Summary: Giles thinks about the reasons he needs to leave.
Spoilers: Mild through OMWF.
Disclaimer: Joss made them. I just get kinda creepy writing about them.
Rating: NC17.
Author's Note: This fic is B/G, so if it's not your cup of tea, I suggest
you don't read.
Another Author's Note: I don't know where this came from and am deeply
scared of myself now. < g >
Nothing is like it was before, he thinks, and knows how remarkably stupid the
thought is, how tired he must be to have thought it in the first place.
He lays in the bed that has clean hotel sheets and pillows so old and
flattened that he needs three just to be comfortable and he thinks of why he
is there.
It's because of what happened between them.
When he'd returned to find that, yes, Willow had been telling the truth and
his Slayer was finally alive again, after all of those nights of
heartbreaking loneliness for her, something inside of him shifted. He'd
realized before how important she was to him, of course he had, like a
daughter, someone to take care of. But he hadn't really let himself see what
his life would be like without her.
Except for the nightmares he sometimes had, and always made himself forget
upon waking, he was sure she would always be in his life. And then, one
morning just as the sun rose, she suddenly wasn't anymore. That broken body,
lying twisted on top of that pile of crumbling cement, that wasn't her. A
ribbon of blood had slipped down her cheek, coming from her mouth, as if
she'd bit her lip in those last few moments, and that was what he had stared
at.
Not her still body. Not her peaceful face.
Her blood.
It was the last thing of *hers* before she left the world. It was her very
last act, biting her lip in pain -- pleasure? --, committed even after she'd
thrown herself off of the tower, he was almost sure. He stared at that
strand of red for a long time before finally stepping forward and lifting her
into his arms.
She'd felt so light in his arms. So small.
He felt the loneliness for her that night, out of nowhere. He knew of the
grief, had been feeling it all day, but the loneliness surprised him. He
wanted to hear her talking, her voice smooth, comforting or excited and
raspy. Or even hard, clipped, the way it was after a fight. He wanted her
to joke with him, to try to draw him out as she always had, making one
confusing pop-culture reference after another just to see him smile, even if
it was in bewilderment. He wanted to see her eyes, eyes that would never
open again, and once again try to describe the color to himself. Something
he could never do before, but always tried to do.
The color of her eyes... He thinks of it now in his hotel room with a
bathroom and tiny shower and double bed, where nothing is around to distract
him. The color of her eyes. The indiscernible shade between green and blue,
not one or the other but on the verge of both.
Even now, he doesn't quite know what to call that color.
He finally left this town with its demons and constant fighting to survive
and memories that choked him with tears whenever he turned a corner and
expected to see her standing there.
He'd wanted to pull that damned robot apart more than once, even though he
could see how unreasonable it was, that it wasn't her fault that she looked
like the one person in the world he would never see again. And yet, with her
around, he saw Buffy every day and hated it.
He didn't want to feel that kind of hate when he looked at the curved
features of her face.
So he left.
And then one day he was unpacking in his new flat, absently putting books
onto shelves and hiding his weapons and magick supplies away in a trunk while
thinking about her, trying to remember what her hair smelled like because
that stupid thing that wore her face and walked around with a smile plastered
on it never bathed so he couldn't find out if it was shampoo that smelled
that way, or just Buffy, and the phone rang.
It was Willow.
Buffy was alive.
Dear God, he thought as he suddenly shivered with hope and fear, as his legs
got weak and he sat down, automatically pulling off his glasses to clean
them. Dear God, help me.
So he flew back, to the place he didn't want to call home anymore, but
couldn't seem to stop himself from doing. He was conflicted as he watched
the clouds beneath him from his window seat on the plane. Unsure of whether
or not to believe Willow, frightened by the outcome, and filled with a
tremendous desire to see Buffy, the real Buffy.
A desire that didn't exactly come true, because when he arrived, she had
changed.
She ran into his arms that night, hugging him tightly enough to cut off his
air supply, and looked up at him with shining eyes as he touched her cheek,
but there was a slight difference in her gaze, something softer, more
vulnerable than had been there before, and yet harder, too, as if she was
seeing something she wasn't meant to see.
She'd refused to discuss it.
But none of this was important anymore. Now he knew why she'd looked that
way and he tries not to think of it more than he has to; tries instead to
think of other things, to sort out the reasons, the hows and what next's.
He had been staying at her house for two weeks. On her couch, he'd felt more
comfortable than he had when he'd returned to his homeland. Comfortable,
though he woke up every morning with a crick in his neck and nearly every
muscle in pain, because he was near her. In her house. Able to peek his
head into her room at night when he knew he shouldn't, just to make sure that
she was still breathing.
It continued to be true, no matter how many times he'd checked. She was
still alive.
And then one night, on the verge of sleep, he heard a soft noise and opened
his eyes, expecting to see Dawn on her way to the kitchen.
