[[[[[[MONROE'S NOTE: This was the beginning of the legendary Willow/Monroe
romance.  It should be rated about PG-13. There is a first kiss, and a bit
of petting.  The poses get a little more racy than the characters.
However, this is all the sex logs you will get from us, so enjoy it. ;-)
]]]]]]



Willow's Apartment

	Upon first walking in, the reading window at the opposite end of
the living room is the first thing one sees, along with the built in
padded bench that's covered in brightly patterned throws and pillows. The
walls are white, with wall to wall bookcases, save for the areas covered
in all sorts of prints, photographs, and drawings. The floors are a wood
paneling and covered here and there in softly muted rugs, with a matching
runner in the front hallway. One corner has a computer desk and equipment,
while the opposite wall has a modest entertainment center. Her furniture
is mainly dark oak and upholstered in a rich wine color - most of the
furniture is old, but looks extremely comfortable and welcoming. The
dining alcove is off to one side and shares a two-way enterance to the
kitchen, and a small side hallway leads to two more doors, presumably the
bathroom and bedroom.

			<<Places Set>>

Contents:
Willow
Obvious exits:
Downstairs <D>

The living room has been decorated it's holiday best. There's suprisingly
no crepe, but candles are lit here and there, with fake spiderweb hanging
from walls and ceiling. Food is on the table, a bowl of candy for kids
should they ring the doorbell downstairs, some regular nosh stuff, and
some rather strange looking things, like peeled grapes, wet noodles, and
other odd condiments.

Monroe puts his head in, then leans back against the door and pushes it
open - his hands are full of a large pot filled with a simply *wonderful*
smelling brown sludge, the caramel for his caramel apples. His costume is
a natural extension of what he usually wears, with a dark blue cravat, a
tall, stiff collar beneath it, his waistcoat done up carefully, the
watch-chain dangling in front, his coat unbuttoned and hanging down below
his waist in a gentle curve, his trousers dark and buttoned on the side in
the antique way, his shoes pointed and small. Atop his head he even wears
a battered, broad hat that more or less looks like it's been run over and
stomped into the mud about twenty thousand times, and carefully cleaned
each time. Despite all this, he looks perfectly comfortable, except for
the pot in his hands and the large satchel of apples over his arm.
"Hello?" he calls out. "Tricks or treats?"

Monroe has also run streaks of grey through his hair, and in the light of
the candles, it looks a lot like he's actually wearing one of those
Founding Father wigs they talked about.

"Treats!" is the enthusiastic reply as Willow steps into view. Perhaps he
was hoping for charming, or beautiful, or even sexy - unfortunatly,
Willow's gone for silly. She wears a bright purple robe, moth-eaten and
appliqued with moons, stars, and astorlogical signs. Belted at the waist
with a bit of red rope, and on top of her head she has - you guessed it -
a conical wizard's hat, the tip bent over and flopping. She beams. "Come
on in."

Monroe grins and doesn't look at all disappointed. "We look quite the
sterotypes." he says. "Perhaps I should have made my hair stand up and
stuffed ten or twelve pencils in my pocket. Will you escort me to your
oven?"

Willow grins and leads the way to the kitchen. "Mind the eyeballs and the
stringed brains." she cautions as you pass the table. "I got us some
movies. I couldn't bear the idea of slasher films, so I picked some of
what I thought were the best movies of the genre, real horror type stuff.
That ok?"

Monroe nods. "Certainly." he says with pleasure, and he looks at the
'eyeballs' and chuckles. You notice he didn't bring any movies....of
course not. It would have been superfluous. He puts the pot on the stove
and with a delicate grace, turns on the heat. "It's only been cooling for
the few moments it took me to walk here - the apples are best when they're
fresh."

Willow peers over. "It looks yummy." she says. "I used to make my mother
buy me caramel apples at Carnival every year in Bangor." she purviews the
list. "The Excorcist, Young Frankenstein, Devil's Advocate and The
Birds...any preferences?"

Monroe hms. "I've seen the Exorcist." he says, then confesses. "I laughed
at parts of it, I'm afraid. I have no preference and will be content with
your choice." He stirs the mixture - with great effort at first, then
easier as the caramel re-melts and it goes from wonderful to heavenly. He
begins sticking popsicle sticks into apples and offers a stack to Willow.

Willow gleefully takes to sticking the apples, almost bouncing like an
excited child. "It just smells scrumptious." she says. "Will they take
long to cool?'

Willow says "Or cool, I should say. Or should they be all dripping and
gooey?"

Monroe shakes his head and smiles. "There are two schools of thought on
that." he says. "According to the watch, it takes but a few short minutes.
According to the nostrils, a thousand eternities." He grins. "I can
remember making these at Christmastide with my family." He adjusts
Willow's oven to a very low temperature and opens the door. "They will be
much cooler than the caramel is now - but they do drip." he says with a
prideful and anticipatory grin.

