Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I love you.”

Westley went completely still. His heart stopped, his body stopped, the entire world stopped. What was happening? Buttercup’s gaze stayed on the ground, face red as a berry. Against all reason, sanity, logic of the world, she kept going. 

“I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I’ve ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman has ever loved a man, but a half hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But then, ten minutes later—” Westley was starting to notice a theme here, “—I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know?” Westley might have blinked then but he wasn’t sure as he couldn’t feel anything. “Well they are. How many minutes ago was I? Twenty? Had I brought my feelings up to then? It doesn’t matter.”

She was still looking at the ground, red. The sun rose behind her as if summoned just for this moment, enshrining her with light in the way Westley knew so well. It emboldened her halo, shone her autumn hair golden, kissed her skin and made her beautiful. Westley was sure the sunlight was in her eyes then, as it always was, a basket of light with every strand. But he couldn’t tell because she still wouldn’t look at him. She kept going. 

“I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now than when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison.” Buttercup always loved the rhythm of poetry, he knew. “There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection.” They were indeed shaking. “My mind begs you to ask something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch.” When did she learn about Araby? “Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you. Anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do.” 

I’m strong, he had dreamed. Said Love: then prove it. Buttercup continued. 

“I know I cannot compete with the Countess in skills—” the Countess? “—or wisdom or appeal—” when did the Countess become a part of this? “—-and I saw the way she looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at her—” WHAT?! “—But remember, please, that she is old and has other interests, while I am seventeen and for me there is only you.” Her nature, her nature. “Dearest Westley—I’ve never called you that before, have I?—Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley—” she held him to the wall and all he could think of was her name, “—darling Westley, adored Westley, sweet perfect Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.” 

And then she took a deep breath and did it: she looked right into his eyes. 

She saw him. Deeply, focused, purely, she saw him, like no one ever had. She loved him.

Now, Westley practiced for this moment quite a lot. Hours upon hours spent on the perfect words, loving gestures, poetry. But standing there, with her looking right at him, his mind went completely blank. Malfunctioned. 

So, Westley did what he always did. He didn’t say anything at all. 

He shut the door on her without a word. 

Without. A. Word.

And stood there for several minutes in complete mind numbing silence. It was like being kissed on the cheek all over again the way it shut him down, only a thousand times worse. Because now he had literal, objective proof rather than an action. Slowly, very slowly, he started to regain control of his frontal lobe. 

What just happened, he thought. Stared at the door. Stared at the door longer. 

She confessed. She literally confessed undying love. 

Yeah, there’s no way that happened. Westley had counted the hours, remember? He was going to leave in five minutes. Buttercup didn’t—

No, she did. Right in front of the door. Stare at the door, do it. 

Had she mentioned something about Araby? 

And she said his name, too. Said his name over and over like five times, who does that? She never said his name. The door. 

Also, something about the Countess? Who was the Countess, again? Where was he, besides in front of a door?

From the top, his planning brain said. It began to go through procedure like a sergeant on duty. 

Buttercup knocked on the door. 

Westley opened the door. 

Buttercup said, I love you. 

Westley closed the door. 

And now Westley was staring at the door. 

Wait a minute, he thought, squinting a little, frontal lobe jumping in action. Buttercup loved him? 

Buttercup loved him. 

Buttercup loved him! 

BUTTERCUP LOVED HIM! 

The realization, five full minutes after it occurred, crashed into him harder than rain, fists, life itself. His whole body began to tremble as his brain processed this one simple fact, the reciprocation of what has ruled his entire life. He stepped backwards with wide eyes, stumbling on his cot and landing roughly on the ground—but Westley didn’t feel it, couldn’t even feel the air in his lungs as a flood of emotion came in waves. His hands were trembling as he pushed himself back up, and it took him a few seconds to steady himself. 

Buttercup loved him! 

A grin, the soul completing kind, split his face as the shock went through his system, and he felt like jumping up and down like he was ten again and not at all like an eighteen year old boy who was just confessed to for the second time. Because that’s what he was, he realized, because Buttercup confessed to him. Buttercup loved him too. She did, she did, she did! 

And then it hit him like a carriage to the face—this meant he was going to America after all. In less than one hour, he was going to America to try and earn his fortune and sail the seas and— 

This was when Westley started screaming, the kind that had been bottled up and pops out like a genie with a bad attitude. He read that in a book from Araby, which she probably mentioned in her speech before Westley’s brain shut down. Still screaming, he picked up the Spanish books he had tried to buy the other day and shoved open the door like it was made of paper, bolting with the full might of his legs in the morning air. 

The boy ran hard, no longer screaming as his heart beat vigorously and lungs worked to provide for the exercise. Dust flew underneath him and trees bled together, and a usually long walk was turned into a small-amount-of-time-think-about-it-later-Buttercup-loves-me run. His feet might have been bleeding from rocks or stray debris but Westley couldn’t care less—he could have run to the moon at that moment. He landed in front of the Spaniard’s door and started banging on it hard, screaming out for him. 

The old man answered the door in alarm, his nightcap still on, and was suddenly seized by the shoulders by a very emotional, very excited, very much screaming love sick teenager. “SHE LOVES ME!” came out in multiple languages, along with “OH MY GOD!” and “I’M GOING TO AMERICA!” The old man began smiling in the hysteria but eventually slipped out of the manic boy’s grasps. 

“Congratulations, boy!” he cried out, and Westley began shaking his fist at the sky and laughing. “And have a safe journey on your way to America! I’m excited to see what happens to—OOF!” Westley had shoved the books into the old man, laughing even harder in joy, and—after quickly apologizing—he started running back to the farm, waving behind him. 

“I’M GOING TO AMERICA!” he yelled out. The Spaniard waved back before disappearing from view, books in hand.

Those were his last words to the man. He never did see him again, after all. 

But Westley didn’t know that then, and just continued to run and run and run as euphoria filled his body, an euphoria very few ever achieved. Soon enough, he was by the farmhouse, grinning like a madman. By god, he couldn’t wait to talk to Buttercup and say—

Wait. Westley stopped dead in his tracks, skidding to a stop. Talk? 

Yes, he would have to talk to Buttercup to confess his feelings. Duh. Westley looked at the ground, blinking. Talking to Buttercup. 

How in the world was he going to do that? 

However, Westley was saved the trouble of coming up with a solution since it was exactly that moment that Buttercup’s father came bursting out of the farmhouse, angrier than that one time his wife had replaced his soup with vegetable broth, and that one was pretty bad. “BOY!” he shouted, stomping over to him exactly the way Buttercup used to, “You are in SO much trouble!” 

