inquiry was cut off curtly. She was displeased with this disrespect and she wondered if there was a way that she could regain his attention.
Over the next few days, with her decision made, Illyria watched Spike closely, pondering what gift she could give that would best suit her aims. She had learnt many things about this strange festival when Spike had shown her the Twelve Days, even if she had ignored much of what he’d said. He spoke in a strange manner, of things that meant nothing to her and she had learnt all that she needed through her own observations, or so she’d thought.
Much of it was confusing and contradictory. Christmas appeared to be a time of extravagance and indulgence, yet also of charity and kindness. The humans made great efforts to spend the holiday with families they hated or with friends they saw all year. People were meant to be happy, yet many were miserable. She didn’t want her Pet to be unhappy; this human world was human and loud, chaotic with individuals, she still relied on him to escort her. She would need to give something that would mean something to him.
She no longer had treasure beyond imagining, so jewellery was out, nor would she yet deign to visit a shop on her own. Attempts to contact his friends had proved pointless and irritating. One conversation had been particularly perplexing:
"You are the one called Buffy." Illyria had said.
"Yes, and you are…?”
"I am Illyria. My Pet needs you."
The voice on the other end of the line was confused. "Your Pet? You'll have to take your dog to the vet yourself. I can't help."
Illyria tried again. "My half breed misses you."
"I don't care if he's a half breed or a mongrel. I've never met your mutt." The voice was irritated now.
So was Illyria. "My half breed is not a dog. Spike needs to copulate."
"Er… I think you have the wrong number."
Click Brrr…
The phone line dead, Illyria realised that she needed to try something else.
The Tara witch had made a point of giving, even though she had little but her own time to offer. She’d touched Spike with her thoughtful kindness. Maybe something such as this would help to alleviate the feelings Illyria knew he was suffering. Like Tara, what Illyria could do was give a little something of herself.
Illyria did not experience love and wouldn’t have recognised it if she had. It was an emotion that she saw little point in. She had felt something akin for Wesley before his death, and it revolted her to think that she was that vulnerable, even if it was all but a shadow that had remained with the shell. Her Wesley was gone and would never return, and to her disgust, his death grieved her. She would not feel such emotion for her Pet, although she and Spike were similar that way, both separated from those with whom they had the deepest connection.
Of course, copulation was beneath her. She was Illyria, God King of the Primordium, she was not going to sully herself by fornicating like the beasts. Still, since their trip, she had understood that there was more to the abominable half-life that the mortals lived. Was she not fallen already, long separated from the glory of her reign? Did she not want to experience this domain, so that one day she could learn to control it?
The time was ripe and she approached the end of the bed, looming large in his line of sight and blocking his view of the television screen.
Illyria looked at Spike.
Spike looked at Illyria.
She looked some more.
“What?” He snapped, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Get out of the way, I’m watching this!”
His tone was insolent, and not a mode of address befitting to her company, as he was but a Pet. He was nothing to her glory. But she was sure he was pleasing in shape, and her eyes wandered over his bare chest and the ripple of muscle engraved there, in the same cold manner that she might have appraised a racehorse, if she would have done such a thing.
Suspicious, of her strange expression – or an expression strange to her – he sat up quickly. “What are you starin’ at?”
She tilted her head curiously. “Do you wish to copulate?”
Stunned for a moment, he spluttered. “Bloody hell, Blue! Was that an offer?”
“You are lonely. You long for the human you cannot have. You have sought comfort in fornication with the half-breed called Harmony. The shell I inhabit can be used for this purpose, even though the thought sickens inside me and I swallow my gorge as I think of it.”
Spike raised an eyebrow. “You really have a way with the sweet talk.”
Illyria stepped closer and her clothing began to melt into transparency, showing a lot of milky white skin dusted with cobalt.
“Whoa there, missy!” Spike panicked. “Stop!”
Her covering opaque once again, but in no way embarrassed, Illyria tilted her head. “You do not wish this.”
“No…”
Illyria morphed into her shell’s true form; Fred’s face, Fred’s eyes, looked at him chillingly from the dead. Fred’s voice said. “Maybe this is better.”
“No. No!” Spike jumped angrily off the bed and put it between them. “Don’t do that! That body happens to belong to a friend of mine and you don’t belong in there.”
Fred became Illyria once more. “The Winifred Burkle you knew is gone. What is left is but a shell and holds none of her essence, yet you are repulsed as Wesley was.”
“And quite right too,” Spike started to pace uncomfortably. “Look, I know she isn’t coming back, but I still see her, you know.”
Illyria’s eyes tracked him, unblinking, but she listened.
He sighed and looked at his feet. “Besides, there’s only one woman that I want.”
Illyria thought this over. She had surmised that at the root of his mood could be the Slayer called Buffy. He’d ranted endlessly about Angel, but Buffy was a door he’d firmly shut on her. Their journey had been difficult for him at times, but seeing Buffy especially, had only seemed to underline just how much he missed her.
Illyria didn’t understand what it was that drew Spike and the Slayer together, and she pondered the pointlessness of feeling so much for someone they couldn’t be with. The humans were all weakened like that. They had emotions, feelings that drove their decisions and their desires. Even the half-breeds, their demons defiled with the taint of humanity, were driven by their emotional needs. Spike had told Illyria once that she didn’t have the capacity to understand, but she did, in her own fashion. She wasn’t offering to replace the Slayer, love was an emotion she did not wish to feel for her Pet, but there was comfort to be offered if he needed it.
