i will write in words of fire (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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summer_of_giles2008-07-08 08:11 pm
biodamped) wrote in summer_of_giles2008-07-08 08:11 pm
FIC: A Cup of Tea (Giles/Buffy, Giles/Olivia, Giles/other) - R
Title: A Cup of Tea
Author: Amanda (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lilianvaldemyer)
Pairing: Giles/Buffy, Giles/Olivia, Giles/other
Word Count: 2600
Rating: R
Spoilers/Warnings: Language, adult themes, references to drug use. Spoilers through “Bargaining” 6x01.
Disclaimer: Buffy, Giles and all related content belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy. I am using them without permission and making no profit. Canon dialogue has been lifted directly from the episodes with no alterations except to punctuation.
Notes: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
summer_of_giles 2008. Also archived at my fic journal, mylucidskin. Do not archive or reproduce elsewhere without my consent.
A huge thank you to my betas,shopfront and Kim. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
Thanks to our two lovely mods, KK & EB - you ladies are fantastic, and i'm so pleased to have been given the chance to write this for you.
Giles clambered up, grasping Spike’s hand. "You might have let me in on your plan while he throttled me." He brushed the dust from his jacket.
Spike shrugged and took another puff. "Oh, poor Watcher. Did your life flash before your eyes? Cuppa tea, cuppa tea, almost got shagged, cuppa tea?"
Guys! Willow’s voice brooked no nonsense. Help Xander and Anya over by the Anderson tomb. Giles ran first, Spike's words replaying in his head the whole way. They were ironic really.
* * *
She was blonde, a bit skinny perhaps. His mother would probably have called her ‘bony’. It was the same with all the girls he met now. Skinny (bony) and Scandinavian pale. The only hint of colour in them was red-ringed eyes and noses or, more often than not, bruised veins. They might as well have been–
He stopped the thought before it could distract him. This girl was mostly clean, and her eyes made up for her otherwise lack of colour. Hazy green lace over blue pools. They opened wide as she looked up at him. Innocent, baby eyes.
She'd been to the last three or four gigs. He'd not noticed her at first - audiences these days were a blur, made of smoke and lights. Perhaps he needed those glasses after all. Well sod that, they were a real rock band now, him and his lads. What kind of rocker wore specs? No, he liked them that way. Smoke and lights, part of the magic. Hazy, like her eyes. Ethan had pointed her out with a customary leer, and said that if Ripper didn't get on with it, he might as well go at her himself.
So Ripper had got on with it. Ripper could always be trusted to get on with it. He took her upstairs and she wasn't a girl anymore, she was a spell, part of the magic. She lay, supine; she stretched, feline. Power coursed up and down the length of him. She thrashed now, all eyes and nails and teeth, a wraith twisting beneath his weight, and damn he'd never be sick of the music business, never. Bugger old books and watching and "duty". This was what life should be about. This was what life was about. Her nails dug in, separating skin from shoulder blade and he filled her suddenly, power and anger and drunken lust spilling out. Faces hovered before him. Blue eyes, not hazy though, not any more. Serious, reproachful eyes.
He rolled off, grabbed his cigarettes. He hadn't asked her name ("A gentleman should always enquire as to a lady's name, son"). A gentleman would offer the pack, and he did so, but let her struggle with her nails and the lighter. She was hazy once more, hazed and dazed, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't see with them shut. Couldn't see the eyes in front of him, blue-green like hers, couldn't see the words spelling out his duty printed before him. He inhaled, trying hard to quash the feeling that, more than a fag, he wanted a good cup of tea.
* * *
"Ow! OW!"
"Okay, when I'm marvelling at the immaturity... Be scared."
Xander's voice splashed into the room like a bucket of cold water. Giles and Anya froze, both still gripping the statue. Before either of them could say a word, he went on: "Anya. Giles is gonna leave the store to you when he goes. What more do you want?"