Fear struck him then—did Buttercup tell him he made her cry, that she wanted him gone, that the world was ending and it was all his fault?! “You flaked on your job AGAIN!” Oh right, his job. The man was finally in front of him, red in the face and staring right up into his eyes—as Westley was well enough taller than him at this point. Still, he made an imposing figure. “I said one more chance and you blew it! Well, I’ve learned my lesson, and soon you will learn yours too! You’re not leaving my side all day, mister! 

Westley turned cold at that—what?! No, no, he needed to go inside and somehow talk to Buttercup, he needed to—

“What you need is a harsh lesson in discipline! You are coming with me NOW!” And then, somehow, her father was dragging him to the cowshed and making him taking care of the cows and then forcing him on delivery and dropping off each glass with special care and apologizing to each village member for being late and—

Every time the man stopped lecturing him, Westley would open his mouth to insist that he was needed, that he had to find Buttercup, that he had officially run out of time hours ago, that his entire life had been leading up to this moment, but the other man would just shut him down before the second word could come out. 

Taking care of the cows, he said. “I—” 

“Better keep working, boy!” 

Pushing the cart for delivery, he said, “Buttercup—” 

“Told me all about it, you bet! Get moving!” 

Setting down the glasses, he said, “Love—” 

“Working, by the time I’m done with you! Now, apologize to the Windams!” 

By the time they were done with the whole delivery process, the sun was high in the sky and a river of sweat was going down Westley’s back given the fact that he had used the precious hours he had left with Buttercup—who he didn’t even get to talk to yet!—by carrying milk bottles. But the man wasn’t done with him. He was made to clean the cowshed, brush the gunk out of Bessie’s hooves, clean the cowshed AGAIN, and on and on until the sun was about to set. It was dusk and Westley didn’t even have the chance to say a complete sentence on how his entire future was riding on the next couple of hours of a day that he was already late for. With wide eyes, he saw the sun set on the nearby Florin mountains, and something broke inside him. His everlasting patience, his love for the family that had taken him in, his guilt on quitting work—whatever it was, it shattered under the weight of Westley’s love for Buttercup (and incredible anxiety). 

“Time for you to go out to the pastures, boy—” the man started, face red. 

“STOP!” Westley shot straight up, dropping the tools that had been shoved into his chest. Anger rose from his stomach but he managed to shove it down. Barely. “I’m not doing that!” 

The man looked stunned. He blinked slowly, for his farm boy never spoke out of turn before. “What?” 

“I said, I’m not doing that. I’m leaving.” 

“Leaving? For the village again?” 

“No, America. I’m leaving today, and I’m not working a minute longer.” Westley stepped backwards, gritting his teeth. 

“What are you talking about, America? You work here. You stay here.” He couldn’t have looked more confused if a weasel had begun talking and flew into the sky. Buttercup must have gotten her smarts from him. 

“I’ve been planning it for months and I leave today. I’m sorry about the work, but I have to go.” Wasted time, wasted time. 

At that, the man’s face fell, eyes wide. He took a step back. “You’re serious. You’re really leaving the farm.” 

The sight of the closest thing he had to a father in the past eight years crestfallen beat back his anger, and Westley couldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

“Is this because of today? I only pushed you because—” 

“No,” he said. “It’s something else.” 

“What? Pray tell, what could possibly prompt you to take such a dangerous journey, filled with storms and monsters and pirates? We need you here, Westley. What is it? God, wanderlust, insanity?” 

“Buttercup,” he said, simple and true. 

The man squinted. Anger entered his voice. “What has my daughter done now? Whatever she said, I’ll set her straight, somehow, for this is too far. My farm boy is not leaving on the words of a foolish girl and her taunting.” 

“It’s not because—sir, I’m leaving for her. I’m going to seek a fortune in America because….” 

“Because what? Spit it out, boy.” 

He had never said it out loud before. It made it too real, too frightening, too life changing. But, for the first time, a voice came up. He would have to say it eventually, wouldn’t he? Since Buttercup already confessed. She said it, so couldn’t he? Couldn’t he? 

“Because I love her. I love her, sir.” His hands were shaking and his voice was touch and go, but it was out there. The whole world knew now. He forced himself to meet his eyes, wondering what he would find there. Faintly, he remembered the tradition of asking for a father's blessing before marriage. Was this it, he wondered? Would the man even want him? 

When their eyes met, however, all he saw was pity. Like Buttercup, and in her tonation, he began running through practiced lines. “I’m sorry, boy, if you put a lot of thought into this, but Buttercup doesn’t love anyone. And I can’t give her to someone she doesn’t want to go to.” 

“No, sir, you’re wrong. She—this morning, she—” what could he say then, the words that were making his heart beat? How could he have the courage to admit them out loud when he could scarcely believe it from the source? But it had to be said. “Buttercup told me she loved me this morning, sir. She loves me.” Light flooded him then. It was real, real, real.

Somehow, the man’s eyes went even wider. “Loves you?” 

“Yes. Or, at least, she did this morning.” The man was gaping now. Westley looked back to the ground, gripping his shirt so his hand rested over his heart. Here it comes. The worst moment of his life, surely. In front of her father, Westley almost went to his knees as he said, “I know that I’m just a farm boy and you could have a million men for a son-in-law instead, even the Count or the King, a million better men than me. But I promise that I love Buttercup with all my heart, more than myself and anything else, and have since I was a child. No one could serve her better, sir, and I know I have nothing now, but once I go to America and make something of myself I’ll come right back and I’ll be good enough for her I swear—”

“Westley, stop.” The boy felt hands on his shoulders then, hard ones that have seen many years of labor and little of love. Westley looked up, the world misty before him. Thousands of tears locked behind his eyes. Pitiful glances. 

But her father just looked at him with kindness, love of his own. And then suddenly he was embraced, a smaller form against his own and strong arms crushing him in. “You’re already good enough, boy. A great worker, smart, literate, fluent in many languages, strong, ambitious—you’re just what she needs. And while you have nothing, I have no doubt you will make a fortune in the New World.” That’s when the embrace ended and the man put his hands back on his shoulders. “I welcome you into our family, Westley, despite the timing of this ask.” And, softer, “Make me proud, boy.” 

And, just like that, the tears locked behind his eyes started leaking out, one right after the other. Westley tried to push them away, laughing a little, but they kept coming. Rain above, horses lost, working together silently in the evening sun. Her own father said he was good enough, said he was worthy of her. He was family. 

He had a family. 

“Oh, boy, no need for that.” The man, his future father-in-law, removed his hands from his shoulders and started patting the boy’s back awkwardly. 

“Thank you, sir, thank you, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.“ Westley slapped his face with both hands to try and stop the tears. All it did was make his face red. 

“You’re emotional, it happens to the best of men. I’m sure there will be plenty of times for tears when you leave. A very sad moment, that will be.” And he was silent until the tears stopped and Westley was smiling again, light and carefree like a boy in love should be. The teenager hugged him this time, hesitantly but with passion. It felt nice. He drew away, steadying himself on his feet. This had been a very emotional day. 