“Your view at the birth of the New Year was different.” Illyria stepped round the bed, intent.
“Look, I was pissed and it was dark…” Spike backed away from Illyria’s advance. “’Sides it was only a peck to see the New Year in.”
Illyria stepped closer again. He went to evade her, but he was not quick enough to avoid her grabbing him by the throat and slamming him back into the wall. Before he could protest, her mouth was on his. It was an awkward, sucking kiss, devoid of passion or feeling, and her rubbery tongue felt more like a squid objecting to being pulled out of water, than an organ of sensuous connection. Her only attempt at technique was based on a hazy memory from a dead woman and she couldn’t comprehend its purpose, but overall she thought she’d done rather well.
“Bleugh!” He spluttered when she’d finished.
Revolted, he squirmed out of Illyria’s grasp, only to find Buffy and Willow standing speechless in the middle of the room.
“Er…” Spike started, embarrassed. He gestured to the God King who was now surveying the newcomers with interest. “Have you met Illyria?”
Willow looked at Buffy, worried.
“She is blue.” Buffy said, as her lower lip started an uncontrolled wobble.
“Buffy! It’s not like that! She doesn’t really know what she’s doing…” Spike shoved Illyria out of the way and gave Buffy the most honest look he could muster.
Luckily the expression had improved since regaining his soul and Buffy looked up at him with wide eyes wanting to trust, but they betrayed the hurt inside.
Illyria looked at Willow, inspecting her closely. “This one brims with power I have not seen yet in this world, but she is human.”
Willow, uncomfortable under Illyria’s stare, gave the God King a small wave. “Hi.”
Illyria glared back.
As always in times of need, Willow was as eager as to talk of her magic. “Buffy asked me if I could bring her here. She had the weirdest phone call…”
Illyria straightened and looked at Spike. “I called the one named Buffy. You were lonely. I wished my Pet to be happy again. Your demonstrations were distracting and annoying. I thought she would not come.”
“I used the mistletoe you gave Buffy to fix your position, and I zapped us here.” Willow finished with an ‘aren’t I clever?’ grin.
Spike nodded, thanking her. “Very nice, Samantha. Owe you one.”
“What’s going on?” Buffy asked, confused. “One minute you’re dead and see-through and all ‘I’ll get back to you’, the next you’re shacking up with some demon skank!”
“Skank?” asked Illyria, tasting the new word.
Spike gently took Buffy’s arm, which she quickly snatched back, and guided her to the door. “Let me explain somewhere quiet.”
When Spike and Buffy returned, Spike was nursing a black eye; despite this, the pair looked happy and at ease with other.
“Willow?” Buffy asked. “Angel, Spike and Whatshername here have been having some trouble with Wolfram and Hart.”
Illyria has been telling me,” Willow looked at Illyria doubtfully. “Sort of. So what are we going to do?”
Spike objected. “You don’t have to help us, love. Used to fighting our own battles…”
“You need help. I am help!” Buffy told him. “Andrew and I took down their Rome office in the summer, I don’t think the rest will be a problem.”
“Ilona left a bug in your room.” Spike told her, concerned. “We saw her.”
“Oh that, Dawn found that ages ago when she broke my favourite vase. We put it in Andrew’s room.”
Spike blinked in surprise. “What about Ilona?”
“Oh her,” Buffy smiled. “She’s history. We sent her packing.”
“A waste of a good pair of breasts…” Willow mused before she caught herself.
Illyria watched the conversation from the sidelines. She didn’t understand the strange speech of the girls, but she understood they were making plans to take down Wolfram and Hart for good. The Slayer fascinated Illyria. On the surface she was a young, frivolous, if rather shallow, girl, but underneath Illyria recognised the steely warrior. She respected that strength, it was sorely lacking in most mortals.
When she spoke, it was in a tone that would tolerate no argument. “We will employ the warrior as she offers.”
All eyes turned to Illyria in surprise. Spike went to protest. “But…”
“Despite her feeble appearance,” she stared at Buffy. “I detect strength in her. She will be of use to us.” She looked over at Spike to add “And it will give my Pet pleasure to have her near. I tire of his moods.”
“Pet?” Buffy mouthed at Spike.
Spike gave an embarrassed shrug. “No idea.”
“You will explain to me why you have this power over him,” Illyria frowned at Buffy, as if resenting her already. “I wish to know the meaning of this ‘love’.”
Buffy gaped. “What?”
“No!” Spike held up a hand. “No more explaining! Not goin’ through all that again!”
“So, that’s it then? A deal? Me, you, Willow and Whatshername against Wolfram and Hart?” Buffy moved over to Spike’s side, keen to distance herself from the bizarre woman. She smiled up at him, getting as close as she could. “They don’t stand a chance. They’ll be gone by the end of the week!” She rested her hands on his chest, and traced small circles against his skin with a finger “and then…”
Her touch diverting him from any other thoughts, he wrapped his arms around her waist and looked down at her with a seductive half smile, one eyebrow cocked. “And then?”
“And then...” she said softly near his mouth as he closed the distance between them. “We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up.”
Willow sighed and smiled as the couple finally kissed, happy to see them together at last. Illyria bedside her, studied them more carefully, closely analysing their technique. So, that is how it’s done, she thought. As the kiss deepened and lengthened, her head tilted with curiosity.
She could almost see the attraction.