Fic: Every Rose (Buffy/Giles)
For the Core Four ficathon! Written for girlfromsouth who wanted Buffy and Giles, future fic with roses.
Title: Every Rose
Rating: R
Summary: Um. There'd be one, except I'm feeling a horrible urge to make references to cookie dough, so I think we're all better off without one.
***
Each May, Giles starts to look his age. Older than his age. She pauses in the doorway to his office, and leans against the doorjamb.
“She’s *where*?” he’s saying now, leaning forward in his chair, shouting at the speaker phone.
Xander’s voice comes through, fuzzy with distance, “Shelly’s taking a night off, Giles. Spending some time with James. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big-- Xander, in case you hadn’t noticed we have a bit of an apocalypse going on here. It’s hardly appropriate--”
Xander’s been saying his name over and over through this tirade until Giles finally stops talking.
“Look,” Xander says, “I know there’s an apocalypse, ok? But the moon isn’t even in the right phase for these guys to be corporeal right now. The girls need some downtime. God, Giles, you’re starting to sound like Travers--”
“Kindly show an iota of respect for the dead, Xander.”
“Hey, hey, not disrespecting, simply comparing managerial styles, here.”
Giles is looking up to the heavens, now, and Buffy understands, she does. It’s the hardest thing in the world, stepping back and letting someone else take the reins, watching from afar as others, barely in your control, fight for something as precious as the fate of the world.
“Look, Giles, tell me something, tell me there’s something we *need* to do *tonight* and you know we’ll do it. But unless there is, then it’s really more important for them to have the downtime. Tired Slayers are careless Slayers.”
Buffy slips away from the wall, steps quietly across the room and slides her hand up over his shoulder, squeezes gently. He knows all of this. He taught them this. She taught them this.
He leans back into her touch, and acquiesces.
“All right, all right. But someone needs to--”
“-- Patrol. Yes. Rona’s on it. Thank you for the micromanagement. Can I go now?”
“Fine. I-- I leave this in your hands. You do know the consequences--”
“End of the world, yadda yadda yadda. Been there, done that, I’m good, thanks. Love ya, Giles, but you have got to relax a little. Speaking of, isn’t it about bedtime for you British time zone types? Goodnight?”
“Right. Yes. Goodnight, Xander.”
The line goes dead, and Giles sighs, his shoulder slumping under Buffy’s hand.
“They can handle it,” she says.
“I know,” he says, and he reaches up to cover her hand with his own.
He looks back over his shoulder, and she kisses him softly, then says, “I believe Xander said something about a bed?”
But he’s turning away and reaching for a book.
“We should--”
“Rupert,” she says, rolling her eyes in affectionate exasperation as he drags over the heavy tome he’s scoured at least twice already. “It’s after midnight. Do you know what that means?”
“Your coach has just turned back into a pumpkin?” he suggests.
“Nice try, but no. Two more strikes and you’re out.”
She’s wrapped her arms around his chest now, is leaning in and resting her chin on his shoulder. She feels his smile against her cheek.
“What on earth possessed us to have a May wedding?” he says.
Giles never forgets anything, so him remembering their anniversary is not a surprise.
“Um,” she says, “Relief at not being dead? That was the year with the thing.”
The book is forgotten now. His glasses poke her forehead as she nuzzles him. Her hands hang down over his heart. He strokes her fingers with the tips of his own, and for a long moment, they are quiet and together.
He says “I love you” in the stillness.
“You too,” she says. “I love you, too.”
The silence lasts a little longer. They breathe together, and she rubs his chest, not trying to arouse, not yet, just liking the feel of him under her palms.
Then it ends and she says, “So, how about that bed thing, huh?”
Preemptively, she adds, “The book *stays* *here*.”
“Damn,” he says, teasingly, as she steps back towards the door and he stands, turns toward her. She pouts.
“You don’t find me attractive anymore, do you? You’d rather read about icky demons.”
There’s no answering barb. Instead, he’s pressing her back against the doorjamb, kissing her, hard, clutching her wrists tight.
“Nothing,” he whispers, hot breath over her lips, “Nothing I’d rather do than be with you.”
She clenches tight and goes hot all over, captivated by dark eyes, strong hands.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Four years since they spoke their vows, in a small church in Bath. Twelve, give or take a few months, since they met, in a library in Sunnydale. She is twenty-eight now, and longer-lived than any Slayer has ever been.
Every year, he gives her a single red rose. This year, no different. She finds it’s already on the dresser in a crystal vase. The first time he gave her one, their wedding night, she cried, because between them, a red rose means more than love.
Between them, it means absolution, for all the mistakes she’s made. One mistake she made, one moment when she forgot she was a Slayer and he paid dearly.
He comes up behind her in the mirror, and lifts off her shirt. She watches as his hands run up her pale torso, over her bra, and she reaches out to touch cool, velvet-soft petals. He kisses the side of her neck, tongue hot and wet.
She traces down the stem, smooth green under her finger, until a thorn catches her skin and pricks.
His teeth close lightly on her skin. He catches her nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches gently. Her hips shift, back to bump against him, and a tiny drop of blood wells on her fingertip.
Bittersweet.
But he is strong and warm and he has never left her without coming back. She leans against him and his shirt is scratchy against her bare back. He is everything. Partner, lover, best friend. Loyal, sensual, beautiful.