“Thank you, sir, I promise I won’t let you down.” 

“Buttercup is the one you have to worry about, not me. Why, I can’t imagine how she was when you told her you were leaving.” 

Westley blanked. Stared at him. 

“You did tell her, didn’t you?” His voice was incredulous, sure that his farm boy could accomplish such a simple task. Silence was his answer. “Do you mean you’ve been gallivanting around with me doing chores while she sits in the house not knowing the man she loves is leaving for AMERICA?!” 

“I tried to tell you I needed to talk with her!” Westley pointed to the cowshed. “I’ve been trying to tell you all day!”

“Hasn’t my wife told you I’m too stubborn for my own ears?! It’s dusk now, she is going to be livid! Oh God above, she’s going to be livid at ME!” And the man turned pale in fear of his own daughter, who was even more of a terror at seventeen than she was ten. “Go, go, begone! Fix the mess that you have made before it falls upon me!” 

“Sir—”

“Go!” He shoved him in the direction of the farmhouse, hands thrown up in haste. 

Westley followed his orders, maybe for the last time, and began running to his hovel whereupon he grabbed the sack that stood by his cot—which he packed a week ago—and finally, FINALLY, started for the farmhouse. This was it. It was finally happening. 

He opened the back door gently and stepped inside. Standing there, surrounded by pieces of her family and furniture and dinner plates, Westley came back to the realization that had hit him that morning. 

For the first time in his life, he was going to have a conversation with Buttercup. Stand there and say what he was going to do, who he was, how he felt. Stop hiding behind silence and let her see all of him, however small his soul may be in comparison. His throat dried as words left him. What was he going to do? 

But Westley wasn’t alone in this anymore. The words of her father stirred him, cleared his mind. He had his blessing, didn’t he? If the man thought he was worth something, he had to at least be worth talking to. He had grown over all these years; he had become literate, learned, strong. If it was enough to gain the confidence of even her father, it must be enough to at least go to her door. In addition, there was no more time to waste dawdling, as he was already incredibly behind schedule; for her, he was leaving, and for her, he couldn’t be late. He could do this. Westley looked down the hall towards Buttercup’s room, sweat starting to run. He could do this. 

One foot after another, he began walking to Buttercup’s door. On his journey, his quick mind came up with an airtight script from the many he had rehearsed for the past six months. Stick to it and he would be fine. Yet, in his nervous state, he couldn’t help but simplify the script to something easier to say out loud; all he really had to say was that he was leaving and what he would do in America, right? At this point, it should have been incredibly obvious that he loved her. Had for years. For Westley, his love was as present as the stars and the sun and the sky and the water that collected on every flower in the morning. How could she not know? He followed her around like a dog and did everything she ever asked of him. And the sun always rose in the morning. 

Telling her that he was leaving was the necessary part. That was the part that didn’t seem as ever present as the calluses on his hands or the sunset or her eyes in the morning. Because that meant he wouldn’t be with her anymore. And that was the most unnatural state of being Westley could ever think of. 

He was close to the door now. (Script. Focus. This was going to go just like he had always imagined it.) His footsteps echoed in the small space until he stopped right in front of her door. He raised a hand to knock. Paused. 

Could he do this? Face her, face it all, say what he had been planning for so long, release the words that always died on his tongue? Westley thought back to just before he faced Orin, anger possessing him. The fear he felt now was nothing in comparison. Reason screamed at him to reconsider, to be safe. Silent. 

But he had come this far. And he loved her beyond fear and reason. And so, Westley did the bravest thing he had ever done. 

He knocked on Buttercup’s door. 

What a day for firsts. 

Westley waited. Nothing. That was weird, because he could definitely hear her sniffling in there. So he knocked again, which wasn’t nearly as difficult as the first time. 

Finally, something. “Whoever is that?” came a yawning voice. 

His voice was dry, impossible, clawed, but he persisted anyway. With his heart in his ears, he answered, “Westley.” Oh god, he already wanted to be swallowed whole and he had only said one word. How he missed his old ‘as you wish’ script then. So easy. But he was still on track and stuck with the script he had come up with on the walk over. 

“Westley?” came her voice again. “Do I know any West—oh, Farm Boy, it’s you, how droll!” Okay, he wasn’t expecting that. What was she playing at? 

Buttercup unlocked her door—the click made his heart do somersaults—and it opened. And that’s when his courage was really put to the test.

The sight of her struck him dumb, as it always did. But not in the usual way. Buttercup looked like she had been crying. Hard. Grief came to his mind again, in all of her horrid sobbing and clawed open skin and bared fangs against the world. Her red eyes and haunted look was nothing compared to Buttercup before she hastily fixed her face. 

Luckily, Westley had time to recover since Buttercup put on her snobby tone she used when she wanted to be above everything, saying, “I’m ever so slummy about the little joke I played on you this morning.” Joke? “ Of course you knew I wasn’t for a moment serious, or at least I thought you knew, but then, just when you started closing the door—” who did she think she was fooling? —“I thought for one dreary instant that perhaps I’d done my little jest a bit too convincingly and, poor thing, you might have thought I meant what I said when of course we both know the total impossibility of that ever happening.” 

That speech may have worked on a lesser man, but Westley had known Buttercup for eight years and she was a horrible liar. Why shouldn’t she be? She always got everything she ever wanted. Her red eyes spoke the truth for her. Westley took a deep breath and stuck to the script. The script. “I’ve come to say goodbye.” 

He saw how her eyes flashed then, panicked, then hastily smoothed over. “You’re going to sleep, you mean, and you’ve come to say good night? How thoughtful of you, Farm Boy, showing me you forgive me for my little morning’s tease—” now this was just getting repetitive, “—I certainly appreciate your thoughtfulness and—” 

“I’m leaving,” he interrupted. His heart was still beating in his ears and he was decidedly shortening his script into small sentences. Much easier to deal with. Didn’t make his heart go explode-y. Didn’t kill him, talking with her. 

“Leaving?” she said in a higher voice, the snobby tone gone. Buttercup was clutching onto the doorframe like a lifeline. 

“Yes.” This was going great so far, he thought. Didn’t have a single heart attack. 

“Because of what I said this morning?” 

“Yes.” Okay, he was going a bit off script now, but it was fine. It was totally fine. 

That’s when the ire he was so familiar with came back—but it wasn’t directed at him. “I frightened you away, didn’t I? I could kill my tongue.” Frightened away? He was drawn to her like the greatest celestial body in the stars. “Well it’s done, you’ve made your decision. Just remember this: I won’t take you back when she’s done with you, I don’t care if you beg.” 

That was definitely NOT part of the script. What in the world was she on about? The Countess again? He looked at her as if she grew another head, squinty and bewildered. 

