FIC: A Bonus Dose of Genuine Sunshine
Title: A bonus dose of genuine sunshine
Author:
mythichistorian
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Rating: FRT
Word count: 7755
Notes: Written for
kaymickbee for the 'Every Watcher Needs a Slayer' ficathon.
The prompt was: post season 4. definite romance. a mature, perhaps angsty or envious discussion about anyone from the past ...
Spoilers: up to and including 'Dracula'
7: 30 am: stepping out into the morning, catching the start of the California day before the heat of the sun baked the ground hard and the air dry. There was a hint of crispness in the air, remnants of a late night squall of rain mingling with the trace of a breeze coming in off the coast. Giles closed his door behind him and paused to take a long deep breath. It was at times like these that he could - however self deceivingly - imagine that he were back in England, scenting the creep of a languid summer over take the warming days of spring. Of course, back there, he’d probably be kitted out for a morning hack, not draped in shapeless exercise gear and sporting less than trendy trainers on too large for fashion feet. There’d be an apple in his pocket, rather than the necessity of bottled water holstered at his belt - and he’d have never have been caught, dead or alive, in shorts anywhere other than a rugby pitch. But this wasn’t England, and he was being reluctantly dragged into native habits if not entirely native thinking. Even the morning jog was a sop to circumstance - but he knew the exercise was necessary, and at least this way he got to see a little of the world he’d made such a solemn oath to protect.
It felt like it would be a good day, too - one just right for running. Bright, breezy and …
“Buffy?”
“Hey Giles,” his Slayer grinned, bouncing jauntily at the top of his steps. “Ready for a run?”
He blinked; she was dressed to kill - well, not literally for once, but in what looked like the advertising man’s dream of the fashionable jogger - a short sleeved white sports shirt, a pair of figure hugging white shorts that were a lot shorter than his, a shallow brimmed hat, and a pair of designer sunglass. There were sweat bands clasping her wrists, short white socks peeking from pristine designer trainers - and acres of smooth muscled skin on show, boasting a hint of golden glow that made his own look pathetically pale and pasty.
“Ah … I was about to go out, yes,” he said, trying hard not to stare and not being entirely sure where to look. Not at her, that was certain; she was stepping from foot to foot, her pony tail swinging in counterpoint to the rhythm of her head … and everything was jiggling. In an extremely distracting manner. He couldn’t entirely remember when he’d stopped seeing the lively teenager he’d taken in charge and recognised the attractive young woman she’d become - but their year of semi-estrangement had forced him to be constantly looking at her through new eyes, and the difference in their ages no longer seemed so acute - or so definitive, either. “But …w-what exactly are you doing here?”
“The bunny hop,” she declared, adding an extra emphasis to the sway of her hips that made his breath catch. “Or in my case - the Buffy hop. I jogged all the way here and I think you’re supposed to keep the rhythm going or something - maximise the aerobic activity n’stuff. Keep a constant demand on the heart.”
His heart had already upped itself a couple of paces just looking at her, but he tried to ignore that while he wrestled with the puzzle of her presence.
“Because your body is so weak and fragile the slightest change in demand will cause unbearable palpitations?” he questioned. “For heaven’s sake, Buffy. Hunting vampires through graveyards in the middle of the night is hardly a sedentary occupation. I’m sure your heart is strong enough to allow you to stand still for a moment or two.”
“Cranky much?” Buffy muttered, rolling her eyes - but stopped bouncing, much to his relief.
“Thank you,” he said, striding up the steps and past her, into the courtyard. “Now, tell me,” he went on, dropping his towel over the back of one of the courtyard chairs so it would be handy on his return, “what it is that brings you - who are most certainly not a morning person - to my door at what - to you - has to be a mostly unearthly hour. Have you been hunting all night and decided to look me up on your way to retire?”
“Or is there some apocalypse in hand and no-one’s bothered to call me?” Again, lingered at the end of that sentence, but he didn’t say it and he berated himself for thinking it. She’d gone a long way to redress past bitternesses in the past few days, and he hadn’t entirely been fault free in the reasons for them. The way they had started to rebuild their somewhat dented relationship was encouraging - although this was an entirely unexpected development.
“None of the above,” Buffy grinned. “It’s just … well, you said we could start training again and I … I thought I’d start by joining you for your morning jog, that’s all.”
“Good lord,” he reacted, almost without thinking, then added for good measure: “Who are you and what have you done with my Slayer?”
“Giles,” Buffy groaned good naturedly. “I know I’ve been bad neglectful Buffy this past year, and I’ve a lot of lost ground to catch up on, and … well, I want to make it up to you, if I can. Show you I was serious when I asked … well,” she said, “we need to get the whole Watcher/Slayer thing back on the road, and I thought ‘let start with getting it literally ‘back on the road’’ … and this morning I was all ‘should I spend time lazing in bed,’ or ‘use the time to support my favourite Watcher and keep him company?’ You won, by the way,” she added, in case there was any doubt. “So - wanna go jog?”
He considered her carefully, weighing the honest note in her words, the disingenuous offer in her smile, the expectant hope in her eyes … and the tiny, flickering candle flame she’d lit in his heart when she’d asked him to resume his once familiar role in her life blazed up with joyful warmth, kindling something much deeper, much more certain. The determined armour he’d tried to don when he’d thought she no longer needed him was already cracked and fragmenting; now it crumbled away completely, leaving himself, once again, exposed to her in ways she would never know, let alone comprehend. He was beginning to realise that there was no way he could armour himself against her, since she was already deep in his heart and was there to stay.
“That sounds … like an excellent idea,” he decided, favouring her with a smile that she returned with dazzling delight. “Especially if it means I get your undivided attention and the pleasure of your company for a while … a combination that has been sadly lacking in my schedule of late.”
“Gee, Giles,” she chuckled, “what’s wrong with ‘yeah, sure, why not? Be just like old times.’ Do you have to make a simple ‘okay’ sound like an acceptance speech?”
It was his turn to roll his eyes. He waved her in the direction of the street and covered his inner laughter with a pained and martyred sigh. “Just like old times … Ah, yes. It’s all coming back to me now …”
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He took her along his usual route, south down Hatherway and then a turn into Restfield gardens. The cemetery was a good place to run at this time of the day, since it gave him a chance to check for signs of demonic or vampire activity while doing so; the risks of stumbling into something dangerous were minimal in the early light of day, but it felt reassuring to know that his Slayer was keeping pace at his side, matching his lanky stride with one and a half of her own. Sunnydale, at this time of the morning, threw a deceptive veil of sunlight over its darker side, turning the world into a startling mundane one of people hurrying to get to work, children dawdling on their way to school and a spattering of the elderly, the academic and the unemployed taking dogs for walks, or themselves on early morning constitutionals. Last week he’d been sufficiently tired and depressed to class himself as being a member of all three. This week he could smile at the overblown blonde with her pink tinted peke without feeling like a lecherous old man, nod kindly at the aged Mr Gerrard without a tinge of terror that he would, one day, be that doddery old man, and sail blithely past the headphone wearing, roller skate wearing, book reading student crowd without a moments sense of scholarly envy. It didn’t hurt that Buffy scowled possessively at the blonde when she returned the smile, or that she made no effort to conceal the fact that she was running in his company as they passed the student crowd; she even waved at one of them, a quick, comradely recognition that the student returned with a cheery wave of her own.
“That’s Sandra Mitchell,” Buffy explained breezily, jogging comfortably beside him. “Was in Walsh’s psych class last year. We did this study group thing together - no biggie, just shared a few papers and reviewed an article or two. She’s good. Knows her stuff.”
He didn’t really want to ask, but there was a little niggle of anxiety that made him do so anyway.
“And you’ve no concerns about her seeing you with me this morning? That she might … ask questions?”
“Oh, I’m totally expecting questions,” Buffy grinned, waving at another of the student crowd gathered as they passed. “As in - who was that studly guy you were running with? And ‘does he teach at the Uni, because I’d sign up to his class like a shot.’ Chill out, Giles,” she laughed, correctly reading his disconcerted expression. “I am totally in the ‘being seen with you’ zone. Besides, I doubt she was looking at your face - not with those luscious legs of yours to draw her attention.”
He frowned, a little warily, unable to judge how much of that was meant as tease, and how much was intended as flattery. “So - you wouldn’t rather be running with … Riley, for instance?”
“Riley doesn’t jog,” Buffy said, her expression crunching up into a moment of amused irritation. “Athough he does do route marches - big with the numbers and the stop watch routine. Can’t stop, shouldn’t waste breath to talk, and have to keep the pace to keep the heart beat going …”
“Ah,” he realised sagely, “that’s the reason for the bouncing.”
“Yeah.” Her agreement was wry. “Stupid, huh?”
