Willow loved the Sunnydale High library. She loved the books, obviously, and the wood paneling and the staircases and the railing and the people (duh) and the center table. She liked sitting in the wooden chairs, with an old book that smelled like dust and something else, taking notes and chattering; she loved just sitting and talking, usually with Giles and a big mug of tea late at night or early in the morning, during research hours. He factored heavily with her love of the library.
Sometimes, he would sit on the end of the table, very near her, and talk to her, softly, kindly; ask her how she was doing, if she was alright. Showed her he cared. She liked these times; times when she was Willow and he was Giles and he thought of her as more than a geeky student. She hoped, anyway.
She'd never admit it, but both the table and the man featured in some of her naughtier dreams. The first time, she'd woken up shaking and completely wigged out; she didn't like the implications of such a dream and the wetness made her feel all dirty. She couldn't tell Buffy, even close as they were; if it wigged her out, if would totally make Buffy gag on her lunch. Or maybe she'd think it was some type of bad dreams demon. At least, that's what Willow was hoping for. Otherwise, there was some serious ick going on in her subconscious.
She'd gone to school the next day with a blush on her face to match her hair; Buffy, naturally, had assumed something was up with Xander, the only one who could affect her that much. Willow just shook her head, muttered she was tired, and declined eye contact with everyone. Everyone but Xander, that was, who, as usual, didn't notice anything weird about her behavior. (He was too preoccupied with Buffy's new skirt, the one that showed off way too much thigh to be legal.)
Giles, probably tipped off by Buffy, (or maybe just that observant…), found her in the stacks after school and tried to wheedle the problem out of her.
“Willow ,” he began, leaning casually against the bookshelf—the image of which set her off remembering her dream very vividly. In reply, she just stammered something and went back to her book, long hair hiding her face.
“Willow .” He tried again, this time crouching down so she couldn't help but see him.
Secret smile, nice eyes, open legs—oh no! She could've cried, she was so embarrassed.
“What is the trouble?”
“N-nothing,” she said, unconvincingly. He stood up—she was glad—and she could feel him watching her.
“Well, I'll be in my office.” He paused. “If you should need anything…”
Her mind flashed on her dream—the older man leaning over her, the table creaking under their weight, a funny feeling down there…She shook her head, trying to clear the images away.
“Thanks,” she said tightly, leaning too heavily against the bookshelf, her legs wobbly under her long skirt. She sighed as he walked away; closed the book she had been pretend-reading.
“Why couldn't it have been Xander?” she muttered to herself. It would've been so much simpler.
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