And what they have is worth every thorn.
Title: Every Rose
Rating: R
Summary: Um. There'd be one, except I'm feeling a horrible urge to make references to cookie dough, so I think we're all better off without one.
***
Each May, Giles starts to look his age. Older than his age. She pauses in the doorway to his office, and leans against the doorjamb.
“She’s *where*?” he’s saying now, leaning forward in his chair, shouting at the speaker phone.
Xander’s voice comes through, fuzzy with distance, “Shelly’s taking a night off, Giles. Spending some time with James. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big-- Xander, in case you hadn’t noticed we have a bit of an apocalypse going on here. It’s hardly appropriate--”
Xander’s been saying his name over and over through this tirade until Giles finally stops talking.
“Look,” Xander says, “I know there’s an apocalypse, ok? But the moon isn’t even in the right phase for these guys to be corporeal right now. The girls need some downtime. God, Giles, you’re starting to sound like Travers--”
“Kindly show an iota of respect for the dead, Xander.”
“Hey, hey, not disrespecting, simply comparing managerial styles, here.”
Giles is looking up to the heavens, now, and Buffy understands, she does. It’s the hardest thing in the world, stepping back and letting someone else take the reins, watching from afar as others, barely in your control, fight for something as precious as the fate of the world.
“Look, Giles, tell me something, tell me there’s something we *need* to do *tonight* and you know we’ll do it. But unless there is, then it’s really more important for them to have the downtime. Tired Slayers are careless Slayers.”
Buffy slips away from the wall, steps quietly across the room and slides her hand up over his shoulder, squeezes gently. He knows all of this. He taught them this. She taught them this.
He leans back into her touch, and acquiesces.
“All right, all right. But someone needs to--”
“-- Patrol. Yes. Rona’s on it. Thank you for the micromanagement. Can I go now?”
“Fine. I-- I leave this in your hands. You do know the consequences--”
“End of the world, yadda yadda yadda. Been there, done that, I’m good, thanks. Love ya, Giles, but you have got to relax a little. Speaking of, isn’t it about bedtime for you British time zone types? Goodnight?”
“Right. Yes. Goodnight, Xander.”
The line goes dead, and Giles sighs, his shoulder slumping under Buffy’s hand.
“They can handle it,” she says.
“I know,” he says, and he reaches up to cover her hand with his own.
He looks back over his shoulder, and she kisses him softly, then says, “I believe Xander said something about a bed?”
But he’s turning away and reaching for a book.
“We should--”
“Rupert,” she says, rolling her eyes in affectionate exasperation as he drags over the heavy tome he’s scoured at least twice already. “It’s after midnight. Do you know what that means?”
“Your coach has just turned back into a pumpkin?” he suggests.
“Nice try, but no. Two more strikes and you’re out.”
She’s wrapped her arms around his chest now, is leaning in and resting her chin on his shoulder. She feels his smile against her cheek.
“What on earth possessed us to have a May wedding?” he says.
Giles never forgets anything, so him remembering their anniversary is not a surprise.
“Um,” she says, “Relief at not being dead? That was the year with the thing.”
The book is forgotten now. His glasses poke her forehead as she nuzzles him. Her hands hang down over his heart. He strokes her fingers with the tips of his own, and for a long moment, they are quiet and together.
He says “I love you” in the stillness.
“You too,” she says. “I love you, too.”
The silence lasts a little longer. They breathe together, and she rubs his chest, not trying to arouse, not yet, just liking the feel of him under her palms.
Then it ends and she says, “So, how about that bed thing, huh?”
Preemptively, she adds, “The book *stays* *here*.”
“Damn,” he says, teasingly, as she steps back towards the door and he stands, turns toward her. She pouts.
“You don’t find me attractive anymore, do you? You’d rather read about icky demons.”
There’s no answering barb. Instead, he’s pressing her back against the doorjamb, kissing her, hard, clutching her wrists tight.
“Nothing,” he whispers, hot breath over her lips, “Nothing I’d rather do than be with you.”
She clenches tight and goes hot all over, captivated by dark eyes, strong hands.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Four years since they spoke their vows, in a small church in Bath. Twelve, give or take a few months, since they met, in a library in Sunnydale. She is twenty-eight now, and longer-lived than any Slayer has ever been.
Every year, he gives her a single red rose. This year, no different. She finds it’s already on the dresser in a crystal vase. The first time he gave her one, their wedding night, she cried, because between them, a red rose means more than love.
Between them, it means absolution, for all the mistakes she’s made. One mistake she made, one moment when she forgot she was a Slayer and he paid dearly.
He comes up behind her in the mirror, and lifts off her shirt. She watches as his hands run up her pale torso, over her bra, and she reaches out to touch cool, velvet-soft petals. He kisses the side of her neck, tongue hot and wet.
She traces down the stem, smooth green under her finger, until a thorn catches her skin and pricks.
His teeth close lightly on her skin. He catches her nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches gently. Her hips shift, back to bump against him, and a tiny drop of blood wells on her fingertip.
Bittersweet.
But he is strong and warm and he has never left her without coming back. She leans against him and his shirt is scratchy against her bare back. He is everything. Partner, lover, best friend. Loyal, sensual, beautiful.
And what they have is worth every thorn.