“Not really.” He turned in towards the cemetery gate, barely breaking stride as he lifted the latch and pushed it open; she ducked under his arm and jogged on ahead, leaving him to let the wrought iron fall back and check that the latch had clicked back into place. “I can see how it would apply in a regulated routine.” He lengthened his pace and caught up with her as she turned to head up the main avenue. “But hardly applicable to a Slayer. You need to work on more than strength and stamina. You need focus and control.”
“Along with honing my instincts and improving my balance, and knowing what to kick where …”
He smiled. “All of that is focus and control,” he said gently. “It may be wrong for the Council to consider the slayer their instrument - but in many ways, you are just that. An instrument. Exquisitely built, perfectly designed … capable of acts and arts that range from surgical precision to explosive power. You will never achieve your full potential until you learn to understand each and every move in your repertoire; master every skill at your command; and discover every nuance in your existence. You have learnt to play the basic tunes - but to uncover the music in your soul you must study every variant chord, explore every harmony, and transform yourself from an instrument of blunt confrontation to one of finely tuned deliberation.”
“Wow,” she breathed, giving him a look of amazement. “Way to go on the music metaphor … I’m all those things?”
“You can be. You will be, if you focus and study and learn to understand yourself. I think … I believe both our joining spell, and then your encounter with Dracula has awoken something in you that few Slayers get to experience. An aspect of your demon nature that’s normally dormant, yet, if fully woken, can be drawn on to give you insight and awareness of those you fight and slay. An … inner spirit, if you like, attuned to the demonic world, yet subservient to your will and sworn to your true purpose. I suspect it was that that Dracula was attempting to corrupt.”
He’d spent the past few nights trying to research the vampire’s intentions, tracking down obscure entries in the diaries of Watchers sidelined and discredited for making claims no-one else could substantiate. Some of those claims had been utterly outrageous - except to a man who’d had the privilege of sharing a moment of primal existence with his Slayer, who’d felt the raw rage and power in the spirit they had awakened with their spell … and who’d survived that experience only because of the stubborn determination of the woman now running at his side. The woman who had driven back the primal spirit and claimed its power for her own.
“Drac and the first slayer gave me a makeover?” Buffy looked intrigued by the idea. “Cool. Do I get a free photo-shoot and souvenir album, too?”
In the first year of their acquaintance he’d have been angry at her flippancy. In the second and third, he’d have been impatient that she could so easily dismiss the serious nature of her calling. Last year, he’d have probably expected it of her. Right now, though, he was finally able to catch a glimmer of the reasoning behind her less than reverent reaction; this was scary stuff, and Buffy tried to deal with such things by finding ways to reduce the fear and give herself time to understand and absorb all the implications.
And understanding that, gave him even greater reason to love and admire her. Although he wasn’t about to let her know that …
“Oh, a full colour portrait and a set of commemorative postcards … Really, Buffy, this is important. And I need to slow down for a moment …”
“Feel free,” she offered, turning to run loops around the gravestones so he could slow his pace to a walk for a moment or two; he took the opportunity to tug the water bottle from its place on his belt. The larger of the two. The smaller one was filled with holy water, just in case. “I know this is important stuff, Giles, but - we came out for a run. Can we leave the lectures until later? I want to do the training, learn the moves, understand the … inner-spirit thing. Just - not all at once, okay?”
He could hardly refuse her that - especially as he was barely a step ahead of her in understanding it himself. “All right,” he agreed. “One step at a time. I doubt it’s something that can be forced, anyway. Or photographed,” he added pointedly, and she grinned.
“I have so missed this,” she said, launching herself into a handstand atop the nearest tombstone. “You - me, the training, all that stuff. I didn’t know I was missing it, but I was. And speaking of photographs,” she added in a seemingly total non-sequiter, “how’s things with you and Olivia? Have you heard from her lately?”
“She’s - umm - getting married,” Giles admitted, pausing to catch his breath and take the opportunity to lean against a handy headstone. Buffy vaulted off the tombstone and ran several steps before the statement registered; she retraced them almost exactly, jogging backwards until she could stand beside him - running jauntily on one spot - and stare at him with wide and wary eyes.
“Married?”
He nodded, lifting his water bottle to take a much needed swig. “Yes. To - umm - some sort of magazine editor, I believe. Fashion, or lifestyles, or something like that. He - ah - bought some of her photographs, hired her for a shoot … Decided she was .. worth keeping, I suppose.”
He took another gulp of lukewarm water, and then sighed, staring out across the cemetery with a distant look in his eyes. He’d wondered, the day he’d received the gilt edged invitation, whether he was supposed to feel jealous or angry, or merely wounded to the heart - because, really, the overwhelming emotion that had arisen at the news had been one of bittersweet relief.
“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, coming to a complete halt so she could consider him with sympathy. “You - you really liked her, didn’t you.”
His lips twisted at that, wondering if that was how the feeling could, or should, be quantified; the easy comfort of mutual acquaintance overlain with an equally easy and equally mutual attraction. Sculpted curves that he’d explored with eyes, and hands, and lips; warm skin and amused laughter melting into his embrace … and then the need and the surrender, shared in darkened rooms and hints of firelit sanctuaries, painted over with candle light and undemanding satisfactions …
“Yes,” he admitted after a moment or two. “I did. But it wasn’t meant … and maybe that’s just as well.”
Her eyes asked a question and he sighed, wondering how to answer it. “We … live in a very dangerous world, Buffy. You were chosen for it, and I was … raised to be aware of its terrors and its torments. We stand with our face to the dark and our backs to the light, trying to make sure that the things that gibber in the shadows don’t get by us to wreak havoc in the day. Olivia … lives in the world we are trying to defend. A world where the terrors of the twilight and the things we face on an almost daily basis are myth and rumour and the stuff of fairy tales. It’s an ignorance we fight to protect, and with good reason. Our world is not a comfortable one - and it takes a special kind of soul to step from the safety of the light into the gloom of shadows and starlight that we inhabit … along with the things that go bump in the night. The things that suck your blood and freeze your heart, and make even the toughest of spirits quail.”
“Olivia is a … remarkable soul. But she does not belong in our world, and I had no right to drag her into it. We had … something, for a little while, but it takes more - much more - for someone to be willing to step out of the safety and security of the sunlight, and down, into the twilight at the edge of existence. It takes a brave soul to step into the dark - and an even braver one to stay there, to become part of the war.”
“Like - Xand and Willow,” Buffy offered sympathetically and he nodded.
“Yes - and I would have saved both of them from it, if I could, but … that wasn’t to be, either. It’s hard to find souls willing to face the dark the way we do.”
“And harder to find soul-mates who understand why we do it?”
“Quite. Olivia s much better off without me. Safer, too. Provided she doesn’t venture into the tunnels under Chinatown after dark …”
He stared down at the bottle in his hands, and wondered what he’d been thinking about, trying to rekindle a relationship with someone who knew nothing of his work or his world. Had it been loneliness, or sheer desperation? Jenny, at least, had come to him with open eyes and knowing something of the danger involved … and she’d died.
He’d have never have forgiven himself if Olivia had done the same …
“So …” she ventured. “You … mind? About the wedding? No - there but for Hellmouthness and my Slayer, go I, kinda thing?”
Hellmouthness? He gave her pained look. “Really, Buffy …” he began, then changed his mind. She was watching him with wary sympathy; this wasn’t about making fun of his - far from perfect - private life, but her way of expressing genuine concern. It shook him a little, seeing the anxious empathy in her eyes. “No,” he found himself saying. “No, I don’t mind. I … I feel - relieved, really. Knowing that she’s safe. That she’s found someone …”
“I envied her, you know?”
The statement was so unexpected that he took a moment or two to process it. “Envied … Olivia?”
“Oh, completely,” Buffy said with a half smile that suggested the comment wasn’t entirely serious - but not exactly an outright lie, either. “I mean - there she was, swanning round your place, all sweet and confident and charming, and Miss ‘I got a life and a career’ and … being all - ‘hey, this totally smart guy is totally into me’ and stuff … I still don’t get how she could walk away. She had the good life, and you … and you being attentive guy, with the looks and the smarts and the sophistication.” She sighed, and leant back against a tombstone of her own. “Time was, that was all mine, you know …”
There was too much regret in her voice for him to read that as the tease she probably intended, but he could hardly blame her. They had drifted apart - and neither of them were entirely free of guilt in that regard. “Buffy, I - “
“No, no,” she interrupted. “Don’t, okay? You have every right to your own life, and I have no right to be jealous of it, just because … well, it’s not like you were created for the sole purpose of Watching me, so …”
“Well, actually - “ he tried to interrupt, but she was in full flow and didn’t even notice he’d spoken.
“ … I can hardly expect you to live as if the entire universe rotates around me and my every whim, right?”