Giles sighed, burying the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not leaving the store to anyone. I'm going to England. I'm not dead, I'm still a partner." He yanked the statue out of Anya's (human, but reminiscent-of-demon-strength) grip.
"Silent overseas partner," Anya muttered. He ignored her, checking the wooden figure for damage.
"Who you should be very nice to, unless you want to end up working at Video Hut."
At Xander’s rebuke she smiled, somewhat cheesily, then stalked off. Xander followed. This time Giles did roll his eyes. Dangling his glasses idly between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the bridge of his nose. As the bickering continued, he wondered for the millionth time what England would hold and whether it was truly the right thing to do. Sighing, he replaced the frame on his face. If nothing else, he might manage to find a decent cup of tea in the Mother country.
* * *
"You don't remember." It was a statement, not a question.
"I... ah, no. No, not as such." Slightly embarrassed, he tugged at his glasses, absently cleaning them on the bottom of his tie. They'd said not to do that, he recalled, something about using a special cloth... Repositioning the specs, he looked at her closely. He'd seen her before.
"Olivia." She offered her hand. "We met in Oxford. You founded Pink Floyd." This with a slightly sardonic smile, the merest hint of a rise adorning her left eyebrow. "You also said you'd call."
"Oh. Yes. Well, er. Would you believe a, ah, slightly recalcitrant twin?"
She laughed then, full and hearty and he thought perhaps he did remember her. Curls. A pert nose, dark eyes filled with an almost birdlike intelligence. Pieces dropping into place; an expanse of flesh beneath his hands. Smooth, chestnut, warm as the Caribbean.
"Then perhaps I might rectify my error with the assistance of coffee?"
"I drink tea."
"Tea, then." He smiled.
Had he known tea was a euphemism in London, he might have suggested something different. Tea apparently meant dinner, eyes meeting over a basket of breadsticks, a shared cab back to his apartment. Her hand had brushed his arm, reassuring, as he relived the dissolution of the band, his move to London, his father's string-pulling that led to the museum curatorship. A change of subject, she'd suggested, something less painful. And then somehow she was on his lap, his tie half undone. She was the first since the magic he'd left behind and he thrust into her, barely aware of the clothing she was still stripping off them both.
Tea was sunshine in your bed, he decided the next morning. Warm with a hint of mischief. Her eyebrow twitched once as he walked through the bedroom door, a minute gesture but enough. He set down the tray of tea he was carrying. It didn't get another thought that day.
* * *
“Would you like to test me again?”
Anya’s intrusion had destroyed any remnant of Zen wisdom he had hoped to impart. “No, perhaps we should call it a day. Your… your responses are fine.” Slipping the pads off his hands, he reached for the water bottle. When he turned back, she was still watching him. “Look, perhaps Anya's right. Perhaps I am trying to teach you as if you were...”
“Human?”
Robot she might be, but she also possessed a very real ability to state the obvious when it was most unwanted. “Yes.”
She continued as he swallowed the water. “I like your teachings. Every Slayer needs her Watcher.”
“I'm not so sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
She should have noticed his tone. She would have noticed. “Nothing.” He looked at her for a moment. She was familiar all over, but wrong. She would always be wrong. He turned away. “I just can't help but wonder if ... she would have been better off without me. Buffy.” It hurt to say her name. He balled up the towel, set it down in favour of his glasses and a polishing cloth.
“I don't think that's true. You were very helpful to her.”
He laughed, for lack of any more appropriate response. Sarcasm helped stop the guilt. “Right. Yes, I was a perfect Watcher. I did what any good Watcher would do. Got my Slayer killed in the line of duty.”
“Oh, that wasn't your fault!”
Her eyes, he knew, would be wide, reassuring him. An exact match and yet nothing like the hazel green imprinted on his memory. “Oh, of course not.” He tried to look at her again, before focussing once more on the glasses in his hand. “That's how all Slayer/Watcher relationships end, isn't it?” Steadying himself, he took a breath, replaced his spectacles. “She's gone. I did my job.”
