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Author's Chapter Notes:
We just wanted to let you all know that we are aware that there's another Spuffy story with a similar premise to ours. It’s a Fantasy story (all human) and from what we’ve read of it, it’s a very good one; but aside from the basic idea of the desk, both stories are completely different, we can promise you that. Anyway, we wrote to the other author before we began to write ours to get her consent to write this story, because we didn't want to step on anyone's toes.



This story would be mostly a romantic comedy, with just a little touch of angst. So, if you’re up for having a good time along with us, well, we’ll be very happy that you join us. We’re hoping to be able to post one chapter per week, probably on Sundays, since we’re both writing other stories individually and have to keep writing those.



Last, but not least, we want to thank Amelia-Jane, TammyAsh666, jt, SarahandJamesFanatic, Im_bloody_English, Brat, cordykitten and SpaceLord, for reviewing. You wouldn’t believe how happy it makes us to know that you’re all enjoying the story. :D
*The poem that appears in this chapter is called ‘Up and Up’ and it was written by the amazing Xionin, who was very kind to let us use it in this story.

Chapter II

London, 1880

“Oh, mother, you didn’t have to buy me this,” William said, his enraptured expression belying his words as he ran his fingers reverentially over the desk that his mother had just given him as his birthday gift. It was the same desk that he’d been admiring earlier that week when they’d visited the furniture shop. He’d thought he’d been stealthy enough for her not to notice; but then again by now he should’ve known that there was very little that his mother wasn’t aware of when it was related to him.
After all, a mother always knows best.

“Nonsense, my dear, you deserve this and so much more for being such a wonderful son,” she said, smiling fondly at her son’s reaction to the desk. She’d just known that it would be the perfect gift for him. “I got an excellent deal for it. If I didn’t know better I would have thought that Mr. Meadows wanted you to have it, he generally isn’t as complacent as he was today. He even lowered the price as soon as he found out it was for you.”

“That’s odd,” William said, adjusting his eyeglasses as he looked alternatively from his mother to the desk. He’d never heard of Mr. Meadows cutting a deal to anyone.

“Perhaps it just means the desk was predestined for you,” Anne Pratt said.

“Perhaps.” He passed a hand over his jaw reflexively, wondering if he should tell his mother of the feelings the desk had brought forth in him from the first time he’d seen it.

It had been so strange, he’d never felt a pull like that for something before. It had been like the desk had called to him, had chosen him for some strange reason that he couldn’t even begin to fathom. And those feelings had only grown stronger now that the desk was his. He almost had the certainty that something monumental was about to happen; he had no idea what it could be, but whatever it was, for some reason, he wasn’t afraid to face it at all.

Just then the maid came in to announce that supper was ready, saving him from making a decision on whether to tell his mother or not about that. Exhaling a relieved sigh, he offered his mother one of his arms and they walked into the dining room.

* ~ * ~ *

Later that night

William sat in front of his new desk as he wrote a poem, which in itself wasn’t strange as writing poetry was one of his favorite pastimes. What was strange was the sudden urge he’d felt to write this particular poem. It had been as if someone had whispered the words in his ear while he wrote it. Maybe what some poets claimed was true and muses existed?

There could be no other explanation, he thought to himself as he read what he’d written, still unable to believe that those words had come out from him. No matter how much his mother tried to reassure him saying that his poems were heartfelt and beautiful, he knew better than to believe her. Especially when his so called friends made fun of him, or rather humiliated him, every single time he made the mistake of reading one of his new compositions to them. But this poem was actually very good. It was one he felt proud of writing, even if he wasn’t sure of how it had happened.

Unable to stop himself, he raised the paper and read the poem aloud:

*“I rise
From hell to touch your star
From pain to heal your scars
From the depths of sorrow

I rise
Above the painted lies
To claim my hard-fought prize
To show you something better

I rise
To the surface, to the light
To the mountaintop this night
Shouting until you hear

My hand is outstretched
Take it and rise.”*

As he finished saying the last line, a gust of wind entered the room through the window, rattling the half opened windowpanes and making him shiver as it seemed to envelop him for just a second before the windowpanes were shut closed.

Surprised and more than a little unnerved, he stood up and walked to the window, opening it again while he looked outside to the garden. Everything was oddly calm there. Not one tree branch moved, so what was it that had happened just then? Had it been just his imagination? Being a poet, he knew he had a lot of that!

Shaking his head as he reflected that it was entirely possible that he might be imagining things, he walked back to the desk and sat once more in front of it, reading the poem again as he mused on how wonderful it would be to find someone he could do all those things for. Someone that could love him and who he could love in return. He’d gladly go through hell and back if he were certain that in the end he’d find the one person he was meant to be with.

Feeling inspired once more, he took another piece of paper from one of the desk drawers and dipped his quill pen in the ink bottle before beginning to write again. When he finished, he took the poem and folded it neatly along with the letter he had just written and put them inside an envelope. Then he left it inside of one of the secret drawers he’d find in the desk that night. It wouldn’t do that anyone might find them, now would it?

