Fic: The Grit in the Oyster
Title: The Grit in the Oyster
Pairing: Faith/Giles
Summary: Five moments of normality, Giles-Lehane-style
Rating: PG13
Words: 2000
A/N: part of the Rules’verse, and follows on directly from Destiny, Meet Reality. This is now taking place around 2013 (and I admit that leggings will probably have been outlawed by then). There may be... there is... fluff. Again.
5.
It turned out that Faith had not been joking about the “kickass ninja nanny” to protect Mike from theoretical demonic attack. This required a recruitment programme rather in conflict with Giles’s views on ideal childcare. But they couldn’t keep diverting junior Slayers to babysitting. It was becoming a castle-wide joke-slash-grudge, and the “grudge” part was starting to preponderate. So they buckled down, eventually.
Nanny Candidate A (Anjii)
Did not get past the résumé and photo. “She’s cool.”
“She’s overtly pierced. I find that unnecessary. And do we really want to entrust our child to someone who misspells her own name so horribly?”
“You’re a fogey.”
“Indeed. And unlikely to change any time soon. Shall we look for another option?”
Nanny Candidate B (Miss Price)
At least made it to interview stage. Giles did most of the talking, while Faith smouldered behind him. The woman’s clean, brisk manner was anti-catnip for Faith, and this wasn’t going to work out. Giles flogged through the questions, nonetheless, hoping to find a chink of likeability that would soften Faith, or else something that would reduce his doomed sense that this was the right person for Michael.
Eventually, mercifully, it came. “And is Michael going to be a Watcher?”
Giles twitched, irritably. She might at least have kept up with the terminology, even if it was awful. “Slayer Support Operative. If he wants to be. At present, he seems most interested in travel. Trains, primarily, but anything with an engine.”
Faith stirred. “And a horn. Do not forget the horn, G.”
“No indeed, Michael is quite vehement about that.” For his second birthday, they had bought him a police car. Six months on, they were still living with the (loud, repetitive) consequences of that misstep.
The nanny was watching them indulgently. Giles wanted to like her. She was everything he’d asked for. But she was twenty years his junior and trying to patronise him. “Well, boys will be boys, I suppose. But we can look to reduce his noisy play, have some nice quiet times, make sure he is meeting his developmental milestones.”
Nice for you, maybe. She was out.
Nanny Candidate Q (Kat)
Was youngish, magenta-haired and practical. Threw Mike into the air after three minutes’ acquaintance and caught him as he loved best (semi-inverted. Not to be attempted within an hour of feeding). Had judo qualifications and three brothers and hoped someday to work with the Slayer Council.
Would do. “Please, take this job,” Giles begged after an hour of non-grating interview.
Faith stood at the door as Kat collected her jacket and bag. “We may not let you leave unless you do.”
Kat laughed, and made a more than decent effort to flip Faith out of the way. She lost, but not absurdly. “Seems like I’d better accept.”
Thank the gods, she fitted.
*
4.
Kat opened up new worlds for Faith and Giles. Or, indeed, old forgotten worlds.
Giles reached out and held Faith’s hand, a move he had dared perhaps five times in his life. But at that moment, walking slowly under the darkened autumn sky, it was perfect. “This is nice. We should get out more like this, just us two.”
Faith not only kept hold of his hand, she came closer. Snuggling, even. “Mmmm, yeah. Slaying by moonlight. Feels like old times. More for you, I guess.” Slight move away on that second thought.
Giles dared to speak it. “I did spend an awful lot of evenings with Buffy like this, yes.” (Surely you’re not jealous?)
Faith laughed, but pulled away. “Traitor! Don’t tell me you did this with her!”
Apparently yes. A tiny bit jealous. Giles tried very hard not to feel good about that. “Patrolling, yes. Slaying, yes. The occasional supportive hug, probably. But no, not this exact sequence of events. Could I take this opportunity to point out that I was right we should have brought a blanket? It was very nice to be kissing you, but my shoes are covered in leaf mulch already. And if you think I’m going to be naked out here, you’re very mistaken.”
“Spoilsport. Blankets get in the way of Slaying. I found that out with Robin.”
