Past Perfect
by SpikesKat
England
The heat was intense, but she refused to let go of his
hand. She had to hold on.
There were so many things she had to say…tell him.
Sure, he was her champion.
But not like this.
She hadn’t wanted this.
He just looked down at her with those solemn blue eyes of
his and calmly told her it was time for her to go. She’d done enough, and it was left for him to do the
cleanup.
Buffy woke with a start, her mouth frozen open on a silent
scream.
No, you don't. But
thanks for saying it.
Wearily, she ran her hands down her face, pausing to take a
deep, calming breath as the recurring dream settled into her subconscious. Her
tired eyes took in the ancient alarm clock on the bedside table.
Noted with a groan the hour – three o’clock in the morning.
Another sigh, and she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and
stood up. No point in trying to go
back to sleep.
Octobers in London were cold. And the bare floors just seemed to make it even more so,
but that didn’t prevent her from padding barefoot across the wooden floor as
she walked out of her room and down the hall towards the kitchen.
No, she took odd comfort in how the cold seeped into her bones,
chilling her to the core. It
grounded her, kept her mind in the here and now rather than focusing on
other…darker…things.
~*~*~*~*~
“Can’t sleep?”
Buffy swung around to see Giles standing in the doorway to
the kitchen.
“Giles!” she gasped.
“You scared me! Wha…what
are you doing up?”
“Same as you, I suspect.”
The Slayer stiffened; she didn’t want to have this
discussion with him. With any
of them. Her last moments with
Spike were all she had left of him, and she hoarded the memories to herself –
even if they were harsh.
Seeing the understanding in the Watcher’s eyes made it
that much worse. It was like he
knew.
“Tea?” she asked, changing the subject.
Giles played along and nodded, stepping into the room and
taking a seat at the small round table in the corner.
The kettle was just about to start its warning shrill when
Buffy snagged it from the burner. She
cut off the eye and filled two cups full of the boiling water, teabags already
in the bottom. Replacing the kettle
on one of the spare heating elements, she then snagged a spoon to lift
the used teabags out of the cups and drop them in the trash.
Feeling his eyes practically boring into her back, she glanced over her
shoulder and noted Giles’ disapproving look.
She had to hand it to him, he recovered well; his frown
quickly disappeared as he gifted her with an overly bright smile.
‘Tea snob,’ she thought silently as she laid the
spoon aside.
Cups in hand, she crossed gingerly from the stove to the
table, careful not to spill the scalding liquid on her hands; she placed one cup in front of Giles, then took the seat
across from him. Immediately, Buffy
set about adding liberal doses of sugar and milk to the concoction.
Giles watched the whole process in silent indignation,
until after the third helping of sugar was added to the Slayer’s cup, he was
compelled to comment, “Why do you even bother drinking tea?”
“Huh?” Buffy looked up at her Watcher, confused, the
hand gripping her spoon pausing in its stirring.
“Your tea. It’s
a wonder you can taste it for all the bloody milk and sugar you’ve added to
it,” Giles griped.
“Oh… uh…” She stared down at the liquid that had
gone from a dark shade to an almost cream colored one.
“Habit, I guess…”
Giles rolled his eyes and made a production of adding just
a dollop of milk to his own cup, and Buffy giggled in amusement at his antics.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile
since…” His voice trailed off,
and the Slayer’s eyes became haunted as her mirth was squelched in an instant
at the reminder...of him. Giles was
ready to kick his own arse at his faux pas.
“’M sorry…It’s just…Buffy, you’re hardly sleeping.
And when you do, it’s never more than a few hours at a time.
I know the destruction of…of Sunnydale came as a sharp blow—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she announced
abruptly, vaulting to her feet. “I
just…” Instead of finishing
what she was about to say, she turned on her heel and, with tea in hand, left
the room.
~*~*~*~*~
“Here,” he murmured as he held out a small pouch to the
Slayer.
Buffy looked away from the fire blazing in the hearth to
glance first at the leather sack lying on the palm of Giles’ hand then to his
face; confusion marred her features.
