ljs
in
gilesanya_fic
Cold and Warm, by LJS
A vignette-variation on a theme: of cold and warmth, memories and love.
TITLE: Cold and Warm
AUTHOR: LJS
PAIRING: Giles/Anya
RATING: Teen for language and stuff.
LENGTH: 350-odd words.
SUMMARY: Established relationship, AU Season Seven.
"Honey, are you cold?" Anya asks. She knows what he's seen.
“Honey, are you cold?” Anya asks.
Giles looks away. How can he answer her? How can he make the worry in those deep, dark eyes of her worse? She knows what he's seen.
And, yes, he's so sodding cold.
Standing in that Initiative hellhole in the Nevada desert, staring at what had been Ethan Rayne, listening to those fucking fascists talk in their double-speak about 'collateral damage' and 'unsuccessful experimentation,' he'd felt the warmth of his last few months with Anya dissipate. As he'd handled the formalities, given them name and address of Ethan's long-estranged family, taken into possession the few spell-casting ingredients Ethan had carried when the soldiers had captured him after an escape, Giles had chilled more.
It was the bone-deep chill of that squat in Camden years ago, damp from the rain trickling in from broken windows, bitter from the spell he and Ethan and Dierdre had worked the night before. He'd lain there, still a little fucked up from the drugs, and looked at Ethan's face, and seen a skull in place of his friend's male prettiness.
Their magic must have been stronger than they'd imagined, he thinks, and shivers now as he'd done then.
“Honey?” she says, wrapping her arms around him, wrapping her attention around him. Ever since they'd found each other, she's given him that gift.
He knows that she understands his cold moments, knows that she understands and yet loves. That, too, is a gift.
So he kisses her. Her mouth is open; he dives in to taste, to steal some of her warmth, to share what little he has left. She takes avidly. She gives generously. Both are joys to him.
His hands slide down, nipping at gentle curves until his fingers dive underneath her jeans, tease her and himself with what is still out of reach.
“Honey,” she says, and pulls his shirt up, unbuttons the first two buttons of his jeans, sends her own hand down to take him. Her fingers tighten almost to the point of delicious pain, her thumb sweeps over his head.
“Anya, darling,” he murmurs, even as he arches closer to her. “Never felt so warm.”
TITLE: Cold and Warm
AUTHOR: LJS
PAIRING: Giles/Anya
RATING: Teen for language and stuff.
LENGTH: 350-odd words.
SUMMARY: Established relationship, AU Season Seven.
"Honey, are you cold?" Anya asks. She knows what he's seen.
“Honey, are you cold?” Anya asks.
Giles looks away. How can he answer her? How can he make the worry in those deep, dark eyes of her worse? She knows what he's seen.
And, yes, he's so sodding cold.
Standing in that Initiative hellhole in the Nevada desert, staring at what had been Ethan Rayne, listening to those fucking fascists talk in their double-speak about 'collateral damage' and 'unsuccessful experimentation,' he'd felt the warmth of his last few months with Anya dissipate. As he'd handled the formalities, given them name and address of Ethan's long-estranged family, taken into possession the few spell-casting ingredients Ethan had carried when the soldiers had captured him after an escape, Giles had chilled more.
It was the bone-deep chill of that squat in Camden years ago, damp from the rain trickling in from broken windows, bitter from the spell he and Ethan and Dierdre had worked the night before. He'd lain there, still a little fucked up from the drugs, and looked at Ethan's face, and seen a skull in place of his friend's male prettiness.
Their magic must have been stronger than they'd imagined, he thinks, and shivers now as he'd done then.
“Honey?” she says, wrapping her arms around him, wrapping her attention around him. Ever since they'd found each other, she's given him that gift.
He knows that she understands his cold moments, knows that she understands and yet loves. That, too, is a gift.
So he kisses her. Her mouth is open; he dives in to taste, to steal some of her warmth, to share what little he has left. She takes avidly. She gives generously. Both are joys to him.
His hands slide down, nipping at gentle curves until his fingers dive underneath her jeans, tease her and himself with what is still out of reach.
“Honey,” she says, and pulls his shirt up, unbuttons the first two buttons of his jeans, sends her own hand down to take him. Her fingers tighten almost to the point of delicious pain, her thumb sweeps over his head.
“Anya, darling,” he murmurs, even as he arches closer to her. “Never felt so warm.”