* ~ * ~ *

“Mr. Meadows, I’m so very happy that you followed my instructions so well. I think you have earned yourself a little incentive for services rendered, beyond the fact that I’m not going to kill you, of course,” the mysterious woman said, taking a bag full of gold coins out of her purse and giving it to the awed man, muttering a few words under her breath before she turned and walked out of the furniture shop.

The shop owner stood in the same place for a minute and then coming out of the daze he had been in, he blinked, looking down at his hand. Where had this bag come from?

* ~ * ~ *

Sunnydale, 1999

True to her promise, Joyce had the desk delivered to her house that Monday in the afternoon and Buffy, of course, had been there to receive the delivery guy and direct him to her old room so he could place the desk there.

After the man left, she went upstairs practically bouncing. She could hardly believe how happy it made her to be the proud owner of an antique desk. She’d have understood it if it had been a new dress or shoes, it was always nice to own more of those, especially since being the Slayer was hell for her wardrobe. But this desk was special. She knew that she needed to own it from the moment she’d seen it. And now it was hers and Buffy had the weird feeling that she was going to be spending a lot of time in her mom’s house from that moment on.

She pulled the chair out and sat in front of the desk, lovingly running her fingers over it as she began opening all the drawers while trying to decide how she was going to accommodate her things inside.

One of the drawers got stuck and she tugged on it softly to open it; after all, it wouldn’t do to break the thing the first day she’d had it, would it? And it was then that she noticed a little button on the side of the drawer. Maybe it was some sort of mechanism that opened the drawer? Carefully she pushed the button and suddenly a panel that she hadn’t even noticed was there before opened, revealing two more drawers.

“Cool,” she said, smiling to herself, unable to contain her enthusiasm at her finding. “I never knew that desks could have secret compartments like this!”

Curious, she opened the upper drawer and found some unused paper and envelopes along with a small ink bottle and a quill pen inside. She thought it was odd that the ink bottle had survived the trip upstairs let alone the drive, but promptly shrugged it off to open the second drawer and taking an envelope out of it. It wasn’t addressed to anyone, but by its thickness she knew there was something inside. Should she open it?

She looked around guiltily, before remembering that she was alone at her house. Anyway, who would know if she opened it? And even if someone found out, the desk and all its contents were hers now, so she was entitled to read the letter. Decision made, she opened the envelope and pulled out the two pieces of folded paper that were inside. ‘Hmm, weird,’ she thought. The paper and envelope seemed to be pretty similar to the ones in the other drawer.

She unfolded the first paper and was mesmerized by what she found inside. Unable to resist, she read it aloud.

“London, December 4, 1880

My beloved,

I am not sure what impulse drove me to write to you today. I just know that someday, somewhere, somehow this letter will get to you and you will know that I am here waiting, bidding my time, willing to go through heaven and hell to find you and make you mine as I am already yours.

Love always,

Your William”

“Oh wow, how I wish someone would write a letter like this to me someday,” she sighed dreamily, wiping away the few tears that had escaped from her eyes. This had to be the most touching and romantic love letter she’d ever read. Not that she’d read that many, but wow! It was at least a hundred times better than every romantic movie she’d ever seen, and she had seen a lot of those! This William guy sure knew how to write and melt a girl into a puddle of goo at the same time. It was kind of a shame that he’d lived so long ago; because if the letter had been a little more recent she would have moved heaven and hell herself to get in contact with him.

She unfolded the other piece of paper, sure that nothing could top what she’d read before, only to find that the poem written on it certainly could. Again she read it aloud and when she finished the last line, a gust of wind came from seemingly out of nowhere and she shivered as it enveloped her for just a second before it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

Buffy turned to the window, half-hoping that it was open but knowing that it wasn’t. And just as she imagined, it wasn’t. ‘Okay, definitely wigged out now, what the hell was that?’

There had to be some logical explanation for what just happened, but since they lived in the Hellmouth, she imagined anything could be possible no matter how impossible it might seem to be. Oh, well, she’d just have to ask Giles about this on the first chance she got; maybe he’d be able to provide her with some answers.
She just hoped that it wasn’t a sign that the umpteenth apocalypse was coming soon. Geez, that would be…what? The third one that year alone? And after all, it wasn’t as if she was asking for much more than to have at least a month of peace and quiet in between... except for patrols, of course.

She re-read the letter and the poem once more and then, the silliest idea ever popped in her mind. Almost without her realizing it, one of her hands had already grabbed the quill pen, dipping it in the ink bottle, as the other took a sheet of paper.

‘What the hell am I doing? This is making no sense at all!’ she thought, but by then she had already begun writing.

‘C’mon, Buffy, think, this William guy will never ever receive your letter. So just stop it!’ her rational mind summoned her. But it was useless, her heart came off the winner in that inner battle, and her heart wanted to live a dream. So, word after word, she ended up responding to William.

And once she was done, she placed her letter in an envelope in the same place where William had placed his, so many years ago, calling herself stupid in the process. Why do such an absurd thing? It wasn’t as if anything would come out of it, would it?

Shrugging as she thought that it wouldn’t hurt anyone to leave the letter there for now, she took William’s letter and poem and placed them inside her diary so she would to read them whenever she pleased.

tbc





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