Ouch, Faith. Not playing nicely. “Could we not bring up your old lovers just now?” But they were both grinning - a splash of sour in the sweet that makes life taste much more interesting.
Faith faced it head-on. “I get jealous, you get jealous. Turnabout’s fair and all that jazz.” She stopped walking. “Anyway, you don’t need to take off much. It’s all about the me-naked tonight.”
Giles was suddenly very glad they didn’t have a blanket. It would have obscured the sight of Faith, wriggling out of boots, leggings and underwear, hitching up her short-short skirt an unnecessary extra couple of inches to show herself off. She scooted up onto a chest-tomb, and wound her legs around him, fumbling for his belt in the darkness between them.
Giles felt twenty years younger. Possibly thirty. Sex with beautiful women in cemeteries was still one of his favourite pastimes. That it was Faith made it ten times better.
*
3.
He could feel Faith’s eyes on him. She’d be able to see his look of absolute horror. Dammit. Why did life have to throw these things at them?
His own eyes, irresistibly, returned to look at the terrible sight of their son.
Michael was sitting quietly, amid a tottering pile of Sandra Boynton books. He had one open on his knee. His (toy) glasses were off his small nose, and being polished inexpertly on one sleeve.
“ 'Str’ord’n’ry.” Michael turned a page and replaced his glasses, then did an exaggerated double-take. “Oh dear.”
Giles shuddered. “We should never have let him keep those glasses.”
“They were a present. Spike thought it’d be funny,” replied Faith, in the voice of someone who also thinks it is very funny indeed but isn’t about to jeopardise her marriage for the sake of uncontrollable giggles. “It’s nice. I’m glad he wants to be like you.” Her voice quavered to breaking point, but she managed to get to the end of the sentence. Just.
Giles sighed, heavily, and fiercely resisted the urge to polish his specs. “I hope his life contains more choices than this.”
Faith wrapped her arms round him from behind, and spoke into his shoulder-blades. “Hey G, don’t fret. Mike gets choices. He was playing the Mommy Game with Annie all morning. Kat says they slayed pretty much every soft toy in the castle.”
“Oh dear. Many casualties?” Buffy’s daughters had a marked tendency towards toy destruction. Also, occasionally, injury to passing nannies.
“Only the purple duck. We didn’t like him anyway.”
Perhaps Michael wouldn’t grow up to wear tweed after all.
*
2.
Giles watched Faith’s pained grimace as she slumped onto the couch. “Back rub?”
Big sigh. “Oh god, yeah. I knew I kept you around for something.”
This was relatively new. Faith was either mellowing or aging (never say that aloud), but either way, she was accepting Giles’s practical help a little more.
And working sandalwood oil into her smooth back was a pleasure he would never tire of. Precious minutes of time to be themselves, not parents or colleagues.
“Rough day?”
“You know it.” Faith was muffled. He did, of course, know it, having heard three separate versions from different variously-indignant Slayers.
Nonetheless, husbands have duties. “Tell me.”
“Stupid resource committee. I ever tell you how much I hate committees?”
“It has come up, occasionally.” Monthly, in fact. Sometimes weekly, depending on the meeting schedules. She was pretty good, on the whole, while actually in the meetings, but the backlash at home was inevitable. Sometimes, Giles was guilty of sending in Michael to defuse her in advance. But sadly, the boy couldn’t be relied on to grow a new tooth or learn a new word every time it would have been helpful. Still, he did his best.
She chuckled grimly, shoulders shifting under his fingers.
“It’s not I can’t see where R&D spend the cash, G. I just don’t see it matters like fixing the Luxor sitch so that Habibah can fight the Mo’xul and not, you know, die.”
“No, it’s true, there are some cases which are just urgent. But...” But I think Vi’s got a point about looking to the future. Dangerous thoughts.
“There’s a but? Now? I do not want to hear it, G.”
He dug his thumbs more deeply into the area below her shoulder blades. Always a reliable pleasure-pain giver, it might keep her still for long enough to listen.
