Fic: Weighed Down
Title: Weighed Down
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: None. Giles, Spike, Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A quick ficlet. Completely unbeta'd.
Spoilers: Set just after 'Lies My Parents Told Me'
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All this BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Giles sits on the back steps, his eyes focused out into the darkness as he remembers, over and over, Buffy shutting the door in his face. He hears booted footsteps, but doesn't move, doesn't bother looking because he knows who it is.
Spike sprawls on the steps next to him, one boot taking up a rhythm against a lower step. That's the only sound for a long moment, that and the slow inhale and exhale of smoke as Spike finishes his cigarette before flicking it out into the yard.
"It's my duty to protect them. More than duty." Giles finally says, though he's not attempting to apologize. More he's explaining why he won't apologize. Can't.
"Mine too," Spike answers, tone clipped.
"Perhaps. But you can't control yourself, now can you?"
"Can now," Spike replies.
"And you're absolutely certain?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not."
"You know what you need?" Spike's booted foot still taps against the lower step and Giles finds the staccato beat makes him jittery.
Still, he finds himself asking even though he doesn't want to know what the vampire thinks. "No, Spike. I honestly don't. What is it that I need?"
"A long, hard shag. Get rid of some of that tension before you blow up in the wrong the direction."
"Oh, yes, of course. What I need for the final battle is to be relaxed. Can't imagine why I didn't see that before."
"Well, hardly think the First's going to run scared just 'cause we're all covered in exploded-watcher-bits."
Giles cringes at the description, but says nothing. His mind is full of imagined scenes. The Council building, a place more familiar than any had ever become, now nothing but wreckage. His colleagues--some of them his friends, some of them his family--are all no more than parts. His chest tightens and his jaw clenches. He's aware of the fine trembling that runs along his body, but refuses to let himself think about it.
Both men's eyes have moved to their own hands. Both have done so much in their lives and, most days, none of it matters. It seems wrong, to be so free from history and yet a slave to it. Silence falls between them; even the sound of Spike's boot against wood is gone. There are other night sounds, but they are of the kind that don't warn of danger and are so considered silence. The night is warm and thick and heavy with the false-promise of rain; stagnant and uncomfortable, it only makes breathing harder.
Both men are seemingly lost in their own thoughts and yet both are tense, body postures shouting their mutual awareness of one another. Neither of them rise to leave.
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: None. Giles, Spike, Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A quick ficlet. Completely unbeta'd.
Spoilers: Set just after 'Lies My Parents Told Me'
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All this BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Giles sits on the back steps, his eyes focused out into the darkness as he remembers, over and over, Buffy shutting the door in his face. He hears booted footsteps, but doesn't move, doesn't bother looking because he knows who it is.
Spike sprawls on the steps next to him, one boot taking up a rhythm against a lower step. That's the only sound for a long moment, that and the slow inhale and exhale of smoke as Spike finishes his cigarette before flicking it out into the yard.
"It's my duty to protect them. More than duty." Giles finally says, though he's not attempting to apologize. More he's explaining why he won't apologize. Can't.
"Mine too," Spike answers, tone clipped.
"Perhaps. But you can't control yourself, now can you?"
"Can now," Spike replies.
"And you're absolutely certain?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not."
"You know what you need?" Spike's booted foot still taps against the lower step and Giles finds the staccato beat makes him jittery.
Still, he finds himself asking even though he doesn't want to know what the vampire thinks. "No, Spike. I honestly don't. What is it that I need?"
"A long, hard shag. Get rid of some of that tension before you blow up in the wrong the direction."
"Oh, yes, of course. What I need for the final battle is to be relaxed. Can't imagine why I didn't see that before."
"Well, hardly think the First's going to run scared just 'cause we're all covered in exploded-watcher-bits."
Giles cringes at the description, but says nothing. His mind is full of imagined scenes. The Council building, a place more familiar than any had ever become, now nothing but wreckage. His colleagues--some of them his friends, some of them his family--are all no more than parts. His chest tightens and his jaw clenches. He's aware of the fine trembling that runs along his body, but refuses to let himself think about it.
Both men's eyes have moved to their own hands. Both have done so much in their lives and, most days, none of it matters. It seems wrong, to be so free from history and yet a slave to it. Silence falls between them; even the sound of Spike's boot against wood is gone. There are other night sounds, but they are of the kind that don't warn of danger and are so considered silence. The night is warm and thick and heavy with the false-promise of rain; stagnant and uncomfortable, it only makes breathing harder.
Both men are seemingly lost in their own thoughts and yet both are tense, body postures shouting their mutual awareness of one another. Neither of them rise to leave.