Buttercup, as always, rushed to fill the silence. Ire laced her voice—familiar cruelty with a blunted edge. “Just because you’re beautiful and perfect, it’s made you conceited. You think people can’t get tired of you, well, you’re wrong.” Bitterness there. Girls at the festival, playing with each other’s hair. “They can, and they will, besides, you’re too poor.” 

Now that part was on script. Westley decided to just skip ahead, as confused as he was. He’ll deal with this weird he-is-too-beautiful thing later. “I’m going to America. To seek my fortune.” Short sentences were God’s greatest invention. “A ship sails soon from London. There is great opportunity in America. I’m going to take advantage of it.” Now, his great plan. “I’ve been training myself. In my hovel. I’ve taught myself not to need sleep. A few hours only.” His pride kept him going and he said without breathing, “I’ll take a ten-hour-a-day job and then I’ll take another ten-hour-a-day job and I’ll save every penny from both except what I need to eat to keep strong, and when I have enough—” when I am enough, “—I’ll buy a farm and build a house and make a bed big enough for two.” He did it. He did it! 

Buttercup scoffed, her ire increasing. “You’re just crazy if you think she’s going to be happy in some rundown farmhouse in America. Not with what she spends on clothes.” 

And that’s when his patience snapped, script thrown away. What was wrong with her?! She was ruining this whole thing! “Stop talking about the Countess! As a special favor.” He gestured with his hands, “Before you drive me maaaaaaad.” 

Buttercup just looked up at him with that same squinting and bewildered expression he was wearing just a few minutes before. Like he was the weirdest thing that had happened on that farm in years. Like her focus had been snapped away from something important. 

Westley put his hands down. “Don’t you understand anything that’s going on?” 

Buttercup just shook her head, still bewildered.

And all Westley could do was shake his head too, completely blown away by Buttercup's ability to miss the larger picture in her goal to define one detail. “You’ve never been the brightest, I guess.” This was decidedly not going well. 

Then Buttercup squinted more, coming to a realization. “Do you love me, Westley? Is that it?” 

Westley couldn’t believe it; down to his bones, he was completely blown away by how Buttercup couldn’t understand what he was at her door for. What he had been saying and feeling for years. Did she just ask if the sun rose in the morning? Did she really spend the whole day thinking she was unloved when she was more loved than any woman in the world? Had been for years? 

Blinking, he said, “Do I love you? My God, if your love was a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches. If your love were—” 

“I don’t understand the first one yet,” Buttercup interrupted with wide eyes and a growing smile. She stopped holding the wall and was looking straight at him. Clearly, her focus was shifting. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying my love is the size of a grain of sand and yours is this other thing? Images just confuse me so—is this universal business of yours bigger than my sand? Help me, Westley. I have a feeling we’re on the verge of something terribly important.”  

Important? Westley felt his heart beat against his chest and not his ears, his love in his control. Talking to her was easy now, what he was made for. The million of romantic thoughts that have tortured his waking moments for the past eight years came pouring out of him then, water in a spring. No, a waterfall, an ocean. “I have stayed these years in my hovel because of you.” Come with me, she had said. “I taught myself languages because of you.” The butcher shop, the flies. “I have made my body strong because I thought you might be pleased by a strong body.” His dream again. Everything I ever did, I did for you. “I have lived my life with only the prayer that some sudden dawn you might glance in my direction. I have not known a moment in years when the sight of you did not send my heart careening against my rib cage. I have not known a night when your visage did not accompany me to sleep. There has not been a morning when you did not flutter behind my waking eyelids…is any of this getting through to you Buttercup, or do you want me to go on for a while?” And he could, eight years worth. 

“Never stop,” she said.

And so he continued, because he always did what she asked of him. “There has not been—”

She interrupted then. “If you’re teasing me Westley, I’m just going to kill you.” But her voice was excited, not annoyed, not cruel, not impossible. 

He still couldn’t believe it. “How can you even dream I might be teasing?” 

Crossing her arms, Buttercup said, “Well, you haven’t once said you loved me.” 

He blinked like she had just asked him to breathe. Because she did. Because now he couldn’t imagine saying anything else. “That’s all you need? Easy. I love you.” It came rushing out of him, free from its genie’s bottle. It was alive in the air, perfect in his voice, finally where it was supposed to be. Emboldened, Westley said, “Want it louder? I love you.” Somersaults, poundings in his chest, love in his ears. “Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you.” Literacy was her gift. “Want it backward? You love I.” 

Some annoyance fluttered into Buttercup's expression then, and her arms remained crossed. Still, she was smiling—smiling and red. “You are teasing now, aren’t you?” 

“A little, maybe.” He couldn’t help but want to explain, to detail how absurd her request had been. How could she even ask him? “I’ve been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn’t listen. Every time you said ‘Farm Boy do this’ you thought I was answering ‘As you wish’ but that was only because you were hearing wrong. ‘I love you’ was what it was, but you never heard, and you’ve never heard.” 

She was laughing now, tears in the corner of the eyes he knew so well, and she clasped her hands together. She was looking at him and loving him and Westley could have passed away then and died happy. “I hear you now, and I promise you this: I will never love anyone else.” This declaration sped him around, made him dizzy, knocked the ground from under him. Her nature, her nature. “Only Westley. Until I die.” 

His name on her lips. His being in her mind. He was finally hers, he knew. She promised, she promised! What else could he ever want, what more could a man ever need besides the woman he loved gazing up at him like that, promising never to love anyone else? His heart beat heavy in his chest and there were a million other things he wanted to say, but he could only nod, momentarily mute. I love you, he said over and over in his head. He would have said a million more romantic thoughts, confessed a million more instances of love, but they had already run out of time; it was already dusk on the day he was supposed to leave. It was time to go. “I’ll send for you soon.” From America. The place he was going. “Believe me.” Wait for me, he begged. Wait for me. He took a step back.

“Would my Westley ever lie?” She was looking at him with adoration now, faith, like a new worshiper of Love. She believed him. She would wait, he knew. 

He took another step back, forcing himself to remember how he was running out of time, out of daylight. But it took him away from her. “I'm late. I must go. I hate it but I must.” He was pleading then so she would know he would never leave her otherwise, at her feet always. “The ship sails soon and London is far.” 

“I understand.” 

Was this it? Was this their goodbye? Their love declared, promises made, and then he walked out the door? No, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He didn’t want to leave like this. Surely he would be burned one last time. But he couldn’t just grab her, what would even happen? But he had to do something.

So, Westley, heart beating fast and more than a little sweaty, reached out his hand for the love of his life to shake. Before he left for his journey across the world. He waited there for Buttercup to come to him. She looked as if she was about to pass out on the spot, not breathing. 