“Well, then why are you still here?”
* * *
He had thought she looked beautiful when she realised what Jonathon was reading. Glancing back through the crowd, he had seen the beginnings of a smile, her eyes lowering. Pride had coursed through him, spreading in its wake the warmth that he felt more and more often these days when he looked at her.
He had thought she looked radiant when she’d walked up to collect the umbrella, the smile fully-fledged now. Her eyes burned with happiness as she looked around the room. In that instant he understood, as he never had before: Buffy Summers wanted a lot of things from life, things that she might never have, and on the top of that list was love.
He had thought she looked beautiful, yes, and radiant and his head was still swimming with her when Wesley sat beside him.
“While the last thing I want to do is model bad behaviour in front of impressionable youth, I was wondering if asking Miss Chase to dance would…”
Giles cut him off, unconsciously tugging the glasses from his face and waving them at him. “For God's sake, man, she's eighteen. And you have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone. Just have at it, would you, and stop fluttering ab-”
The word was half-born on his lips, and he left it hanging while he strode across the room. By the time he reached her Wesley had found the strength to move, and was dancing with Cordelia. Far from the imagined bad behaviour, he seemed a model of anxiety and awkwardness. Probably best not to focus on that just now. He waited a breath.
“You did good work tonight, Buffy.”
She spun, beautiful and radiant still, and when she smiled his heart almost burst. “And I got a little toy surprise!”
“I had no idea children en masse could be… gracious.”
“Every now and again people surprise you.” Her eyes held a hard-won sort of wisdom, beyond her years. He’d almost said it then.
Thinking back on it, he should have. Should have ignored the figure he saw coming through the shadows, tossed the umbrella aside and scooped her up in his arms. Should have let her bury her head under his chin, should have stroked her hair and danced until the rest of them had gone and the dawn was breaking.
He had done the right thing, he decided. She was exquisite; his beautiful, radiant, exquisite Slayer. Angel could have her for tonight. She wouldn’t always be eighteen and she wouldn’t always be a student. But she would always be his Slayer.
* * *
The book was no distraction. He stopped reading, the words he had farewelled them with coming to life before his eyes. I've gone. Not one for long good-byes. I thought it best to slip out quietly. Love to you all, Giles. It was for the best. He had left it on the till; no doubt Anya would find it.
“You really think we'd let you get away with that?” The voice cut into his thoughts, a voice he had prayed he could hear once more but hoped he wouldn’t, except through a long distance telephone connection. Looking up, he saw all five of them, Willow leading the way.
“I was trying to avoid a scene, really.”
“Like we'd make a scene.” Willow grinned sadly, drawing out a poster she had held behind her. Rainbow paint and balloons, with the words “Bon Voyage Giles!” He felt his throat clench.
“Not you. Me.”
* * *
”I can’t do this, Buffy. I cannot watch you run off, headlong into who-knows-what and not at least try to help you.”
“You have to.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading and her jaw set. “Please, Giles.”
“And then what? I wait until everything is over and help pick up the pieces?”
“If this works, there won’t be any pieces! Glory will be dead, the world will be saved, yada yada yada.”
“Buffy, I’m your Watcher. I have to help. It’s my responsibility.”
“No.” She planted herself in front of him, eyes locked on his. “No, you’re not my Watcher. Not anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. This is my responsibility. I’m the Slayer. You’re just… Giles.”
He sighed, closing his eyes. There was no use fighting her. There was never any use fighting her; Buffy always won. He took off his glasses, and looked at her silently. She didn’t need to be told.
“Thank you.” She threw her arms around his middle. Surprised, he stumbled backward.
“You’re, ah… welcome. But please, Buffy. Do try to be reasonable. Perhaps there is another way. A safer way.” He pulled her away gently, holding her shoulders and eyeing her. She said nothing in response, just looked at him curiously, her head tilted slightly to the left. Uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny, he released her. She never moved. “Buffy? Are you alright?”
