( RIPOSTE ][ A Watchergirls Archive )

__A Shark Tale Of A Different Kind__
By Gail Christison

It's a glorious, blazingly hot day in Port Lincoln, with vibrant blue sky, tiny wisps of cotton cloud here and there and a sun with attitude burning down on the countryside, including your courtyard table, beneath its pretty turquoise umbrella.

You, however, don't care. You look across at your companion, noting that the deep lines of bone weariness he's worn for months have now begun to fade. He's obviously enjoying his scotch and soda, the tinkling of the ice in it as he picks it up again part of the peaceful atmosphere of the hotel. You smile a little remembering his initial reaction when the friendly female bartender, noticing the beads of perspiration on his brow, sacrilegiously suggested the ice.

It's not exactly the Ritz, but it's comfortable, and Rupert did give you a couple of days luxuriating in the Adelaide Hilton before taking the seemingly-tiny commuter plane across the gulf to Port Lincoln to pick up your leg of the tour. You cast your mind back to your arrival in Adelaide, and the fact that both of you didn't last much past a very pleasant shower together before collapsing into a near comatose-state for twelve hours. Neither of you were prepared for the effects of such a long straight-through journey, particularly given your own workload and how stressful things had been for Rupert, constantly torn as he was between the agenda of the newly-emerging support organization for the world's Slayers, and abiding concern for the one Slayer who would always be his, and the welfare of her friends.

It had been easier to adjust to the dry, shimmering heat of an Australian summer after the wind and rain in Somerset, than to deal with the relatively rapid time-zone changes.

After a good rest, however, the stay had been most pleasant. The two of you discovered a huge undercover produce market behind the hotel and, despite the gorgeous breakfast available in the lobby with its brass kettles of sumptuous hot food, and trays of fruit and pastries, couldn't resist the mouthwateringly fresh bread, cheese and astonishing variety of fresh fruit available in the Central Market.

The changing fragrances as you wander along the rows of stalls, from hot nuts to fresh peaches, mangoes to melons, hot bread to Italian coffee were gorgeous, as were the colors as you passed displays and piles of plums, nectarines, oranges, tangerines, kiwi, apples, pears, apricots, passion fruit, pineapple, rambutan, paw-paw, mango papaya, cantaloupe, strawberries, cherries, bananas... a myriad of varieties... you give up naming them after that, content to choose what you want and move on to the displays of cheeses and sausage of all kinds, flowers, and the continental food stalls.

Rupert had even found himself some Stilton, and worse, smoked eel, much to your chagrin, though he had raised an eyebrow at your one frivolous treat: curried roasted peanuts... until he tried them. It was fun... poking around in the rows of produce and marveling at the veritable cornucopia of races and cultures and voices blended together under the Australian flag... a lot of fun.

And neither of you had had fun in a very long time.

Adelaide had also been a pretty city, with its bay trams and green squares of grass and trees, and a mixture of old and new architecture; also an extremely walk-able place. You'd both enjoyed the luxury of doing exactly that from Victoria Square to the banks of the River Torrens, day and night, without worrying about what horror might be lurking around the next corner. The Festival Center at night had been quite breathtaking from across the river, but you were more inclined to remember the knee-shaking kiss on its banks than the lighting of that unique building...

Southern Australia was also far too far away from the nearest Hellmouth for most denizens of the dark to linger in, making it one of the most peaceful places Rupert had been in for many years.

"Penny for them," he says softly, watching you drink.

You stop toying with your Tropical Itch and look at him over the tiny parasol on it. "I was just remembering how much I enjoyed Adelaide. It's so pretty for such a small city. And you seemed so... relaxed."

He smiles and nods, before looking around at the not-quite-luxury standard décor of the hotel behind you. "Are you still glad you came? We can always go back to the Hilton for a few days, then pop up to the Reef for a week or so, if you like. They have just as many up there, you know. Probably more. Or I read that there are often Humpback whales along the coast..."

You take a long sip of your drink and mock-frown at him. "Whales?" you tease. "Cute, but... not here for the cetacea, remember? Not around until July, anyway. Besides it's not quantity, it's quality. I've dived plenty of tropical reefs and studied plenty of smaller sharks... white tip, black tip, tiger sharks... mako, you name it... that's not why we're here. If I were going to look at something else, it would be Grey Nurses. They're in trouble here."

"Mako... Isurus oxyrinchus," he muses. "Horrid teeth."

You grin again. He's an incurable researcher. You frown suddenly as something occurs to you. "You really are worried about this, aren't you?"

He raises a lazy eyebrow at you, trying to register irritation, but failing utterly, that mischievous smile peeking through again, instead. "You think this adventure will be any more dangerous than an army of Turok-Han in full flight? Or even Buffy in on the warpath, for that matter?"

You laugh, aware that he's making light of all of it, but allow yourself to be drawn into your own thoughts, momentarily. You know he's worried about a great many things. Worried about the new Council, about Buffy's association with the Immortal, and more than a little concerned about Willow and Kennedy's activities in South America, working as they are, more or less independently, on the recruitment of young Brazilian potentials who'd suddenly found themselves fully-fledged Slayers, with no way of understanding why or how. When Rupert had discovered that they were also making trips alone to far more dangerous locales outside of Brazil, from Colombia to Guatemala, and even to some remote village high in the Andes, he'd hit the roof, then stayed distracted and irritable for days. And now he was worried about you...

"I suppose not," you admit, "but I really want to do this and I'd really like you to enjoy yourself too. You enjoyed the refresher course, didn't you?"

He rolls his eyes at you, but the grin returns. "I survived it. Bones aren't what they used to be. Twenty years ago it was easy, even fun, doing something like learning to dive. You never even knew what new muscle groups you were using..." The smile faded. "Even if it was less for recreation than as a requirement for a department the Council was moving me into at the time."

You watch the shadows from the past play across his face and realize it's time to move on to other topics. "Well, I think your new wetsuit is damned sexy," you tease. "I know you'll thoroughly enjoy yourself once we get out there."

He snorts and polishes off the last of his drink in one shot. "Multi-coloured, seven millimeter neoprene long johns don't strike me as particularly attractive," he points out, looking down his impressive nose at you. "Particularly since, at my age, without a custom-made suit the damn thing clings to all the wrong bits."

You laugh, enjoying his deliberately humorous self-deprecation, content in the knowledge that he looked damn fine when he tried the new suit on and grudgingly modeled it for you in the change room. As far as you were concerned it clung to exactly the right bits...