“Goodbye,” he said. Hand open, waiting. And she managed to raise her hand to his. 

They shook, merchants on business deals. And stood there, hands touching, eyes locked. What was going to happen? Lovers, touching. Burning, burning. Throw me into the fire, his arm said again. 

Buttercup gave a little nod but said nothing. And then Westley, regretfully, against the will of every centimeter of his body, took his hand away. He had to go, his planning brain said. They were out of time, no more hours left. But how he longed to touch her again, arms wanting to reach out and hold her forever. He took another step back, not turning around and keeping his eyes locked on Buttercup's. She didn’t waver for a second, focused and fixed. 

Westley finally turned around, breaking eye contact. 

But, like always, Buttercup broke the silence. “Without one kiss?” 

They fell into each other’s arms. 

In half a second Buttercup was embracing him, arms around his neck and laughter in his ears. And he was embracing her, hands on her torso and laughing as well, a man in heaven. He was holding her—HER! Buttercup pulled away and held his face, which burned at the touch, as always. He accepted it without complaint, without question, because that meant all of this was real. She was real, her love was real, it was all real. And soon his whole body was burning and he still fit her perfectly and her skin was still so soft and her hair grazed over his arms and she was looking at him with hooded eyes— 

She kissed him, mouth on his. Held his face close and kissed him like the only man in the world, the only person she’d ever known, the sole holder of her love. And Westley took only a moment of surprise before he was kissing her—HER—and moving with her body and stumbling backwards and they were dancing together, endless and endless, never ending, never wanting it to end. 

Buttercup backed him into the hallway wall and held him there, deepening her kiss and then Westley raked his hands through her hair—so soft, she’s perfect—and all he could think of was her name, over and over, until the day he died. Buttercup, he thought. Buttercup, Buttercup, Buttercup— 

And then—

And then their kiss ended, him on the wall and her against him, hair tickling his nose as she giggled and laughed and smiled right up at him. It was one of their best kisses, their first one, and Westley wanted nothing more than to do it for the rest of his life. Better than any kiss any man has ever had, he decided, no matter the scholarly debate. Because this one was with Buttercup, and she was perfect. She kissed great. And she was his. 

Good god, it was all real. 

And then Buttercup got that look in her eye that meant she had a new idea and kissed him again, holding him against the wall and he, of course, submitted to her. She touched his chest—HER—and he wrapped his arms harder around her torso and eventually she stumbled away laughing, holding his hand like he had always wanted her to, and was pulling him into her bedroom where he had never gone before, and now Westley was very bright red. 

But he needn’t have worried as they were still unwed and apparently she had something else in mind, just pulling him inside to kiss him against the wall some more—more private, this was. Just them, just them. They were giggling and in love, new to one another. Buttercup left his body quickly as if he burned her, brief touches, while he couldn’t get enough and kissed anything he could get his hands on—nose, forehead, neck, lips, lips, lips. God knows he spent enough time thinking about them. She still smelled like hay and sunlight, all the flowers in the world. 

Eventually, she grabbed his face, forcing him away from her neck and towards her. “Westley,” she said, and he paused to look right up at her. God, he could do this forever. “We should talk.” 

Westley was perfectly fine never talking again, actually. But he always did what she asked of him, so he nodded and her hands left him, burned.  “Let’s go to the bed,” she said, and hastily added, “Not for that! Just to talk.” They sat down on the floor, leaning against the bed as Westley stayed bright red and she couldn’t meet his eyes. Their kisses laid between them. They weren’t married, Westley remembered. But he looked at her anyway. 

Eventually, she looked at him, face red too. 

Beautiful, she would always call him. More perfect than she could ever be. And the look in her eyes made Westley want to believe her. 

“How long have you loved me? Since we are talking now.” she said, and it surprised him then. He was still breathing hard, as her kisses took out his breath like the sweetest demon. He wanted more. “I told you exactly how long I loved you—from the minutes to the hour—but you haven’t told me.” 

Now that was an interesting question. “Would it be too sappy to say it was the very first day?” 

“Yes, because you would be lying. I shoved a brush at you. That isn’t love.” She was lying on her knee now, hair puffy and all over her. Westley reached out to touch it and she let him. Soft, soft, soft. 

“Then it wasn’t then. Probably it was when I came back with Horse after the storm.” He played with some of the curls, hooking them over his fingers. 

“After what I said to you? Really?” she asked incredulously. 

“Well, you kissed me on the cheek and I guess I was just smitten after that. And you hugged me. That was nice.” You were the first one since my father, he added silently. 

“You forgive too easily,” she said, eyes a little sad. “I always wondered how you could stand to be around me after what I said.” 

“I’m the one who threw a brush at you,” he said, and reached out for her this time. He raked a hand through her hair and she smiled. “I never told you how sorry I am about that. I almost hurt you.” 

Then Buttercup got a weird look on her face, pulling away a little. “You never told me anything.” 

“Well—”

“You never spoke to me before. Why?” Her blue eyes were intense then, staring down to the depths of the scraps Westley called a soul. “Tell me why.” 

“I…” He couldn’t think of a perfect answer, a romantic answer. Just the coward one, since that was what he was, deep down. “I don’t want to tell you now.”  

She moved away from him and Westley missed the feel of her immediately. Nothing soft in his hands now. He wanted her, he wanted her. “When, in America? Years from tonight?” 

“Buttercup—” 

“We only have a few moments together, and I want to know why you never talked to me. You loved me for so much longer but it’s only because I never knew you, not really. So tell me.” 

And Westley could only look up at her, powerless. And she stared down at him, holy. He looked away. 

“If you love me—” 

“I do.” 

“Then say it. Whatever it is can’t be worse than what I’ve done, taunting you all these years. Westley—” 

“It’s because I was scared, alright?!” He jerked away and put his hands through his own hair. “Satisfied?” 

“No,” she said, refusing to give him reprieve, gaze steady. Must she always be so sure, so known? “Because I don’t know what you were afraid of. Me?” 

“You.” 

She looked astonished then, eyebrows wrinkling her perfect brow. “I’m hardly the scariest thing you’ve ever seen, Westley.” 

“I was scared of talking to you.” His courage left him and he looked away and towards the wall. The shame bit his throat worse than dread, left it dry in the way he knew too well. He leaned against the bed frame so he could look at the wooden ceiling. “Afraid I would say the wrong thing. Afraid I would embarrass myself, afraid I couldn’t prove I was enough, afraid…well, just afraid. And eventually I didn’t know what to say. You strike fear, Buttercup, in everyone.

“I imagined it, always, talking to you. I would say, how are you, and then you’d say, why do you care how I am, and I would say, because I care about you, and then you’d say, why do you care, and I would say, because I love you, and then it was all downhill from there.” 

“Oh, Westley,” she said in the new way she had, voice soft over his name.