“Take it,” he urged.
“What is it?” she asked, making no move to grab his
offering.
“Just a sleeping potion…and don’t look at me like
that. Strictly white magicks, all
natural ingredients, and completely non-habit forming.
Trust me.”
The Slayer eyed the pouch dubiously, but took it out of his
hand nonetheless, and Giles released the breath he’d not realized he’d been
holding – she could be so contrary sometimes.
Her next words just confirmed his opinion.
“If I take this, will you quit harping on me?”
“Uh…yes…really, Buffy… I’m just trying to look
out for you.”
Buffy sighed.
“I know, Giles. Really…I
do. It’s just…it’s something
I have to work out on my own. But…” she added when he looked to interrupt.
“…I’ll take this like the good Slayer I am.”
She opened the pouch and tilted her head back to pour the
contents into her mouth, snagging her tea from the coffee table in front of her
to wash the powder down. A tingling
sensation started where the sleep agent hit her tongue, spreading out from her
core to race along her limbs. Her
eyelids grew heavy, and Buffy stretched out on the couch as sleep quickly
overcame her.
Giles closed his mouth, biting back the retort for her to
wait to take the potion until she was in bed; there was no harm in the Slayer
sleeping on the couch. The only
other people that shared the flat with him were Willow and Dawn, and the two
girls had gone off on a Wiccan retreat a few days ago.
He pulled the afghan from the back of the couch and settled
it over his Slayer’s frame in a show of fatherly affection.
As she was fast on her way to REM sleep, he could clearly see the fatigue that lined
the girl’s face – that no amount of cosmetics could hide.
He knew she was harboring some painful demons, just as he himself was.
While slowly rebuilding the Watcher’s Council from, quite literally, the
ground up, he’d spent an equal amount of time pondering – and writing down
– the actions of the blond-headed pest that had loved his Slayer.
And who apparently loved him.
Though, to call him a pest….
No, he wasn’t a pest.
Not at the end…when it had mattered.
He’d been a hero. A
champion. A demon that had gone
against his nature and obtained a soul for the woman he loved.
In the end, sacrificing himself for her so that she might live.
Only, she hardly seemed to be doing that now.
She seemed a shadow of her former self, even worse than when she’d been
ripped out of heaven and thrust into the mess that accumulated in the months
since her death.
Part of him was ashamed at his duplicity, but Giles felt he’d often
proved often enough that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his Slayer.
If, by manipulating her dreams he was betraying her trust…
…well, that’s something he could live with.
He’d been accused of and done far worse in his time.
~*~*~*~*~
Buffy seemed to stand on the sidelines as the moment in the
magic shop when they’d all lost their memories played out
before her eyes. A nostalgic smile
tugged at her lips as she watched her “other” self. Even as “Joan,” she’d seemed to know that she was a
leader; and her actions, even without the knowledge of who exactly she was
seemed to prove it. Her eyes ate up
the scene, and everyone.
Everyone, but him.
Him she saved for last, her gaze finally drinking him in
just as he got to his rant about his name.
A full-blown grin engulfed her face at his righteous indignation.
“…Randy Giles? Why not just call me ‘Horny Giles,’
or ‘Desperate for a Shag Giles’? I knew there was a reason I hated you!”
Spike complained.
“You don’t have to be desperate. I’ll shag you anytime,” she murmured aloud.
Spike’s head swiveled away from his ‘father’s’ and
pinned her in place. Buffy froze
for a moment before she realized that he couldn’t hear her.
In fact, he was probably just projecting that smoldering look on her
other self. She turned around to
see where “Joan” had gotten off to, doing a complete 180 when she didn’t
encounter the Slayer behind her.
Then Spike was speaking, and she swallowed hard at feeling a rush of moisture between her legs.
“That a fact, pet?”
‘He’d heard her?’ she thought, followed quickly by a, ‘And how did he do it?’
Even with amnesia, and garbed in those outlandish clothes,
he still exuded that Bad Boy sexuality
inherent in his nature.
She nodded helplessly.
Hey, it was her fantasy after all, right?