“Yes, but. But if we could sort this force predictor - and it would have to be soon before Althanea wanders off and stops co-operating - just think how much easier your life would be. Pre-planning would be a much bigger part, and all that reactive ‘get a squad on a plane, stat’ business would be greatly reduced.”
She shook again, slightly. “You should never say ‘stat’, G. It sounds so wrong.”
“I’m afraid it is you who brought the bloody word into my life, so I won’t apologise for using the additional vocabulary.”
“You love it when I get all expeditionary. You know it.”
Giles wasn’t able to deny it, but with reluctance. “It suits you. But it means danger, and higher unmanaged risk. So...”
Heavy sigh into the pillows. “Yeah. I know. Maybe the ‘copter upgrade can wait six months so we give this thing a chance.”
Victory. Giles tried not to feel like a conspirator against his wife. But in the interests of saving the world, sometimes a little subtlety is worthwhile.
He kissed the exposed nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her mixed with the massage oil. “Thank you.”
*
1.
Giles rubbed his tired, gritty eyes. “Remind me why we did this again?”
“You wanted to,” Faith accused.
He wasn’t going to take that burden on. “No, you wanted to.”
Pause. Then Faith tried, “Would it be bad to blame Mike?”
“No, no you’re quite right, it was Michael who kept bringing up the subject,” Giles nodded solemnly. When in doubt, hold the three-year-old responsible.
“Damn kid. We shouldn’t give in to him this way. He’ll get spoilt.”
Giles winced. “I’m rather hoping this will reduce the likelihood of spoiling.”
“’S true. B says Annie stopped all that acting out three months in. Big Sister genes kicked off.” Faith looked slightly tense, hoping once more that Big Brother genes (not the Orwellian kind) would have the same effect.
“Well, let’s trust Michael is similarly conscious of his responsibilities to his brother or sister.”
Faith leant back on the thin hospital pillows. “Guess what? This one’s a girl.”
Giles looked at her levelly. This was not part of the deal. “You’re telling me this now, why exactly? How long have you known? I thought you liked surprises?”
Faith kissed him lightly. “Surprise, G! Nurse kinda let it slip last checkup, when you were in the Congo. And I know you wanted to know last time. So - don’t we always pick names at this point? Like a tradition? Passes the time and all. I can’t believe I’m still only at three centimetres.”
Giles had gone far, far away from the labour ward. “A girl. Good grief. We’re going to have a daughter. What on earth do I know about girls?” He tried to loosen his collar, and found it wasn’t fastened anyway.
“Uh G? Breathe. Breathe. You know girls. You work with, like, 95% women. It’ll be cool. If she’s like me, it’s not gonna be dolls and lacy shit anyway, right?”
That was very true. Grenades and leather, more likely. Giles could cope with those. And Faith had another contraction at that moment, which was helpfully distracting.
“So, names?” she said, as the pain faded.
“Rosy,” said Giles, with certainty. As though he’d spent years planning for this.
“Yeah. I thought so too.” Faith’s hand slid over his. “Don’t know why. Just sounds right.”
Giles blinked. “Well, that was quick.”
It was a beautiful moment of togetherness, broken eventually by Faith’s, “Shit, G, think of something we can argue about. I’m not spending eight hours of labour listening to fucking whalesong.”
That was easily accomplished. Healthy debate was the cornerstone of their marriage, after all. “How about the Latin America assignments? I’m not sure Tia and Cara are the best possible leadership team, you know. Perhaps some strengthening from the Brazil lot?”
“Cara’s tougher than you think. I’m not gonna disrupt the squads just for a feeling you have about a girl you’ve met, like, four times in her life...”
And so they passed the time happily, until their new daughter rudely interrupted some advanced strategic planning for the Antarctic.
***
A/N: the works of the great Sandra Boynton - section 3 - are a blessing to those of us who have to read to the under-fours and even stand up to repeated rereading. If you don’t know them, explore. I’ve recently been lent Grunt: Pigorian Chant, which is possibly her maddest idea. Pigs, lazily singing Pig Latin plainchant (“Ore-snay”), with a backing group of proper-Latin speaking farmyard animals. The ducks (“dux”) are extremely Valley girl (“Whatever”), because it enables them to sing “Quaqua” over and over. You have to respect a mind that focused on foolishness.