But it does, he wanted to say. I do …
“I was a little jealous though. Least,” she added, with a knowing grin, “I was, until we did that whole ‘super slayer’ thing. Because … she may have known you in the biblical sense of the word, but she never knew you. Not like that.” Her grin grew a little wider and her eyes flashed with something that sent a disconcerted shiver down his spine. The echoes of the joining spell still haunted his dreams. Not so much the terrors of the First Slayer’s indignation at their impertinance, but the deeper, more primal memories of the event; the sense of power in the Slayer’s gifts, the feeling of being connected, of experiencing her strength and grace first hand. He’d never stopped to think what she might have experienced. What part of him she might have been able to recognise in the midst of that heart pounding gestalt of power and personality.
“Yes, well,” he said, not entirely sure he was ready to explore that thought. “She never had Willow’s magic thrumming through her blood, or Xander’s valour defending her heart, either. That was a rather … unique experience.”
“Oz was right,” Buffy noted wryly. “We don’t lead normal lives, do we …’
They both considered that for a moment, sharing a mutual moment of understanding that would have been impossible to put into words.
“So,” Buffy asked after a moment or two, her eyes narrowing with thoughtful speculation. “You going?”
Giles blinked, taking a second to connect the question with their earlier conversation. “To the wedding?” He grimaced at the idea. “Oh yes, the one thing every woman wants on her wedding day is a queue of ex-lovers lining up to remind her of what she’s left behind … of course I’m not going, Buffy. Olivia left here because she had no desire to cope with the world we live in - and I have no intention of reminding her of that world on what should be the happiest day of her life. Besides - can you really picture me at a society wedding in San Francisco?”
“In a tux?” She swept her eyes up and down his sweat stained, rumpled figure and her lips curled into a rather endearing smile. “Yeah . I totally can. But - I get the ‘not going’ thing. It would be a little - Hugh Grantish, I guess.” She reached over to tug the water bottle from his hands and tipped her head back to take a healthy swallow. He found himself watching the curve of her throat, and the hint of scars that lay at the base of her neck, fighting down a sudden desire to reach out and run a finger down that warm curve of skin. To explore the roughness of those scars and replace the memories of that assault with a tender touch and the kind of gentle worship she deserved …
“You really think there’d be queue-age?” she asked curiously, thrusting the bottle back in his direction. He took it automatically, blinking at her as he tried to disentangle those disconcerting thoughts and make sense of her question, all at once. “Of the ex-lover kind? Because - hey, lady with discernment and taste and stuff, you know … so, worth going all the way to Frisco for. If there was queue-age, that is.”
There’d been an unexpected compliment in there, somewhere. And a somewhat successful attempt to make him smile.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “A gentleman never asks about such things, and a lady never tells … Besides,” he added, frowning a little as he levered himself up to resume his run. “Wouldn’t - um - Riley have something to say about you gallivanting off to in search of … what do they call it? Eye-candy?”
It was Buffy’s turn to look pained. “It’s not about the candy, Giles,” she protested, leading off with lope that even his long legs took a moment to catch up with. “Well … maybe just a little, but - that’s not the point. Riley and I … there is no Riley and I. Not really. Not anymore. I’m not even sure there ever was.”
Giles threw her a wary look, uncertain as to how he should interpret this determined claim. He’d been unsure about Riley Finn from the first day of meeting him. The distance between the clean cut, all-American, mid-western youth and his own, time stained and tradition laden upbringing hadn’t just put them worlds apart; it had made them, almost literally, alien to each other - alien in perspective, in understanding, and in nature. But he’d had sympathy - and some empathy - for the way that the young man had been used and abused, and he’d been grateful - for a while at least - for the way he’d tried to draw Buffy out of her darkened world and share with her a little of the light they were all fighting so hard to protect.
Anyone who could make Buffy smile earned high marks in her Watcher’s estimation. It seemed a little crass not to offer some protest on his behalf.
“Now, surely, Buffy …”
“No. Don’t defend him, Giles. He doesn’t need defending. It’s not about him. He’s a nice guy, and - once he gets past all that wounded macho pride stuff - he’ll make someone a really good partner. But not me. I can’t live holding back on my strength just to make him feel better when we spar, and I can’t go on dating a guy that doesn’t appreciate why I bail when my Slayer senses go all tingly on me. You think I like it?” she asked. “Not being the girl he needs me to be? I can’t put him first in my life, and he can’t understand the reasons why … “
“It’s not an easy thing to understand,” Giles murmured, remembering the hope in Olivia’s eyes as she’d asked him to walk away, to follow her back into the light - and the hurt that had settled over her as he’d gently refused, choosing to stay because his Slayer needed him …
“He just doesn’t get it,” Buffy complained, adjusting her pace as their route took them off the grass and back onto paving. “How dangerous it is, how terrifying it can be. It’s just one big adventure to him. Nothing more than a thrill ride. One he can step off and leave behind without a moment’s thought. You know what he said? About Dracula?”
Giles shook his head, lacking breath to comment, even if he could.
“He said it was a rush, getting to meet the real thing. A rush! As if it didn’t matter that I was almost turned to the dark side, and Xander got made a bug-eating monkey …and then, then, he started making jokes. About you - and the vampire chick pit.”
“Yes, well,” Giles fought down a blush at the memory. It had been a rather disturbing experience, and he wasn’t at all proud of the way he’d behaved during it. “I, umm …”
“No,” Buffy said, rather forcibly. “No. It wasn’t funny, Giles, and if I hadn’t been so focused on dealing with the big D, and all these things he’d made me aware of in me … I should have gone back and staked those bitches for what they did to you. They were vampires. Evil vampires with evil sexy vamp powers to enthral and mesmerise … I could have lost you. And my so-called big macho hero guy would have stood by and laughed because he thought you being pawed over by three demons from hell was funny. He had no idea of the danger you were in. And neither did I. At the time. So … I’m sorry. And he should be.”
“He’s … umm … young,” Giles concluded after a moments thought, deciding that the middle of an energetic jog was not the place to waste his breath trying to argue with such determined vehemence. He certainly didn’t hold Buffy to blame for any of the events of that night, but he knew that trying to say so would do nothing to assuage her sense of guilt. Besides, her obvious concern for his welfare was heartening - and she was right.
He had been in a great deal of danger that night. They all had.
“Young?” she questioned, throwing him a wry look, and he suddenly realised what he’d said - and who he’d said it too.
“I-immature, I - I meant. Umm …” She was still looking at him askance, and he had this sudden feeling of falling back into the pit … and digging himself deeper with every word. “Inexperienced. N -naïve. Uh … oh, good lord …”
Buffy held the moment a second or two longer, then burst out laughing, her suspicious expression collapsing into a joyful smile. “Score one for Miss Calendar,” she chuckled. “You do do good squirm …It’s …” She turned to jog backwards for a second or two, looking him up and down as he grimaced with chagrin at letting himself fall for such an obvious tease. “ … kinda sexy, actually.” Her grin was disarming. So disarming that it took a moment or two to register what it was she’d said. She turned away before he could sensibly react, leaning forward to pick up the pace a little. He had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I know what you meant. Riley has this whole macho thing going, but he’s not really as tough as he likes to pretend. He knows the moves, you know? But he’s not learned what it means to have to use them. It’s kinda funny,” she went on. “He’s all angsty about losing the super-soldier thing, and working so hard to get his edge back - and I have to bite my tongue because - well, he wasn’t that good in the first place. I wanna say ‘hey, being cute and sweet and honest is okay too, you know?’ But he’s all knotted up with this tough guy crap, and he’d think I’m laughing at him.”
“Which I kinda, am, but - not in a ‘hurt his feelings’ way. Brute strength never solves anything. You taught me that,” she said, throwing another of those warm grins in his direction. “And I figure that - all the super soldier drugs in the world are never gonna take the place of a lifetime of dedication and training. That’s real. That’s honest. And when it comes down to it? I’d bet on skill and experience over youth and enthusiasm. Every time.”
Giles couldn’t resist a small grin of his own. “Thank you,” he said, fully expecting her to have missed the implications of what she was saying. Except that she clearly hadn’t, because she glanced over at his words, and smiled a suddenly shy smile.
“You’re welcome.”
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They ran a little further, leaving Restfield cemetery behind and weaving their way through quiet residential streets until they could turn at the edge of Memorial Park and head back towards Giles’ apartment. It was a good challenging run, and Buffy made a note of it for future patrols, mentally checking off the boarded up house, the liquor store on the corner of San Castill and Cumberland Street, the children’s playground behind the white walled church, and the dry ditch that led under the road and vanished into a gated off tunnel beneath the local medical centre. All good places to check for vamps once the sun went down - except maybe the back of the church, but children’s playgrounds were perfect lures for hungry fledglings, so always worth checking out from time to time.
She hadn’t realised how much fun something like this could be - running for the sake of running, rather than running to, or running from, something. Nor had she appreciated the full sensurround nature of experience - the warmth of the morning sun, the colours of the day, the sounds of everyday life … and the pleasure of company for company’s sake, someone willing to match her pace rather than trying to surpass it. Undemanding, comfortable company - who, by the time they came around the final corner and took those last few strides, was evidencing that what had been an easy work out for her had been a pretty demanding exercise where he was concerned.