Even the hired short suit he'd used to train in had looked great on him, though he would never appreciate the aesthetics of those legs or that amazing arse of his...

"You'll appreciate every millimeter when you hit the sixteen degrees C water out at North Neptune for the first time," you chuckle. "And so will I."

He snorts again and raises a subtle hand to a passing waiter. "You'll be so bloody busy with that infernal camera of yours, you won't even know I'm there."

"I always know you're there," you purr provocatively. The banter between you has become so relaxed and so comfortable in the time you've been together that even his grumbling is sexy, and you don't really mind. With his mind on a hundred different, often stressful, things at any given time, he's still taken the time to research for you...

And above all else he's here, now, and there's color in his cheeks, a light back in his eyes, and, God, he's actually sprawled in his chair. You can't remember the last time he wasn't at least slightly on edge or didn't look ready sprint off at any moment.

Just then the afternoon sea breeze catches his hair and a returning fishing boat attracts his attention. When he slides his prescription Serengetis back on to look out to sea, your breath catches and you wonder, not for the first time, how you managed to be lucky enough to fall in love with someone like Rupert Giles...

* * * * *

After a sumptuous dinner at the Moorings restaurant, where you floated through Oysters Michael followed by local garlic king prawns and crowned by a main course of sumptuously fresh local King George whiting - washed down, in your case, with Rosemont chardonnay, while Rupert contented himself with a crisp Barossa Riesling which he savored with obvious relish - you walk back to your harbor side room for the night.

The cleansing smell of the ocean is omni-present, and the sound of the waves meeting the nearby shoreline of Boston Bay makes a soothing background as you explore the Town Jetty on your walk back to your hotel room. The one or two fishermen still out at the end of it, one patiently jigging for squid, his catch laid out on newspaper next to him, and the other, cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, just as patiently cleaning his gear and packing up for the night, both look up and smile absently before continuing what they're doing. When you reach the very end of the old wooden pier, the sea smells distinctly fishier and it echoes a little, lapping at the pylons underneath in a regular rhythm.

The evening is warm and the stars are astonishingly bright. You say as much to Rupert.

He stops and looks up, contemplating the milky wash across the roof of the sky. "Pity about the lights of the town," he says idly. "Wait until you're out on the boat."

You refrain from pointing out that you've done enough dives around the world to know how much better stargazing is out on the water, where there's no light to obscure the view. Still, for various reasons, you haven't really had much quality time with the southern night sky, for all the traveling you've done. So you readily agree that you're in for a treat.

You move closer to him and lean against his arm as you gaze up at Crux... the Southern Cross, contemplating the ship's arrival the following night, and having to join it so late in the evening. You are both excited, and apprehensive about the trip. One thing, of which Rupert has confessed to having precious little experience, is sailing, either under motor or canvass, and you will be doing both over the next few days. Being stuck at sea for four or five days when you're seasick can be a miserable experience... and not something you would wish no anyone, especially him.

"You asked me if I was sure," you venture quietly, "but what about you? It's a long time to be out at sea when you haven't really done it before."

He curls a large arm around you and pulls you close to him. "Don't worry about me, love. A little mal de mer is neither here nor there in the great list of my life's... less pleasant... moments. And failing all else, I brought Quells," he adds dryly, turning you toward him.

You look up slowly, feeling the heat of his chest through your thin dress, and inhaling the mixture of his personal scent and the subtle cologne he's wearing. You can just see the glint of the new earring you gave him in the light of the beacon at the end of the jetty. While you love the diamond stud you know means so much to him, you wanted to see him in a hoop... not to mention it gave you the perfect excuse to buy him a gift.

He loved the antique silver earring on sight, and has worn it for the whole trip so far.

"What are you thinking?" he asks tenderly, looking down at your face in an endearingly puzzled way.

"I was thinking about your earring," you tell him honestly. "And remembering how much I love you..."

A slow smile lights his features, shadowed though they are against the glow of the main street and the spill of the beacon's light on the water.

His head bends slowly and you melt into the kiss. You will never tire of the power and the velvet softness of that sensuous mouth. It's a long time before either of you is ready to surface again. And even then, it's only because the departing fisherman suddenly hacks over what is probably his last cigarette for the evening, making both of you jump like guilty teenagers.

You giggle and he chuckles sheepishly before dropping another kiss on your brow and pointing out how much more comfortable it would be in your hotel room, right about now.

You can hear the cheekiness in his voice. It's wonderful... and new, and exhilarating. You've seen glimpses before, but up to now this side of him has mostly been buried under responsibility and finances and worry, not to mention the constant fight against evil and the mind-numbing sorting of the affairs of all the Council's fallen. Someone had to confirm the seemingly-endless casualties and inform the next of kin, and of course he'd assumed full responsibility as naturally as though he'd always been 'where the buck stops' in that organization; an organization which, essentially, had forsaken *him* a very long time ago.

He's watching you think. "You sure you aren't mentally rhapsodizing over your beloved sea wolves with their bloody great teeth and bad dispositions?" he teases.

"Nope," you shoot back, kissing him again. "No sharks right now. Just enjoying being here with you, like this." Moisture actually rises in your eyes and your throat tightens, because you know how precious this time is... that it can't last. You reach up and touch his face. "I love you so much... but until now I've never seen you like this..."

The puzzled look was back.

"Relaxed... content... happy," you explain softly.

His fingers play across your cheek and slip into your hair. "You make me happy," he says, equally softly. "Even the flight was more relaxing than my life has been... for just about as long as I can remember," he adds ruefully.

You can't help smiling. "You hate air travel. All those flights you took, gathering potentials and organizing Council affairs. Even talking about it always makes you grumpy," you tease.

Rupert nods. "I did get heartily sick of airports and planes... but of course they had one grave handicap... you weren't there..."

You stare into the sea green eyes that have always been able to mesmerize you. It's a romantic sentiment... frivolous even... but you know better. Rupert isn't on speaking terms with frivolous. His charm is in his innate honesty... and that makes you flush to the roots of your hair as his head bends again. Then the world disappears for a while... and you don't remember anything, except his expert lips reiterating the sentiment... deliciously.

* * * * *

You let yourselves back into your executive suite... the term, of course, being relative to the location... and you cast yourself on to the bed, kicking off your shoes as you go, whilst Rupert slips into the bathroom. It's been a lovely evening, and you just know that the rest of the night is going to be equally wonderful.