She continued to look at him. He’d started to wonder what she was seeing when he noticed a tear working its way slowly down the side of her nose. “Buffy.” He made to brush it off, but she captured his hand, holding it in place against his cheek with her eyes closed. She breathed in deeply.
How her mouth found his he could never quite work out afterwards. She had been stock still one minute, then clinging to him with all her Slayer strength the next, legs wrapped around his middle and fingers mussing up the back of his hair. The three brain cells that still functioned had told him to carry her upstairs, and so he had.
She didn’t let go until they’d reached the bedroom, and only then to fumble hurriedly at his belt buckle. She might have growled at that point. He’d tugged his shirt off, heedless of the damage he did to its buttons, and pulled hers over her head just as swiftly. She fell back onto the bed. Her hair was in her eyes, her breathing ragged and he’d never seen her look so beautiful, not even the night of the prom. He entered her before either of them could think of consequences.
She’d fallen asleep almost immediately, the sex having drained her of the worries she’d held onto. He had cradled her for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. Thought had crept back slowly, but he pushed it aside, gently disentangling himself from her. The tea helped to calm him again, and he sipped at it, watching her as she slept.
She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Neither did he, but morning was a long way off, a few hours, an eternity. It would come eventually. It would take this and her, and everything would be the way it was before. For now, it was night, and she was finally his.
* * *
“Did your life flash before your eyes? Cuppa tea, cuppa tea, almost got shagged, cuppa tea?"
Yes, Spike, he thought to himself. Picking up the tea-cup, he grinned. Yes, something like that.
Author: Amanda (
lilianvaldemyer)Pairing: Giles/Buffy, Giles/Olivia, Giles/other
Word Count: 2600
Rating: R
Spoilers/Warnings: Language, adult themes, references to drug use. Spoilers through “Bargaining” 6x01.
Disclaimer: Buffy, Giles and all related content belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy. I am using them without permission and making no profit. Canon dialogue has been lifted directly from the episodes with no alterations except to punctuation.
Notes: written for
summer_of_giles 2008. Also archived at my fic journal, mylucidskin. Do not archive or reproduce elsewhere without my consent.A huge thank you to my betas,
shopfront and Kim. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.Thanks to our two lovely mods, KK & EB - you ladies are fantastic, and i'm so pleased to have been given the chance to write this for you.
Giles clambered up, grasping Spike’s hand. "You might have let me in on your plan while he throttled me." He brushed the dust from his jacket.
Spike shrugged and took another puff. "Oh, poor Watcher. Did your life flash before your eyes? Cuppa tea, cuppa tea, almost got shagged, cuppa tea?"
Guys! Willow’s voice brooked no nonsense. Help Xander and Anya over by the Anderson tomb. Giles ran first, Spike's words replaying in his head the whole way. They were ironic really.
She was blonde, a bit skinny perhaps. His mother would probably have called her ‘bony’. It was the same with all the girls he met now. Skinny (bony) and Scandinavian pale. The only hint of colour in them was red-ringed eyes and noses or, more often than not, bruised veins. They might as well have been–
He stopped the thought before it could distract him. This girl was mostly clean, and her eyes made up for her otherwise lack of colour. Hazy green lace over blue pools. They opened wide as she looked up at him. Innocent, baby eyes.
She'd been to the last three or four gigs. He'd not noticed her at first - audiences these days were a blur, made of smoke and lights. Perhaps he needed those glasses after all. Well sod that, they were a real rock band now, him and his lads. What kind of rocker wore specs? No, he liked them that way. Smoke and lights, part of the magic. Hazy, like her eyes. Ethan had pointed her out with a customary leer, and said that if Ripper didn't get on with it, he might as well go at her himself.