“Sorry, Giles,” she apologised as they came to a halt in his courtyard. “Guess I picked up the pace a little back there …”
“No, no.” He waved the apology away one-handed - the other was pressed into his thigh for support as he bent to get his breath back. “These things … should … stretch one a little …” He took a deep breath and straightened up with an effort. His face was flushed and damp - but he was smiling, not looking distressed, which surprised her a little. Surprised and impressed - she was well aware that he really wasn’t anywhere near as old as she’d once thought him to be, but it seemed he was in pretty good shape for a man who tended to act as if he spent most of his life hunched over books.
Except that he didn’t, of course, which had been the whole point of the morning; he made a conscious effort to stay fit and flab-free, and it paid dividends. Very nice dividends from where Buffy was standing; even in semi-shapeless sweats he had a whole lot more shape than might first catch the eye. She watched him move across to perch himself on the edge of the fountain and stretch out those long legs of his and she smiled. There was something - deceptively graceful about her Watcher, an ease with which he moved that belied the reality of his height and the solid muscle that it carried so well. Riley was - Riley was square cut and built, the way that Mr all-America was supposed to be. All shoulders and torso, a soldier’s neck and a narrowing down to manly hips and well muscled legs; handsome and reliable and easy on the eye … and always noticed, wherever he was in the room.
But Giles … Giles was solid enough - he was a big man, perfectly capable of looming in an extremely intimidating manner if he needed to - but his height added the benefit of elegant proportion to his figure, an understated hint of sculpture that it took a discerning eye to appreciate. Buffy hadn’t been kidding when she’d said that Olivia had taste; if there was one thing that being with Riley had taught her, it was that - when it really came down to it - it wasn’t the looks that mattered. It was the moves.
And when you matched a man taught to stomp and drill and point at things with guns against one that wielded a sword like a dancer and who could stalk around a library, or a graveyard, with the silent ease of a cat … well, it made her wonder just why she’d taken so long to notice the difference.
Perhaps men were like fine wine, or expensive chocolate - perhaps you had to develop sophisticated tastes in order to truly appreciate sophistication. To know why clean cut looks inevitably became bland fare when compared with the fascination of rugged, handsome men with brains and charm and character.
“So,” Giles asked, having got some of his breath back, “are you intending this to be … a regular arrangement?”
“The run?” Buffy shrugged. “You tell me, Watcher, warrior, trainer-mine. You’re the one working up the schedule.”
“Ah,” he registered. “Yes - yes, of course … well,” he said, wiping some of the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, “we do have a lot of other ground to cover, but … there may be some benefit taking this approach to building stamina and endurance …” He was still labouring a little for breath; Buffy grinned, throwing him the towel he’d left behind at the start of their run.
“With added fresh air and a bonus dose of genuine sunshine,” she quipped, starting to work through some of the stretching exercises Merrick had taught her, way back in the ‘I’m the what?’ days. Arms up, head back, hands clasped and palms turned towards the sun. She’d been neglecting this stuff, and her body knew it; she was thrumming slightly from the run, but it hadn’t been enough to burn off all of her excess energies, and her muscles protested as she worked them into what should have been familiar and comfortable positions.
“Quite. Roll your shoulder-blades when you do that, Buffy. You need to keep the joints supple.”
She did, feeling things pop and crack into place. Not just bones and muscle, but thoughts and feelings too. That simple, pointed advice - offered almost without conscious consideration - was like balm to her soul. She had missed this - missed the advice and the guidance, the friendly banter, the quips and the comments and the sense of partnership that had hummed between them almost without conscious awareness - and more too: the way he’d continually challenged her, encouraging her to think for herself, to become more self aware; the way he’d supported her and stood by her, even in her darkest moments …
“Giles?”
He was in the middle of towelling some of the sweat from his hair; he looked oddly boyish and vulnerable, his hair tousled and curly from the damp and his expression open and accessible without the armour of his glasses.
“Yes, Buffy?”
“I think … I think we should make this a regular arrangement. Not just the training, but the whole you, me stuff. Spending time, I mean. Because - I know you, but I don’t really know you, you know? And I’d like to.”
He gave her a long, thoughtful look, one that made her stomach flutter and her mouth turn dry. She thought she’d already asked the most important question - the Watcher one - and maybe she should have left it at that, been happy to settle for what they’d once had, student and teacher, learner and mentor … a safe, undemanding relationship from her side of the fence.
But it wouldn’t be enough, and she knew it. She didn’t just want his support and his respect, however welcome they might be. She wanted more. Just how much more, she wasn’t sure. But she was willing to make the effort. To invest the time. To find out exactly what that more might be …
“You really have grown up this past year, haven’t you,” he said, and she laughed, a little nervously.
“You learn fast when you’re a Slayer. Although hanging around in your Watcher’s head for an hour or two kinda helps. Not to mention having a bratty sister who demonstrates how annoying all that me, me, me behaviour is. Mom says she’s not sure she knows me anymore. I’m not sure I know me anymore. But you know that. That’s why you said you’d help me train."
"That’s what I said I’d help you do," he corrected mildly. "It isn’t why."
"No?” A sudden panic seized hold of her. Had she been reading him wrong? He’d said he wanted to help her, but was he doing it out of duty rather than love? “Then .. why did you? Why would you stay in this .. world of starlight and shadows? Willow said … Willow said you’ve been thinking about leaving. Maybe you should. The Council fired you, the school burnt down … What is there to keep you here?”
He sighed, giving her a patient look - one she didn’t know how to read, even though it seemed to be speaking volumes. There had to be something …. She grasped at straws, guessing at the most obvious one. "Oh. Wait. The First Slayer didn’t have a Watcher … but it’s kinda hard to be a Watcher without a Slayer, yeah?”
"Not at all.” His smile was reassuringly wry, and she felt the panic subside a little. Maybe she hadn’t been wrong, after all. “There are a great many members of my order who will never even see a slayer, let alone meet or work with one. For them, the idea - the concept - suffices. But I … I have served a Slayer. Trained her, advised her, watched her … fought for her, with her, and most often alongside her … and seen her grow, and blossom into a stunning young woman with hopes and dreams and a desire to understand her destiny. I thought you’d grown beyond the teachings of my calling, Buffy. Beyond the need for me. I was beginning to feel like a relic, a remnant of a past you had no wish to linger in - but then you came, and you asked me … "
"Spike’s a jerk. You know that, right? All those things he said …"
“All those twisted half truths and lies that were more about omission than deception? Yes, I know how manipulative Spike was being that day. But he was right. I had no place in your life. But now … now, it seems, I do. What that place might be … well, I suspect that’s as much a voyage of discovery for me as - your search for … slayerness … may be for you.”
So, he wasn’t expecting to rebuild that old, safe partnership either. That was something of a relief - and something vaguely scary too. She was hoping she could find ways to explore what it meant to be the Slayer - to discover who and what she was, to redefine herself and her place in the world - but if that meant redefining him, too … the whole thing became unknown territory, with new rules to be written and new boundaries to be established.
She had a feeling it was going to be an interesting experience.
“Adventurers together, huh? I - like the sound of that. I meant what I said, you know. I can’t do this without you. I tried. I got the ‘push me out of the nest and see if I fly’ message … and, yeah, it took a while, but I did get it. That you needed me to grow and find my feet and not lean on you so much but - flying solo’s no fun, and … it’s getting a little lonely in my sky. I need you, Giles - and not in a clingy, needy kinda way, just … as a friend.”
“You have friends, Buffy. Good friends. Friends your own age - and who speak your language.”
“Well, yeah.” She wished she was as articulate in her words as he was - that she could find some way to explain how important he was to her. “I got heart and spirit, but … I need more than that. I need words of wisdom. Experience. Guidance and inspiration. I need - a partner. A Watcher. My Watcher. Someone who knows how to watch my back - and the rest of me, too, I guess.”
He smiled, amused by her sudden intensity. “Watch out for, rather than Watch over, I take it? An equal partnership …” He let the idea dance behind his eyes for a moment, considering issues and implications and her with thoughtful speculation. Buffy held her breath. There was something very important happening here, although she couldn’t put her finger on what or why. “That sounds like an option - worth further investigation. Tea?”
“Uh - yeah …” Something had shifted; something had changed and reshaped the space between them, opening up opportunities and throwing old perspectives into a new and different light. He held out his hand to her as he stood up, and she took it, her fingers sliding into his as if they belonged there. “You know,” Buffy said thoughtfully as he drew her down the steps, “perhaps you should go to the wedding, after all.”
He threw her a puzzled frown. “Why ever would I consider …?”
“Because I’ve never been to San Francisco,” she said. “The invitation is ‘and partner,’ right? Besides,” she added with a grin. “The shorts are an okay look for you, but you look way better in a tux …”
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(Author's note: (I made all sorts of efforts to make the romance more overt, but there wasn't a lot of opportunity left between Buffy's flirting and Giles being nobly unrequited in his devotion. I shall try harder next time ...)