Willow pushes back at her hat and seems to cheer at the thought. She
pauses briefly to disappear downstairs for candy duty, and then returns,
expression expectant.

Monroe has dipped a few and laid them with a wet-sounding SMACK on the wax
paper, where they ooze alarmingly and slowly cool. When one pan is full he
takes the first apple, now much cooler, peels it up agonizingly from the
pan and offers it to Willow, with a paper towel wrapped around the stem.
He then takes one for himself.

Willow grins and holds it up. "To a scary All Hallow's!" she declares.

Monroe grins. "And a happy All Saints'." he says, biting into it. Despite
his usual smoothness, caramel gets all over his mouth, though he catches
the major drips with the paper towel.

Willow bites into hers, eyes widening at the sweetness of the caramel, and
the crisp tartness of the apple. "Oh.." she says, quickly catching the goo
on her lip. "This is so -good-!" she laughs, leaning forward a bit as she
eats and trying to catch all the drip.
Monroe takes the pan from the oven as a knock sounds downstairs. "Let us
try it on the children - the true critics." he says with a grin, wiping
futilely at his mouth. The children, of course, love it.

And their parents, knowing Willow, actually let them take them - no
razorblades here. Though Willow herself steals a good few, looking a bit
bashful and guilty about it - but doing it anyway.



Monroe, as the evening wears on, slows the flood of caramel apples to a
trickle, though with perfect timing of course, so that one warm tray comes
from the oven just as the next is ready. He leaves a fair number of
leftovers for Willow to stick in her fridge and coo over for days to come,
and consumes a bit of junk himself. When he eats the 'wrapped' candy that
Willow has laid out, he sort of picks through it, eating one piece of each
different kind. Some of them he has never tried before. Some he will never
try again, obviously. Of course, both get a bit hyper from all the sugar,
so for the first part of the movie, they're constantly getting up to check
things, pick up the debris, throw away some trash, offering each other
drinks from the fridge - but slowly but surely they end up watching the
movie. Monroe has an odd sort of way of watching movies. He'll get very
absorbed in them and then make some comment about the movie that, while
true, has nothing whatsoever to do with what's happening. And it's a
little unlike Monroe to feel like he has to fill up silence with
*something* but apparently the long space of a movie is too far to go
without having a *bit* of conversation. At first he isn't startled by
anything that happens on the screen. Then, as the movie progresses, and he
starts to actually pick up on the thread, he gets more involved, and,
paradoxically, jumps a little easier.



Willow seems to make herself exposition girl, things or concepts that may
puzzle him she finds herself explaining; even things that as she speaks,
she realizes that he probably has figured it well in hand. Finally, as the
movie ends (Devil's Advocate, further proof that slowly but surely, Keaneu
is learning to act) and the tape winds down, Willow turns to him with a
smile. "So which one next?" she asks quietly. She's taken off the hat, but
still dons the robe. "Young Frankenstein is pretty funny." she offers. She
looks a little nervous, like a cat on a hot tin roof. Scootched together
on the couch as they are, she seems uncertain of what to do with yourself
before she says softly, "I really like your costume, by the way."


Monroe nods. "And I yours." he murmurs. "Please - whichever one you like.
I am having a marvelous time."

Willow puts in the comedy, and soon, is fairly rollng with laughter. Gene
Wilder sems to send her into fits of giggles, and by the time that
'Puttin' On The Ritz' is happening, she's actually leaning against you,
trying not to howl and almost weak with laughter, and she's set off again
by the Monster's 'Puhin onna iitz!'.

Monroe also laughs - the pop culture references fly way over his head, but
Willow's own mirth makes him laugh during those parts. He more or less
roars with appreciation for the slapstick and the 'low' humor, though he
blushes at it too, since Willow's there. "Oh, playing for the penny
seats." he chuckles.

Willow has, by this time, buried her face in his chest, snickering against
him, as if she can't bear to watch anymore for fear of breaking something.
Finally she lifts her head away, wiping at tears of laughter and grinning
up at him. "It' all so simple, I know - but it always seems to just make
me fall over from laughing so hard."

Monroe freely lets her put her head there and his arm falls naturally
across her back. "Oh, no, look..look, he's got the..." It breaks him up
again and he can't reveal what 'he's got'. "Good lord - it makes me wonder
how humorous the jokes I *don't* get are!"
Willow grins. "It's insane, and terribly Ether, don't you think?" she
says, suddenly inspired, and seemingly content to remain leaning against
him, without paying a whit of intention. Soon Madeline Kahn's 'Ohh, Sweet
Mytewy Uv Wife, At Wast I Found You....' sends her into another fit.

And she's actually too drunk on laughter to even blush, considering what
Maddy's singing /about/.

