When the phone rang Buffy moaned in protest and rolled her pillow around her head. She moaned again when the answering groan from the other side of the bed was followed by creaking bedsprings and a burst of cold air under the duvet. "Noo. . ." She threw out an arm and grabbed a handful of flannel. "'M cold, come back. . ."
The phone jangled again.
"Soon as I shut that up." Rupert loosened her fingers from the sleeve of his pajamas and tucked her arm back under the covers. "Won't be a minute."
"'m counting." Buffy rolled into the warm spot he'd vacated. "One m'sippi. . . two m'sippi. . ." She quickly lost count, but when she heard footsteps approaching, she repeated "Mississippi!" in the most accusing tone she could muster.
"Oxford, actually." Rupert kissed her forehead. "Coven. . . motorway. . . summer. . . Isis. . . home for dinner. . ."
"Drive safely." Buffy forced her eyes open to glare at him. "Wha' about summer?"
"Somerville, love. The college. Go back to sleep." He kissed her again, on the lips this time, and went to the wardrobe.
"No' gonna sleep. S' cold." Buffy shifted her head onto his pillow and promptly fell asleep again.
An hour and a half later the alarm jolted her awake. She had to try twice to shut it off, because she kept whacking the mattress. Then she reached for Rupert and cracked her wrist on his nightstand. She sat up cursing and cradling her hand. Slowly, the ringing phone and Rupert's mumblings about Oxford came back to her, and she cursed again. "This," Buffy told the ceiling, "is not cool."
She'd really, really wanted to get this right. Rupert hadn't had a good birthday since she'd known him. Actually, he hadn't really had a birthday at all. In Sunnydale they hadn't known when it was, and it was probably just as well, since Buffy had to admit she would probably have gotten him a mug that said "old fogey" if she'd bothered to get him anything at all. Afterwards, she'd done the run-away-to-Rome thing. Then the first couple years she'd been in London, she'd been too busy with all the day-to-day stresses of deciding what to do with her life and how to handle the way "staying at Giles's" morphed into "living with Giles" and how "living with Giles" seemed to lead directly to "wanting to rip Giles' clothes off and do him on the living-room floor." And Rupert - poor guy - was busy with taking care of several hundred slayers, keeping tabs on ex-Sunnydale-ites, fighting evil, and, in his off hours, trying to not want to drag Buffy into the pantry and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. So, they'd been sort of tied up.
But this year. . . this year they were settled. The not-Council was working out pretty well, and they had a cute new flat with one bedroom and a really comfy bed, and Buffy had a job, and they had no angst except the usual world-might-end-and-why-can't-you-pick-up-your-socks? angst that's part of every Slayer/Watcher couple. Or it would be, if there were more of those. And it was time for Rupert to get a really, really good birthday.
Except apparently not.
Buffy sighed and went to get dressed. Stupid evil. So much for the planned Morning of Adult Activites. And - almost as bad - so much for that lunch reservation at that really snazzy Japanese restaurant. Actually, that might be the worst - the other stuff could happen at other times, but that reservation at Nakazato would be really hard to replace.
On the plus side. . . Buffy smiled. Now she had time to bake a cake.
****
Rupert turned off the car and put his head down on the steering wheel. He loved London, really, and Oxford as well, but driving between the two twice in one day was enough to make one nostalgic for Southern California. A frightening thought, indeed.
The headache that had eased when he stopped the car returned with a vengeance when he got out. He hoped Buffy would be home. Perhaps, if she hadn't eaten, they could go out for a bite of supper. Rupert wondered, as he fished for his keys to the flat, whether he was too hungry to appreciate any cuisine more sophisticated than what the local takeaways could offer, or if they'd end up eating fish and chips and vegetable curry again. Or if Buffy would mind very much if he put his head in her lap and begged to be petted. Or if it was truly too late for a career change to grocer.
He opened the door to a cloud of smoke. Or, perhaps, to firefighter. "Buffy?" he called , then coughed. The smoke was pervasive but, fortunately, light. Still. . . "Buffy!"
"Oh, crap." A muffled crash. "I'm in the kitchen, hon!"