Author:
mythichistorian
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Rating: FRT
Word count: 7755
Notes: Written for
kaymickbee for the 'Every Watcher Needs a Slayer' ficathon.
The prompt was: post season 4. definite romance. a mature, perhaps angsty or envious discussion about anyone from the past ...
Spoilers: up to and including 'Dracula'
7: 30 am: stepping out into the morning, catching the start of the California day before the heat of the sun baked the ground hard and the air dry. There was a hint of crispness in the air, remnants of a late night squall of rain mingling with the trace of a breeze coming in off the coast. Giles closed his door behind him and paused to take a long deep breath. It was at times like these that he could - however self deceivingly - imagine that he were back in England, scenting the creep of a languid summer over take the warming days of spring. Of course, back there, he’d probably be kitted out for a morning hack, not draped in shapeless exercise gear and sporting less than trendy trainers on too large for fashion feet. There’d be an apple in his pocket, rather than the necessity of bottled water holstered at his belt - and he’d have never have been caught, dead or alive, in shorts anywhere other than a rugby pitch. But this wasn’t England, and he was being reluctantly dragged into native habits if not entirely native thinking. Even the morning jog was a sop to circumstance - but he knew the exercise was necessary, and at least this way he got to see a little of the world he’d made such a solemn oath to protect.
It felt like it would be a good day, too - one just right for running. Bright, breezy and …
“Buffy?”
“Hey Giles,” his Slayer grinned, bouncing jauntily at the top of his steps. “Ready for a run?”
He blinked; she was dressed to kill - well, not literally for once, but in what looked like the advertising man’s dream of the fashionable jogger - a short sleeved white sports shirt, a pair of figure hugging white shorts that were a lot shorter than his, a shallow brimmed hat, and a pair of designer sunglass. There were sweat bands clasping her wrists, short white socks peeking from pristine designer trainers - and acres of smooth muscled skin on show, boasting a hint of golden glow that made his own look pathetically pale and pasty.
“Ah … I was about to go out, yes,” he said, trying hard not to stare and not being entirely sure where to look. Not at her, that was certain; she was stepping from foot to foot, her pony tail swinging in counterpoint to the rhythm of her head … and everything was jiggling. In an extremely distracting manner. He couldn’t entirely remember when he’d stopped seeing the lively teenager he’d taken in charge and recognised the attractive young woman she’d become - but their year of semi-estrangement had forced him to be constantly looking at her through new eyes, and the difference in their ages no longer seemed so acute - or so definitive, either. “But …w-what exactly are you doing here?”
“The bunny hop,” she declared, adding an extra emphasis to the sway of her hips that made his breath catch. “Or in my case - the Buffy hop. I jogged all the way here and I think you’re supposed to keep the rhythm going or something - maximise the aerobic activity n’stuff. Keep a constant demand on the heart.”
His heart had already upped itself a couple of paces just looking at her, but he tried to ignore that while he wrestled with the puzzle of her presence.
“Because your body is so weak and fragile the slightest change in demand will cause unbearable palpitations?” he questioned. “For heaven’s sake, Buffy. Hunting vampires through graveyards in the middle of the night is hardly a sedentary occupation. I’m sure your heart is strong enough to allow you to stand still for a moment or two.”
“Cranky much?” Buffy muttered, rolling her eyes - but stopped bouncing, much to his relief.
“Thank you,” he said, striding up the steps and past her, into the courtyard. “Now, tell me,” he went on, dropping his towel over the back of one of the courtyard chairs so it would be handy on his return, “what it is that brings you - who are most certainly not a morning person - to my door at what - to you - has to be a mostly unearthly hour. Have you been hunting all night and decided to look me up on your way to retire?”
“Or is there some apocalypse in hand and no-one’s bothered to call me?” Again, lingered at the end of that sentence, but he didn’t say it and he berated himself for thinking it. She’d gone a long way to redress past bitternesses in the past few days, and he hadn’t entirely been fault free in the reasons for them. The way they had started to rebuild their somewhat dented relationship was encouraging - although this was an entirely unexpected development.
“None of the above,” Buffy grinned. “It’s just … well, you said we could start training again and I … I thought I’d start by joining you for your morning jog, that’s all.”
“Good lord,” he reacted, almost without thinking, then added for good measure: “Who are you and what have you done with my Slayer?”
“Giles,” Buffy groaned good naturedly. “I know I’ve been bad neglectful Buffy this past year, and I’ve a lot of lost ground to catch up on, and … well, I want to make it up to you, if I can. Show you I was serious when I asked … well,” she said, “we need to get the whole Watcher/Slayer thing back on the road, and I thought ‘let start with getting it literally ‘back on the road’’ … and this morning I was all ‘should I spend time lazing in bed,’ or ‘use the time to support my favourite Watcher and keep him company?’ You won, by the way,” she added, in case there was any doubt. “So - wanna go jog?”
He considered her carefully, weighing the honest note in her words, the disingenuous offer in her smile, the expectant hope in her eyes … and the tiny, flickering candle flame she’d lit in his heart when she’d asked him to resume his once familiar role in her life blazed up with joyful warmth, kindling something much deeper, much more certain. The determined armour he’d tried to don when he’d thought she no longer needed him was already cracked and fragmenting; now it crumbled away completely, leaving himself, once again, exposed to her in ways she would never know, let alone comprehend. He was beginning to realise that there was no way he could armour himself against her, since she was already deep in his heart and was there to stay.
“That sounds … like an excellent idea,” he decided, favouring her with a smile that she returned with dazzling delight. “Especially if it means I get your undivided attention and the pleasure of your company for a while … a combination that has been sadly lacking in my schedule of late.”
“Gee, Giles,” she chuckled, “what’s wrong with ‘yeah, sure, why not? Be just like old times.’ Do you have to make a simple ‘okay’ sound like an acceptance speech?”
It was his turn to roll his eyes. He waved her in the direction of the street and covered his inner laughter with a pained and martyred sigh. “Just like old times … Ah, yes. It’s all coming back to me now …”
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He took her along his usual route, south down Hatherway and then a turn into Restfield gardens. The cemetery was a good place to run at this time of the day, since it gave him a chance to check for signs of demonic or vampire activity while doing so; the risks of stumbling into something dangerous were minimal in the early light of day, but it felt reassuring to know that his Slayer was keeping pace at his side, matching his lanky stride with one and a half of her own. Sunnydale, at this time of the morning, threw a deceptive veil of sunlight over its darker side, turning the world into a startling mundane one of people hurrying to get to work, children dawdling on their way to school and a spattering of the elderly, the academic and the unemployed taking dogs for walks, or themselves on early morning constitutionals. Last week he’d been sufficiently tired and depressed to class himself as being a member of all three. This week he could smile at the overblown blonde with her pink tinted peke without feeling like a lecherous old man, nod kindly at the aged Mr Gerrard without a tinge of terror that he would, one day, be that doddery old man, and sail blithely past the headphone wearing, roller skate wearing, book reading student crowd without a moments sense of scholarly envy. It didn’t hurt that Buffy scowled possessively at the blonde when she returned the smile, or that she made no effort to conceal the fact that she was running in his company as they passed the student crowd; she even waved at one of them, a quick, comradely recognition that the student returned with a cheery wave of her own.
“That’s Sandra Mitchell,” Buffy explained breezily, jogging comfortably beside him. “Was in Walsh’s psych class last year. We did this study group thing together - no biggie, just shared a few papers and reviewed an article or two. She’s good. Knows her stuff.”
He didn’t really want to ask, but there was a little niggle of anxiety that made him do so anyway.
“And you’ve no concerns about her seeing you with me this morning? That she might … ask questions?”
“Oh, I’m totally expecting questions,” Buffy grinned, waving at another of the student crowd gathered as they passed. “As in - who was that studly guy you were running with? And ‘does he teach at the Uni, because I’d sign up to his class like a shot.’ Chill out, Giles,” she laughed, correctly reading his disconcerted expression. “I am totally in the ‘being seen with you’ zone. Besides, I doubt she was looking at your face - not with those luscious legs of yours to draw her attention.”
He frowned, a little warily, unable to judge how much of that was meant as tease, and how much was intended as flattery. “So - you wouldn’t rather be running with … Riley, for instance?”
“Riley doesn’t jog,” Buffy said, her expression crunching up into a moment of amused irritation. “Athough he does do route marches - big with the numbers and the stop watch routine. Can’t stop, shouldn’t waste breath to talk, and have to keep the pace to keep the heart beat going …”
“Ah,” he realised sagely, “that’s the reason for the bouncing.”
“Yeah.” Her agreement was wry. “Stupid, huh?”
“Not really.” He turned in towards the cemetery gate, barely breaking stride as he lifted the latch and pushed it open; she ducked under his arm and jogged on ahead, leaving him to let the wrought iron fall back and check that the latch had clicked back into place. “I can see how it would apply in a regulated routine.” He lengthened his pace and caught up with her as she turned to head up the main avenue. “But hardly applicable to a Slayer. You need to work on more than strength and stamina. You need focus and control.”
