ljs
in
gilesanya_fic
Hands and Hearts, by LJS
This was written for a Brush Up Your Shakespeare prompt at giles-shorts, but it might be a little long for that community.
TITLE: Hands and Hearts
AUTHOR: LJS
PAIRING:Giles/Anya
RATING: Teen, for a bit of bad language
LENGTH: approximately 950 words
SUMMARY: An AU early season 6, diverging from canon after "Flooded".
The prompt: "Here's our own hands against our hearts." - Much Ado About Nothing
At the slam of the Magic Box backdoor, Giles hurriedly shoved his half-finished letter under the paperwork next to the cash register, adjusted his glasses, and called, "Hullo, Anya."
"Good morning, Giles," she said sunnily - she was so bright always, he thought - and clattered inside. "How are you today?"
"Quite well, thank you," he said, and then smiled as she placed one of the two steaming cups she carried in front of him. "You brought me a drink?"
"Morning Orange Pekoe, two sugars, milk, from the new coffee-and-tea place down the street," she said. "Pretty sure George the proprietor is a Sanke demon, but they're peaceful and he keeps his scales well-hidden."
"Ah," he said, and took a sip. The act of drinking gave him time to repress his odd dismay at the changes that had happened in even the short few weeks he'd been in England before Buffy had… returned - changes in Sunnydale, and more, changes in his own perception.
He'd been writing that very thing to Ethan, whose release from that Initiative prison he'd effected two months ago and who had become an unlikely correspondent ever since. But, yes, the world and he had changed.
Giles watched Anya bustle about in her morning unlocking ritual, and found himself leaning forward, smiling at her. She was so bright, so lively. So much more than he'd once thought.
Since she and Xander had broken off their relationship, he might have expected her to still be mournful or depressed. But no, he'd taken her out for a drink the night after it had happened - two nights after he'd returned - and after she methodically downed three shots of tequila, she'd turned teary eyes to him and said, "That's done. No more sadness or clinging."
"Clinging?" he'd asked, but she'd signaled the bartender for another Scotch for him and a glass of fizzy water for herself and then put her pretty, well-kept hand on his bare forearm, and somehow he hadn't felt like pursuing the question.
"Giles!" she said now, closer than he'd expected. "You okay? You look a little dreamy."
"Er, do I?" He cleared his throat. He had another sip of tea. It didn't help. He bloody well felt dreamy in her presence. It was appalling and delightful at the same time.
But surely 9 am on a Tuesday wasn't the time to think about her in that way, to think about his own profound…attraction to, and affection for, her. Work -- that was the ticket. "Do you have any stock you need me to bring in from your car?"
"Oh, yes, if you want to collect the Opp relic from the front seat." She dove into her purse and extracted her car keys.
In the exchange of keys her fingers seemed to linger against his hand. He could feel every nerve-receptor in his skin all but bolt upright in reaction. (Er. Not just his nerves.) He fled as gracefully as he could.
Once in the alley he took a deep breath. His gaze went to her car, parked there just by the protection-sigil he and she had painted on the brick wall of the shop. It had been midnight (as one would expect) last week after an uptick in vampire sightings, and the two of them had painted and chanted, their hands crossing over each other as they made the sign, bodies touching, and - Work. He needed to work.
When he opened her car door, however, he noticed a leather-bound journal beside the (truly ugly) relic. Right, she'd started keeping one during the horrible summer - he'd find her jotting down mysterious Anya-thoughts sometimes in the shop during lulls in trade, and he'd wondered what she was saying. But it would be bad form to look. She'd probably put a nasty ward on it, anyway.
When the corner of the relic knocked it open as he moved, however, well - he glanced quickly at the page, and saw his own name.
Giles is so much more than I thought he was. He's nicer, and smarter if we ignore those mistakes with Glory last year, and handsome, and I really do -
"Giles!" came her voice, and in his guilty start he bumped his head on the frame of the car. By the time he'd recovered, she was standing next to him, waving - oh fucking hell, the letter he'd been writing to Ethan, what the bloody fuck was wrong with him leaving it around for her to see. "Giles, what does this mean?"
"What?" he said, trying to edge away, finding himself moving closer.
"This letter to your evil best friend!" she said. "Like this sentence, which is unfortunately unfinished - I'm waiting for Anya this morning. I find myself counting the minutes until she-And then it stops. What were you waiting for?"
In that dingy alley bathed in sunshine, he stood and looked at her, and truly saw her, and truly saw himself for the first time in a long time, outside of grief and duty and old heavy pain.
"Do you really think I'm, er, nice and smart and handsome?" he said.
Without breaking their gaze, without moving away, she winced. "Who said you could read my journal, Watcher-guy?"
"Accident," he said. "Answer the question."
She stood and looked at him, and it was like she truly saw him, and truly saw herself for the first time in a long time. Her smile was concentrated light. "Okay. Okay, I think you're wonderful, if also irritating, and -"
"That's enough to be going on with," he said, and kissed her.
"Mmph," she said, and kissed him back with her customary fire. It was all delight.