But Buffy was there instead.
She came toward him and lowered herself onto a small edge of couch, looking
down at him with somber eyes.
"Buffy?" he whispered when she didn't speak. "What's wrong?"
"I just wanted to see you," she murmured, her eyebrows drawn together. "I
just wanted to make sure you're still here."
He'd smiled at that, because it seemed like such a simple, sweet thing to
say, and partly because of his own nightly habit of checking on her. "I'm
here."
"I missed you, Giles," she said, her voice low. "You were my Scarecrow."
~I think I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow...~
Giles understood the reference immediately, surprisingly, and swallowed the
sudden lump forming in his throat as he lifted himself into a half-sitting
position. "There were so many things that I told myself I should have told
you after you..."
"There were a lot of things that I know I should have told you," she
countered.
"I'm glad you're back, Buffy."
Her eyes were soft. "Thank you."
And then she did an incredible thing.
She kissed him.
He shuts his eyes tightly now, thinking about it, reliving the moment again
and again, fighting off his natural bodily reaction to the memory of her soft
lips touching his, moving over his so gently that for a moment he hadn't
known if it was really happening.
He didn't jerk away, like he knew he should, like she was probably expecting
him to. And for that reason, the kiss lasted longer that it should have, and
they both froze simultaneously. He thought, 'She's like my daughter... She
is. ...She is.'
But after a moment, whatever thoughts that had passed through her mind had
not convinced her to pull away, and so she continued, her tongue lightly
sweeping his bottom lip.
Conflicted, Giles stayed still, his mind warring his heart, his conscience
warring his body. Time yawned endlessly before him, and he knew that there
would be no turning back from the decision he made in that second.
But before he could make that decision, he realized he was kissing her back.
Her hands fluttered up to his chest and she rested them there, spreading out
her fingers as Giles touched her waist tentatively. The kiss was soft, and
uncertain, but it was happening, really happening.
After a moment, Giles pulled her closer, until she was lying half on top him,
his hands locking around the small over her back, and with that unspoken
agreement from him, she increased the pressure of her mouth and the kiss
became slick and hot and he felt feverish with her touch. Her hands slid
down his chest to his thighs and she stroked them, unminding of him squirming
underneath her.
His heart skipped a beat as he pulled his own hands up and around and he
paused for a split second before settling them over her breasts, covered only
by a thin nightshirt, his thumbs sweeping lightly over her tightening
nipples.
Her touch lingered on his legs, delighting him and unsatisfying him at the
same time until, suddenly, her nimble fingers delved underneath his pajama
bottoms and wrapped around his erection. Giles groaned softly, thrusting
into her hand, and he felt Buffy smile against his mouth.
Never before had it been so good, so right... So wrong.
His tongue battled hers for dominance, though he knew that she would always
win against him, and as her long shirt rode up her thighs, Giles pulled one
hand away from her breasts to grasp the curve of her bottom. Buffy wiggled
against him, her hand moving torturously slowly over his swollen cock.
He pushed aside her underwear and, finding her ready, slid two fingers
inside. Buffy stilled for a moment and then arched against him, her soft
moans leading his fingers.
~In and out and over and oh, right there, look at her face, the scared smile,
that's the place...~
His thumb brushed over her clit and Buffy's breath rattled in his ear, his
fingers inside finding the right spot also at that moment, and she cried out
weakly, coming against his hand. She rode him for what seemed like hours,
days, and eternity of ragged breathing and thrusting and pleasure and shame
and then she became still again, and her hand loosened hold on his erection.
Fighting disappointment and shame, Giles watched as she stood. He wasn't
surprised by her leaving, but the fact that she continued looking at him was
startling. He could barely make himself look at her.
But she didn't leave.
Instead, she stripped off her nightshirt and slid out of her panties, leaving
them lying on the floor, standing nude before him, letting him inspect her
body. His heart in his throat, he did just that, noticing a scar he had
never seen before, two inches under her left breast ~what happened to her
there that she never told me about?~ and the rosy color of her skin, flushed
with the afterglow of her orgasm.
She tugged on his hands and he followed her motion, standing. Silently, she
stripped off his shirt and pajama bottoms and her eyes swept over his body as
he wondered what the hell he was doing.
She led him back to the couch and pulled him after her. He slid easily
between her opened knees and then suddenly he was inside of her. He gasped
as the tight, wet feeling surrounded him and stayed motionless inside her for
a moment until she moved her hips under him, urging him along.
"Giles..." Her voice was on the edge of a whisper and a plea, soft and
tremulous, and her eyelids fluttered as he braced his arms on either side of
her. Without responding, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her again,
thrusting hips until he was buried to the hilt.
Her fingernails raked down his back and Giles bit back another gasp, suddenly
realizing that they were doing this in the middle of her living room, and
that any moment they could be caught.