 “I know, I know, I’m a coward. You can say it. God knows I’ve thought it enough times.” 

“Westley, it wouldn’t have been downhill from there. Oh, beloved.” She reached out to him then, close and against him. She started to put her hands through his hair, drawing his head close to hers. “It would not have been as you say.” 

“Really?” The doubt in his voice was obvious. “After you’ve rejected boy after boy, man after man who ever loved you? You would not have retreated, hated me, or—” 

“Westley, you’re not them. The men outside—they are cruel creatures that care for nothing. They focus on one thing and see nothing else. But I always wanted to be friends with you. The only times you ever came close to speaking with me were when you were mad and that made me—well, I don’t really know. Maybe I wasn’t ready for your love, but I would have wanted something. Someone. How can you be surprised that it took me so long to love you when it was so hard to even know you? Only doing what I say?” 

And Westley was struck dumb by this, eyes wide. She was looking right at him, loving him. Her hands were massaging his scalp now, close. It felt nice. Was his hair soft too? Even more, how could he have not seen it before, the loneliness in her eyes, the desperate way she now clung to him. Did he make her feel even more alone? All the time he spent gazing at her, how did he never see? 

How much did they really know about one another? The desire for her in his blood was changing into something else. 

He could see the same thought cross her mind then—amazing how in sync they were now—and she got another devilish look on her face. Hands in his hair, she pulled him down and pounced on top so he lay flat on the ground, staring right up at her. Autumn hair enshrined her face as she leaned over, almost straddling him, and he could have died then. He should have. Many men have died less happy. “Westley,” she said, name soft in her mouth, “I want to know you. Before you leave, before you change, I’m going to know everything about you. A Westley Expert, even.” 

“You don’t want to do that,” Westley laughed in disbelief, but Buttercup was now pinning him down by his wrists. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to, for he would never hurt her. She held fast and tight. 

“Yes, I do, as I love you. And you know the ones you love.” 

“It’s going to take a while. To know me.” 

“The happiest moments of my life, then.” 

His eyes were soft on her, heart finally resting. “Looks like you like to work after all.” 

“Oh, you’re awful,” she said, and finally released him. Then, a thought occurred to her, and she put her head to the side in that adorable way she was prone to. “Wait, if you were so afraid, how did you have the courage to come to my door? How are we speaking now?” 

Lying on the floor, he said, “Well, I think it was saying the ‘I love you’ part out loud to your father that did it. And desperation. Anxiety. Hurry to go to America.” 

She went a little red. “You told my father you loved me?” 

He grinned back, sitting back up so he could come close to her face. “Yes. And I got his blessing, Buttercup. In case you were worried about your chastity.” And now she was squealing and jumping at him and hitting his chest for teasing her and he was laughing at her red face and then they were laughing together about how soon they would be married, big wedding and all, and wouldn’t it be even better than the one Cornelia and Finnick were having in the summer? And they were happy, together and in love, and Buttercup started learning all about him, and him, her. 

Westley knew he was running on his own time, that he should have jumped out of the room that very moment and started sprinting towards London. But she was smiling and holding him. And he would run a million kilometers per hour just to be in her arms a second longer. He kept pressing on negative time and then lost track. Time was of no use to him now that Buttercup was his. 

They started at the beginning. Buttercup told him about the girls, how they used to fawn over her and then greeted one another in the square. And then, one day, they didn’t. She told him about her love for riding and how she liked to look at the trees, walk around the grounds, perfectly content with just herself and no one else, really. She told him about the men who would stare at her even as a child, even when waddling. How they would remark on her beauty to her parents and stare. She told him how her parents would always criticize her no matter what she did, and how she eventually stopped caring about anything on the outside since she would never be good enough anyway. She told him about how she was an incredible rider and would love to do it more someday, honest, maybe even as a teacher. She told him about how it felt having only one skill, one thing to really shine at, and how it tore at her that she wasn’t really good at anything else. She told him about what it was like under perfect skin, how easy and hard it was. Her life, the secret parts, became undone before him. Even her great envy for the Countess—a very long confession. And, through it all, he held her and asked questions, and brought her close when the tears started. Things were going to be different in America, he told her. She would be a teacher and he would have a fortune and they would do whatever they wanted.

Westley told her about his parents, the parts he could remember. He told her about how he loved writing—she was so surprised at that—and could speak five different languages but hated English. How he liked romantic poetry and Buttercup protested that adventure and epics were the most fun. He told her about his angers, the flashes, and what it was like to beat boys into a pulp. Buttercup was very interested in that one. He told her as much as he could, becoming undone before her so that even his guts were scrubbed clean of secrets. 

Except for Orin. That one was too violent, too harsh, too evil for the sanctuary that they had built for themselves. He kept that secret in his throat like a bad seed. 

He did cry though, something that surprised him greatly. “That’s the second time today,” he said in wonder as they fell out easily and without great sobbing. “I haven’t cried since I came to the farm, yet today they fall freely.” 

It was baffling to him, but Buttercup had the answer. She shook her head and said, “You cried tears of sadness then, perhaps, but these are tears of joy. You’re happy, Westley.” He looked up at her. He was. “Anyway, I’ll always be with you, so there’s no need to cry. Even at sea, in America, I’ll be with you.” She kissed the inside of his wrist then. His poet. Lips lingered. “Promise me you won’t be sad out there, please. Save your crying for when you see me again so I feel mighty important. Promise?” 

“Yes, no crying without you. We’ll bawl together.” 

“That’s the spirit,” she said, smiling. “Now, continue.” 

And he did, detail to detail, though a lot of it was embarrassing. And, eventually, they were done. They had begun to know each other, and Westley found himself more in love than ever now that he knew Buttercup liked to throw books at her father when she was seven. Wasn’t she just perfect? How could she be anything but?

“You loved me for a very long time,” Buttercup realized as they came up to the present. It was late in the night then. She traced circles into his chest and it tickled. She was no longer quite so burned by him, leaning into his touch. Then, she started scowling. “It’s not very fair, is it?” 

“What, that I love you? You thought it was very fair earlier.” 

“You were much more wholesome when you were mute, Westley.” She removed her hand but he grabbed it to keep it there. Everywhere around him was burning now, warm and perfect. 

“Then I apologize for loving you too much. Let me make it up to you.” He kissed her nose and then went for her neck, intentions clear. But Buttercup just pushed his head away with a huff. 

“You can start by listening, Farm Boy. You have years more love than me! It’s not fair, you’ve had such a head start!” 

“Can you stand not to win in just one thing?” Westley laughed into the dark room. His love was something no mortal could beat. 

“Well, I’ll just have to catch up! Easy to do, since I love you so much.” 