“Along with honing my instincts and improving my balance, and knowing what to kick where …”
He smiled. “All of that is focus and control,” he said gently. “It may be wrong for the Council to consider the slayer their instrument - but in many ways, you are just that. An instrument. Exquisitely built, perfectly designed … capable of acts and arts that range from surgical precision to explosive power. You will never achieve your full potential until you learn to understand each and every move in your repertoire; master every skill at your command; and discover every nuance in your existence. You have learnt to play the basic tunes - but to uncover the music in your soul you must study every variant chord, explore every harmony, and transform yourself from an instrument of blunt confrontation to one of finely tuned deliberation.”
“Wow,” she breathed, giving him a look of amazement. “Way to go on the music metaphor … I’m all those things?”
“You can be. You will be, if you focus and study and learn to understand yourself. I think … I believe both our joining spell, and then your encounter with Dracula has awoken something in you that few Slayers get to experience. An aspect of your demon nature that’s normally dormant, yet, if fully woken, can be drawn on to give you insight and awareness of those you fight and slay. An … inner spirit, if you like, attuned to the demonic world, yet subservient to your will and sworn to your true purpose. I suspect it was that that Dracula was attempting to corrupt.”
He’d spent the past few nights trying to research the vampire’s intentions, tracking down obscure entries in the diaries of Watchers sidelined and discredited for making claims no-one else could substantiate. Some of those claims had been utterly outrageous - except to a man who’d had the privilege of sharing a moment of primal existence with his Slayer, who’d felt the raw rage and power in the spirit they had awakened with their spell … and who’d survived that experience only because of the stubborn determination of the woman now running at his side. The woman who had driven back the primal spirit and claimed its power for her own.
“Drac and the first slayer gave me a makeover?” Buffy looked intrigued by the idea. “Cool. Do I get a free photo-shoot and souvenir album, too?”
In the first year of their acquaintance he’d have been angry at her flippancy. In the second and third, he’d have been impatient that she could so easily dismiss the serious nature of her calling. Last year, he’d have probably expected it of her. Right now, though, he was finally able to catch a glimmer of the reasoning behind her less than reverent reaction; this was scary stuff, and Buffy tried to deal with such things by finding ways to reduce the fear and give herself time to understand and absorb all the implications.
And understanding that, gave him even greater reason to love and admire her. Although he wasn’t about to let her know that …
“Oh, a full colour portrait and a set of commemorative postcards … Really, Buffy, this is important. And I need to slow down for a moment …”
“Feel free,” she offered, turning to run loops around the gravestones so he could slow his pace to a walk for a moment or two; he took the opportunity to tug the water bottle from its place on his belt. The larger of the two. The smaller one was filled with holy water, just in case. “I know this is important stuff, Giles, but - we came out for a run. Can we leave the lectures until later? I want to do the training, learn the moves, understand the … inner-spirit thing. Just - not all at once, okay?”
He could hardly refuse her that - especially as he was barely a step ahead of her in understanding it himself. “All right,” he agreed. “One step at a time. I doubt it’s something that can be forced, anyway. Or photographed,” he added pointedly, and she grinned.
“I have so missed this,” she said, launching herself into a handstand atop the nearest tombstone. “You - me, the training, all that stuff. I didn’t know I was missing it, but I was. And speaking of photographs,” she added in a seemingly total non-sequiter, “how’s things with you and Olivia? Have you heard from her lately?”
“She’s - umm - getting married,” Giles admitted, pausing to catch his breath and take the opportunity to lean against a handy headstone. Buffy vaulted off the tombstone and ran several steps before the statement registered; she retraced them almost exactly, jogging backwards until she could stand beside him - running jauntily on one spot - and stare at him with wide and wary eyes.
“Married?”
He nodded, lifting his water bottle to take a much needed swig. “Yes. To - umm - some sort of magazine editor, I believe. Fashion, or lifestyles, or something like that. He - ah - bought some of her photographs, hired her for a shoot … Decided she was .. worth keeping, I suppose.”
He took another gulp of lukewarm water, and then sighed, staring out across the cemetery with a distant look in his eyes. He’d wondered, the day he’d received the gilt edged invitation, whether he was supposed to feel jealous or angry, or merely wounded to the heart - because, really, the overwhelming emotion that had arisen at the news had been one of bittersweet relief.
“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, coming to a complete halt so she could consider him with sympathy. “You - you really liked her, didn’t you.”
His lips twisted at that, wondering if that was how the feeling could, or should, be quantified; the easy comfort of mutual acquaintance overlain with an equally easy and equally mutual attraction. Sculpted curves that he’d explored with eyes, and hands, and lips; warm skin and amused laughter melting into his embrace … and then the need and the surrender, shared in darkened rooms and hints of firelit sanctuaries, painted over with candle light and undemanding satisfactions …
“Yes,” he admitted after a moment or two. “I did. But it wasn’t meant … and maybe that’s just as well.”
Her eyes asked a question and he sighed, wondering how to answer it. “We … live in a very dangerous world, Buffy. You were chosen for it, and I was … raised to be aware of its terrors and its torments. We stand with our face to the dark and our backs to the light, trying to make sure that the things that gibber in the shadows don’t get by us to wreak havoc in the day. Olivia … lives in the world we are trying to defend. A world where the terrors of the twilight and the things we face on an almost daily basis are myth and rumour and the stuff of fairy tales. It’s an ignorance we fight to protect, and with good reason. Our world is not a comfortable one - and it takes a special kind of soul to step from the safety of the light into the gloom of shadows and starlight that we inhabit … along with the things that go bump in the night. The things that suck your blood and freeze your heart, and make even the toughest of spirits quail.”
“Olivia is a … remarkable soul. But she does not belong in our world, and I had no right to drag her into it. We had … something, for a little while, but it takes more - much more - for someone to be willing to step out of the safety and security of the sunlight, and down, into the twilight at the edge of existence. It takes a brave soul to step into the dark - and an even braver one to stay there, to become part of the war.”
“Like - Xand and Willow,” Buffy offered sympathetically and he nodded.
“Yes - and I would have saved both of them from it, if I could, but … that wasn’t to be, either. It’s hard to find souls willing to face the dark the way we do.”
“And harder to find soul-mates who understand why we do it?”
“Quite. Olivia s much better off without me. Safer, too. Provided she doesn’t venture into the tunnels under Chinatown after dark …”
He stared down at the bottle in his hands, and wondered what he’d been thinking about, trying to rekindle a relationship with someone who knew nothing of his work or his world. Had it been loneliness, or sheer desperation? Jenny, at least, had come to him with open eyes and knowing something of the danger involved … and she’d died.
He’d have never have forgiven himself if Olivia had done the same …
“So …” she ventured. “You … mind? About the wedding? No - there but for Hellmouthness and my Slayer, go I, kinda thing?”
Hellmouthness? He gave her pained look. “Really, Buffy …” he began, then changed his mind. She was watching him with wary sympathy; this wasn’t about making fun of his - far from perfect - private life, but her way of expressing genuine concern. It shook him a little, seeing the anxious empathy in her eyes. “No,” he found himself saying. “No, I don’t mind. I … I feel - relieved, really. Knowing that she’s safe. That she’s found someone …”
“I envied her, you know?”
The statement was so unexpected that he took a moment or two to process it. “Envied … Olivia?”
“Oh, completely,” Buffy said with a half smile that suggested the comment wasn’t entirely serious - but not exactly an outright lie, either. “I mean - there she was, swanning round your place, all sweet and confident and charming, and Miss ‘I got a life and a career’ and … being all - ‘hey, this totally smart guy is totally into me’ and stuff … I still don’t get how she could walk away. She had the good life, and you … and you being attentive guy, with the looks and the smarts and the sophistication.” She sighed, and leant back against a tombstone of her own. “Time was, that was all mine, you know …”
There was too much regret in her voice for him to read that as the tease she probably intended, but he could hardly blame her. They had drifted apart - and neither of them were entirely free of guilt in that regard. “Buffy, I - “
“No, no,” she interrupted. “Don’t, okay? You have every right to your own life, and I have no right to be jealous of it, just because … well, it’s not like you were created for the sole purpose of Watching me, so …”
“Well, actually - “ he tried to interrupt, but she was in full flow and didn’t even notice he’d spoken.
“ … I can hardly expect you to live as if the entire universe rotates around me and my every whim, right?”
But it does, he wanted to say. I do …
“I was a little jealous though. Least,” she added, with a knowing grin, “I was, until we did that whole ‘super slayer’ thing. Because … she may have known you in the biblical sense of the word, but she never knew you. Not like that.” Her grin grew a little wider and her eyes flashed with something that sent a disconcerted shiver down his spine. The echoes of the joining spell still haunted his dreams. Not so much the terrors of the First Slayer’s indignation at their impertinance, but the deeper, more primal memories of the event; the sense of power in the Slayer’s gifts, the feeling of being connected, of experiencing her strength and grace first hand. He’d never stopped to think what she might have experienced. What part of him she might have been able to recognise in the midst of that heart pounding gestalt of power and personality.