Her hair was fanned out behind her, golden and wavy and her eyes were large
as he caught his gaze. "Buffy," he groaned, "I can't... much longer..."
He didn't have the stamina that usually marked his lovemaking; he was
careening wildly out of control, too stimulated by the look of her face and
body, by her well-trained vaginal muscles, by his name, sighed on her lips.
She pulled his weight fully on top of her; though he had been trying to avoid
pressing her uncomfortably into the couch, she didn't seem to notice. Her
breasts crushed against his chest as he pumped his hips one more time,
finishing inside her. Buffy moaned and it sounded soft and satisfied, sleepy
and content.
He laid on top of her, still inside her, as he softened and her arms remained
around him tightly, as if claiming him, not allowing him to pull away. There
he dozed, locked in her embrace, and her eyes closed as well as she drifted
off.
Time passed, and he didn't know how long, but when he opened his eyes again,
there was a pale light sifting into the room, marking the beginning of
sunrise. He jerked away, propping himself up on his hands again, and studied
her lying beneath him, a peaceful smile on her face.
Even in her dream state, she seemed to realize that she was being watched,
and her eyes opened into tired slits. She relaxed when she saw him there,
and clumsily pawed at his face with her fingers. She closed her eyes again
to go to sleep, but Giles shook her gently.
"Buffy... Buffy, the sun," he muttered quietly. "The others will be coming
down soon."
"Okay," she said blearily and slid easily out from under him, gathering her
clothes but not bothering to replace them as she left the room. "Goodnight,
Giles."
He stared after her in bewilderment and concern. "Goodnight, Buffy."
He groans, trying to move his mind away from these thoughts for a moment to
make his erection disappear, to make his shame disappear. Buffy is like his
daughter, and although he knows that that wasn't the entirety of the
situation, knows that now, it wasn't absolutely false, either.
He'd watched as she grew from a young, pretty, slightly irresponsible girl to
a beautiful woman, blossoming under the light of her own future. But at this
moment, he remains confused as to how he really feels... Is it attraction?
Surely parents recognize their children as attractive without being tempted
to... Because he does feel responsible for her. He does love her, in a
familial sense, and now he is torn and hurting, hating himself for what he
has done with her and reveling in the memory of it at the same time.
He reminds himself that she came to him but doesn't think that that matters,
really. He could have stopped it, could have pulled away but he didn't
because he was seeing things differently for once, allowing himself to see
things differently for the first time.
And that's what it is, he realizes. He had never *allowed* himself to see
her differently, because he knew how easy it would be. Knew how beautiful
she'd become, how soft and feminine and strong all at the same time, and knew
that he could lose his heart to her in entirely different ways if he looked--
really looked-- at her, at himself, and at how their relationship could never
change, even if he wanted it to.
But it did. Their relationship changed, in so many wonderful and horrific
ways, and now he can't look at her without picturing her hair, slightly
mussed, spread out behind her on the cushion of the sofa. Can't look at her
without seeing her lips, swollen from his kisses, her cheeks, flushed from
his touch. Can't look at her without remembering how it felt to be inside
her, her muscles clenching at him, driving him toward the brink.
He can't look at her now without thinking of how things can never go back to
the way they once were, when it was comfortable and safe. Nothing is safe
now.
The morning after they'd made love, Buffy came down the stairs calmly,
meeting his eye but not mentioning the night before. She looked neat and
clean and he wondered about that, as he felt so strange inside, shaking
internally every time he saw her face.
Perhaps she had been waiting for him to make the first move, to say the first
word, to exchange the first touch, he thinks now but it doesn't seem to
matter anymore because he didn't at the opportunity. But then, he might have
dreamed the whole thing, even though he knew that was impossible. Or,
worse... What if it didn't matter to her like it did to him?
He was willing to help her in any way he could, and if he helped that night,
even just to sleep, he is glad for that, he thinks as he fights to keep the
bile from rising in his throat.
He feels sick because, what has he done, really? How much has he hurt her in
the long run, just by being a lover instead of a friend? It aches inside him
to know that he might have hurt her because of this, that because of what
happened, he might have hindered whatever progress she was making readjusting
to normal life again.
Fear envelopes him because as much as he wishes he could take it back, he
knows that if he could, he wouldn't do anything differently. This bothers
him, but he's unable to deny it, to deny something that finally came to the
surface after so long. He's afraid to lose her.
So he's doing the only thing he can think to do.
He's leaving.
He had planned it tentatively before this happened, and now his decision is
set in stone because he knows that no matter how much he wishes it wasn't so,
things have changed and can never go back, can't even move forward.
Not for him.
With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes tightly and buries his face in the
pillow beneath him. He tries to turn off his mind for a few hours so that he
will finally be able to sleep and stop the pain, the uncertainty, and the
lust that keeps him awake every night of late.
But when he closes his eyes, he pictures her there.
The End