Monroe nods. "Although I think that *may* me somewhat redundant. Keep it
under your hat." he says with a grin and a wink. "Wherever your hat may
be." The song sends him off, too, and though his ears still burn, it's
hard to tell the blush from the flush of laughter.

Willow ends up pressing her forehead to his as she laughs, eyes closed in
tight squinch, until finally she opens them and leans back a little.
Suprise registers, and she starts to withdraw a little, realizing that
personal space has lost power as an issue here.
Monroe hangs onto her a little bit, breathing out as the laughs degenerate
to chuckles, and peter out into giggles and grins. It's not that personal
space has lost power - it's that the power is pushing the opposite way
now. Though the movie scrambles dizzily onwards, he just grins at Willow
now. "It's certainly not what I expected." he says softly, and it just
might not matter what he's referring to.

Willow blinks. "Well. Um. Yes. It's very suprising, isn't it?" she
manages, the intellectual part of her brain screaming that she's talking
about absolute nonesense, and thre rest of her screaming back: SHUT UP!
She tilts her head. "So you're not disappointed? You don't look
disappointed."

Monroe shakes his head. "No, no, how could I be?" he says, grinning from
ear to ear, and there's a certainty in his eyes now and a reassuring tone
in his voice.

Willow looks down. "Well, I'm not exactly the best pick - " Oh, gods.
"When it comes to movies, I mean." the brown eyes come back up quickly.
Nice save. Whew.

Monroe flushes just a bit but doesn't falter. "I have three things to say
to that. First, nonsense, and second, I'll be the judge of that, and
third, nonsense again." he teases. He draws on her shoulder, just a
little, enough to bring them back together for the last scenes of the
movie.

Willow manages to lean her head against his shoulder as the movie ends,
and the credits roll. She doesn't move, either from lack of the desire to
get up and change it, or weakness from the laughter that occurred during
the movie.

Willow mutters something about fallen and can't get up under breath.

Monroe laughs a little less loudly at the last scenes and lets her lie
there, his arm around her. "Willow, I must confess something to you." he
says, and you can tell he's smiling even without looking. "I know I told
you I would respect your feelings for Lance, and not cause you any
difficulties. I fear I misled you." You can feel him tip his head
downwards a little towards her. "My affections are artless, perhaps," he
says, "and they may seem fumbling and slow to you. But I could no more
stop them than we could stop laughing - and I could conjure up no more
desire to stop, either." He puts his warm graceful hand under her chin,
brushing it upwards a little to help her look at him, should she choose.
"I know this is meant to be terribly dreary and serious, but I can't help
smiling when I see you."

Willow bites her lip, trying to keep from letting the words fly out of her
mouth. "When I was with Lance it was this heady light feeling, like I
wasn't tied to this earth anymore."

Willow says "When I'm with you, it's more like I know exactly where I am.
Lance - his world and my world, they can perhaps contrast, but they can
never really compare. I had to learn that, and..." she smiles a little. "I
found that I like knowing where I am."

Monroe is still smiling. "I know naught of Lance and his world and
frankly, looking upon you now I care naught." He's smiling, and his voice
comes soft and low, but on your back you can feel his warm hand tremble a
little. "If my affections give you pleasure, it is enough for me..."

Willow's cheeks have cast themselves scarlet. "So." she says, fumbling a
bit. "We..forge ahead?" she suggests, visibly a little scared, but in a
delighted way. "I don't mind slow. Slow is good. I really like slow, in
fact." she then pauses. "But not too slow." she rectifies.

Monroe is nodding in agreement when she rectifies, and he chuckles a
little in spite of himself. "No," he murmurs, "not *too* slow." Oddly, as
his edginess has increased, his embarassment has decreased, as if by
letting compliments to Willow come out he is releasing a pressure that was
damned up. And how, on the end of 'not too slow', his other hand reaches
down and takes her hand, the hand on her back pulls her forward slightly
as he leans down a little. He intends to kiss her, his height giving him
just the perfect angle.

Yet again, we are presented with the strange duplicity of Willow's mind:
The intellectual aspect that is smirking in its satisfaction, and the rest
of her (including that lovely lack of anything resembling social savvy)
now crying out for help in a bleated panic. This produces a stunned
Willow, which of course, leaves her in perfect stillness, the ideal means
from which to be kissed. Sometimes warring ego is a good thing.

Monroe's kiss is remarkably chaste. At this point, with these two, though,
it hardly matters, does it? His lips are warm and easy, and his eyes close
slowly. There is only the slightest touch of tongue, the barest hint, like
sealing an envelope, or a promise. The credits are over. There is only
silent white static now. With her hand in his, the ruffles of his sleeve
brush against her fingertips. On her back his large hand splays out a
little, covering it broadly. His wiry arms hold her gently. All in all,
it's very, very low-key. That might just make it worse, though, or better.

