Buffy Fic - Maybe tomorrow 1/5
Here's my contribution to the ten years of Buffy fic thingamajig
It's Giles/Willow post Season 7., let me know what you think even if you hate it
“Can I take this chair?”
“Sorry, I’m expecting someone,” Willow answered without really looking up from her laptop, taking a sip of her drink and tracing an idle finger around the countless interwoven rings on the table from long forgotten ones. Chequers was small and dimly lit, an overcrowded L-shape full of life and noise and shrouded in a haze of ever shifting smoke.
She sat in the corner, seating at a premium, her small, well-ordered suitcase tucked beneath her, her impractically fluffy rucksack on the seat next to her. She felt him coming even before he walked in, in truth, from the moment he came out of the Tube station at Piccadilly. His power, or the capability for it, always resonated throughout all the spaces between them.
She sat and watched as he stepped a cigarette into the pavement outside and then moved through the door, raised a hand to him in a wave of greeting. His smile was quiet but broad, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, speckled from the misting drizzle outside and she couldn’t help but return it. Not that she didn’t want to but she was still trying to get a handle on what about Giles made all seem right with the world. He nodded toward the bar and she raised her drink as she shook her head. He ordered a pint of Guiness and the time it took to steep and settle and be topped off seemed to last an age. He looked tired, rumpled and at ease, a weathered coat and a silver sheen of stubble.
She rose as he came towards her and moving around the table, hugged him tightly
“It’s so good to see you,” she breathed into his shoulder, smelling of rain and warmth and damp, smoky wool. It was a place she’d buried her face before now, at funerals in times past, her tears doubling for rain in the sullen heat of California.
“I wouldn’t miss your coming for all the world,” he answered somewhere above her head. They came apart and he took up her bag from the spare seat as he sank down into it, grinning slightly as he fingered the assortment of little badges pinned to it. “You have no idea how old some of these make me feel,” he added as he lingered over depictions of music groups long since disbanded.
“Old enough to know better - smoking I see,” she reprimanded him.
“A disgusting habit and one that I reserve solely for London,” he sighed and ruffled the rain out of his tousled grey hair.
“You live in England and you don’t carry an umbrella?”
“I’m from England, that isn’t what we’d call rain,” he grinned at her. He always looked smaller than she remembered and more keenly defined. Of course that always changed whenever she parted company with him and all that he was filled him out again. “It’s so good to have an excuse for a respite,” he added, removing his glasses and pinching at the bridge of his nose.
“They can’t be that bad, I mean mine all seem to have been very…chipper,” Willow smiled. Giles’ expression was kindly yet withering.
“Looking after a band of unruly teenagers again is somewhat taxing,”
“We weren’t that bad, I mean sure, there were…incidents, but we rose above them,” Willow defended, Gile’s expression leant more towards withering.
“How long are you staying again?” He asked teasingly.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,”
“That’s not what I meant and you very well know it,” he chuckled.
“As long as you’ll have me, I like to think I make an excellent houseguest,” she answered emphatically, the chill of the dank weather steadily seeming to slip from her.
“I don’t doubt it,” he smiled as he took a sip of his pint. “The council can spare me a week or two,” he paused, frowning reflectively “it seems utterly surreal,”
“What does?”
“Oxford. It used to be, was only ever intended to be, a bastion of knowledge, now it’s entirely changed. It’s become a hub, a keep, a barracks of sorts,”
“Not liking having drawn weapons on the hallowed ground?” She interjected.
“Something like that,” he nodded ruefully, “I have to say I find it profoundly amusing watching some of the older set attempt to lecture from their own ‘extensive’ field experience,” he sneered. “But forgive me, where are my manners? How was your flight?”
“Fine, just playing catch up on some research,”
“Really, anything of interest?”
“Well, the later seasons of the West Wing are at least passable,” she smiled sheepishly. “Tried catching up on some letter writing too, I’ve been something of a lacklustre correspondent of late,”
“How are the others?”
“Good, Xander’s in the Midwest, he sent pictures when he and his group were at Disneyland,”
“I got the email; if anyone else had suggested a pirate hat and a hook I would’ve thought it in remarkably poor taste,”
“What is this ‘email’ of which you speak?” She teased him,
“I’m not that old,”
“I never said you were, I’m impressed, it’s good to see you and the technology getting along,”
“There’s no need to be patronising,” he stated, to which she just made a face. The silence drew out between them “How is she?” he asked.
