Chapter Text
1 January 2004. Swallow's Nest, 11:15 pm
Okay. I feel uncomfortable beginning this diary, since I've never kept one before. Yes, for several centuries D'Hoffryn required daily tabulations of our work -- until I argued that such micro-management was counterproductive for an independent vengeance-contractor -- but listing vengeance done, lives ruined, and quantities of viscera obtained is just not what I do or believe in now. Not who I am.
However, Dawn gave me this attractive silk-bound blank book for Christmas (solstice, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Gurunchar's Ascension) and told me that keeping a journal was a good way to clear one's mind and also to record memories and life-events, either for posterity or for future marital disagreements where I can just point to this historical record and say, "See, Rupert, you're completely wrong and I have proof."
This seems like an excellent thing to have.
But there are questions about diary-keeping, though, such as the best time to do it. New Year's Day began almost twenty-four hours ago, and that would have seemed like an appropriate starting point. However, as midnight struck I was having fast and slightly sweaty illicit sex with my husband in the wine cellar of Jools and Eleanor Siviter's Kensington home, on top of several cases of St. Emilion (technically, I was on top of the cases; R was standing). Not only does it seem backward to postpone an orgasm -- two for me -- for the purpose of writing about it, but also we had sneaked away from Jools and Eleanor's New Year's Eve/return-from-honeymoon party and we needed to get back for the champagne toasts. (Unfortunately, we were a little late in returning, which caused that stupid Jools and also Wesley to make several loud and pointed comments about our absence and current dishabille, making R turn crimson. Or possibly that was just the remaining flush from our sexual exercise, I'm not sure. Still, we did also mention to Jools that he had a pixie problem in his cellars, and got a nice little job out of it for later in January.)
This morning might have been suitable for writing, but we slept too late. The house was quiet for once, what with Dawn visiting Buffy and everybody in Cleveland for the holidays and Andrew on his first mini-break with his new boyfriend Ian. Brighton in January doesn't sound like a great holiday destination to me, but it should work out, since upon his request I took Andrew to a sex-store in Soho before they left and assisted him in the purchase of several useful devices and a great deal of lube. I think they might not be planning to leave their hotel room.
Okay, just a minute -- R just made a very strange snorting noise. I do hope he's not reading this over my shoulder, because diaries are private until explicitly shared for posterity or settling arguments (see above).
No, it was a false alarm. He's looking extremely cuddly yet also arrogant and superior, lying next to me here in bed whilst reading one of the popular demon-slayer works of fiction that Andrew and Dawn got him for Christmas (solstice, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Gurunchar's Ascension); in fact he's muttering to himself and annotating in pen all the authorial mistakes in vampire psychology, physiology, and cultural constructs. Also, he says it's not even good porn.
Maybe I can get him to read aloud to me later. I'd like to judge the quality of the sex scenes myself.
Anyway, this morning after we had sex in the shower and then brunch, we drove to Devon for a few days' holiday and consultation with the coven about one of our cases. We'll also get to visit with Willow and her new friend, Wesley's former associate Fred, who despite the name is a girl; they're both staying at Tor House, Fred being in England on special assignment from Wolfram and Hart to research...something. Possibly her latent lesbianism, I don't know.
The dogs were quite good in the car. Cava only threw up once, outside Junction 17 on the M4; she has a delicate stomach, and she'd gotten into the Fortnum hamper and nibbled on an orange biscuit and some ham. The dogs always enjoy a visit to Swallow's Nest anyway. Last time they executed three hideous evil rabbits, the corpses of which R had to dispose of. He didn't seem so enthused about their hunting, actually.
Okay, now that I read over this, I don't quite see the point to this record-keeping. Perhaps I need more of a focus. Does posterity need to know about Cava's digestive tract and Macallan's bunny-killing? (Unless R wants to fight about their behaviour at some future date.) Maybe I should be more detailed about what exactly our cases should be. Or, maybe I should be keeping lists again -- for example I could keep track of when R and I have sex, what times, positions, locations, etc. Just in case we ever get in a rut....
Although now that I think about it, it's entirely possible R already does keep a list somewhere for himself, as he's never ever repeated himself within a fortnight --
[The diary breaks off here; the next words are written in a bold yet small cursive.]
For posterity's sake, however, I've decided I shan't keep a record of my marital sex life, because no one bloody needs to know.
[and back to the original handwriting]
My husband is a very rude person, and much too grabby with other people's private journals. I think I should keep a record of our sex life; it will be a comfort to me in our declining years, thinking about the varieties of domestic discipline employed, R's skill at oral sex, etc. Or wait -- I bet he does have a list somewhere, I should go look. I wonder where it is and what elements he records --
He doesn't have any such thing. He can remember perfectly well without assistance, thank you.
R should just go back to reading his stupid vampire bad porn and let me write in peace. Besides, his wrestling with me is getting ink all over the sheets, which is hell to get out.
I now am going to start my list, if only for the sake of the children. Okay, last night's sex in the cellar began with fairly traditional attention to my breasts, but then he took off his silk tie --
For fuck's sake, Anya, stop it.
And what do you mean, 'for the sake of the children'?
Rupert! You just broke my diary!
I bloody well did not. And what did you mean, 'the sake of the children'?
You did too! A journal is supposed to be one woman's written record of her life, not a conversation, you dope. And I mean, the child or children we should be making any day now, who might be interested in the fullness of their parents' lives. I know I haven't brought it up yet --
Hmm. R is turning crimson again, tapping his book ominously against his hand, and beginning to look thunderous. Will return to this entry later.
2 January 2004, 1:30 am
I am currently in the kitchen, having a lovely snack, while R is asleep upstairs. My journal entry started a fiery argument about our having children -- he's not entirely convinced yet, but I'll wear him down; it's just like how he was at first with the idea of the dogs, and we know who won that -- which then led to extremely satisfying rough sex (me tied up with a couple of his belts), the latter of which activities always sends him to sleep and makes me hungry. Mmm, orgasms and roast beef after midnight.
I'll send Dawn effusive thanks later. I think I love my new diary!