Willow still has her eyes closed as he pulls away, and can only say one
word as she opens them. "Oh." Very quietly, like she's had some sort of
revelation.



Willow furrows her brow. "Oh." she manages. "Oh, my." she then blinks, and
then suddenly blurts swiftly, "Niles wants you and me and him to go the
Gaslight. To talk about you joining the Cabal, and the Chantry."

Monroe blinks. He withdraws slightly. "I have heard only the vaguest
rumors. I would like to know more. Did he intend that we meet tonight?"

Willow shakes her head. "Oh, no. Some other time." she furrows her brow.
"It's amazing what you think of when you're being kissed. Your mind
freezes on one hand, and on the other you start processing the most
bizarre things."

Monroe laughs a little. "Yes, yes." he says, and he touches his own brow
with a graceful gesture. "I'm afraid I was wholly too overcome to even
remember what we were talking about before." He leaves his arm around her.
"I've never been in a cabal before, unless you count the Thursday evening
poker games at Willoughby's in Yerba Buena."

Willow looks sheepish. "I'm sorry. I should have been more a-flutter by
it.." she considers. "You should try again." she confirms solemnly.

Monroe laughs again, blushing. "I shall." he says, less solemnly, but the
kiss is just as serious this time, perhaps even a little more so, his hand
on hers, his other hand drifting along her side to reach all the way
around her shoulders, a little more traditionally embracing her as they
kiss. He is no more adventurous - the kiss coaxes, rather than overwhelms.
It doesn't tease, but with his eyes closed and his wiry body up against
hers, there is no need to.

Monroe finally ends (not breaks) the kiss, and says, as he withdraws
slightly. "You should try sometime, too." he murmurs. "You are the first
woman I've kissed in over a hundred years and I am not sure I quite know
when to start and stop."


Willow's spine seems to straighten with that kiss. No random thoughts
here. She lets out a breath. "That was um, much more focussed." she
manages after a moment, and then blinks. "Stop?" she sounds horrified at
the thought.

Monroe looks surprised. "No, I mean. Stop. The kiss. Like just now. My
timing isn't *always* perfect."

Monroe is a bit discombobulated. The kiss must have thrown him for a
little of a loop too.

Willow blinks. "But I don't want you to." Minds are obviously running on
different tracks.

Monroe chuckles and blushes again. "This is not at all how I imagined it."
he says cheerfully. "Never mind. Suffice to say that you should also make
the attempt sometime, and do not fear that you will offend my
sensibilities."


Willow looks a little daunted by this possibility. Her nose wrinkling in
thought, she then nods, and a little nervously, like she's expecting some
demon to pop out between them at any moment, places her lips against his.
It's incredibly forward, and incredibly frightening for her to take such
initiative.

Monroe is equally nervous, but responds with the same warmth as before.
Although Willow's kiss is perhaps less experienced, it seems to take his
breath away *much* more than when he kissed her. He swallows. "Ah...and
you see, the world, she still spins." he murmurs reassuringly, exhaling
hard. "Whoa." He recovers himself and lets out a small laugh at their
continued attachment to each other, but makes no move to pull away. "Does
this qualify as a scary All Hallow's?"

Willow says honestly, "I'm utterly frightened to death, and I wouldn't
want to switch places with anyone." she laughs a little. "I'm so
frightened I'm stuck to my spot!"

Monroe grins. "And me?" He murmurs. "Trapped in the clutches of a scheming
witch, the Yankee clockmaker would plan an escape if only he *wanted* to.
There's a story in there somewhere, probably a very bad one."

Willow laughs. "I'm a sorceress, not a witch. You sound like a Penny
Dreadful."



Monroe grins wider. "Yes, a sorceress. Caught by an inexorable spell cast
by the evil sorceress with an admittedly silly hat on the night when her
powers are at her peak...you see, the longer the sentences the more
Dreadful the Penny." He stops teasing and draws her up very close, their
faces only scant inches apart. "I hope the desire does not pass with the
fear." he murmurs.


Willow shakes her head. "I'm a little uncertain what to do. But I could
stay curled up like this all night." she relaxes against him, putting her
cheek to his chest, head fitting under his chin. "I'm worried about when
you meet Niles. I don't want him to reject you because you used to be with
the Union." she admits. Woo. Subject change again.



Monroe nods. "You are right to worry." he says easily, and he lets her
curl up, and change the subject this time. Perhaps he has said all that he
has to say on the other subject. "I wonder that even if you and he are
fully confident in me, that I will remain a liability, that your group
will not be as trusted or respected by others. That would be doubly
unfortunate, since I rely so little on the outside assistance of the
Tradition and you, Niles and the rest would bear an incommensurable burden
for your trust."


Willow says gently, "But I know how you feel. We know how you feel. It's
as simple as Entropy to prove otherwise."

