Title: Mirage
Author: Dolores Labouchere
E-mail: dolores l@hotmail.com
Rating: G
Summary: Olivia needs to resolve her feelings for Giles.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine.   They belong to others.   I make no pesos,   señor.
Author's Notes: Erm, this is a het fic.   Not my usual, I know.   Also, why I   chose Olivia, I don't know.   But she's never written about, so I thought I'd   give her a voice.   Set about a year or two ahead of s5 Buffy, but only   vaguely.   For Faithtastic, because she asked for this.   Sort of.   And Kate,   for being endlessly great.

***

She watched as the rain coursed down the windows of the cheap diner, a piece   of pre-fabricated rubbish that threatened to be washed away by the deluge.   It was ironic in a way; she’d come all the way to Sunnydale for the marriage   of an Englishman to an American and the weather could only remind her of   home.

Olivia didn’t understand why she felt so angry about this event.   It wasn’t   like she loved the man.   She was fond of him, she cared for him, but there   was never love.   Not the burning, grasping, all-consuming feeling of pure   devotion she imagined had to be true love.   Just a vaguely warm glow at the   pit of her stomach when she thought of lying in bed with Rupert, his body   pressed against hers, the damp warmth of his open-mouthed kisses that he   would cascade down the ridge of her shoulder as the big, warm hands ran   across her smooth skin in ever decreasing circles.   And it was those   moments, those memories that made Olivia go back for more, crave for his   touch, tie her to Rupert when nothing else did.

Even when, deep down, she knew that what they had was always a fleeting   thing: an on - off - on - off relationship that had hiccuped along since   Rupert was an archivist at the British Museum and she was the shy graduate   student he was supposed to tutor.   From furtive kisses in amongst the musty,   dusty shelves stuffed with yellowed documents and ancient boxes to the   primal love-making in his attic bedroom halfway around the world.

Until the white envelope with the US stamp had dropped through the letterbox   onto her doormat containing the invitation and an apologetic endlessly   Rupert-like note of apology that he hadn't told her himself.   That she would   find out by getting an invitation.   That what they had should end so.   That   he had to accept that he needed to settle down.

Ending that this Joyce made him happy, and that he hoped that she, Olivia,   might find her own Joyce, her own happiness.   And that he would be very   honoured to have Olivia attend, if she could afford the time and the flight   to California.

So Olivia had came, because she needed the closure, to use such an American,   Oprah-esque buzzword.   Not to mention that part of her urged her here   because it wanted to run up and connect her fist to his face in a fluid   motion that would see the man crumple in a heap, blood arcing in the air   from the burst skin in his nose.   Preferably just as he was taking his vows.  
   Along with another, equally vehement part of her that wanted to grab Rupert's head and pull it towards her own and devour his lips in a thousand  
kisses so fine and gentle that he would abandon all thought of this other   woman and come back to London with her.   Preferably just as he was taking   his vows.

But she wouldn't do either of those things, *couldn't* do them.   Not when   she'd seen the devotion in Rupert's eyes when he'd looked at Joyce when they   met Olivia at the airport, and the adoration in the look that was returned.   No matter the thoughts she'd entertained on the flight from Heathrow of   being the Benjamin to Rupert's Elaine and shouting his name at the back of   the church, urging him to leave with her for pastures new, to not marry   another.   She was in any case bound by her own innate sense of decency that   simply forbade her from trying to hurt this Joyce, this woman whom she had   barely met and hardly knew, and who had done no wrong by her.

There was no choice but for her to go the wedding and sit at the back of the   church and watch the ceremony and throw the confetti, attend the reception   and congratulate the groom and air-kiss the bride.   Then maybe she could   face the fact that Rupert was no longer hers.

With a sigh, Olivia drained the last of the coffee from her cup, and laid a   couple of bills down on the table to cover the cost – checking that they   were both just one dollar notes; why did this damn country not do the   sensible thing and make different denominations different sizes? – then,   adjusting the carnation pinned to her dress, she rose and made her way to   the door.   She paused as she opened it to put up her umbrella, then stepped   out into the rain, heading for the church.

Olivia didn't notice the youth at another table, fiddling with the straw in   his smoothie.   He did not notice her.   But they both had the same subject on   their minds.

Xander didn’t understand why he felt so angry about this event.   It wasn’t   like he loved Joyce. . .

***