“Buttercup, if we both love each other with all of our souls, and we do, we’ll gain love at the same rate over a shared period of time. It’ll accumulate to be the same love, just added on to what’s before.” Buttercup squinted at him, trying to follow. “The only way for you to catch up is if I…” Westley trailed off, realizing the implications of what he said. He looked away. 

“If you die,” Buttercup finished. She understood that part, for there was no way for Westley to stop loving her otherwise. The familiar anxiety started at his throat. Buttercup drew away from him, hands over her knees in front of her bed and the wedding they swore would come. “How dangerous is it? To America?” 

He wanted to lie, he did, but his own fears held him back. “It’s dangerous.” Spring water began to collect in her eyes and so Westley said, “I can promise you that I’ll be careful. That I’ll do whatever I can to come back to you.” 

“Still, I’ll have to wait.”

Silence yawned between them with mighty teeth. Nothing but death, nothing but the pain ahead. Even Buttercup saw it. Would he die, he wondered faintly. A voice, deep down, knew he would never. He wouldn’t die in any way that mattered if he had Buttercup to go to. 

“I hope I never love you as much as you love me, then. You can win this one forever.” She was staring at the wall now, blue eyes crystal and hard in their wishing. 

“Very generous.” Buttercup smiled a bit at his joke and it lifted his heart. 

Then she looked at him, sudden and fierce. “Also, if I find out that you fell in love with another woman while in America or out in the world, I’m going to come and kill you myself.” 

Westley started laughing, long and hard, and Buttercup grew red as a berry again. “I’m serious! I don’t kiss just anyone you know, and we’re promised to each other, so if I found out in the next few years that you’ve loved anyone, I’ll be very upset!” 

“Very upset, you say?” 

“Yes!” She started to get in his face then, angry in that way he knew so well. Oh, he knew her. It reminded him of the way her mother would yell at her father, making these promises of ire. Buttercup had learned very strange ways of loving. “I don’t care if you have to become a monk to do so, you are mine.” 

And his heart was singing just for her. “So you would yell at me?” 

“Yes!” 

“Get in my face?” 

“Of course!” 

“Call me yours?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“Kiss me?” He was leaning in closer now, and their lips were almost touching again. His blonde hair fell in front of his eyes in that messy way it did. 

“Maybe. If you grovel enough.” She was looking at his lips now. 

“Because I’m promised to you?” 

“By God himself.” 

“Which parts of me, then?” 

“You enjoy this way too much, Westley. Very strange fellow.” She managed to pull away but pushed his blonde hair out of his face. Her fingers burned on him, despite how she had touched him before. He wished he could feel it forever. 

A smile on his lips. “You’ll have to do better than that.” 

“This applies to being hurt, by the way. If you get hurt I’ll also be angry, because you need to take care of yourself.” 

“I will.” For her, anything. 

“And learn new things. Eat safe foods. Don’t drink strange water.” 

“Anything else?” 

She turned sad then, drawing her hands to herself. “Wait for me.” She asked of him the same he had asked of her, but he had been waiting for Buttercup forever. What was another few years? 

“I will. I’ll wait for you.” 

And then there was nothing but silence. That was basically as close to a goodbye as they were going to get. Slowly, Westley got up on his feet, leaving the bed frame. Dizzily, he wondered if was really going to America. It barely felt real. He glanced down at Buttercup, mouth dry. He looked away. He knew what he needed to say. He opened his mouth but then she interrupted, rushed and half thought out. 

“Let’s go somewhere! Before you leave, since it’s so dark out and dawn is bound to only be a few hours away!” She jumped to her feet and walked up to him, grabbing him by his shirt collar. “You must have a favorite place, something to do besides work. Let’s have some fun before you leave.”

“Buttercup, I have to—” 

“I know, love, but I want to. What’s another few hours on your journey?” Westley had stopped counting the hours decades ago, it felt like. “Don’t you have a place we could go?” The spring came into mind, the one he had found and then enjoyed and then ruined. He pushed it away and tried to think of something else, but Buttercup had caught it in his expression. “See, you thought of something! Let’s go there, wherever it is.” 

“It’s far, Buttercup.” Her hands were still on his shirt, on his chest. And it was very hard to protest when she smiled at him like that. “And it’s in the forest.” 

“I’ll be safe if you’re with me,” she said fast, and her eyes showed that she believed it. She was a certified Westley Expert, after all. “You’re the strongest thing in all the world.” 

“Then I guess we could go. It’s a spring, a pretty one, out in the forest. I haven’t been there in a long time, though.” Ever since Orin. Blood under his fingernails. 

“We shall go!” she declared, and started stepping out of the room and then the house immediately, only pausing to put on her shoes. “We shall explore this spring and maybe even swim, and then you shall go on your grand adventure. Onward!” It was like one of the start to her poems, the way she inflected her words. He followed her out of the house and into the forest, and then led her. 

The forest was dark. Cold, too, in the spring night. It was different from the house, somehow, with the way the trees crowded inward and how Buttercup held his hand. She was completely dependent on him in this moment. If they got lost they would have to wander around until the day they died and it would all be his fault. No pressure. 

He felt the same way when he was leading Buttercup through that horrible fire swamp, to an obviously much less dangerous degree. But his wariness was the same, even if there were no R.O.U.S’s in this forest. 

Finally, they were there, bypassing the bog and ending up at the spring. Buttercup shouted aloud in wonder, exploring around its edges. And it was indeed beautiful, with the moon lighting up the pool through a wonderful gap in the trees and displaying the stillness of the water, the occasional dragonfly. It was a picture of tranquility, yet it filled Wesley with dread. Was Orin’s blood still here, he thought, a pounding in his head. What if she found it? What if she knew? 

She’ll know. Old words. 

Killer, murderer. 

Nothing but a rock and blood under his fingernails. 

Buttercup stopped looking around and saw his panicked expression, the way he froze up and stared deep into the water. “Westley, what’s wrong?” He didn’t answer. She walked up and stood in front of him so she blocked his sight line, wholly and completely. Her focus was on him, not the spring. “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

He stepped back, struck with fear again. He remembered his dream, the spring water. Vomit and the smell. He thought he had escaped it yet it haunted the spring still. “I can’t tell you,” was all he said, the secret stuck in his throat, the bad seed refusing to leave. 

“This again? Westley, I’m not moving until you tell me. Go on. There’s nothing too terrible that—” 

“This is.” 

Buttercup stilled, hands coming together. A serious expression was on her face now. “Westley, if we are to be married, we must know everything about one another. I told you everything. Why didn’t you?” 

“You’re a liar,” he said, eyes going to her then. He had found a harsh part of himself in the spring, gasping for air. Cold. “You didn’t tell me about Orin.” 

This time, it was Buttercup who looked harsh. She gritted her teeth. “I don’t want to tell you about him.” 

“And I don’t want to tell you about this.” 