“She’s bearing up, I think she’s still dealing,” she thought back over some of the more terse phone conversations she’d had with Buffy of late.
“Understandable, it was a grievous blow to lose them in such an abrupt manner, though I doubt that’s the last we’ll see of them,” he remarked into his pint.
“You think?” She asked, a little surprised.
“I’m certain of it, Angel and Spike both have pre-ordained roles to play, either that or many of the prophecies we steer by aren’t worth the parchment they’re inscribed upon,” he answered, shaking his head.
“I think that’s the way she sees it,” Willow agreed.
“Still, it’s probably for the best that she didn’t see them again before the event, saying your goodbyes to the same soul too many times over can be a cause for despair,”
“Or hope,” she added optimistically.
“Or hope,” he reluctantly agreed.
“She’s with Faith at the moment anyhow,”
“The men of Rome have my sympathies,” Giles replied with a wry smile.
“How do you know I didn’t mean that she’s with Faith?” Willow teased him.
“I was there when she was having it off with Spike, I highly doubt I’d start being judgmental over a fact such as that. Though that would make the third of her lovers to have tried to kill her at one time or another,” he noted with a trace of regret.
“I guess that’d go both ways,” Willow nodded, then shared a smile with Giles at the unintentional entendre. “Walked right into that one didn’t I?” Giles nodded.
“And what of you?” He asked her.
“What of me?” She asked evasively.
“Kennedy?” He specified. The ripple in Willow was enough to stir the lowering drift of smoke.
“I shan’t venture any further questions on the subject,” he retreated and took another sip. She smiled appreciatively at him.
“No, no, things are fine, she’s hooked up with Caridad, they’re taking a couple of weeks to eliminate a nest down in Agudo. I just felt like I needed a break. Besides, it’s been too long,”
“It has,” he nodded “and a break you shall have, you’ve been working yourself into the ground my dear,” He observed with concern.
“You’re one to talk,” he smiled kindly at her and his eyes looked more tired than ever.
“No rest for the wicked.”
Section 2.
It's Giles/Willow post Season 7., let me know what you think even if you hate it
“Can I take this chair?”
“Sorry, I’m expecting someone,” Willow answered without really looking up from her laptop, taking a sip of her drink and tracing an idle finger around the countless interwoven rings on the table from long forgotten ones. Chequers was small and dimly lit, an overcrowded L-shape full of life and noise and shrouded in a haze of ever shifting smoke.
She sat in the corner, seating at a premium, her small, well-ordered suitcase tucked beneath her, her impractically fluffy rucksack on the seat next to her. She felt him coming even before he walked in, in truth, from the moment he came out of the Tube station at Piccadilly. His power, or the capability for it, always resonated throughout all the spaces between them.
She sat and watched as he stepped a cigarette into the pavement outside and then moved through the door, raised a hand to him in a wave of greeting. His smile was quiet but broad, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, speckled from the misting drizzle outside and she couldn’t help but return it. Not that she didn’t want to but she was still trying to get a handle on what about Giles made all seem right with the world. He nodded toward the bar and she raised her drink as she shook her head. He ordered a pint of Guiness and the time it took to steep and settle and be topped off seemed to last an age. He looked tired, rumpled and at ease, a weathered coat and a silver sheen of stubble.
She rose as he came towards her and moving around the table, hugged him tightly
“It’s so good to see you,” she breathed into his shoulder, smelling of rain and warmth and damp, smoky wool. It was a place she’d buried her face before now, at funerals in times past, her tears doubling for rain in the sullen heat of California.
“I wouldn’t miss your coming for all the world,” he answered somewhere above her head. They came apart and he took up her bag from the spare seat as he sank down into it, grinning slightly as he fingered the assortment of little badges pinned to it. “You have no idea how old some of these make me feel,” he added as he lingered over depictions of music groups long since disbanded.
“Old enough to know better - smoking I see,” she reprimanded him.
“A disgusting habit and one that I reserve solely for London,” he sighed and ruffled the rain out of his tousled grey hair.
“You live in England and you don’t carry an umbrella?”