“Yes, well,” he said, not entirely sure he was ready to explore that thought. “She never had Willow’s magic thrumming through her blood, or Xander’s valour defending her heart, either. That was a rather … unique experience.”
“Oz was right,” Buffy noted wryly. “We don’t lead normal lives, do we …’
They both considered that for a moment, sharing a mutual moment of understanding that would have been impossible to put into words.
“So,” Buffy asked after a moment or two, her eyes narrowing with thoughtful speculation. “You going?”
Giles blinked, taking a second to connect the question with their earlier conversation. “To the wedding?” He grimaced at the idea. “Oh yes, the one thing every woman wants on her wedding day is a queue of ex-lovers lining up to remind her of what she’s left behind … of course I’m not going, Buffy. Olivia left here because she had no desire to cope with the world we live in - and I have no intention of reminding her of that world on what should be the happiest day of her life. Besides - can you really picture me at a society wedding in San Francisco?”
“In a tux?” She swept her eyes up and down his sweat stained, rumpled figure and her lips curled into a rather endearing smile. “Yeah . I totally can. But - I get the ‘not going’ thing. It would be a little - Hugh Grantish, I guess.” She reached over to tug the water bottle from his hands and tipped her head back to take a healthy swallow. He found himself watching the curve of her throat, and the hint of scars that lay at the base of her neck, fighting down a sudden desire to reach out and run a finger down that warm curve of skin. To explore the roughness of those scars and replace the memories of that assault with a tender touch and the kind of gentle worship she deserved …
“You really think there’d be queue-age?” she asked curiously, thrusting the bottle back in his direction. He took it automatically, blinking at her as he tried to disentangle those disconcerting thoughts and make sense of her question, all at once. “Of the ex-lover kind? Because - hey, lady with discernment and taste and stuff, you know … so, worth going all the way to Frisco for. If there was queue-age, that is.”
There’d been an unexpected compliment in there, somewhere. And a somewhat successful attempt to make him smile.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “A gentleman never asks about such things, and a lady never tells … Besides,” he added, frowning a little as he levered himself up to resume his run. “Wouldn’t - um - Riley have something to say about you gallivanting off to in search of … what do they call it? Eye-candy?”
It was Buffy’s turn to look pained. “It’s not about the candy, Giles,” she protested, leading off with lope that even his long legs took a moment to catch up with. “Well … maybe just a little, but - that’s not the point. Riley and I … there is no Riley and I. Not really. Not anymore. I’m not even sure there ever was.”
Giles threw her a wary look, uncertain as to how he should interpret this determined claim. He’d been unsure about Riley Finn from the first day of meeting him. The distance between the clean cut, all-American, mid-western youth and his own, time stained and tradition laden upbringing hadn’t just put them worlds apart; it had made them, almost literally, alien to each other - alien in perspective, in understanding, and in nature. But he’d had sympathy - and some empathy - for the way that the young man had been used and abused, and he’d been grateful - for a while at least - for the way he’d tried to draw Buffy out of her darkened world and share with her a little of the light they were all fighting so hard to protect.
Anyone who could make Buffy smile earned high marks in her Watcher’s estimation. It seemed a little crass not to offer some protest on his behalf.
“Now, surely, Buffy …”
“No. Don’t defend him, Giles. He doesn’t need defending. It’s not about him. He’s a nice guy, and - once he gets past all that wounded macho pride stuff - he’ll make someone a really good partner. But not me. I can’t live holding back on my strength just to make him feel better when we spar, and I can’t go on dating a guy that doesn’t appreciate why I bail when my Slayer senses go all tingly on me. You think I like it?” she asked. “Not being the girl he needs me to be? I can’t put him first in my life, and he can’t understand the reasons why … “
“It’s not an easy thing to understand,” Giles murmured, remembering the hope in Olivia’s eyes as she’d asked him to walk away, to follow her back into the light - and the hurt that had settled over her as he’d gently refused, choosing to stay because his Slayer needed him …
“He just doesn’t get it,” Buffy complained, adjusting her pace as their route took them off the grass and back onto paving. “How dangerous it is, how terrifying it can be. It’s just one big adventure to him. Nothing more than a thrill ride. One he can step off and leave behind without a moment’s thought. You know what he said? About Dracula?”
Giles shook his head, lacking breath to comment, even if he could.
“He said it was a rush, getting to meet the real thing. A rush! As if it didn’t matter that I was almost turned to the dark side, and Xander got made a bug-eating monkey …and then, then, he started making jokes. About you - and the vampire chick pit.”
“Yes, well,” Giles fought down a blush at the memory. It had been a rather disturbing experience, and he wasn’t at all proud of the way he’d behaved during it. “I, umm …”
“No,” Buffy said, rather forcibly. “No. It wasn’t funny, Giles, and if I hadn’t been so focused on dealing with the big D, and all these things he’d made me aware of in me … I should have gone back and staked those bitches for what they did to you. They were vampires. Evil vampires with evil sexy vamp powers to enthral and mesmerise … I could have lost you. And my so-called big macho hero guy would have stood by and laughed because he thought you being pawed over by three demons from hell was funny. He had no idea of the danger you were in. And neither did I. At the time. So … I’m sorry. And he should be.”
“He’s … umm … young,” Giles concluded after a moments thought, deciding that the middle of an energetic jog was not the place to waste his breath trying to argue with such determined vehemence. He certainly didn’t hold Buffy to blame for any of the events of that night, but he knew that trying to say so would do nothing to assuage her sense of guilt. Besides, her obvious concern for his welfare was heartening - and she was right.
He had been in a great deal of danger that night. They all had.
“Young?” she questioned, throwing him a wry look, and he suddenly realised what he’d said - and who he’d said it too.
“I-immature, I - I meant. Umm …” She was still looking at him askance, and he had this sudden feeling of falling back into the pit … and digging himself deeper with every word. “Inexperienced. N -naïve. Uh … oh, good lord …”
Buffy held the moment a second or two longer, then burst out laughing, her suspicious expression collapsing into a joyful smile. “Score one for Miss Calendar,” she chuckled. “You do do good squirm …It’s …” She turned to jog backwards for a second or two, looking him up and down as he grimaced with chagrin at letting himself fall for such an obvious tease. “ … kinda sexy, actually.” Her grin was disarming. So disarming that it took a moment or two to register what it was she’d said. She turned away before he could sensibly react, leaning forward to pick up the pace a little. He had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I know what you meant. Riley has this whole macho thing going, but he’s not really as tough as he likes to pretend. He knows the moves, you know? But he’s not learned what it means to have to use them. It’s kinda funny,” she went on. “He’s all angsty about losing the super-soldier thing, and working so hard to get his edge back - and I have to bite my tongue because - well, he wasn’t that good in the first place. I wanna say ‘hey, being cute and sweet and honest is okay too, you know?’ But he’s all knotted up with this tough guy crap, and he’d think I’m laughing at him.”
“Which I kinda, am, but - not in a ‘hurt his feelings’ way. Brute strength never solves anything. You taught me that,” she said, throwing another of those warm grins in his direction. “And I figure that - all the super soldier drugs in the world are never gonna take the place of a lifetime of dedication and training. That’s real. That’s honest. And when it comes down to it? I’d bet on skill and experience over youth and enthusiasm. Every time.”
Giles couldn’t resist a small grin of his own. “Thank you,” he said, fully expecting her to have missed the implications of what she was saying. Except that she clearly hadn’t, because she glanced over at his words, and smiled a suddenly shy smile.
“You’re welcome.”
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They ran a little further, leaving Restfield cemetery behind and weaving their way through quiet residential streets until they could turn at the edge of Memorial Park and head back towards Giles’ apartment. It was a good challenging run, and Buffy made a note of it for future patrols, mentally checking off the boarded up house, the liquor store on the corner of San Castill and Cumberland Street, the children’s playground behind the white walled church, and the dry ditch that led under the road and vanished into a gated off tunnel beneath the local medical centre. All good places to check for vamps once the sun went down - except maybe the back of the church, but children’s playgrounds were perfect lures for hungry fledglings, so always worth checking out from time to time.
She hadn’t realised how much fun something like this could be - running for the sake of running, rather than running to, or running from, something. Nor had she appreciated the full sensurround nature of experience - the warmth of the morning sun, the colours of the day, the sounds of everyday life … and the pleasure of company for company’s sake, someone willing to match her pace rather than trying to surpass it. Undemanding, comfortable company - who, by the time they came around the final corner and took those last few strides, was evidencing that what had been an easy work out for her had been a pretty demanding exercise where he was concerned.
