Title: The May/December thing, Giles/Dawn
Pairing: Giles/Dawn
Rating: PG-13
post-Chosen, ignoring comics. Written for alixtii for Giles' round at hetfic_minis
“So, was I right, or was I right?” Dawn asked, performing a complicated sequence of gestures Giles could not even begin to comprehend the meaning of.
“You know, you sound quite familiar, I just can’t seem to place it...” he said thoughtfully, and she laughed.
“Yeah. But Buffy would not come up with this highly artistic interpretative victory dance routine.”
“So that’s what it was,” he muttered, as he fumbled through the first aid kit, laying out the things she might need. “I’ve wondered.”
“Also,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “Buffy wouldn’t have spent three consecutive Saturday nights on putting together the pattern of disappearances, and researching local lore.” She glanced over the bandages and antiseptics, and then frowned at him. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“It’s not London, we don’t have the Council’s doctors here,” he pointed out, and she nodded.
“And they would have to notify the police of a bullet wound, I know, I watch CSI.”
He gave her an incredulous look, and she shrugged. “What? It’s highly educational.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he said dryly, taking off his shirt, grimacing in the process. She rolled her eyes and moved to help him, easing the material off.
“Doesn’t look fun.”
“Doesn’t feel fun, either,” he offered. “Honestly, since when do demons use firearms?”
“Since they are afraid to approach any girl in the age bracket of fourteen to twenty four for the fear of encountering a slayer?” she guessed, and he smiled slightly. Then he grimaced.
“Fuck. You said you knew how to do this,” he muttered, as she dabbed at the wound, trying to recover the bullet.
“Language, Giles,” she admonished him. “And I do know how to do this. I watch CSI, remember?” she teased.
He frowned again. “Don’t they usually deal with corpses? It’s not a comforting thought.”
“I imagine it’s easier when the patient doesn’t move or talk, yes,” she said wistfully, then held up the recovered bullet. “Look, a souvenir.”
He gave it an unimpressed look. “Very pretty. Now, get on with it.”
She disinfected the wound expertly, then started to work on closing it, working with the needle in a practiced manner. She bit her lower lip in concentration, her hair falling down around her face in waves. “Thank you,” she said quietly, bordering on inaudible.
“What for?” he asked, twisting his neck a bit, to look at her.
“There, in the cathedral. You pushed me away, and...” she shrugged, then pulled at the thread one last time before cutting it off.
“That’s quite alright. You’re welcome,” he smiled, turning to look at her needlework. “Doesn’t look so bad,” he said finally.
“Of course it doesn’t. I told you, I know what I’m doing,” she muttered, looking up with a smile, her face inches from his. “Giles...” she started, and stopped when he pulled away, already reaching for his shirt, trying to put it back on.
“I might start using that CSI show as the instructional video for the first aid course, what do you think?” he asked conversationally, pulling the shirt on with some difficulty.
She sighed. “So, we’re doing that thing where you pretend to misunderstand, again?”
“Dawn,” he said pleadingly, and she shook her head.
“I made a list,” she said. “The first thing you’ll try, would be the age difference. And I'd like to point out I'm not your usual twenty-one years old girl, but a mystical key or whatnot.”
"This is not an existential discussion, Dawn." He looked away. “You deserve much better.”
“Coming to the second item, right on schedule. No, Giles, I deserve the guy who’d stand between me and a bullet. Know one?”
“God help me, you’ve been rehearsing this,” he muttered. “Did you thought over the fact that your sister will have my guts for garters, and my liver for a pincushion, by any chance?”
“Buffy doesn’t sew, what would she need a pincushion for?” she pointed out, then shrugged. “And given her choices of boyfriends, not like she has any high moral ground to stand on. She has as much of a higher ground as Anakin Skywalker, and we all know how that worked out.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I should be used to this.”
“I’m saying that your arguments are pretty much worthless. There’s only one thing you can say to make me forget any ideas of kissing you right about now, and that would be if you don’t want it.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, and she started to smile. She reached out, running her fingers down the side of his face, and he caught her hand, stilling it.
“Dawn, I can’t...”
She nodded. “Fine. I need to be back at the university at seven anyway. But you better figure it all out sooner rather than later. The May/December thing is fun only while you can see me naked and not have a heart attack.”
“Dawn,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound mortified, like it was before, but rather exasperated, pleading with her. She smiled triumphantly and made two steps towards him, leaning in, catching his lips in a short, soft kiss. He didn’t kiss her back, his lips didn’t part, but he didn’t pull away either, and for that moment, this was a victory.
“I’ll be off, now. I might visit you next month. Your birthday, right? I might have just the gift,” she said, smiling widely.