Monroe laughs slightly. "Yes, but even so - it is your reputation I am
concerned for, and the assistance it can command. Between rumor and
prejudice...well...neither are amenable to reason, nor to proof or
disproof, via the Entropy or any other method." He lowers his eyes
slightly. "It was a closer thing than I have told you, re-appearing in San
Francisco. There was a faction, not large, but vocal, which suggested
strongly that I simply be shot."

Willow frowns. "That wouldn't do much good, would it?" she considers. "I
don't know if the better route would be to tell Niles or not to tell him."

Monroe looks a little surprised. "I was going to tell him." he says
easily. "He would find out one day anyhow, and it seems unfair not to."

Willow nods, unhappy. "He's just so paranoid."

Monroe brushes her cheek with the back of his hand. "I don't want to
disappoint you - I know you are eager to involve me in the project." he
murmurs. "And for my own part, knowing little about the nature of the
cabal or the chantry, I cannot have any feeling against it. And I am
always willing to fight prejudice and unreason with all the tools at my
disposal. But I would not trick you, or Niles, or any man into a stand
which they did not want to take. Regardless of what happens, we will have
this..." and he touches her lips with a finger, and there is no doubting
what he means "...between us and the controversy will not touch the
affections I offer, I swear it."


Willow smiles and says in a melodramatic voice, "Our is a forbidden love."
she's too caught up in the joke of it to see a reason to blush.

Monroe snickers himself, also not blushing. "Two households, both alike in
dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break
to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean." he intones.

Willow makes a face. "I never liked Romeo. Always such a whiner."

Monroe nods with a grin. "I agree! I always tried to sneak out after
Mercutio died."

Willow laughs. "Let's see. My favorite play is Midsummer Night's Dream. I
always sort of felt sorry for Helena, but my grandfather always insisted
that I'm more of a Hermia type."

Monroe ponders. "I always loved Henry the Fifth." he says. "Once more into
the breach, and all that sort of gallant nonsense. Although I was
completely enthralled by 'Julius Caesar' when I saw Edwin Booth's
production in Philadelphia. It just reached out to you. But on the printed
page it did not have the same draw."

Willow grins. "That's so fascinating. How you can talk about it as if it
were just yesterday. You know, you'd be priceless to a kid who wanted to
know if life was really black and white back then, and why people never
smiled in pictures."

Monroe laughs. "Because you had to sit so still for so *long*!" he says.
"Frozen there as the minutes tick by, not even allowed to blink, or nod
off, or fall over. It was torture itself! Thankfully, I only endured it a
few times."

Willow ahh's. "The truth revealed!" she announces, pleased. "But what
about everything being black and white?"

Monroe says, quite casually, "Oh, that! Actually, color was an innovation
of the Union. It was scheduled to appear in about 1939. There was a secret
undertaking that planned to find all of the old paintings and paint over
them in color to make it appear as if it had always been there, but there
were just too many photographs to do those too."

Willow giggles and playfully pokes his stomach. "You're such a bad liar."

Monroe grins. "I thank you for your kind compliment." he says teasingly.

Willow laughs. "You're very welcome." she considers, and then after a
moment's consideration, leans forward and kisses him. Spontaneous kissage
from Willow! Well, almost spontaneous, she analyzed first. Really, it's
more like she's experimenting.

Monroe is surprised - Willow's analysis of course goes about twice as fast
as his, though he's not slow. But he's pleased and responds with more
vigor than before, just a little more, his hands sliding up her back along
the robe to the skin at the base of her neck. His lips are still warm, his
hand delivrers a gentle caress to her wrist and upper arm, the cloth of
his coat bunching up at the elbows as he crooks it to hold her.

Willow parts from that kiss, turning her face to the side. "Practice is
good." she manages weakly. "I think I can get used to the whole initiative
concept." she sits back and studies him critically, as if worried he's
going to explode.

Monroe doesn't look like he's going to explode. (Get your mind out of the
gutter, Dayna. I mean that in a *nice* way.) He says *very* softly, "As
could I." Then in a slightly lighter tone, "I confess it has made me a
complete convert to female liberation already."

(My filthy mind? I hadn't thought of it, til now. Hmph.) She tilts her
head. "Well, I'm not exactly ready to turn into Gloria Steinem, ok? It's
still me, here." she taps her chest. "Little Willow."

Monroe grins. "Little? No, never." he says. "I cannot name a single
quality of yours which I would term 'little' in magnitude. Your beauty,
your charm, your wit, your intelligence and humor..." (yes, he said
beauty) "...all are so vast that I have yet to find an end to them."

Willow blushes, almost too much so to speak. "This is rather frightening.
I haven't felt this good since the old days when I used to curl up in a
chair with a blanket, a cup of tea, and the Romantics."

Monroe murmurs easily, "You only lack the blanket and the tea, I think."