“Sorry, Giles,” she apologised as they came to a halt in his courtyard. “Guess I picked up the pace a little back there …”
“No, no.” He waved the apology away one-handed - the other was pressed into his thigh for support as he bent to get his breath back. “These things … should … stretch one a little …” He took a deep breath and straightened up with an effort. His face was flushed and damp - but he was smiling, not looking distressed, which surprised her a little. Surprised and impressed - she was well aware that he really wasn’t anywhere near as old as she’d once thought him to be, but it seemed he was in pretty good shape for a man who tended to act as if he spent most of his life hunched over books.
Except that he didn’t, of course, which had been the whole point of the morning; he made a conscious effort to stay fit and flab-free, and it paid dividends. Very nice dividends from where Buffy was standing; even in semi-shapeless sweats he had a whole lot more shape than might first catch the eye. She watched him move across to perch himself on the edge of the fountain and stretch out those long legs of his and she smiled. There was something - deceptively graceful about her Watcher, an ease with which he moved that belied the reality of his height and the solid muscle that it carried so well. Riley was - Riley was square cut and built, the way that Mr all-America was supposed to be. All shoulders and torso, a soldier’s neck and a narrowing down to manly hips and well muscled legs; handsome and reliable and easy on the eye … and always noticed, wherever he was in the room.
But Giles … Giles was solid enough - he was a big man, perfectly capable of looming in an extremely intimidating manner if he needed to - but his height added the benefit of elegant proportion to his figure, an understated hint of sculpture that it took a discerning eye to appreciate. Buffy hadn’t been kidding when she’d said that Olivia had taste; if there was one thing that being with Riley had taught her, it was that - when it really came down to it - it wasn’t the looks that mattered. It was the moves.
And when you matched a man taught to stomp and drill and point at things with guns against one that wielded a sword like a dancer and who could stalk around a library, or a graveyard, with the silent ease of a cat … well, it made her wonder just why she’d taken so long to notice the difference.
Perhaps men were like fine wine, or expensive chocolate - perhaps you had to develop sophisticated tastes in order to truly appreciate sophistication. To know why clean cut looks inevitably became bland fare when compared with the fascination of rugged, handsome men with brains and charm and character.
“So,” Giles asked, having got some of his breath back, “are you intending this to be … a regular arrangement?”
“The run?” Buffy shrugged. “You tell me, Watcher, warrior, trainer-mine. You’re the one working up the schedule.”
“Ah,” he registered. “Yes - yes, of course … well,” he said, wiping some of the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, “we do have a lot of other ground to cover, but … there may be some benefit taking this approach to building stamina and endurance …” He was still labouring a little for breath; Buffy grinned, throwing him the towel he’d left behind at the start of their run.
“With added fresh air and a bonus dose of genuine sunshine,” she quipped, starting to work through some of the stretching exercises Merrick had taught her, way back in the ‘I’m the what?’ days. Arms up, head back, hands clasped and palms turned towards the sun. She’d been neglecting this stuff, and her body knew it; she was thrumming slightly from the run, but it hadn’t been enough to burn off all of her excess energies, and her muscles protested as she worked them into what should have been familiar and comfortable positions.
“Quite. Roll your shoulder-blades when you do that, Buffy. You need to keep the joints supple.”
She did, feeling things pop and crack into place. Not just bones and muscle, but thoughts and feelings too. That simple, pointed advice - offered almost without conscious consideration - was like balm to her soul. She had missed this - missed the advice and the guidance, the friendly banter, the quips and the comments and the sense of partnership that had hummed between them almost without conscious awareness - and more too: the way he’d continually challenged her, encouraging her to think for herself, to become more self aware; the way he’d supported her and stood by her, even in her darkest moments …
“Giles?”
He was in the middle of towelling some of the sweat from his hair; he looked oddly boyish and vulnerable, his hair tousled and curly from the damp and his expression open and accessible without the armour of his glasses.
“Yes, Buffy?”
“I think … I think we should make this a regular arrangement. Not just the training, but the whole you, me stuff. Spending time, I mean. Because - I know you, but I don’t really know you, you know? And I’d like to.”
He gave her a long, thoughtful look, one that made her stomach flutter and her mouth turn dry. She thought she’d already asked the most important question - the Watcher one - and maybe she should have left it at that, been happy to settle for what they’d once had, student and teacher, learner and mentor … a safe, undemanding relationship from her side of the fence.
But it wouldn’t be enough, and she knew it. She didn’t just want his support and his respect, however welcome they might be. She wanted more. Just how much more, she wasn’t sure. But she was willing to make the effort. To invest the time. To find out exactly what that more might be …
“You really have grown up this past year, haven’t you,” he said, and she laughed, a little nervously.
“You learn fast when you’re a Slayer. Although hanging around in your Watcher’s head for an hour or two kinda helps. Not to mention having a bratty sister who demonstrates how annoying all that me, me, me behaviour is. Mom says she’s not sure she knows me anymore. I’m not sure I know me anymore. But you know that. That’s why you said you’d help me train."
"That’s what I said I’d help you do," he corrected mildly. "It isn’t why."
"No?” A sudden panic seized hold of her. Had she been reading him wrong? He’d said he wanted to help her, but was he doing it out of duty rather than love? “Then .. why did you? Why would you stay in this .. world of starlight and shadows? Willow said … Willow said you’ve been thinking about leaving. Maybe you should. The Council fired you, the school burnt down … What is there to keep you here?”
He sighed, giving her a patient look - one she didn’t know how to read, even though it seemed to be speaking volumes. There had to be something …. She grasped at straws, guessing at the most obvious one. "Oh. Wait. The First Slayer didn’t have a Watcher … but it’s kinda hard to be a Watcher without a Slayer, yeah?”
"Not at all.” His smile was reassuringly wry, and she felt the panic subside a little. Maybe she hadn’t been wrong, after all. “There are a great many members of my order who will never even see a slayer, let alone meet or work with one. For them, the idea - the concept - suffices. But I … I have served a Slayer. Trained her, advised her, watched her … fought for her, with her, and most often alongside her … and seen her grow, and blossom into a stunning young woman with hopes and dreams and a desire to understand her destiny. I thought you’d grown beyond the teachings of my calling, Buffy. Beyond the need for me. I was beginning to feel like a relic, a remnant of a past you had no wish to linger in - but then you came, and you asked me … "
"Spike’s a jerk. You know that, right? All those things he said …"
“All those twisted half truths and lies that were more about omission than deception? Yes, I know how manipulative Spike was being that day. But he was right. I had no place in your life. But now … now, it seems, I do. What that place might be … well, I suspect that’s as much a voyage of discovery for me as - your search for … slayerness … may be for you.”
So, he wasn’t expecting to rebuild that old, safe partnership either. That was something of a relief - and something vaguely scary too. She was hoping she could find ways to explore what it meant to be the Slayer - to discover who and what she was, to redefine herself and her place in the world - but if that meant redefining him, too … the whole thing became unknown territory, with new rules to be written and new boundaries to be established.
She had a feeling it was going to be an interesting experience.
“Adventurers together, huh? I - like the sound of that. I meant what I said, you know. I can’t do this without you. I tried. I got the ‘push me out of the nest and see if I fly’ message … and, yeah, it took a while, but I did get it. That you needed me to grow and find my feet and not lean on you so much but - flying solo’s no fun, and … it’s getting a little lonely in my sky. I need you, Giles - and not in a clingy, needy kinda way, just … as a friend.”
“You have friends, Buffy. Good friends. Friends your own age - and who speak your language.”
“Well, yeah.” She wished she was as articulate in her words as he was - that she could find some way to explain how important he was to her. “I got heart and spirit, but … I need more than that. I need words of wisdom. Experience. Guidance and inspiration. I need - a partner. A Watcher. My Watcher. Someone who knows how to watch my back - and the rest of me, too, I guess.”
He smiled, amused by her sudden intensity. “Watch out for, rather than Watch over, I take it? An equal partnership …” He let the idea dance behind his eyes for a moment, considering issues and implications and her with thoughtful speculation. Buffy held her breath. There was something very important happening here, although she couldn’t put her finger on what or why. “That sounds like an option - worth further investigation. Tea?”
“Uh - yeah …” Something had shifted; something had changed and reshaped the space between them, opening up opportunities and throwing old perspectives into a new and different light. He held out his hand to her as he stood up, and she took it, her fingers sliding into his as if they belonged there. “You know,” Buffy said thoughtfully as he drew her down the steps, “perhaps you should go to the wedding, after all.”
He threw her a puzzled frown. “Why ever would I consider …?”
“Because I’ve never been to San Francisco,” she said. “The invitation is ‘and partner,’ right? Besides,” she added with a grin. “The shorts are an okay look for you, but you look way better in a tux …”
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(Author's note: (I made all sorts of efforts to make the romance more overt, but there wasn't a lot of opportunity left between Buffy's flirting and Giles being nobly unrequited in his devotion. I shall try harder next time ...)