He emerges in just his shorts, lays his clothes over the back of one of the chairs and turns toward the bed.

"Mm," he says, his eyes tender. "Am I meant to be unwrapping...?"

You stop stretching and grin back. "Depends what you're going to do with your present..."

The laughter lines crinkle, oh so sexily, at the corners of his eyes as he grins back wolfishly.

"I think something can be arranged," he answers, and joins you on the bed. Your dress is cast aside within moments and, lying on your stomach, you luxuriate in the feel of his hands traveling over your back, massaging, caressing, making you shiver with pleasure before he unsnaps your bra and you turn over to allow him to ease it off and throw it on the carpet with the rest of your clothes.

You roll back and he continues to rub his fingertips over all the right places to un-bunch and un-knot muscles you didn't know were bunched... and knotted... his touch gradually melting every knot, and nerve, until, finally, you feel you could just about be poured like cream, you're so relaxed. At this point you decide that turn about is fair play, and maneuver him into a position where you can return the favor.

You adore his back. He's not Arnold, but beneath the smooth skin of the lean torso, you can feel the power won by sheer hard work and years of training. You love the feel of his skin under your hands, and he's obviously enjoying your ministrations... including the not-unskilled massage you're intermingling with the caresses.

When he finally turns over, the evidence of his pleasure in your touch is all too visible, and his boxers soon join the rest of the clothes on the floor. Which in turn becomes a signal to even things up a little. You find yourself moaning, electric thrills passing through you while his strong hands slide your briefs off and send them spinning in an arc through the air to catch on the top of the television set.

A moment later and you're in his arms... and swept away into a world of two, where love, and pleasure and passion all tangle together and weave themselves into a headlong journey toward ecstasy. You revel in the sheer, overwhelming sensual power of him, the magic of his fingers, his mouth... his intuitive ability to know exactly how to weave every nerve ending in your body into a frenzy of ecstatic bliss... until you're not sure if you're calling his name out loud or not. Then you try to return to the favor and it's obvious, as always, that you're giving him pleasure... but it's not nearly the experience he's able to give you, no matter how much of yourself you put into it.

Soon he's gathering you to him and laying you down, moving over you and kissing you breathless as he brings himself to you and waits for you to accept the invitation you've been ready for since his first touch. As always, the moment of coming together, of feeling him become a part of you again, is the most special, and you tell him so between groans, making him smile as he makes love to you until you're so lost in him that you're not seeing anything anymore...

All that's real is what he's doing to you, and you to him; instinct, desire, passion, driving both of you toward the moment where you both begin to move in a frenzied maelstrom of pleasure, toward mutual bliss. Your mingled cries fill the room as the blood-tide rises, nerve endings exploding, minds disengaging from fused bodies as they thrash in unbounded ecstasy.

Later, as silence tiptoes back across your consciousness and you listen to the intrusion of his slightly labored breath into it, you tell yourself that there will never be anyone like him again...ever. You turn slightly to press your lips to the tawny head resting on your shoulder, and feel the answering touch of his against the sensitive skin of your throat.

The next conscious thought you have is that you should have made certain the curtains were closed properly. The morning sun, its skirts still trailing in the water across the bay, is streaming through the gap between the drapes. Rupert has rolled onto his own pillow in the night, but his hand is lying across your belly, making you smile. You can't see his face; no doubt the reason the light hasn't roused him yet, buried as it is in the soft pillow.

He sleeps on for another hour or so, and you drowse, waiting for him to stir.

"Good morning," you venture when he finally rolls onto his back and squints at the ceiling. You immediately place your hand where his was, already missing his touch.

After another moment or so to marshal his wits, he opens his eyes properly and shifts onto one elbow.

"Good morning," he replies, looking terribly self-satisfied as he grins crookedly at you beneath his mussed hair. "Sleep well?"

"Brilliantly," you reply, but deliberately don't giving him credit. "You?"

He leans forward and playfully bites the lower edge of your belly button. "Like the dead." He looks a little bemused for a moment, then clears his throat. "Unfortunate expression," he adds ruefully.

You can't help giggling a little and sliding your fingers up to the line of his jaw, feeling the carotid pulse, strong and regular, beneath it. You nod. "Very much alive," you confirm, prompting him to draw you into his arms.

His good morning kiss is long and languorous and you enjoy every moment of it, before he suggests a shower, then breakfast downstairs.

In the shower you both stand for a long time, holding each other as the hot water courses over both of you, the silence filled to overflowing... with each other.

Eventually you reach for the soap, but he commandeers it... and the next several minutes are spent washing each other, with a surprising amount of giggling and silliness, triggered by a slippery cake of hotel soap.

It isn't until you're both clothed and brushed and down in the dining area, picking through the baskets of pastries, toast, tropical fruit, and glass jars of muesli and other cereals, while the smell of bacon and eggs waft by, that either of you think about the journey ahead. Rupert is the one who reminds you, musing about what the rations will be like on board the ship.

It hasn't seemed quite real until now, but all of a sudden it comes starkly into focus. And for the first time, you wonder if you can do it. All of the other snorkeling and reef diving trips you've ever done, including the one where you were trying to feed baitfish to a temperamental moray and ended up entertaining four white-tipped reef sharks who'd invited themselves to lunch [you can still remember the almost-painful jag of adrenaline and the buzz, once the panic rush had subsided, of interacting with those magnificent creatures for several minutes, before your guide prudently distracted your, mostly benign, guests long enough to extricate you from the situation], pale in comparison to the deep waters just five hours motoring from this small city, miles and miles from anywhere.

The two of you spend the day exploring the town, including the thriving aquaculture and, to satisfy Rupert's curiosity, the seahorse captive breeding facility. You stop briefly after that to satisfy his craving for fish and chips... which both of you enjoy thoroughly before pushing on to poke around the Maritime Museum and browse the shops. Which Rupert declares 'thirsty work' after a couple of souvenir shops and a side trip into a boutique, and drags you off for afternoon tea... with the 'tea' part in capital letters. He even manages to get it in a pot, which amuses you hugely, especially given how attentive the thirty-something waitress is being to his every whim. When she's gone you make a pointed reference to his undoubted charm, prompting him to roll his eyes and look sheepish.

"Nice girl," he says mischievously between sips of double-strength Dilmah, "very helpful."