Monroe and Willow make out as described. When one particularly torrid kiss
ends, Monroe says, "I think that was my most enjoyable All Hallow's ever,
and it's shaping up to be my most enjoyable All Saint's." Sure enough, the
clock is well past midnight (of course he didn't have to look.)

Willow's sort of trying not to have a purely hypocondriac asthma attack
from all this heavy breathing. "Mine, too. Of course, my parents didn't
let me celebrate Halloween for the longest time."


Monroe tilts his head. "For religious reasons, or did they fear its
corrupting influence..." He adds mischievously, running his hand along her
back, "...that would lead to lascivious behavior on couches in the dark."

Willow actually shudders when he does that, and says, "Well, they felt it
was inappropriate for me to celebrate a pagan holiday. Then my grandfather
told them they were being silly, and that it was all in fun nowadays. Of
course, grampa's still a closet Hermetic."

Monroe nods. "He sounds like quite a character." he murmurs. "My own
family was Presbyterian, though Mexico said all immigrants had to convert
to Catholicism to be allowed into California. I suppose I lost touch with
organized religion at that time...though there was something so sublime in
the wilderness, the unspoiled territory..." He grins and looks away. "I
was told by a dear friend never to talk about religion with a woman. We
must be too...deep for our own good."

Willow smiles. "I don't mind the occaisional theological argument, so long
as it stays on the intellectual side. It's stimulating."

Monroe nods. "And you stimulate me to undertake the challenge." He
flushes. "Intellectually, of course." That she stimulates him physically
is no longer in doubt. He even is sweating a little in all the layers of
those clothes, tight in the wrong places and loose in the wrong places.

Willow eyes him speculatively. "Maybe we should stop...?" she offers
tentatively. She doesn't really want to, but he looks terribly
uncomfortable.

Monroe grins. "Good lord, no." he says fervently. "Though if I may loosen
my collar a little. It is no longer Halloween, after all, and there is
nobody yet alive who would be surprised by the action."

Willow chuckles a little. "Ok." she says, and then reaches over and
loosens his collar for him, then withdrawing her hands to her lap.

Monroe's collar comes a little loose, and he then adjusts his cravat,
pulling it down (the knot is a thick-looking thing) touching Willow's
hands gently as they withdraw. "My thanks." he murmurs.


Willow grins. "You really need a top hat to go with that." she suddenly
realizes, "You could practically be the Mad Hatter!"

Monroe tilts his head, smiling, not understanding for a moment, then
laughs, "Oh! Alice! Yes, I suppose I might be. I might fit in better with
the rest of the Etherians if I were, as well!"

Willow grins. "Of course, we're in a strange story where Alice ends up
kissing the Mad Hatter on a couch down the rabbit hole, and the Cheshire
Cat remains on guard downstairs."

Monroe grins. "Hotep is not at all a grin without a cat. He was quite the
reverse when I last saw him, in fact." He pauses, then asks curiously,
"Did he just...adopt you? I'm curious as to how others have acquired their
familiars."

Willow ah's. "Well, he sort of came with the store. I think he was a
spirit that Mrs. Beasely made some kind of pre-arranged bargain with
before she passed away."

Monroe nods. "Ah..." he says softly. "Mrs. Beasely must have treasured you
very highly indeed."

Willow sighs. "I miss her. She knew alot, and was far more wordly then she
used to let on."

Monroe nods sympathetically, brushing her face with his hand again, as if
she needed a reminder of their physical contact. "My own mentor in the
Union...we had a falling out. The last time I saw him I cursed him
upwards, downwards and sideways in Spanish, English and Ohlme. But when I
realized I would never speak to him again...it was a different feeling."

Willow considers her words carefully. "Alot of times, your mentor is the
anchor of your whole world. To break from that, or to forcibly be broken -
is difficult.



Monroe nods. "Yes." he murmurs. "In my case it was a little of both. Once
they cut me off from their supply of Quintessential energy, it was a short
road to destruction. Partly choice, and partly...well, fate, perhaps,
though I tend to disparage the article."


Willow says adamantly, "And yet look at where you ended up. Here...in
Larson, I mean."

Monroe nods. "I must admit," he says with a grin. "The evidence, from
where I sit, is very persuasive." His eyes sparkle.

Willow chuckles. "Well, maybe I wouldn't quite buy it being worth being
stuck in a Paradox realm for too terribly long."

Monroe grins. "I am not sure it is not a good bargain, but if we believe
in fate, we have no choice. That is, incidentally, my most serious
objection to it. I would rather take the blame for being taken so
completely or the credit for arranging such a bargain than let my fate
steal it from me." He says this very lightly, bringing Willow closer in.
"But if this is fate," he murmurs, "I may have to reconsider." He kisses
her again, softly...the looseness of his collar allows him to tilt his
head a little more, lean her back a little more - he's taller than her and
the angle of a Hollywood kiss, his arms slipping across her again.