So Ripper had got on with it. Ripper could always be trusted to get on with it. He took her upstairs and she wasn't a girl anymore, she was a spell, part of the magic. She lay, supine; she stretched, feline. Power coursed up and down the length of him. She thrashed now, all eyes and nails and teeth, a wraith twisting beneath his weight, and damn he'd never be sick of the music business, never. Bugger old books and watching and "duty". This was what life should be about. This was what life was about. Her nails dug in, separating skin from shoulder blade and he filled her suddenly, power and anger and drunken lust spilling out. Faces hovered before him. Blue eyes, not hazy though, not any more. Serious, reproachful eyes.
He rolled off, grabbed his cigarettes. He hadn't asked her name ("A gentleman should always enquire as to a lady's name, son"). A gentleman would offer the pack, and he did so, but let her struggle with her nails and the lighter. She was hazy once more, hazed and dazed, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't see with them shut. Couldn't see the eyes in front of him, blue-green like hers, couldn't see the words spelling out his duty printed before him. He inhaled, trying hard to quash the feeling that, more than a fag, he wanted a good cup of tea.
"Ow! OW!"
"Okay, when I'm marvelling at the immaturity... Be scared."
Xander's voice splashed into the room like a bucket of cold water. Giles and Anya froze, both still gripping the statue. Before either of them could say a word, he went on: "Anya. Giles is gonna leave the store to you when he goes. What more do you want?"
Giles sighed, burying the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not leaving the store to anyone. I'm going to England. I'm not dead, I'm still a partner." He yanked the statue out of Anya's (human, but reminiscent-of-demon-strength) grip.
"Silent overseas partner," Anya muttered. He ignored her, checking the wooden figure for damage.
"Who you should be very nice to, unless you want to end up working at Video Hut."
At Xander’s rebuke she smiled, somewhat cheesily, then stalked off. Xander followed. This time Giles did roll his eyes. Dangling his glasses idly between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the bridge of his nose. As the bickering continued, he wondered for the millionth time what England would hold and whether it was truly the right thing to do. Sighing, he replaced the frame on his face. If nothing else, he might manage to find a decent cup of tea in the Mother country.
"You don't remember." It was a statement, not a question.
"I... ah, no. No, not as such." Slightly embarrassed, he tugged at his glasses, absently cleaning them on the bottom of his tie. They'd said not to do that, he recalled, something about using a special cloth... Repositioning the specs, he looked at her closely. He'd seen her before.
"Olivia." She offered her hand. "We met in Oxford. You founded Pink Floyd." This with a slightly sardonic smile, the merest hint of a rise adorning her left eyebrow. "You also said you'd call."
"Oh. Yes. Well, er. Would you believe a, ah, slightly recalcitrant twin?"
She laughed then, full and hearty and he thought perhaps he did remember her. Curls. A pert nose, dark eyes filled with an almost birdlike intelligence. Pieces dropping into place; an expanse of flesh beneath his hands. Smooth, chestnut, warm as the Caribbean.
"Then perhaps I might rectify my error with the assistance of coffee?"
"I drink tea."
"Tea, then." He smiled.
Had he known tea was a euphemism in London, he might have suggested something different. Tea apparently meant dinner, eyes meeting over a basket of breadsticks, a shared cab back to his apartment. Her hand had brushed his arm, reassuring, as he relived the dissolution of the band, his move to London, his father's string-pulling that led to the museum curatorship. A change of subject, she'd suggested, something less painful. And then somehow she was on his lap, his tie half undone. She was the first since the magic he'd left behind and he thrust into her, barely aware of the clothing she was still stripping off them both.
Tea was sunshine in your bed, he decided the next morning. Warm with a hint of mischief. Her eyebrow twitched once as he walked through the bedroom door, a minute gesture but enough. He set down the tray of tea he was carrying. It didn't get another thought that day.
“Would you like to test me again?”
Anya’s intrusion had destroyed any remnant of Zen wisdom he had hoped to impart. “No, perhaps we should call it a day. Your… your responses are fine.” Slipping the pads off his hands, he reached for the water bottle. When he turned back, she was still watching him. “Look, perhaps Anya's right. Perhaps I am trying to teach you as if you were...”