You kick his shin under the table and he almost burns himself guffawing into his teacup. You make a mental note to spoil him later, to make up for the near-disaster as he mops the spilled tea off the tablecloth with his handkerchief, and start on the scones.

Afternoon tea concludes without further drama.

The rest of the day is spent quietly at the hotel, and you decide to have dinner at a bistro close to where everyone will be assembling later to join the ship. You're both unnaturally quiet while you're packing and organizing your late check out, and when the taxi arrives you begin to feel the slightest flutter of excitement. Rupert knows, and squeezes your hand as you settle together on the back seat of the Holden Commodore and the driver pulls away from the curb...

* * * * *

You wonder what Rupert is thinking as you follow him onto the ship that will be your home for the next four or five days. He was very quiet over dinner and although not distant, exactly, he hasn't really been his usual, for this trip anyway, relaxed self.

The berth is... surprising. You know somewhere deep down that 'twin' means two, not double-sized, but staring at the two... single... wooden bunks, and wishing, doesn't make them into a queen-sized bed. You're almost reluctant to look up at Rupert's six foot two inch height to see what you're certain is going to be disapproval and irritation.

"Blast," he says softly, but strangely without venom.

You finally venture a peek out of the corner of your eye and the apprehension slides away. He's tired, he's bemused and he's waiting for you to say something.

"Sorry...?" you offer.

"What for? This is a charter boat, not the QE2. Not exactly designed for creature comforts. He turns, genuinely concerned. "Are you disappointed?"

You feel a warm surge of pure love for him as you gaze back into those dear, puzzled eyes. You move straight into his arms and hug him hard.

"I'm fine," you tell him. "I'm going to miss you terribly, but I was mostly worried about you... and fitting those gorgeous legs of yours into that little bunk."

He drops his bags and climbs onto the top one. He fits, but without a lot of clearance, top to toe.

"It's not bad," he decides. "The mattress is good, and it's closer to a three-quarter than a true single. He hangs over the side a little, suddenly looking extraordinarily cheeky as you come and sit on the bottom bunk. "There's even the potential for me to come down there and visit."

Visions of the boat rocking and waking the whole passenger compliment make you giggle, and kiss his nose.

"Well, we made it. We're here," you sigh.

"Yes, we are," he says provocatively, catches your mouth and kisses you back spine-meltingly sensuously.

* * * * *

The weather has been kind so far, but the gentle roll of the sea has now given way to a slightly more agitated southern ocean. You were both up at daybreak, to watch a fiery summer sunrise turn some morning cumulus into a red-gold billow on the horizon, over a fairly unique breakfast. You finish your smoked salmon, onion, Philly, lettuce and mayo roll and pick up the mug of steaming tea alongside of you, the smell of toast and sizzling bacon wafting up from the galley.

Rupert is eating his roll down wind of you, well aware that the smell of capers turns your stomach. There's a stiff breeze blowing out of the southwest, now that a large high-pressure cell has settled off the coast... strong enough make things creak and groan as the ship continues to beat into the wind under full sail. The placid ketch under full canvas, is now heeling enough to make it feel like you're really sailing, rather than simply riding on a giant moving pier.

Still, you've both managed to find your sea legs quickly. In another hour, all things being equal you should be looking at North Neptune Island, which, instead of the projected five hours will have taken eight in the conditions. A thought that prompts you to stand up and move over to sit with Rupert, braving the bouquet of his loathsome capers to lean against his shoulder and contemplate the kind of future you'd like to have with this enigmatic man.

"All right?" he asks automatically, unused to you being quite so introspective.

You shrug. "It's strange. I know that everything is perfectly safe... that nothing's going really going to change... but it feels... I don't know... like *everything's* going to change..."

He frowns, his expression a cross between bemusement and concern. "Your apprehension is perfectly normal. I feel like that every time Buffy and I go..." He stops, sadness shadowing his eyes for a long moment then starts again. "I felt that way every time Buffy and I used to go out to deal with... incidents."

"You mean every time you went to fight," you guess, and then you realize what it is. No matter how safe the host of this trip keeps telling you everything is, you're taking Rupert into your environment. And you're planning on bringing him within a few feet of mortally dangerous creatures, purely for your own edification. No wonder he was looking bemused. Mortal danger was one of his bedfellows... and leading loved ones into it, he was something of an expert at. You snort at your appalling mental grammar and stand up suddenly, needing to do something to shake off your mood.

He rises with you and starts toward the bow of the boat without saying a word. You follow, picking you way past the aluminum tender, sheets, winches and deckhands checking the cages... confirming that you're very close to your destination, though it's still early enough that most of the other paying passengers are still snug downstairs in the sizable dining area, eating breakfast. You pay attention for the first time to just how chilly the early morning air is, and surprisingly, how long the oceanic rollers have become, making the windward passage far less uncomfortable than it might have been.

The bow is deserted. Rupert is staring out over the bowsprit and smiling to himself, as though he has a secret. When you reach his side and peer through the nets you are surprised to see a small pod of bottle-nosed dolphins playing in the bow's wake. There's spray in the air, too, despite the relatively passive morning ocean. You squint against the moisture and let the breeze hit you square in the face, its salty marine tang filling your lungs as you watch nature's finest at one with their environment, and their existence.

Somewhere along the way Rupert has drawn you close and you are now leaning into him. You're not sure how, but a few minutes later you're holding each other, and the kiss seems as though it's been going on forever... not that you mind in the least. It's some time before you are disturbed by a subdued commotion amidships and look up. An island, low slung and windswept, has appeared over the horizon, and the crew has swung into full preparations for anchoring and setting up your stay at North Neptune.

Once the anchor is set, it's amazing how quickly things move... and how efficiently the crew winches the surface cages over the side and deploys them. There's also a graphic olfactory flag to alert you to the fact that chumming has begun in earnest, as you join other over-enthusiastic passengers in scanning the waters for the first sign of 'great white' activity. The first signs, however, to cause set hearts racing and cause a mild stir are not fins, but small, cute heads as the occasional fur seal surfaces within meters of the boat only to roll over and disappear again just as quickly.

A patient crewman points out to a female non-diving tourist that it's actually a good sign and carefully explains the snack... and therefore enticement... value of southern fur seals to carcharodon carcharias.

In fact, apart from one silhouette gliding tantalizingly past the surface cages and prompting several suited up passengers to scramble into the nearest ones, only to disappear again without even sampling the merchandise, the day is a bust as far as 'great white' activity goes.