Willow's toes curl quite readily, and then she laughs after it breaks off.
"Oh, my mother is going to kill me. Mind if I lie and tell her you're
Jewish?" she chuckles.

Monroe blinks, but doesn't have time to look shocked before he notices her
grin and her chuckle and relaxes again. "You may tell her I'm from the
Fiji islands and live in a post-office box if it means we will remain
together more."

Willow smiles. "It just means she'll like you." she promises.

Monroe laughs a little. "I leave the matter of lying to your relatives
wholly in your hands."

Monroe teases this.

Willow grins. "Thank you." she says primly, and then in another dart of
subject, asks worriedly, "What if the others own't accept you? What if
they say I can't see you?'

Monroe pauses. "The others...your family?"

Willow says "Niles, and the rest of the cabal."



Monroe rubs his brow slightly. "I do not know." he murmurs somewhat
apologetically. "I confess I had not considered it that far. I think I
might rightly ask you the question first, for the pressure would be upon
your shoulders and heart, though I will not pretend that the result would
not affect mine."

Willow furrows her brow. "I wouldn't be the only one with involvement
outside the cabal." she insists. "It won't be a problem. It just won't. It
can't be."

Monroe says very softly, "I am sure you are right. Did they object to
Lance?"

Willow says "I don't think they really cared about Lance, because he
wasn't part of our world."

Monroe pauses. "That is vey true." he sighs a little. But then he grins.
"I have been trying my very best to win all of you over - I will confess
to exerting more energy in your direction than in any other, and I am
likely to continue that practice. I hope you do not object."

Willow smiles. "No objections here." she assures. "I'm trying to maintain
a favorable yet not to obviously biased campaign for you, myself."

Monroe grins slyly, sharing the joke with her as his hand rests warmly on
her waist. "May I ask who else is in the cabal?" he says. "Niles,
you,...that Xerxes fellow, perhaps? I have only briefly met him..."

Willow nods. "And Bardon. You've met."

Monroe nods. "Oh, Bardon. He is an easygoing fellow - I think he
appreciates my position well. After the gaffe with my 'am-fem' radio, at
least." he says, rolling his eyes a bit.

Willow laughs. "Well, that was kind of silly, yes."

Monroe grins. "It won't be the last mistake I make, I'm sure."

Willow says "May they all be harmless ones, though."

Monroe chuckles. "Harmless, or you." he teases.

Willow blinks. "Me? A mistake?" she doesn't follow.

Monroe shakes his head and blushes. "If I make a mistake," he says, "let
it be in the direction of harmlessness, or let me err too greatly on your
behalf. That sounds terrible, doesn't it? Why don't you just kiss me and
put a stop to it?" he says with a smile...

Willow nods. "That seems to be the best way to prevent rambling." she
takes this on as an important duty, applying all the attention that such
would require, and ending up half in his lap by the time it ends.

Monroe's lap is actually kinda comfortable with the soft cloth of a
waistcoat, coat, tall trousers, shirt and undershirt. With the lateness of
the hour it is becoming less of a duty and more of a passion for him,
though not so much so that he is out of control. (I'm sure I don't need to
tell you about what Willow may inadvertently detect when half in his lap.)
He shakes his head as if a little dizzy. "So...what were we talking about
again?" he asks, mock-confused.

Willow laughs. "Um. I forgot?" she says, easing back away. Yup. She's a
little alarmed, but suprisingly good at not showing it too much, and then
offers carefully, "Maybe we should back down, a little."

Monroe nods. "If you like." he says genially. "Let me get you something to
drink, then. Some water, perhaps?"

Willow says, "There's juice in the fridge, if you wouldn't mind pouring me
some."
Monroe nods, he leans upwards, his joints popping slightly as his wiry
form unfurls itself. Wow. You've been on the couch a long time. He
gracefully crosses the floor and pours two generous helpings of juice.

Willow yawns a little sleepily, her nose wrinkling in the Willow-Way.

Monroe brings the juice back and sits down with her again. "I understand
that it is unfashionable to mention, but it is late...you look very tired.
Shall I withdraw for the evening?" He sips his juice.

Willow sighs. "Oh, not just yet?" she pleads. "Soon, but not just yet."

Monroe beams at her. "I shall stay as long as you can keep one eye
fractionally open to look upon me." he says gallantly.

Willow claps her hands together adamantly. "Good." she accepts the drink,
and takes a hearty sip. "I just thought maybe we both should catch our
breath."

Monroe smiles into the juice and takes a long drink. "I'm afraid these
clothes were just not meant for this kind of activity." he says, tugging
the sleeves down a little from where they have bunched at the elbows. "Had
I but known, I would have come as your hunchbacked assistant or some such
creature. So much for my supposed foresight."