“Human?”
Robot she might be, but she also possessed a very real ability to state the obvious when it was most unwanted. “Yes.”
She continued as he swallowed the water. “I like your teachings. Every Slayer needs her Watcher.”
“I'm not so sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
She should have noticed his tone. She would have noticed. “Nothing.” He looked at her for a moment. She was familiar all over, but wrong. She would always be wrong. He turned away. “I just can't help but wonder if ... she would have been better off without me. Buffy.” It hurt to say her name. He balled up the towel, set it down in favour of his glasses and a polishing cloth.
“I don't think that's true. You were very helpful to her.”
He laughed, for lack of any more appropriate response. Sarcasm helped stop the guilt. “Right. Yes, I was a perfect Watcher. I did what any good Watcher would do. Got my Slayer killed in the line of duty.”
“Oh, that wasn't your fault!”
Her eyes, he knew, would be wide, reassuring him. An exact match and yet nothing like the hazel green imprinted on his memory. “Oh, of course not.” He tried to look at her again, before focussing once more on the glasses in his hand. “That's how all Slayer/Watcher relationships end, isn't it?” Steadying himself, he took a breath, replaced his spectacles. “She's gone. I did my job.”
“Well, then why are you still here?”
He had thought she looked beautiful when she realised what Jonathon was reading. Glancing back through the crowd, he had seen the beginnings of a smile, her eyes lowering. Pride had coursed through him, spreading in its wake the warmth that he felt more and more often these days when he looked at her.
He had thought she looked radiant when she’d walked up to collect the umbrella, the smile fully-fledged now. Her eyes burned with happiness as she looked around the room. In that instant he understood, as he never had before: Buffy Summers wanted a lot of things from life, things that she might never have, and on the top of that list was love.
He had thought she looked beautiful, yes, and radiant and his head was still swimming with her when Wesley sat beside him.
“While the last thing I want to do is model bad behaviour in front of impressionable youth, I was wondering if asking Miss Chase to dance would…”
Giles cut him off, unconsciously tugging the glasses from his face and waving them at him. “For God's sake, man, she's eighteen. And you have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone. Just have at it, would you, and stop fluttering ab-”
The word was half-born on his lips, and he left it hanging while he strode across the room. By the time he reached her Wesley had found the strength to move, and was dancing with Cordelia. Far from the imagined bad behaviour, he seemed a model of anxiety and awkwardness. Probably best not to focus on that just now. He waited a breath.
“You did good work tonight, Buffy.”
She spun, beautiful and radiant still, and when she smiled his heart almost burst. “And I got a little toy surprise!”
“I had no idea children en masse could be… gracious.”
“Every now and again people surprise you.” Her eyes held a hard-won sort of wisdom, beyond her years. He’d almost said it then.
Thinking back on it, he should have. Should have ignored the figure he saw coming through the shadows, tossed the umbrella aside and scooped her up in his arms. Should have let her bury her head under his chin, should have stroked her hair and danced until the rest of them had gone and the dawn was breaking.
He had done the right thing, he decided. She was exquisite; his beautiful, radiant, exquisite Slayer. Angel could have her for tonight. She wouldn’t always be eighteen and she wouldn’t always be a student. But she would always be his Slayer.
The book was no distraction. He stopped reading, the words he had farewelled them with coming to life before his eyes. I've gone. Not one for long good-byes. I thought it best to slip out quietly. Love to you all, Giles. It was for the best. He had left it on the till; no doubt Anya would find it.
“You really think we'd let you get away with that?” The voice cut into his thoughts, a voice he had prayed he could hear once more but hoped he wouldn’t, except through a long distance telephone connection. Looking up, he saw all five of them, Willow leading the way.
“I was trying to avoid a scene, really.”
“Like we'd make a scene.” Willow grinned sadly, drawing out a poster she had held behind her. Rainbow paint and balloons, with the words “Bon Voyage Giles!” He felt his throat clench.