You've now met and assmilated a goodly number of the names of your fellow passengers and all those who are diving have optimistically sorted and checked their gear. Some of the older passengers have been fishing and a couple of them already proudly show off their catches of King George whiting... the biggest whiting you've ever seen in or out of a pan; the strange-looking leatherjackets, and snook. The rest are ambitious enough, however, to be rigged for the much larger pelagics though no one has managed to hook up yet. One or two other, non-diving, spouses are either sunning themselves or taking photographs, and Rupert is back up at the bow, reading.

You decide, when nothing has happened for yet another hour apart from the periodic arrival and departure of various seabirds, seals and even stray jellyfish, to go and visit him.

He's reading, of all things, Homer. You suspect that it's a further disgruntled response to the recent cinematic manglings of historical and mythological characters. He looks absolutely adorable in a navy polo shirt, fleecy jacket over it but open, and faded blue levis, reclining in the bowsprit nets.

"Hello."

He looks up and grins sheepishly before peering down toward midships and the stern, where the majority of the activity, such as it is, is.

"Any luck?"

You wrinkle your nose. "One disinterested spectator so far. Good book?"

He looks at the cover and grins more widely. "Usually."

"I checked all your gear," you tell him. "And there's a shore party leaving in about forty minutes... if fur seals and guarno float your boat."

He chuckles. "Do you want to go?"

"Today? Not really, but I am restless..."

He nods, and you know you don't have to explain further. "Don't worry. They'll be here."

And he sounds so placidly certain that you actually begin to believe it too...

* * * * *

Dinner is late because of daylight savings, and afterward most of the passengers relax with a beer or a glass of wine and talk about the island and the seals or what they hope will happen tomorrow. The host is talking to a small group composed of crew and a few of the older male passengers, and holding them in thrall about something.

It's exceedingly peaceful out here as the sun slips below the horizon and the breeze drops on the turn of the tide, leaving a unique stillness you know you'll yearn for in weeks, months, and years to come. Rupert, too, seems to be affected by it as the two of you sit, spoon fashion, with your back leaning against Rupert's, against the mizzen mast. There's no need for conversation, nor any real desire for it. His large hand covers your folded ones and his body is warm against yours, and against the cool evening air.

It's not until you both stir, mutually ready to hit the bunks in the knowledge that you'll probably be up with sun in the morning, that Rupert looks up and draws a stunned breath. Your gaze follows his and your mouth drops open, just a little. The moonless night sky is almost painfully beautiful. You could almost reach out and touch it... myriads of glittering jewels on black velvet, all offering themselves to you...

Rupert, in endearing awe, is picking out constellations while you follow his forefinger and drink in the river of light spilled across the roof of the world. He stops for a moment when he reaches Taurus in the west. You follow his enchanted gaze and see a cluster you already know by name, but never expected to see in such splendor.

"The Pleiades," he says softly, and you can see him counting silently. "My God... fourteen at least. I've never..."

You smile slowly. You didn't think there was anything left in the world that could give Rupert such childlike delight. He looks the way the small boy he was once was, might have looked on Christmas morning... even in the reflected glow of the cabin lights.

"They're beautiful," you agree, and mean it, but you're also talking about him. In all of the time you've known him, you've struggled to get past the worn old cynic, the moments of bitterness and the endless immersion in his calling. Even in the little free time he was able to spend with you, he was always tired both in body and spirit, always at least a little 'elsewhere', even when he was doing his damnedest to make sure you knew how much he cared for you. You've never seen him like this and you like it... a lot.

He finally pulls his gaze away from the sky to turn and look at you. His eyes and his face are still glowing with pleasure. He doesn't speak, but reaches out with the unnaturally bent and scarred fingers of his left hand to touch your face.

"Why do you put up with me?" he asks.

"Why did you drag your butt half way across the world with me when you have a million other things you need to do?" you retort before you can stop yourself, but he seems to understand. You continue to stare at each other, almost as though you can't look away.

"I love you," he says finally, so softly that you barely hear him over the silence that's now screaming at you over the lapping of the water against the hull.

You freeze for a moment. Words aren't going to cover this. Instead, you put your hand over the one still resting against your cheek and lean upward, your kiss telling him how long you've loved him, how much you needed to hear those words from his lips. It's a long, long while before either of you pulls away again, but even then neither of you can bear the moment to end.

So you find yourself drawn lovingly back against Rupert's chest once more and turned so both of you are facing east. His arms are holding you snug against the, now quite chilled, night air, his breath warm on your right ear as you listen to his soft, soothing tones begin to identify more constellations, star clusters and other objects. You're fascinated, but at this point you wouldn't care if he were doing a soliloquy on cross-referencing.

You will remember this night always...

* * * * *

Two medium-sized sharks come visiting the next day, but by the time everyone gets organized to go into the top cages, they've worried a couple of baits and dived again. Only those already in the bottom cages really get to enjoy them, and Rupert isn't qualified to go to the bottom.

Instead the two of you finally join one of the shore parties and thoroughly enjoy yourselves. The weather is holding and the sun is hot. The island has it's own unique smell, unsurprising given the amount of inhabitants, both avian and mammal. You love the seals, especially the doe-eyed pups, though Rupert is more interested in the birds, particularly the majestic sea eagles.

When you return there is excited chatter about sightings of giant stingrays, and someone who was on the bottom swears they saw the murky shape of a *big* great white at the very edge of visual range, but a crewman shakes his head.

"It's February. You don't generally see the big fellas in summer. The winter months, maybe."

Everyone is quiet for a few moments, wondering if their trip is going to be quite the *adventure* they expected it to be.

Then the murmuring starts again, and the clink of more stubbies being liberated from iceboxes as the evening wears on.

Next morning you realize the boat has moved to a new anchorage during the night. You and Rupert have discussed your plans, and made certain you will be among the first into the top cages, sharks or no.

The water is surprisingly pleasant under the hot summer sun, and you both slide into the cage without incident, though the weight you're carrying in order to stand in it is a little daunting. You content yourself at first with watching Rupert interact with the unfamiliar environment. He's told you that his previous experience with diving had to do with training for an archeological [Council] expedition, part of which was underwater, in a lake. He was twenty years younger and, well, it was a lake... with murky water and silt-covered ruins... not exactly wonderland.