“I’m from England, that isn’t what we’d call rain,” he grinned at her. He always looked smaller than she remembered and more keenly defined. Of course that always changed whenever she parted company with him and all that he was filled him out again. “It’s so good to have an excuse for a respite,” he added, removing his glasses and pinching at the bridge of his nose.
“They can’t be that bad, I mean mine all seem to have been very…chipper,” Willow smiled. Giles’ expression was kindly yet withering.
“Looking after a band of unruly teenagers again is somewhat taxing,”
“We weren’t that bad, I mean sure, there were…incidents, but we rose above them,” Willow defended, Gile’s expression leant more towards withering.
“How long are you staying again?” He asked teasingly.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,”
“That’s not what I meant and you very well know it,” he chuckled.
“As long as you’ll have me, I like to think I make an excellent houseguest,” she answered emphatically, the chill of the dank weather steadily seeming to slip from her.
“I don’t doubt it,” he smiled as he took a sip of his pint. “The council can spare me a week or two,” he paused, frowning reflectively “it seems utterly surreal,”
“What does?”
“Oxford. It used to be, was only ever intended to be, a bastion of knowledge, now it’s entirely changed. It’s become a hub, a keep, a barracks of sorts,”
“Not liking having drawn weapons on the hallowed ground?” She interjected.
“Something like that,” he nodded ruefully, “I have to say I find it profoundly amusing watching some of the older set attempt to lecture from their own ‘extensive’ field experience,” he sneered. “But forgive me, where are my manners? How was your flight?”
“Fine, just playing catch up on some research,”
“Really, anything of interest?”
“Well, the later seasons of the West Wing are at least passable,” she smiled sheepishly. “Tried catching up on some letter writing too, I’ve been something of a lacklustre correspondent of late,”
“How are the others?”
“Good, Xander’s in the Midwest, he sent pictures when he and his group were at Disneyland,”
“I got the email; if anyone else had suggested a pirate hat and a hook I would’ve thought it in remarkably poor taste,”
“What is this ‘email’ of which you speak?” She teased him,
“I’m not that old,”
“I never said you were, I’m impressed, it’s good to see you and the technology getting along,”
“There’s no need to be patronising,” he stated, to which she just made a face. The silence drew out between them “How is she?” he asked.
“She’s bearing up, I think she’s still dealing,” she thought back over some of the more terse phone conversations she’d had with Buffy of late.
“Understandable, it was a grievous blow to lose them in such an abrupt manner, though I doubt that’s the last we’ll see of them,” he remarked into his pint.
“You think?” She asked, a little surprised.
“I’m certain of it, Angel and Spike both have pre-ordained roles to play, either that or many of the prophecies we steer by aren’t worth the parchment they’re inscribed upon,” he answered, shaking his head.
“I think that’s the way she sees it,” Willow agreed.
“Still, it’s probably for the best that she didn’t see them again before the event, saying your goodbyes to the same soul too many times over can be a cause for despair,”
“Or hope,” she added optimistically.
“Or hope,” he reluctantly agreed.
“She’s with Faith at the moment anyhow,”
“The men of Rome have my sympathies,” Giles replied with a wry smile.
“How do you know I didn’t mean that she’s with Faith?” Willow teased him.
“I was there when she was having it off with Spike, I highly doubt I’d start being judgmental over a fact such as that. Though that would make the third of her lovers to have tried to kill her at one time or another,” he noted with a trace of regret.
“I guess that’d go both ways,” Willow nodded, then shared a smile with Giles at the unintentional entendre. “Walked right into that one didn’t I?” Giles nodded.
“And what of you?” He asked her.
“What of me?” She asked evasively.
“Kennedy?” He specified. The ripple in Willow was enough to stir the lowering drift of smoke.
“I shan’t venture any further questions on the subject,” he retreated and took another sip. She smiled appreciatively at him.
“No, no, things are fine, she’s hooked up with Caridad, they’re taking a couple of weeks to eliminate a nest down in Agudo. I just felt like I needed a break. Besides, it’s been too long,”
“It has,” he nodded “and a break you shall have, you’ve been working yourself into the ground my dear,” He observed with concern.
“You’re one to talk,” he smiled kindly at her and his eyes looked more tired than ever.
“No rest for the wicked.”
Section 2.