Even under the circumstances, the endearment sent the same warm flush through him that it always did. Fanning the air in front of him, Rupert pulled the kitchen door open.
"Look out for the. . ."
"Ow!" Rupert hopped on one foot for a moment.
"Fan. Oh, sweetie. . ."
He bent to set the fan upright on the floor again, then collided with Buffy, who had crossed the small room to do the same. She steadied him and tried to push him out into the sitting room, but he stood still, taking in the scorched cookware in the sink, the smoke stains on the ceiling, and the new lumpy charcoal coating on the floor of the open oven. "Buffy, dearest. . ." He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do I want to know what happened here?"
"Not specifically, no." Buffy turned him around and steered him over to the couch. "But you should know that 'I have something on the stove' is another excuse that doesn't make Mrs. Hustings let you out of her flat."
"Oh. What were you doing in Mrs. Hustings' flat?"
"Borrowing some marmalade." Buffy made a worried noise when Rupert rubbed his face again. "Sit down, I'm gonna get you some tea and tylenol."
"But we have marmalade. Buffy?" He caught her wrist and pulled her down into his lap for a kiss.
"Mmm. . ." Buffy relaxed against him, kissing back and then rubbing her nose against his.
"We have marmalade," he repeated, between kisses.
"Yeah, but. . . mmm. . . turned out I needed more. And I was cooking, so I didn't want to go all the way. . . mmm. . . to the Spar. . ."
"So you braved the harpy on the ground floor. . . intrepid woman. . ." Rupert reached for the clip holding Buffy's hair in a french twist.
"Not a harpy, just lonely. . . hey, hey! No messing with the hair. We're going out."
"Oh, God." He put his head down on her shoulder. "I'd forgotten. What is it, and is it at all beg-off-able?"
"Um. . . your birthday?" Buffy stroked his hair. "It is your birthday, isn't it?" Her voice grew sharper. "Did you hit your head again? What did you do out there?"
"Birthday. Good lord. Yes, I suppose it is, at that."
"Rupert!" Buffy started probing his head for lumps.
"No, no, mostly bureaucratic. By the time I'd gotten there the slayers on-site had dealt with the poltergeist. I had to calm the college officials. And navigate the traffic. And then have lunch with my old tutor at Balliol."
"Okay, you need that tea right away." Buffy kissed him firmly. "Sit tight."
"He's really not so bad. Just a bit, er, traditional. Getting quite doddering, actually, poor chap - though his recall is magnificent if you can get him going on a particular subject." Rupert debated for a moment, then decided to take off his coat, even though Buffy had said they'd be going out. "I asked him to tell me about the connotations of the phrase coin du voile - corner of the veil, in French - and that kept him happily engaged straight through to the sweet." He pulled out his handkerchief to clean his glasses. "Dearest, what are we doing tonight? Are we meeting anyone, I mean? And could we possibly. . ." He trailed off as Buffy emerged from the kitchen, bearing a plate with a small cake and a single candle.
"Happy birthday to you," she sang, smiling at him in the glow. "Happy birthday to you. . . happy birthday, my-wonderful-and-extremely-handsome-and-sexy-boyfriend Rupert. . ." Holding the plate carefully, she sat down again in his lap. "Happy birthday to you!" She kissed him. "This is the only salvageable part of the cake," she told him apologetically.
"It's lovely," he assured her. "Like a cupcake. Adorable, really."
"Stop humoring me and blow out the candle. I have burned enough stuff today." She kissed his hair.
"Chocolate is always good. And the icing is. . . unusual."
"Yeah, that's the marmalade. See, I was trying to make you a Jaffa cake. . . cake. But it sorta. . . well, you saw the kitchen. So, here!" She held the plate closer. "Make a wish!"
He obediently closed his eyes and blew out the candle, then set the dish down on the end table before he kissed her. "Thank you, my Buffy."
"And can your Buffy make your wish come true?" she asked, smiling against his lips.
"Hm. . . do we have any reservations?"
"Well. . . no. But we can go wh-"
He quieted her with another kiss. "Then I think yes, absolutely." And he reached up to take down her hair.