He's quite obviously too entranced by the adventure to be in the least anxious about being under water, which you're pleased about. After several minutes without much of anything happening by, other than the various fish attracted by the berley and chum, you both surface again and watch out of the top of the cage. Others are doing the same in the other cages. Seabirds are wheeling overhead and making a raucous fuss about something, and a radio is playing somewhere in the bowels of the ship, a muffled, distant sound, strangely out of place.

An hour later, still nothing has happened, apart from one adventurous seal almost giving Rupert a heart attack when it popped up from beneath the cage and looked him right in the facemask. You almost choked on your regulator whilst discovering how difficult it is to roar with laugh underwater.

"I'm sorry things haven't worked out better," he offers when you surface again. "You could try for a spot in one of the bottom cages this afternoon. I thought I might try my hand at angling... and there's always Homer," he points out.

He really is a dear. You know he's not the least bit interested in fishing, but knowing him, he'd probably be just as happy up in the bow net with Homer. You murmur something about thinking about it and kiss his very cold lips, the masks you've both pushed up onto your foreheads clashing as you do.

At that point there's a major commotion and someone yelling something. You both realize after a few moments that someone is yelling about a shark and that a number of the passengers have stampeded amidships where one of the bait lines is being frantically hauled in by a crew member, the passenger who yelled dancing about in excitement as the bait is followed in by stunningly large shape. If this was a small one...

You and Rupert look at each other, then fit your masks back on, but leave the regulators for the moment, not wanting to miss anything that might happen on the surface. Cameras are clicking and flashing and the professional gentleman who joined the boat in Port Lincoln is filming the shark, which has now broken the surface and is doing its level best to wrest the bait from its line. The crew is also doing their best to encourage it to indulge in various known behaviors for the cameras. They even raise the bait, prompting it to breach in order to reach it.

Everyone is riveted by the action, so that when Rupert taps you on the shoulder as you're taking shots of your own, adrenaline shoots through you and you physically 'jump' in the water. He motions behind you. There's an impossibly large fin cutting through the water, apparently headed for the bait on the other side of your cage. You tremble with anticipation and look at Rupert, who nods. You replace your regulator and he takes your hand as you both submerge once again, letting the weight take you down.

The bait is only feet from your cage. It's all you can do to remember to breathe slowly and correctly as you wait, hoping the new arrival isn't on its way to join its companion.

And then it arrives, not charging as your nerves anticipate, even though intellectually you know better, but reconnoitering... circling... and considering. It's a stupendous size. Allowing for magnification error in the water, you're confident it would still have to be at least five meters, probably more. It's too big for this time of year, but you guess it probably fancies seal-pup s'mores as much as the next white pointer, and it is that time of year for the seal colony...

It takes you a few more minutes to remember your camera and to begin photographing everything you possibly can, framing shots with indecent haste while the great white finally decides it's going to have the morsel of bait and lunges at it. Your photos begin to take on a whole new dimension as that maw and those teeth come within inches of your lens. Your heart is hammering in your chest and part of you wishes you could see Rupert's face, but all of you that's able, is focused on the shoot, and getting as many usable shots as possible.

The shark has managed to detach the bait before the crew has realized it's there. It has chomped through the big chunk of dogtooth tuna on the line, inadvertently flicking part of the pelagic into the cage, where it's now floating between Rupert and yourself.

The great white has also noticed. At which point you discover that it's nigh on impossible to successfully focus a shot while a ton or more of shark is violently head-butting the cage you're shooting through. You persist, though, until Rupert throws an arm around your waist and braces you, so that you can shoot with your feet off the bottom of the cage as the huge leviathan circles. You wonder in passing if Rupert can feel your heart hammering through your back as the shark turns and makes another run.

As the cage swings and vibrates from the impact, you're sure he's wondering, as you are, why someone topside hasn't begun using more bait to entice the beast to perform for those on deck and in the other cages, thereby giving you a break from its attentions. As exciting as it's been, you aren't sure you your nerves can take much more of this rattling.

At exactly that moment Rupert hooks the large chunk of dead tuna and pushes it out the opposite side of the cage from where the shark is once again turning its annoyed bulk. The tidbit is sinking, and is almost gone before 'jaws' has swung back towards you.

Fortunately at that point another baited line *finally* plunges into the water and attracts its attention. You resume taking pictures and finally start to enjoy the action, until most of it shifts back to the surface when the shark is, at last, enticed right away from your cage. You motion to Rupert that you want to go up, so he moves his arm from around your waist and takes your free hand again.

Above the water you are able to watch at close quarters as the shark responds to the mild provocation of having its target reeled in, then hoisted in mid air. Being a larger specimen, you're less inclined to believe it will bother to use so much effort for one fish... not when specimens that size have been found to have thirty-one pound harbor dolphins, among other things, in their stomachs.

Both of you are taken aback when, after a lull, fully two thirds of the immense creature rises out of the water almost in slow motion, jaw gaping wide, and lunges at the offered morsel. Your camera holds ninety-nine images... and you know you're going to use every single one of them as the cage rocks from the wash of the huge bulk crashing back into the water again.

It's only when you're out of shots and the shark has gone to join its fellow in attacking yet another new bait thrown in next to one of the cages yet to see much close action, that you signal to Rupert, and both of you make your way topside.

You're still shaking when you put down the camera, remove your weight belt and tank, and unzip the top of your suit.

Rupert drops his own equipment and gloves, pulls the facemask off the top of his head, and his hood, and discards them as well. You watch him as he pulls the zipper of his wetsuit down to his waist, revealing the tawny chest hair beneath, and notice that he's not shaking, and barely breathing hard. You tease him about it.

He cocks his adorable head to one side and raises an eyebrow at you. "Ten thousand Turok Han, and you want me to be overawed by one oversized fish?"

Point taken.

You poke your tongue out at him anyway and he relents, with a crooked grin. "It was magnificent, wasn't it?"

Mollified, you smile back, nod and move close so you can play with that chest hair for a moment. "Hot shower," you tell him. "And then we'll find out how I went with the pictures. I wish I'd had more memory."

Rupert shifts a little and looks over the side of the ship. It's gone a little quiet now. The passengers who replaced you in your cage, those in the stern cage, and everyone topside, are waiting and watching...

"Apparently the action is over for the time being," he points out. "A shower would be rather good right now."

Later, with your equipment serviced and stowed, you've both decided to be helpful and save water by showering together. Not that it's exactly the most fruitful exercise. Shipboard showers aren't exactly mains pressure, nor are the cubicles very large. Still, there are other things to do at close quarters, in a shower...

