You know I hate it when you do that

It was a beautiful summer night, and I was bored... I wanted to write something light, just to spend a good time. It resulted in pure Willow/Legolas fluff, no angst whatsoever, the kind that's good to write once in a while. Then I had it beta'ed by CinnamonGrrl, who was extremely helpful in her remarks, especially about Legolas' OOC-ness. This here is a version completely revamped after her excellent advice.

“I hate you!”

I smile indulgently. “You have been saying so often enough, milady.”

“Oh, and stop miladying me right now,” Willow demands of me. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

“That I do know,” I agree with another gracious smile. “Milady.”

What is there to be said? I am admittedly rather fond of riling Willow Rosenberg. I have always been, from the moment I was introduced to her slightly panicked self three years ago, a few hours after one of my kinswomen found her in the woods. There she was, bewildered and scared, only just torn from the world she knew, and yet I almost immediately enjoyed making her angry.

There was this misunderstanding, and then - well, then I saw the true Willow Rosenberg, behind the layers of terrified and lost. I saw the - how is it she once said? - spitfire.

Yes, spitfire.

The spitfire whom it took the whole of three minutes to hate me, Legolas, son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood. And I have loved every second of it.

“I hate you, I hate you, and I hate you,” Willow babbles on, pacing angrily. “Why do you even bother with ‘calling on me’?” she finger-quotes. “Not like we get on, plus it always ends this way. I get mad, and you get - okay, you just get amused. Ha-ha. Feeling the fun around here.”

I cannot help smiling more genuinely, bowing my head in a feeble attempt to hide it. “I am always glad to be of assistance. Milady.”

Willow halts and looks straight at me as if she wanted to behead me with her glare. “Did you take an oath or something? That you’d drive me mad before I turned twenty-five?”

“Not that I know of.”

She has this spark in her eyes, whenever she is angry. Like a little fire, no bigger than a candle flicker, but as touching as those roaming in the rooms of the palace every night. Those I often find her staring at when she lingers in the empty rooms after the last party went to bed. I hardly ever go to her when she is in one of those moods. I then respect her desire for solitude.

“You just stop mocking me right now, Mister Mirkwood, or I swear -” She takes in a breath and remains quiet.

“Yes?” I prompt her with an insolent wave of my hand.

She tuts at me sharply. “I’m trying to find something horrible enough. Let me think.”

There is also the way her nostrils slightly flare, and the frown of her brow. Not to mention that babbling habit of hers, quite lovely. Yes, she is quite, quite lovely. That I noticed during our first encounter, too.

I wait patiently for a few more seconds, observing her. “If you need me to leave you alone so you can think better, milady...” I stand up.

“No,” Willow immediately replies. “You stay right here and wait for the punishment to come.”

I bow and sit back down. She simply glares at me. She seems to hate formalities around herself as much as she thinks she hates me.

“I can’t think when you’ve got that smirk on your face,” she blames me after a few more seconds of silence. “But I’ll get you good some day. Whenever I find something you truly deserve.”

“As you wish, milady,” I reply with a small smile.

“Now that’s just too Princess Bride,” Willow mutters, not low enough for me not to hear, then blushes as she notices my raised eyebrows. “Damn your Elvish ears. And I’m not explaining any pop culture reference tonight.”

“As you wish,” I repeat, gratified that this phrasing affects her by the blush that keeps spreading on her cheeks.

This is yet another benefit of crossing her. Blushes.

Willow turns away abruptly and goes and sits herself on a chair on the other side of the room, fidgeting nervously. “So. Why do you call on me all that often? All you do is try your best at making me mad. I bet there’s a few elvish girls of your acquaintance whose company would be more pleasurable...” The blush is making another shy appearance. “You know.”

“I do,” I acquiesce with another smirk. I know of my popularity, there is no point in false modesty. “And yet crossing you is all I seem to care about.”

That makes her start pacing again. Her brow is frowned and she is wriggling her hands, her mouth moving soundlessly as if she were having an argument with herself. Would she at last be coming to terms with her attraction to me? Watching her fight it has been quite entertaining, but I must admit I had underestimated her capacity for denial. I would have thought she would see through it long ere now.

“Milady?”

“Oh for Pete’s sake call me Willow!” she lets out, halting. I have long since stopped wondering who Pete was. “And nothing. There’s nothing.”

“You were talking to yourself,” I point out.

I have never yet managed to get her that upset; hopefully it bodes well and signals that her denial is crumbling down at last. Granted, I could have forced her to admit to her attraction to me long ago, but it would have cut my amusement short. I wish for her to come to me of her own free will. I have desired her ever since I first laid eyes on her; my victory would not quite be complete if I forced it upon her.

“Did you hear any sound coming out? Talking comes with sounds. No sounds, no talking. Hence, no talking to myself.”

I raise my eyebrows at her, tilting my head to the side.

“There was no talking!” she protests again.

I keep the same expectant expression.

“Fine,” she finally grumbles as she resumes pacing. “Let’s imagine - you know, sometimes, fights and all that - I had a couple of friends - or rather - I can’t do this!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up.

I am now watching her worriedly, certain that it will unnerve her some more. She was quite close to confessing to it, just now. Victory is nigh. There is a burst of warmth in my chest at the thought that I might at last call her mine ere my visit here is over, but I make sure it does not perturb the concerned look on my face.

“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy!” she demands.

I stand up. “Perhaps you do not feel well. Should I leave you alone, or call Eamariel to your side?”

“I don’t need a doctor, and I certainly don’t need you to go.” She bites her lower lip. “Alright, Will. Carpe diem. Remember the Buffian advice, only to put to trial in case of pulseful guys,” she tells herself.