Pairing: Faith/Giles
Summary: Five moments of normality, Giles-Lehane-style
Rating: PG13
Words: 2000
A/N: part of the Rules’verse, and follows on directly from Destiny, Meet Reality. This is now taking place around 2013 (and I admit that leggings will probably have been outlawed by then). There may be... there is... fluff. Again.
5.
It turned out that Faith had not been joking about the “kickass ninja nanny” to protect Mike from theoretical demonic attack. This required a recruitment programme rather in conflict with Giles’s views on ideal childcare. But they couldn’t keep diverting junior Slayers to babysitting. It was becoming a castle-wide joke-slash-grudge, and the “grudge” part was starting to preponderate. So they buckled down, eventually.
Nanny Candidate A (Anjii)
Did not get past the résumé and photo. “She’s cool.”
“She’s overtly pierced. I find that unnecessary. And do we really want to entrust our child to someone who misspells her own name so horribly?”
“You’re a fogey.”
“Indeed. And unlikely to change any time soon. Shall we look for another option?”
Nanny Candidate B (Miss Price)
At least made it to interview stage. Giles did most of the talking, while Faith smouldered behind him. The woman’s clean, brisk manner was anti-catnip for Faith, and this wasn’t going to work out. Giles flogged through the questions, nonetheless, hoping to find a chink of likeability that would soften Faith, or else something that would reduce his doomed sense that this was the right person for Michael.
Eventually, mercifully, it came. “And is Michael going to be a Watcher?”
Giles twitched, irritably. She might at least have kept up with the terminology, even if it was awful. “Slayer Support Operative. If he wants to be. At present, he seems most interested in travel. Trains, primarily, but anything with an engine.”
Faith stirred. “And a horn. Do not forget the horn, G.”
“No indeed, Michael is quite vehement about that.” For his second birthday, they had bought him a police car. Six months on, they were still living with the (loud, repetitive) consequences of that misstep.
The nanny was watching them indulgently. Giles wanted to like her. She was everything he’d asked for. But she was twenty years his junior and trying to patronise him. “Well, boys will be boys, I suppose. But we can look to reduce his noisy play, have some nice quiet times, make sure he is meeting his developmental milestones.”
Nice for you, maybe. She was out.
Nanny Candidate Q (Kat)
Was youngish, magenta-haired and practical. Threw Mike into the air after three minutes’ acquaintance and caught him as he loved best (semi-inverted. Not to be attempted within an hour of feeding). Had judo qualifications and three brothers and hoped someday to work with the Slayer Council.
Would do. “Please, take this job,” Giles begged after an hour of non-grating interview.
Faith stood at the door as Kat collected her jacket and bag. “We may not let you leave unless you do.”
Kat laughed, and made a more than decent effort to flip Faith out of the way. She lost, but not absurdly. “Seems like I’d better accept.”
Thank the gods, she fitted.
*
4.
Kat opened up new worlds for Faith and Giles. Or, indeed, old forgotten worlds.
Giles reached out and held Faith’s hand, a move he had dared perhaps five times in his life. But at that moment, walking slowly under the darkened autumn sky, it was perfect. “This is nice. We should get out more like this, just us two.”
Faith not only kept hold of his hand, she came closer. Snuggling, even. “Mmmm, yeah. Slaying by moonlight. Feels like old times. More for you, I guess.” Slight move away on that second thought.
Giles dared to speak it. “I did spend an awful lot of evenings with Buffy like this, yes.” (Surely you’re not jealous?)
Faith laughed, but pulled away. “Traitor! Don’t tell me you did this with her!”
Apparently yes. A tiny bit jealous. Giles tried very hard not to feel good about that. “Patrolling, yes. Slaying, yes. The occasional supportive hug, probably. But no, not this exact sequence of events. Could I take this opportunity to point out that I was right we should have brought a blanket? It was very nice to be kissing you, but my shoes are covered in leaf mulch already. And if you think I’m going to be naked out here, you’re very mistaken.”
“Spoilsport. Blankets get in the way of Slaying. I found that out with Robin.”