Back in your cabin, Rupert pauses, black polo shirt in hand, to frown a little. "Are you going to be able to do the article with what you've already got?" he asks.

"Probably. I won't know for certain until I see the pictures. I will talk to the researcher tomorrow at breakfast. With whatever information she allows me to use, plus my personal viewpoint, I think I can come up with something. It helps that the big shark was pretty out of the ordinary for this time of year."

He raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement. "Although a visit from carcharadon megalodon might have made rather good copy," he muses, deadpan.

"If we'd had a visit from megaladon you'd be giving it indigestion right about now," you point out then grin again when you see the twinkle. "We all would be. You really have been researching, haven't you?"

"It's a fascinating subject. Dawn introduced me to the art of 'Google-ing'... and I'm afraid that for every site I found that was interesting, there were links to even more."

A tiny piece of you is disappointed that the he's finally been seduced by technology, but you're still overjoyed that he cared enough to take an interest in the first place.

As though reading your mind, he continues. "Not that I wouldn't have preferred visiting a library with a decent natural history section but I simply haven't had the time. Even the computer was a luxury I really couldn't afford. I took to eating lunch at my desk and researching at the same time. I shall probably need a new keyboard when I get back," he muses absently.

You giggle. "I'm glad you came," you tell him softly. "It wouldn't have been the same without you." While you're talking you remove the camera from its waterproof housing. When he smiles back but doesn't say anything else, you begin browsing the shots you took. Of a couple dozen you've already looked at, probably three are usable. Most of the others are fine for the hobbyist, but not publishing quality. You really were way too excited.

He realizes what you're doing and comes to sit alongside you, watching silently as the images pass by. There are at least four breath-taking underwater close ups that you can use and you all but bounce with joy at your success. You delete seven of the next twelve that aren't even worth keeping. And so it goes on, until out of ninety-nine shots you've deleted thirty-nine, discarded twenty-two as not professional quality, filed eleven seal and seal pup shots, and fifteen assorted shots of Rupert, most of which he wasn't aware of you shooting. Which leaves you with twelve beautiful shots of the great white, all bound to impress the editor for whom you're doing the article.

Rupert is standing now, and stretching his torso as he raises his arms to slide the polo shirt on and tuck it into the designer jeans you bought for his birthday in honour of that butt, while you enjoy the view. He looks wonderful... and will look even better when he's tamed his rapidly drying hair. His cheeks have colour in them... the facemask lines have finally disappeared, and he's showing signs of tanning for the first time, a beige flush to his face now, after the pink from the first couple of times in the sun. Without his ubiquitous glasses and with the worry and stress lines all but vanished, he looks fifteen years younger and as boyish as hell. Especially when he looks at you and those eyes flash as he grins mischievously.

"You could go on deck like that, but I daresay you'd cause a stir," he points out.

You've been too preoccupied with the photographs and the distraction that he is, to have done anything about dressing. You got as far as discarding your robe once in your cabin, but you're still sitting there stark naked, loading your day's shooting into your laptop.

He doesn't help by sitting next to you after you put the laptop down to finish the loading by itself, and massaging your back in that bone-melting way of his. You groan as his magic hands start finding places that will get him anywhere but outside the cabin.

You are both late for dinner, and no one comments on your rosy cheeks or the fact that you look entirely too pleased with yourselves, and possibly like you could curl up and go to sleep in the blink of an eye. After the meal, everyone takes his or her drinks on deck. It's a balmy summer night, and they are all upbeat after their first real interface with the objects of this particular exercise.

Klaus, an Austrian thirty-something, with a deep tan and bleached hair down to his shoulders, has brought a guitar and is strumming it lightly while some of the other men argue about the size of the big shark; several of the women content themselves with their glasses of wine, or in some cases, stubbies, while one woman and two men are enthusiastically attempting some night fishing. Somebody shines a light out across the water when some noises, probably birds, momentarily attract everyone's attention.

You are fascinated by the activity in the darkness. Tiny shrimp flick back and forth, skimming along the top of the water, and here and there the light picks up flashes of iridescent blue, where garfish lay just below the surface, and, unexpectedly, a big pink cloud billows out, having just passed under the boat. The huge, diaphanous, pink and blue jellyfish is quite stunning in the spotlight. Rupert smiles at you when you look up at him with that childishly rapt look on your face.

When you return to the others, Klaus is playing something pretty and you hear a couple of people prompting him to sing for them. He makes it quite clear, in his heavily accented baritone, that he's not a singer, declining their requests in good spirit, but quite definitively. Both of you find somewhere to sit on the deck and listen to the sound of the acoustic guitar amid the silence of the southern ocean. Klaus changes from the soulful instrumental he's playing to a more familiar tune, picking out the opening chords, but rolling his eyes and shaking his head when he's again cajoled in a good-natured way by his companions to sing.

It's no surprise therefore, that all heads turn toward Rupert when he unexpectedly takes up the challenge. You listen, transfixed, as he handles the Clapton number with ease, smiles and does a request for, of all things, 'My Way' when Klaus begins to play it, and then puts himself right into the classic arrangement of the Goo Goo Dolls song, 'Iris.' The words, and the power he puts into them, hold you, captivated, your breath held, until he turns to look at you as he sings:

'...I just want you to know who I am."

His eyes are intent, and his heart is in them. And suddenly you know he's telling you that he'll understand if you can't be a part of his world... It makes a hard knot of tears form in your throat, but you don't look away. You can't.

When he's done, a young girl asks him to sing Imagine because it's her favourite song. He smiles a little self-consciously at you, then looks across at Klaus who shrugs and begins to play.

You can tell that Rupert is only doing it for the nervous teen, much as he only attempted 'My Way' for the jovial Texan with the expensive camera equipment. Once again, he keeps everybody entranced until the last notes of the guitar fade into the silent blackness beyond the boat.

When the silence lingers, people begin to say goodnight and start to filter away. Even Klaus finally raises a hand in response to a gesture by a couple of crew on the foredeck, nods smilingly to Rupert and heads off. When the American decides to join Klaus, you are left alone.

"I've never kept anything from you," he says quietly, after a long silence.

"I know," you whisper back matter-of-factly and smile. "And yet... here I am."

Though tender, his eyes grow more pained. "Nobody else must die because of me."

"Not part of my long term itinerary," you tease, trying to make him laugh. You know where this is coming from. You just don't know why, or more accurately, why *now*.