I frown. I do not understand, these words are even more confusing than those she usually uses when mad at me. “Carpe di-”

I am cut off by her lips.

At last.

She tastes as good as I ever thought she would, a peculiar flavour, slightly spicy, with a hint of the forbidden. I know well the story of Beren and Lúthien. I have oftentimes discussed it with Aragorn, and listened to his own doubts and fears. He does not wish to force Arwen Undómiel to stay here, when Valinor awaits her. Ilúvatar never meant for the Eldar and Men to join, but I cannot bring myself to think that He would disapprove of any truly pure love, even though it would transcend His design.

Moreover, Willow is no Child of Ilúvatar. She is from another world, with their own deities. Her very being in Eä transcends His design.

Our lips part quickly; it was but a foretaste of what is to come. I look down at her, masking my emotions.

Willow looks fearful. “So, I think that’s the part where you burst out laughing.”

I cannot help myself. “Laughing, milady?”

Her whole face closes up and she slaps me not so slightly on the arm. “No milady. Willow.”

Ay, maybe it is time for me to call her Willow.

“Laughing?” I merely repeat.

Willow steps back, looking away. “Yeah. You know. ‘Cause you hate me. And - and I always say I hate you. But then there was Xander and Cordy and we were part of the anti-Cordy club and I never really got how he could have found himself smoochying with her, only now I get it a bit too well and can you never stop me in my babbling, like, ever?”

I do not understand a word of her tirade, but find myself strangely unable to care. Her first words are what I need to address now; it would not do to keep up this charade much longer, for fear that I should lose her. Now is time to make her see my truth. “I do not hate you. I would not call on you if I did.”

Willow looks up at me hesitantly. “You don’t?”

“I do not.”

“So it’s just irritation and amusement then.”

“It is not. Although it is part of it.”

“O-kay,” Willow lets out. “Part of what? What’s the rest of the parts?”

I am not sure I want to answer this. Let her figure things out on her own. Her intellect is sharp enough, although it has ever seemed to desert her whenever I was in the vicinity. It is high time she came to grips with my motives; I never did conceal them. Suddenly I feel the weight of the years on me, faced with this child. I must be patient with her; mature though she is for one so young, she still lacks the wisdom I am accustomed to find in my peers.

Willow bites her lower lip again in a nervous gesture, which sends a shiver down my spine. This has been so long coming.

“You don’t - I mean, there’s no way you - that kiss - did you, by any chance - like it?”

“I might have, milady.”

Yes, much too long coming.

“Stop it,” Willow says crossly again. I am puzzled at the look in her eyes - not anger, but hurt. Then still, she will not see? “Stop playing with me. I’m sick of this game. I like you. I hate you and I like you and I’m sick of it.” She strides back up to me, facing me. “So, now you decide: you wanna kiss those lips some more or what?”

I suppose I should give her more proof of my intentions, then. I bend down to answer her question. She is surprised at first, tense, but relaxes almost immediately as her arms circle my neck, pulling me closer to her. My hands come to rest on her waist and I revel in the feeling of touching her, even though through this fabric. A foretaste.

We pull back and a saying of hers comes to my mind: old habits die hard. Her eyes are glazed over with lust and I cannot help wishing to see them shine with anger again. I jerk my hands off her. “I beg your forgiveness, milady.”

“Huh?” For an instant her face keeps that faraway look, before irritation sweeps over her features again. “And Willow! We just kissed! Can’t you call me Willow now?”

“Willow.” I had never heard myself say her name out loud. It sounds rather nice on my tongue, just like on any other’s for that matter. I love her name. “I am sorry.”

“Again with the ‘huh?’ there,” she admits. “Unless you’re sorry about something you’re about to do, in which case I need to tell you you don’t want to see me when I’m really mad.”

“No, I mean propriety,” I answer, trying hard to keep my mirth off my features. Playing the role of the prude is highly entertaining. “I should not have taken those liberties with you.”

Willow frowns at me. “Haldir wasn’t that big of a freak in the kissing section. I thought it was just a facade for all of you guys.”

It is my turn to frown as my lungs tighten. My game has just turned against me. “Haldir?”

“Didn’t work out,” Willow says with a small dismissive wave of her hand. “What, did you think I’d been pining for you for three years? I’ve got needs as well. And I’m freaking you out, right? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you.”

“It is quite alright,” I say curtly. There has always been little love between myself and the over-arrrogant Marchwarden.

“No, it’s not. I freaked you out. I’m so sorry.”

She eagerly walks up to me and takes my right hand in hers, an honest gesture which should not make my stomach tighten with an interesting mixture of feelings. I should be able to cling to this feeling of possessivity and jealousy thinking of her with Haldir of all beings brings forth, but instead I find myself drowning in her eyes, and there is naught but her and me, now, that matter.

I am caught at my very own game. This is most unpleasant. “I -”

Willow simply looks so genuinely sorry and worried, there is this little pout of her lower lip which makes me want to nibble it. The kiss is wilder than before, and I cannot but completely forego my prudish role as our bodies press close together. I have been awaiting this for so long. I am glad to notice she shows some initiative as she moves us over to a settee and straddles me. My hands rest naturally on her lips, bringing her down on me.

By now, thoughts have become quite dispensable.

She breaks the kiss, her breathing ragged and the shadow of a smirk playing on her lips. “I think you talk too much.”

“I noticed so, milady,” I reply with a smug smile.

“Stop that,” she says seriously. “You know I hate it.”

My smile widens. “I do.”

We resume kissing.

Just as I anticipated, this is quite as pleasant as arguing with her.

~~ the end ~~