The half-written letter fell to the ground at their feet as their hands found each other's and linked, pressed in, held on.
TITLE: Hands and Hearts
AUTHOR: LJS
PAIRING:Giles/Anya
RATING: Teen, for a bit of bad language
LENGTH: approximately 950 words
SUMMARY: An AU early season 6, diverging from canon after "Flooded".
The prompt: "Here's our own hands against our hearts." - Much Ado About Nothing
At the slam of the Magic Box backdoor, Giles hurriedly shoved his half-finished letter under the paperwork next to the cash register, adjusted his glasses, and called, "Hullo, Anya."
"Good morning, Giles," she said sunnily - she was so bright always, he thought - and clattered inside. "How are you today?"
"Quite well, thank you," he said, and then smiled as she placed one of the two steaming cups she carried in front of him. "You brought me a drink?"
"Morning Orange Pekoe, two sugars, milk, from the new coffee-and-tea place down the street," she said. "Pretty sure George the proprietor is a Sanke demon, but they're peaceful and he keeps his scales well-hidden."
"Ah," he said, and took a sip. The act of drinking gave him time to repress his odd dismay at the changes that had happened in even the short few weeks he'd been in England before Buffy had… returned - changes in Sunnydale, and more, changes in his own perception.
He'd been writing that very thing to Ethan, whose release from that Initiative prison he'd effected two months ago and who had become an unlikely correspondent ever since. But, yes, the world and he had changed.
Giles watched Anya bustle about in her morning unlocking ritual, and found himself leaning forward, smiling at her. She was so bright, so lively. So much more than he'd once thought.
Since she and Xander had broken off their relationship, he might have expected her to still be mournful or depressed. But no, he'd taken her out for a drink the night after it had happened - two nights after he'd returned - and after she methodically downed three shots of tequila, she'd turned teary eyes to him and said, "That's done. No more sadness or clinging."
"Clinging?" he'd asked, but she'd signaled the bartender for another Scotch for him and a glass of fizzy water for herself and then put her pretty, well-kept hand on his bare forearm, and somehow he hadn't felt like pursuing the question.
"Giles!" she said now, closer than he'd expected. "You okay? You look a little dreamy."
"Er, do I?" He cleared his throat. He had another sip of tea. It didn't help. He bloody well felt dreamy in her presence. It was appalling and delightful at the same time.
But surely 9 am on a Tuesday wasn't the time to think about her in that way, to think about his own profound…attraction to, and affection for, her. Work -- that was the ticket. "Do you have any stock you need me to bring in from your car?"
"Oh, yes, if you want to collect the Opp relic from the front seat." She dove into her purse and extracted her car keys.
In the exchange of keys her fingers seemed to linger against his hand. He could feel every nerve-receptor in his skin all but bolt upright in reaction. (Er. Not just his nerves.) He fled as gracefully as he could.
Once in the alley he took a deep breath. His gaze went to her car, parked there just by the protection-sigil he and she had painted on the brick wall of the shop. It had been midnight (as one would expect) last week after an uptick in vampire sightings, and the two of them had painted and chanted, their hands crossing over each other as they made the sign, bodies touching, and - Work. He needed to work.
When he opened her car door, however, he noticed a leather-bound journal beside the (truly ugly) relic. Right, she'd started keeping one during the horrible summer - he'd find her jotting down mysterious Anya-thoughts sometimes in the shop during lulls in trade, and he'd wondered what she was saying. But it would be bad form to look. She'd probably put a nasty ward on it, anyway.
When the corner of the relic knocked it open as he moved, however, well - he glanced quickly at the page, and saw his own name.
Giles is so much more than I thought he was. He's nicer, and smarter if we ignore those mistakes with Glory last year, and handsome, and I really do -
"Giles!" came her voice, and in his guilty start he bumped his head on the frame of the car. By the time he'd recovered, she was standing next to him, waving - oh fucking hell, the letter he'd been writing to Ethan, what the bloody fuck was wrong with him leaving it around for her to see. "Giles, what does this mean?"
"What?" he said, trying to edge away, finding himself moving closer.
"This letter to your evil best friend!" she said. "Like this sentence, which is unfortunately unfinished - I'm waiting for Anya this morning. I find myself counting the minutes until she-And then it stops. What were you waiting for?"
In that dingy alley bathed in sunshine, he stood and looked at her, and truly saw her, and truly saw himself for the first time in a long time, outside of grief and duty and old heavy pain.
"Do you really think I'm, er, nice and smart and handsome?" he said.
Without breaking their gaze, without moving away, she winced. "Who said you could read my journal, Watcher-guy?"
"Accident," he said. "Answer the question."
She stood and looked at him, and it was like she truly saw him, and truly saw herself for the first time in a long time. Her smile was concentrated light. "Okay. Okay, I think you're wonderful, if also irritating, and -"
"That's enough to be going on with," he said, and kissed her.
"Mmph," she said, and kissed him back with her customary fire. It was all delight.
The half-written letter fell to the ground at their feet as their hands found each other's and linked, pressed in, held on.