“Not you. Me.”
”I can’t do this, Buffy. I cannot watch you run off, headlong into who-knows-what and not at least try to help you.”
“You have to.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading and her jaw set. “Please, Giles.”
“And then what? I wait until everything is over and help pick up the pieces?”
“If this works, there won’t be any pieces! Glory will be dead, the world will be saved, yada yada yada.”
“Buffy, I’m your Watcher. I have to help. It’s my responsibility.”
“No.” She planted herself in front of him, eyes locked on his. “No, you’re not my Watcher. Not anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. This is my responsibility. I’m the Slayer. You’re just… Giles.”
He sighed, closing his eyes. There was no use fighting her. There was never any use fighting her; Buffy always won. He took off his glasses, and looked at her silently. She didn’t need to be told.
“Thank you.” She threw her arms around his middle. Surprised, he stumbled backward.
“You’re, ah… welcome. But please, Buffy. Do try to be reasonable. Perhaps there is another way. A safer way.” He pulled her away gently, holding her shoulders and eyeing her. She said nothing in response, just looked at him curiously, her head tilted slightly to the left. Uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny, he released her. She never moved. “Buffy? Are you alright?”
She continued to look at him. He’d started to wonder what she was seeing when he noticed a tear working its way slowly down the side of her nose. “Buffy.” He made to brush it off, but she captured his hand, holding it in place against his cheek with her eyes closed. She breathed in deeply.
How her mouth found his he could never quite work out afterwards. She had been stock still one minute, then clinging to him with all her Slayer strength the next, legs wrapped around his middle and fingers mussing up the back of his hair. The three brain cells that still functioned had told him to carry her upstairs, and so he had.
She didn’t let go until they’d reached the bedroom, and only then to fumble hurriedly at his belt buckle. She might have growled at that point. He’d tugged his shirt off, heedless of the damage he did to its buttons, and pulled hers over her head just as swiftly. She fell back onto the bed. Her hair was in her eyes, her breathing ragged and he’d never seen her look so beautiful, not even the night of the prom. He entered her before either of them could think of consequences.
She’d fallen asleep almost immediately, the sex having drained her of the worries she’d held onto. He had cradled her for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. Thought had crept back slowly, but he pushed it aside, gently disentangling himself from her. The tea helped to calm him again, and he sipped at it, watching her as she slept.
She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Neither did he, but morning was a long way off, a few hours, an eternity. It would come eventually. It would take this and her, and everything would be the way it was before. For now, it was night, and she was finally his.
* * *
“Did your life flash before your eyes? Cuppa tea, cuppa tea, almost got shagged, cuppa tea?"
Yes, Spike, he thought to himself. Picking up the tea-cup, he grinned. Yes, something like that.
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Thank you for writing and sharing this.
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[this is how far behind on lj/comments I am]
hugs.
kate, who adores the fact that I have brilliant friends
Re: [this is how far behind on lj/comments I am]
So... Thank you gorgeous! I don't think i'm brilliant at all, and coming from YOU that means heaps. *return huggles*
(also i am incredibly behind on lj anything :D)
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This is great writing, wistful in parts, but a good read.
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(Anonymous) 2008-07-09 09:01 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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The foreshadowing in the first sequence - Couldn't see the eyes in front of him, blue-green like hers, couldn't see the words spelling out his duty printed before him.
The by-play between Olivia and Rupert in the second - "We met in Oxford. You founded Pink Floyd." I'm not a big Olivia fan, but you made her work here.
The different perspective of the Buffy/Angel moment in the prom scene
The romance and angst of the "final" moments between Buffy & Giles
The way you wove in scenes from "Bargaining" throughout tied it all together and gave it an emotional weight that the moments on their own might not have had. Simply perfect.
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I should say
(Anonymous) 2008-08-03 02:50 pm (UTC)(link)Re: I should say
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I loved how you have given that scene in Bargaining a deeper meaning
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