| |
A Thousand Caraway Seeds
by laura shapiro
RATING: PG (can you believe it?)
SUMMARY: Before sophomore year, before Buffy, before slaying and
witchcraft and creatures of the night, there were Willow and Xander.
SPOILERS: None at all.
ARCHIVE: Sure, but keep my name attached
FEEDBACK: laura@humandesign.com
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon and so on own them. I'd be nicer to them. No
money is being made here, so please let me play.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Hal for encouragement and divine beta.
DEDICATION: For anyone who has ever known the simple and acute pain of
loving the clueless.
**************************
A Thousand Caraway Seeds
by Laura Shapiro
**************************
"But they stay out past midnight, the magic is gone
And they end up at three a.m. sitting on the curb
Spitting seeds into the disenchanted dawn."
-- The BOBs, Bongwater Day
Christmas break. *Winter* break, Willow corrected herself, which was hard
to remember at the newly-festive Bronze, staring at a big banner that shouted
"Merry Christmas!" from the stage. The band was playing an oddly edgy
version of "The Little Drummer Boy. Willow tried hard not to hate it.
"Pa rum pa pum pum?" Xander inquired, gesturing toward the dance floor.
Willow was extremely underconfident about her dancing abilities, but this
was *Xander*. And he was smiling her fourth-favorite Xandersmile. The
you-always-get-my-jokes smile. Besides, it was a slow song.
As soon as he put his arms around her, she regretted it. There was that heart
of hers, hammering away, and she was sure he could hear it. She put her own
arms over his shoulders as loosely as she could, allocating a friendly-but-not-
dangerous foot of space between them. She allowed herself a faint smile at the
sweet Xanderscent that reached her, the warm press of his hands
at her waist, and prayed that she wouldn't pass out.
She still wasn't used to the nightclubbing thing. Dad hadn't let her go to the
Bronze until she started high school, and everyone else had at least a year's
advantage of her -- they knew all the mating rituals already. They knew how to
dance, and how not to die while doing it. Who had taught them? She demanded to know!
Saying something would be good at this point, she guessed. But she couldn't
think. Her palms were itching against Xander's back, itching to push him
closer to her; her eyes were roving all over the room trying not to look into
his. "Thanks. For dancing. With me, I mean, it's....nice."
"Hey, you're the one doing *me* a favor. I don't know what it is about this
song that gets my mojo rising, but I just gotta dance."
"Xander, this song is about as mojo-free as you can get."
"Maybe it's just me, then. Mojo man. Have I mentioned that I'm too sexy for
my shirt?" Ah. Witty banter. Fun. This would be perfectly comfortable if Xander
*weren't* too sexy for his shirt, the adorable jerk.
"It's a very...special...shirt," she smiled in mock appreciation, "Santa's
surfboard contrasts nicely with the palm trees."
"You wound me," Xander sniffed, as the song ended. "You okay, Will? You
seem a little --"
"It's just Christmas. You know." And he did know. Or should, now that she'd
reminded him. She watched the light dawn, then realized he was looking
apologetic. "Hey, I'm glad we came. Really. The Bronze is still kind of a thrill,
even with the seasonal decorations." She gestured around the room, noting
the rather generic lighted tree, the holly wreaths. The mistletoe over the
doorway. Yikes.
"Do you want to blow this popsicle stand? I could use a snack."
"Okay, but no donuts this time." They headed out. Keep talking, maybe he
won't notice it. "I'm sick of them. Besides, I -- I have an entirely different
circular food product in mind." She pushed the door open, trying not to
glance at the menacing sprig of poisonous greenery overhead. The cool night
air raised the hair on her arms.
"Hey, Will, aren't you forgetting something?"
Her heart was going to stop. She just knew it. "Wh -- what?" Okay, if she was
going to die, maybe this would be the ideal situation for it. She could just
offer up her cheek, and then expire in his arms --
"Your jacket. I think you left it on the table. I got it..." and he was gone, and
back before she could catch her breath. She snatched the jacket and shoved
herself into it, not looking at him. "Thanks." She was not disappointed. She
was...relieved. Yes, relieved. That was it.
*****************************
"I can't believe all they had left was rye."
"Well, it's late, Xander. And rye is good."
"They *did* have those chocolate chip ones..."
"Chocolate chip bagels are an abomination against God and man!" Willow
huffed.
"Which is why I'm going to be picking caraway seeds out of my teeth for the
next ten years." Xander rubbed his thumb along the bottom of his bagel,
scraping the seeds into the gutter. Willow watched in fascination. "So, what
do you want for Hannukah?"
"Xander, why do you ask me that every year?"
"I just think it's cool how you get presents for eight days. We poor Christian
slobs shoot our wad in one day, get bored with it an hour later, and spend the
afternoon stuffing our faces and watching TV. But you have this
whole...thing..."
Willow licked cream cheese off the side of her hand, thinking. "This whole
thing. We light some candles, gamble for raisins, and open one present every
night for eight days. It's not really a thing. It's more of a...an other thing."
Xander was chewing happily, oblivious. A keen blade of anger scraped across
her nerves.
"You don't get it, do you? I mean, you get the puppy, the bicycle, the sled --"
"Sled?"
"Okay, maybe not in Sunnydale, but you get Santa and decorating trees and
songs and a turkey dinner, and we get a handful of foil-wrapped inferior-
quality chocolate coins, heirloom jewelry we're not allowed to wear until our
wedding, and a big check that we can't even spend because it's for college. The
only way to get worse presents is to have a bat mitzvah!"
"What, you didn't like the monogrammed pen?" Xander asked around a
mouthful. Then he looked at her.
Willow met his eyes and gulped. Xander was regarding her with surprise,
care, alarm. Love. But not the right kind. Then his face got all wiggly and she
looked down at the curb. Steady. Eat your bagel. Her nose was going to run.
"Why do I suddenly think this isn't about Hannukah presents?" The concern
on his face was deadly, and he was about to put his hand on her shoulder.
Panicpanicpanic -- and the hand was there, warm and familiar as always, and
she cursed herself (not for the first time) for wanting more.
"I'm --" she sniffed, "I'm okay, Xander. Really. I'm just...this time of year
always makes me think about things that I'll never have."
Xander handed her a slightly cream-cheesy paper napkin. "I know what you
mean. I never did get the puppy." She blew her nose. "Or the sled." He
ducked his head, looking up at her and smiling a little -- this time it was the
"you okay or do I need to be funnier?" smile, and how could she resist? She
could feel the answering grin pushing up her cheeks in spite of herself.
"You have a ---" she gestured "-- on your lip."
He wiped the seed away. She envied the finger that stroked the lip, the lip
that was stroked by the finger. "Did I get it?"
She nodded, looked down at the gutter full of caraway seeds. "You got it."
END
"God, youth is a terrible time! So much feeling and so little notion of how to handle it!"
-- Robertson Davies
|
|
|