summer_of_giles | Fic: Second Chances Part1/2

Previously this started life as two separate fics ‘Remembering Yesterday…’ and ‘If I Let You Go (You’ll Never Leave Me)’. Works a lot better as a one-piece. And it only took the addition of a couple of words, and the deletion of a couple more . Not particularly heavy. And only really mentions of past parings, nothing current.

Second Chances

“In the midst of heat there is coolness…

In the midst of hate there is love.”

- Phra Agan Yantra

The room that had been set up as an office was empty. A computer stood on an old hardwood desk, looking lost and out of place amongst the old books piled high and set upon the shelves surrounding it.

She slowly inhaled, taking in the feel of the silence as she did so, and sat don in the empty chair in front of the desk.

A frame rested, face-down and just off to the side. No dust on it; meant that it had to be a reasonably recent thing. Frowning slightly to herself, she reached towards it, and with a single finger, raised it up so that she could see it.

The glass in the frame was old. And the photo that it held looked as though it were even older, yellowed with age, dog-eared, and with a single ripped corner. There were several sharp lines across it, as though it had been folded and possibly carried in a wallet at some stage, which, rather than detracting from it, made it obvious that it meant something to the owner.

The subject was a young-looking man, standing in pouring rain but seeming oblivious to it, a single lock of dark hair over his face, the rest plastered to the front of his shoulders. He was shirtless and the smile on his face held just the right hint of warmth. The face was free from any hint of stubble or beard, even though the man seemed to be old enough to shave, if she were judging the age correctly.

She picked it up, and raised it for closer inspection, as she noticed a hint of something familiar about the face.

“Ah, yes, Buffy. Sorry, I…”

She spun towards the voice, only realising once she’d done so that the photo was still in her hand. Too late to put it back down without attracting undue attention to it. Not, she told herself, that she should have to anyway. After all, it had been left on the desk. Even though, admittedly, it had been left face down.

She found herself forcing a smile, at the man who had once been her Watcher specifically, and now was that same person to a few hundred teenage girls and young woman.

He cleared his throat and carried on, as though he hadn’t noticed anything, “I was just finishing up a spot of research. One of the new staff thought that she’d encountered a Gesalt demon last night. Honestly, I’m not sure that she’d be able to tell the difference between a ghoul and a zombie. That’s what I have to work with these days.”

He sighed, and sat himself down in the freshly vacated chair, looking a lot more harried then he’d seemed a few nights ago, and after a minute or so of silence before she could find a word to volunteer, held out his hand expectantly. She looked at it blankly for a few seconds, before the facts clicked into place, and she pressed the frame into his hand.

“Sorry. You know me and curiosity…”

She was sure that she actually saw the hint of smile on his face as he gave the photo a brief glance and placed it back onto the desk, standing, this time. She didn’t think that she had been seeing things.

“A little harmless nostalgia…,” he muttered, before falling silent again, although this time there was a deeper quality to it.

There was something about the way that he’d said the words, which came across almost as though he seemed, embarrassed or something, to be expressing old feeling, or giving voice to them. Admitting that they existed.

“I didn’t keep many photos when I… after the bad blood came between us –all of us, and we went our separate ways. After Randall was killed.” his gaze focussed on a speck of dust that was on the blank computer screen, but she could see that faraway expression which meant that he wasn’t actually seeing it, “my father came across a couple of them my first week back at home and I never saw them again, but I’ve still got a few tucked away.”

She watched as he opened one of the cabinets off to the side, and drew out a heavy wooden box. As he opened it she saw a glint of metal –something that looked like a ring, or perhaps an earring –which was quickly obscured by paper, as he sifted through it and came out with a few pieces in his grasp, which he held onto even as he sat the box down.

“My God,” he laughed, and she caught a hint of bitterness in it, as his eyes drifted back towards the standing picture, “he was nineteen when that old thing was taken.”

Finally, it felt safe enough to voice her thought, “There’s something that’s kinda… familiar about him…” she frowned.

“I think I’d be more worried if there wasn’t, you know.”

He handed the pieces of paper over to her, gesturing for her to unfold the first one, which she did, to discover a photo tucked safely inside it. This one was of a small group of people standing together loosely, in front of a bar in a badly-lit room. The quality was rough, but she could still pick out a young Giles in the group, guitar tossed almost casually over one shoulder. The same dark-haired guy was still recognizable in this one, too, although his hair was only down to his neck in this one, and he was leaning slightly towards Giles, a lethal grin that was obviously more practised that the casual ease of the first shot on his face. He was wearing a leather jacket that was made for someone with broader shoulders, and one hand was planted flat on the bar-top.

The second photo was of the same young guy, hair still at the same length, curled up on his side on a couch. His hair was falling forward over his face, but she could still make out that his mouth was about quarter open. There was an empty whiskey bottle laying on its side, just below a hand that was hanging over the side of the couch almost as though reaching towards it, and someone had thrown an old, worn-looking blanket over him. He looked completely at ease in sleep.

The third photo that she opened up was of the same young man, but this time Giles was in the shot with him, a young, pale-haired version on the man currently sitting before her. He was smirking towards whoever had been taking the picture, and was sitting in a battered-looking chair, with the other pulled onto his knee. This time the leather jacket was on the right person, and one arm was crossed almost protectively over the younger man’s chest. His chin was resting atop a mass of dark hair, and the younger, who was sitting sideways, with his head towards the camera had one hand raised and fingers threaded through Giles’s. The smile on his face seemed contented, as though there was no place that he would rather be.