Ouch, Faith. Not playing nicely. “Could we not bring up your old lovers just now?” But they were both grinning - a splash of sour in the sweet that makes life taste much more interesting.
Faith faced it head-on. “I get jealous, you get jealous. Turnabout’s fair and all that jazz.” She stopped walking. “Anyway, you don’t need to take off much. It’s all about the me-naked tonight.”
Giles was suddenly very glad they didn’t have a blanket. It would have obscured the sight of Faith, wriggling out of boots, leggings and underwear, hitching up her short-short skirt an unnecessary extra couple of inches to show herself off. She scooted up onto a chest-tomb, and wound her legs around him, fumbling for his belt in the darkness between them.
Giles felt twenty years younger. Possibly thirty. Sex with beautiful women in cemeteries was still one of his favourite pastimes. That it was Faith made it ten times better.
*
3.
He could feel Faith’s eyes on him. She’d be able to see his look of absolute horror. Dammit. Why did life have to throw these things at them?
His own eyes, irresistibly, returned to look at the terrible sight of their son.
Michael was sitting quietly, amid a tottering pile of Sandra Boynton books. He had one open on his knee. His (toy) glasses were off his small nose, and being polished inexpertly on one sleeve.
“ 'Str’ord’n’ry.” Michael turned a page and replaced his glasses, then did an exaggerated double-take. “Oh dear.”
Giles shuddered. “We should never have let him keep those glasses.”
“They were a present. Spike thought it’d be funny,” replied Faith, in the voice of someone who also thinks it is very funny indeed but isn’t about to jeopardise her marriage for the sake of uncontrollable giggles. “It’s nice. I’m glad he wants to be like you.” Her voice quavered to breaking point, but she managed to get to the end of the sentence. Just.
Giles sighed, heavily, and fiercely resisted the urge to polish his specs. “I hope his life contains more choices than this.”
Faith wrapped her arms round him from behind, and spoke into his shoulder-blades. “Hey G, don’t fret. Mike gets choices. He was playing the Mommy Game with Annie all morning. Kat says they slayed pretty much every soft toy in the castle.”
“Oh dear. Many casualties?” Buffy’s daughters had a marked tendency towards toy destruction. Also, occasionally, injury to passing nannies.
“Only the purple duck. We didn’t like him anyway.”
Perhaps Michael wouldn’t grow up to wear tweed after all.
*
2.
Giles watched Faith’s pained grimace as she slumped onto the couch. “Back rub?”
Big sigh. “Oh god, yeah. I knew I kept you around for something.”
This was relatively new. Faith was either mellowing or aging (never say that aloud), but either way, she was accepting Giles’s practical help a little more.
And working sandalwood oil into her smooth back was a pleasure he would never tire of. Precious minutes of time to be themselves, not parents or colleagues.
“Rough day?”
“You know it.” Faith was muffled. He did, of course, know it, having heard three separate versions from different variously-indignant Slayers.
Nonetheless, husbands have duties. “Tell me.”
“Stupid resource committee. I ever tell you how much I hate committees?”
“It has come up, occasionally.” Monthly, in fact. Sometimes weekly, depending on the meeting schedules. She was pretty good, on the whole, while actually in the meetings, but the backlash at home was inevitable. Sometimes, Giles was guilty of sending in Michael to defuse her in advance. But sadly, the boy couldn’t be relied on to grow a new tooth or learn a new word every time it would have been helpful. Still, he did his best.
She chuckled grimly, shoulders shifting under his fingers.
“It’s not I can’t see where R&D spend the cash, G. I just don’t see it matters like fixing the Luxor sitch so that Habibah can fight the Mo’xul and not, you know, die.”
“No, it’s true, there are some cases which are just urgent. But...” But I think Vi’s got a point about looking to the future. Dangerous thoughts.
“There’s a but? Now? I do not want to hear it, G.”
He dug his thumbs more deeply into the area below her shoulder blades. Always a reliable pleasure-pain giver, it might keep her still for long enough to listen.
“Yes, but. But if we could sort this force predictor - and it would have to be soon before Althanea wanders off and stops co-operating - just think how much easier your life would be. Pre-planning would be a much bigger part, and all that reactive ‘get a squad on a plane, stat’ business would be greatly reduced.”