But her mind was working now, and she turned around so she could see the spring. “Wait.” Her eyes narrowed and her voice was conspiratory, “This has to do with him, doesn’t it?” She looked at him with new fear, stepping back. “Did you bring him here? Did you two conspire against me?” 

“What? No!” Westley started shaking his head, but Buttercup was on a roll now. 

“You did, didn’t you! Liar, saying you loved me! I bet you two are best friends, working to hurt me!” Voice loud, eyes accusing, enshrined by moonlight. Holy, frightened. “How could you, why—” 

“IT WAS ME!” The words ripped out of him like thunder. It shook the trees with their truth, scared the dragonflies with their brutality. And Buttercup stood there, holding her arms, waiting for him to continue. Eyes wide. 

She was going to hate him. Another one, he remembered. The worst of all. 

But once the declaration was out, the words kept coming. “It was me,” he repeated, “who attacked Orin.” Her eyes went even wider. Mouth fell open. “After what I heard he tried to do to you, I went straight to the alleyway and saw him there and I was so angry I came up with a plan and I fought him right there and choked him out and took a rock and almost—” the words were caught in his throat, hand out as if the rock was still in it. As if he could see it. “It would have been so easy to kill him. I almost did it but he begged for his life. And I—I let him go. Ran here. Washed my hands of his blood in the water but it’s still there, really. That’s what I couldn’t tell you.” He looked at her then, broken and angry and evil in the moonlight, the most unworthy creature on the earth. “I’m a killer. Murderer. And you shouldn’t love me.” 

The words hurt to say but they were true. Westley wanted her to love him so badly, more than anything in life, but in the moonlight it seemed impossible. Red mist obscured everything. Who could see him behind it? 

“You’re the one who hurt him?” Buttercup asked, still holding her arms. But her eyes weren’t wide anymore—not like when threw the brush, not afraid for her life. Strange, calm, she was. Like still water. 

“Yes.” Westley forced himself to look at her, waiting for the moment she didn’t love him anymore. His shoulders were shaking with the weight of the task, waiting for the anger, the fear, yet it still hadn’t come.

She walked closer. “And you’re the reason he left.” 

“Yes.” Wasn’t that clear?

“So you went out there and protected me. Got blood on your hands.” She was close to him now, hair made silver by the moon. 

“Weren’t you listening? Yes, it was all me.” His mouth was dry as he waited for it; fear and despair, old friends, haunted him once more. “Doesn’t that terrify you?” 

“No,” she said, wholly and completely. She looked at him with complete confidence, sure in the single word. How could she be like that, Westley wondered, when he was in pieces and knew so little himself? How could she be so sure? How could she say no? “Westley, you don’t scare me. I watched you beat up boys night after night. You were bloody then. I know your anger.” 

“This is different!” He rushed closer to her, trying to make her understand. “This was evil! I almost killed him, Buttercup! I wanted to!” 

“But you didn’t. And even more,” she grabbed his hands then, his shaking hands, his bloody hands, and held them close to her, “you did it for me. I thanked you for driving away those boys, Westley. Did you think I would hate you for driving away that brute?” 

His shaking had stopped now and his eyes were wide, the one afraid. The type of fear you had for something almighty, something that could absolve you, something that forgives. Something that sees. “What are you saying?” His voice was strained, barely audible. 

But, of course, Buttercup heard him. She had promised to always hear him. “I’m saying that, while I don’t want you to be a murderer, I’m not afraid of you. You promised never to hurt me, remember?” He did. “And I love you. If someone hurts me, you can beat them bloody for all I care. Especially brutes like that. I doubt you would find a woman in the world who would say otherwise. And if you’re ever in a position where you must hurt someone, out there in America, do not let me stop you.” She came closer and held his face, her eyes turning a bit more sad. “I hold little sympathy for men, beloved. Beat them bloody if you must. Just come back to me, that’s all I ask of you.” She kissed him then, mouth on his, love on his. Westley couldn’t even breathe, so great was his fear. She pulled away, looking at him softly. Never look away, he wished.

She didn’t but stopped holding him, stepping backwards. The water rippled where she touched it, yet she kept going backwards until she ankle deep. “Now, let’s stop this depressing subject and enjoy our last hour together.” She smiled at him then, eyes catching the moonlight, skin silver, smile bright. She was everything he ever wanted. Buttercup turned around then, laughing as she treaded deep into the water, yelping at how cold it was. 

A different fear drove him now, and he rushed to the end of the spring. “Buttercup, you must come out, you don’t know how to swim in—” 

But she interrupted, waving, “Oh, you aren’t the only fast learner. If you’re so worried, come in and swim with me.” She waded even further, her dress getting soaked. “Oh, this is dragging me down.” And the girl needed nothing that was of no use to her. She took the dress off over her head, the water covering the important parts of her body.  

Her skin shone in the moonlight like marble, hair turning dark in the water. The moon shone as bright as day, illuminating the spring just for the young lovers. She threw her dress to Westley and he caught it, stumbling backwards in surprise. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. We’re promised to one another, aren’t we? And I want to give you something to remember me by, all the way in America.” She was ringing water out of her hair now. The movement was hypnotizing. “Proof that I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, Westley. And you’ll never find another like me.” 

“I will never go looking,” was his quick response. Ever jealous, she was. Always holding on tight to her things. Westley loved it. 

Buttercup looked at him with hooded eyes. “Then prove it. Join me.” 

Now, Westley was already red and turning into a bit of a mess. The sight of her always did that to him, even during their first time together. She had found it much funnier then, how she could turn the terrible Dread Pirate Roberts into clay between her fingers. Now, her tone and her figure in the water was driving him as mad as a hermit in the deepest wilderness. 

Westley was trying to find something to say, but all he could find was, “Well, there are always people around.” 

“Not today. There’s just me and you, Westley. Just us.” 

“You’ve never swam before.” 

“I’ll learn. I’m learning a lot today.” 

“It’s cold.” That was feeble, even to him. He could hear Love laughing at him somewhere.

“Not after a bit. Not anymore.” 

“I mean…” Westley tried to think of something else but couldn’t. His heart beat heavily in his chest, all he could feel. Who needed to breathe when you had a heart like that? He placed her wet dress gently on a nearby branch. 

In the silence, Buttercup had tried to take a few more steps. Her eyebrows jumped. “Wow, how deep is this spring?” 

“Endless,” Westley spoke without hesitation. Love had rippled the surface with her feet. “Bottomless, it is.” Everlasting.  

“How strange.” She turned to him then, eyes mischievous. Moonlit. Loved. “Join me, Westley, and let us find the bottom together.” 

And that was all he needed to hear. 

Westley jumped into the spring, laughing and arms out to Love, Grief, and the only god worth knowing. 

She met him there in kind.