Willow laughs a little. "I don't know." she shies, "I think it's sort of
helpful. I mean, it's sort of keeping things limited to umm, about where I
can handle them, for the moment." she pauses. "You don't mind, right? I
don't want you to think I'm trying to err, frustrate you or anything." she
turns pink. That happens alot tonight.

Monroe doesn't get it. "Frustrate? Whatever do you mean?" Finally! He gets
to be clueless, too!

Oh, god. She struggles for an appropriate definition. "I don't want you to
think I'm deliberately trying to leave you ahh... unfulfilled?...because
of mean-spiritedness." She mentally prays he gets it.


Monroe peers again. "Unfulfilled..." He *almost* doesn't get it for a long
moment, and then just when she is resigning herself to having to explain,
he colors deeply. "Oh, no, no, no, I would never dream, oh, no, Willow,
no. Even I am willing to only do so much tonight, though I may desire the
moon, stars and sky. How did you say it? Handling?"

Willow smiles a little and manages, "Well, I don't mind if you -dream-."

Monroe smiles back, though he still can't meet her eyes. "Nor I if you
dream." he murmurs. "Nor I even if some part of you desires. It is all of
you that I offer my affections to, the sum - the whole."

Willow puts a hand to her own cheek, feeling the warmth of her blush. "I
think I get the whole back-seat obsession thing now that all the other
kids were having in high school and in college."

Monroe smiles downwards. "I am not quite sure why the obsession would be
in the back seat." he says softly. "But I think I know what you mean."

Willow says quickly, "But this is a good thing. We're adults." she inches
closer. "We have..." inch..inch.."..better sense." oh, dear. Kissing is
happening again.

Monroe lifts his face just in time to kiss her. His large hands reach out
and take her by the waist and draw her body nearer, perhaps even up across
his own body again. It is a tentative French kiss this time, his tongue
slipping warmly to her lips, his own mouth opening a little wider, again,
a promise more than a tease.

Willow blinks, processes, and then this new technique is met with
enthusiasm, if tentatively so. Fingers creep up to his hair, almost
shakily running through it, as if she didn't knowwhat to do with her
hands.

Monroe reacts to her hands in his hair with a sudden jolt of passion,
pressing himself forwards a little, his hands now definitely pressing her
body close close to his. The jolt slowly fades, a withdrawal, but not an
apology. (Apparently that's the right thing to do with your hands - the
hair or the neck or *something* like that, Willow's intellectual side
notes through the delirium.)

Pleased by the reaction, but certainly not expecting how adamant, she
allows herself to be pressed. The withdrawal seems unwelcome, and she
seems right where she is, if now more curious, one of those hands settling
on his neck. Though it's fast getting to the point where breaking off
before the proverbial meltdown seems to come faster, and is less easy to
resist.

Monroe certainly is having a hard time breaking off before a 'meltdown'.
When she presses forwards as he slowly withdraws, he slides one
large-palmed long-fingered warm hand smoothly up from her waist, along the
side of her body, slipping along her ribcage, around to the flesh of her
back, upwards to her shoulder and the bare skin of her neck, slipping
beneath her hair in a slow, graceful, warm caress that seems to linger
along the whole path. His collar, loose and awry now, touches the
underside of her chin.


Willow takes a deep breath before pulling away, with great reluctancy.
"Okay.." she says shakily, "This might be the part where you should go."
she blinks rapidly, trying not to hyperventilate.

Monroe doesn't hyperventilate or blink or anything, he just nods.
"Yes...yes, you're right." He slowly - agonizingly, almost, shifts Willow
off of him and rises, slowly. He brushes his hand across her brow when he
does. "I had a marvelous time." he murmurs. "I will call on you soon."


Sure, sure. We all know where Monroe's feeling it. She gets the vapors, he
goes home and takes a cold shower. She nods. "Please." she says, catching
his hand and letting it slide slowly out of hers as he steps away.

Monroe takes his pot of congealed, cold caramel mix, and his hat and his
cookie sheets, the detritus of the evening, and he is grinning more or
less like a goofball. "Happy All Saints'." he says, arms full, as she
shows him to the door.

Willow grins. "Jews don't have Saints, but same to you." she says, and
quite deliberately avoids kissing him - perhaps fearing a replay of what
happened on the couch, with less chance of being able to resist. "Do you
want me to confirm getting together with Niles?"

Monroe nods. "Since he hasn't contacted me directly, I think that's what
he's expecting." The goodnight-kiss is apparently not in his paradigm, so
he doesn't expect it and isn't disappointed by its absence. Instead, he
bows on her doorstep and bids her goodnight.

Willow does do the lingering by the door a la Juliet thing, watching him
head down the stairs, even as Hotep runs up them (with a HUGE smirk - no
doubt having found a way to eavesdrop somehow on the whole thing). With a
soft smile and fingers lightly on her lips, she closes the door behind her
and heads for bed.