She shook again, slightly. “You should never say ‘stat’, G. It sounds so wrong.”
“I’m afraid it is you who brought the bloody word into my life, so I won’t apologise for using the additional vocabulary.”
“You love it when I get all expeditionary. You know it.”
Giles wasn’t able to deny it, but with reluctance. “It suits you. But it means danger, and higher unmanaged risk. So...”
Heavy sigh into the pillows. “Yeah. I know. Maybe the ‘copter upgrade can wait six months so we give this thing a chance.”
Victory. Giles tried not to feel like a conspirator against his wife. But in the interests of saving the world, sometimes a little subtlety is worthwhile.
He kissed the exposed nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her mixed with the massage oil. “Thank you.”
*
1.
Giles rubbed his tired, gritty eyes. “Remind me why we did this again?”
“You wanted to,” Faith accused.
He wasn’t going to take that burden on. “No, you wanted to.”
Pause. Then Faith tried, “Would it be bad to blame Mike?”
“No, no you’re quite right, it was Michael who kept bringing up the subject,” Giles nodded solemnly. When in doubt, hold the three-year-old responsible.
“Damn kid. We shouldn’t give in to him this way. He’ll get spoilt.”
Giles winced. “I’m rather hoping this will reduce the likelihood of spoiling.”
“’S true. B says Annie stopped all that acting out three months in. Big Sister genes kicked off.” Faith looked slightly tense, hoping once more that Big Brother genes (not the Orwellian kind) would have the same effect.
“Well, let’s trust Michael is similarly conscious of his responsibilities to his brother or sister.”
Faith leant back on the thin hospital pillows. “Guess what? This one’s a girl.”
Giles looked at her levelly. This was not part of the deal. “You’re telling me this now, why exactly? How long have you known? I thought you liked surprises?”
Faith kissed him lightly. “Surprise, G! Nurse kinda let it slip last checkup, when you were in the Congo. And I know you wanted to know last time. So - don’t we always pick names at this point? Like a tradition? Passes the time and all. I can’t believe I’m still only at three centimetres.”
Giles had gone far, far away from the labour ward. “A girl. Good grief. We’re going to have a daughter. What on earth do I know about girls?” He tried to loosen his collar, and found it wasn’t fastened anyway.
“Uh G? Breathe. Breathe. You know girls. You work with, like, 95% women. It’ll be cool. If she’s like me, it’s not gonna be dolls and lacy shit anyway, right?”
That was very true. Grenades and leather, more likely. Giles could cope with those. And Faith had another contraction at that moment, which was helpfully distracting.
“So, names?” she said, as the pain faded.
“Rosy,” said Giles, with certainty. As though he’d spent years planning for this.
“Yeah. I thought so too.” Faith’s hand slid over his. “Don’t know why. Just sounds right.”
Giles blinked. “Well, that was quick.”
It was a beautiful moment of togetherness, broken eventually by Faith’s, “Shit, G, think of something we can argue about. I’m not spending eight hours of labour listening to fucking whalesong.”
That was easily accomplished. Healthy debate was the cornerstone of their marriage, after all. “How about the Latin America assignments? I’m not sure Tia and Cara are the best possible leadership team, you know. Perhaps some strengthening from the Brazil lot?”
“Cara’s tougher than you think. I’m not gonna disrupt the squads just for a feeling you have about a girl you’ve met, like, four times in her life...”
And so they passed the time happily, until their new daughter rudely interrupted some advanced strategic planning for the Antarctic.
***
A/N: the works of the great Sandra Boynton - section 3 - are a blessing to those of us who have to read to the under-fours and even stand up to repeated rereading. If you don’t know them, explore. I’ve recently been lent Grunt: Pigorian Chant, which is possibly her maddest idea. Pigs, lazily singing Pig Latin plainchant (“Ore-snay”), with a backing group of proper-Latin speaking farmyard animals. The ducks (“dux”) are extremely Valley girl (“Whatever”), because it enables them to sing “Quaqua” over and over. You have to respect a mind that focused on foolishness.