Your heart is beating very fast and your palms are sweaty, but you aren't going to make this difficult for him. You know how much he's been through and you just can't. If he needs it to end, then you'll let him end it. It will tear you into little pieces but you love him too much to hate him for it, or hurt him for it...

His eyes are searching yours and you see them darken with pain when he realizes how much he's hurting you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Internally you kick yourself for not realizing your real feelings were leaking out through those traitorous windows to your soul. Externally you smile in spite of yourself.

"It's okay," you manage with remarkable calm given that your insides are in meltdown. "I understand. I mean how hard could it be to find another impossibly sexy British demon hunter with great taste in music?"

You've finally made him chuckle, but his eyes are even darker... and a little too bright, and you notice his colour is way too high for the damp chill of the air rising from the ocean. It takes him a moment to speak.

"I think we've got our wires crossed," he tells you tenderly. "I intended to ask you something tonight, but a number of things made me feel that I was wrong... that it was too selfish to even considering asking..." He stopped, annoyed with himself and drew something from his pocket instead.

You're too stunned to do anything except to accept the tiny red velvet box.

The contents are breathtaking.

"It's not really that old... Edwardian, actually," he says when you haven't spoken for several moments. "It was my grandmother's. It passed to my father when she died and he gave it to my mother. If you would rather choose something more modern..."

You try to gather your wits while still staring at the matched set of antique engagement and wedding rings. The diamond is round cut, brilliant and sparkling, even in just the deck lighting... and there's a lot of it. The bands of both rings are fully engraved with an elegant leaf pattern below shoulders bead set with more small but fiery diamonds. You don't want to guess whether it's platinum or white gold... and you don't really care. It's almost too precious for you to even be holding in your hand on a deck gently rising and falling on the swell of the southern ocean. You don't take them out of the box.

"I wouldn't want anything else," you manage, swallowing for the third time. "Rupert, they're the most beautiful rings I've ever seen." And it's the truth. You aren't really inclined to browse jewellery as a rule, but what you'd seen of modern rings in store windows had never exactly impressed you. Not even when your best friend had once squealed about the three thousand dollar price tag on a diamond and emerald ring she'd fallen in love with on the eve of her engagement... and which her boyfriend could never have afforded. You'd looked at it and wondered what the fuss was about; the setting all sharp-angled sculpture with what were to you, bulky square stones in an ugly setting on a plain gold band. Not for the first time had you wondered if you were born in the right era.

Finally you're able to focus, your wits settled again on their perches and behaving nicely. You smile at the man you love so very dearly and who is looking clearly worried now.

"I thought you were trying to tell me you wanted to stop seeing me," you tell him and thank goodness it's night since your cheeks are burning. Then you remember the deck lights.

His eyes widen alarmingly. "God, no," he says. "I've been clumsy. I've not had much experience with... with love." He realises how that must sound and you see, even in the bad light, the telltale red creep up to his ears. "That is to say... I've had many friendships and spent as much time as any man my age with women I've cared about. But... but apart from Jenny, I've never been in love... until now. A-and I was just as ham-fisted then as I am now," he admits, that crooked grin finally emerging.

Your heart is hammering. It's true. It's real. Oh, God... You clutch the ring box tight so you won't drop it now that your hands suddenly feel more like cow's hooves.

"Yes," you finally manage, too overwhelmed to come up with anything more articulate.

"Yes, I'm ham-fisted... or yes, you'll marry me?"

"Yes," you say again, starry eyed, and hold up the tiny box.

He grins widely then, his colour even higher and puts the ring box back in his pocket before drawing you into his arms to kiss you, gently at first, and then with a fire that takes your breath. His eyes are tender and filled with joy when you part again.

You're almost too happy to speak. You've known for a long time that you wanted to spend your life with him, but you knew equally that Rupert's future was mortgaged to the Slayers and the new Council... that your changes were slim to none that you'd ever be more than sometime lovers. Finally, you smile back.

"We can do this, can't we?" you ask in a surprisingly faint voice.

He inclines his head, eyes twinkling. "Depends. My place or yours...?"

You consider your pokey little London studio and his extremely large estate home, with it's antiques and horses and gorgeous garden for about two minutes. "Yours," you concede a little too easily.

His grin widens. "Then we can do this. You already know just about everything there is to know about my life. There was a reason for that..."

"No secrets?" you ask breathlessly.

He nods again. "No secrets. I've had enough of not being able to share my life with the people I love... and you've proved over and over that you can deal with everything that my life will throw at you in the future, except perhaps..."

His voice darkened a little at the last and you guess why. "Except that," you agree. "But if it happened tomorrow, whether a heart attack or a double-decker bus... I'd feel exactly the same way. I want to be with you because I love you, Rupert. And loving you means that whether you choke on a chop bone or get bitten by a vampire I would grieve just the same..."

He colours a little and smiles sheepishly. "I didn't mean to get us onto such a dark topic. Do you want a big wedding?"

You can tell that the idea appals him but that he would do it in a minute for you if he thought that was what you wanted.

"What if I said I'd be happy with a wedding in the church in your village... with just your closest friends and mine? Neither of us has family to speak of, and we're, neither of us, social butterflies obliged to invite hundreds of people... lets just have a quiet ceremony... and a long honeymoon," you add mischievously. "I like you like this." He chuckles but looks pleased. "I'd like that too. I think we could even arrange the honeymoon, now that I've got some reliable people working with me. Robson, Davies and Zabuto are all perfectly able to keep the wheels oiled and everything running smoothly in my absence."

You suspected as much. There's no way he'd have been as relaxed as he has been on this trip if he wasn't confident his people could take care of things in his absence.

"Blossom time," he says unexpectedly as the breeze changes and the reefed sails begin to flap.

"Blossom time?"

"I'd like to be married in the spring," he says, and you can tell he can't believe he's actually talking about his own wedding.

Spring is more than fine with you. *Today* would be fine with you. "As long as it's late spring. Spring rain is only romantic when it's not a wedding," you point out dryly, trying not to look too blissful.

He leans down and kisses you again. "It wouldn't matter to me," he says softly. "I'd marry you if it was raining vampires and hailing demons."

You approve so wholeheartedly you feel moved to show him, and kiss him back to prove it... and then kiss him a whole lot more just because he's so damned kissable...

...And because he doesn't seem to want to stop kissing you either... which is just fine by you...

* * *