He watched her walk away. Somehow, he didn’t think the gift would be the usual tie. What remained to be seen, however, was whether he was terrified, or happy of this.
***
Requirements:
Woman you'd like paired with Giles: Dawn
Three elements you'd like in the story written for you: an investigation, a cathedral, and a bullet wound
Up to two elements you don't want included:
Rating preference: High.
I couldn't work a higher rating, but I hope you'll like it anyway. It was a fun request to write, thank you :)
Rating: PG-13
post-Chosen, ignoring comics. Written for alixtii for Giles' round at hetfic_minis
“So, was I right, or was I right?” Dawn asked, performing a complicated sequence of gestures Giles could not even begin to comprehend the meaning of.
“You know, you sound quite familiar, I just can’t seem to place it...” he said thoughtfully, and she laughed.
“Yeah. But Buffy would not come up with this highly artistic interpretative victory dance routine.”
“So that’s what it was,” he muttered, as he fumbled through the first aid kit, laying out the things she might need. “I’ve wondered.”
“Also,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “Buffy wouldn’t have spent three consecutive Saturday nights on putting together the pattern of disappearances, and researching local lore.” She glanced over the bandages and antiseptics, and then frowned at him. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“It’s not London, we don’t have the Council’s doctors here,” he pointed out, and she nodded.
“And they would have to notify the police of a bullet wound, I know, I watch CSI.”
He gave her an incredulous look, and she shrugged. “What? It’s highly educational.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he said dryly, taking off his shirt, grimacing in the process. She rolled her eyes and moved to help him, easing the material off.
“Doesn’t look fun.”
“Doesn’t feel fun, either,” he offered. “Honestly, since when do demons use firearms?”
“Since they are afraid to approach any girl in the age bracket of fourteen to twenty four for the fear of encountering a slayer?” she guessed, and he smiled slightly. Then he grimaced.
“Fuck. You said you knew how to do this,” he muttered, as she dabbed at the wound, trying to recover the bullet.
“Language, Giles,” she admonished him. “And I do know how to do this. I watch CSI, remember?” she teased.
He frowned again. “Don’t they usually deal with corpses? It’s not a comforting thought.”
“I imagine it’s easier when the patient doesn’t move or talk, yes,” she said wistfully, then held up the recovered bullet. “Look, a souvenir.”
He gave it an unimpressed look. “Very pretty. Now, get on with it.”
She disinfected the wound expertly, then started to work on closing it, working with the needle in a practiced manner. She bit her lower lip in concentration, her hair falling down around her face in waves. “Thank you,” she said quietly, bordering on inaudible.
“What for?” he asked, twisting his neck a bit, to look at her.
“There, in the cathedral. You pushed me away, and...” she shrugged, then pulled at the thread one last time before cutting it off.
“That’s quite alright. You’re welcome,” he smiled, turning to look at her needlework. “Doesn’t look so bad,” he said finally.
“Of course it doesn’t. I told you, I know what I’m doing,” she muttered, looking up with a smile, her face inches from his. “Giles...” she started, and stopped when he pulled away, already reaching for his shirt, trying to put it back on.
“I might start using that CSI show as the instructional video for the first aid course, what do you think?” he asked conversationally, pulling the shirt on with some difficulty.
She sighed. “So, we’re doing that thing where you pretend to misunderstand, again?”
“Dawn,” he said pleadingly, and she shook her head.
“I made a list,” she said. “The first thing you’ll try, would be the age difference. And I'd like to point out I'm not your usual twenty-one years old girl, but a mystical key or whatnot.”
"This is not an existential discussion, Dawn." He looked away. “You deserve much better.”
“Coming to the second item, right on schedule. No, Giles, I deserve the guy who’d stand between me and a bullet. Know one?”
“God help me, you’ve been rehearsing this,” he muttered. “Did you thought over the fact that your sister will have my guts for garters, and my liver for a pincushion, by any chance?”
“Buffy doesn’t sew, what would she need a pincushion for?” she pointed out, then shrugged. “And given her choices of boyfriends, not like she has any high moral ground to stand on. She has as much of a higher ground as Anakin Skywalker, and we all know how that worked out.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I should be used to this.”
“I’m saying that your arguments are pretty much worthless. There’s only one thing you can say to make me forget any ideas of kissing you right about now, and that would be if you don’t want it.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, and she started to smile. She reached out, running her fingers down the side of his face, and he caught her hand, stilling it.
“Dawn, I can’t...”
She nodded. “Fine. I need to be back at the university at seven anyway. But you better figure it all out sooner rather than later. The May/December thing is fun only while you can see me naked and not have a heart attack.”
“Dawn,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound mortified, like it was before, but rather exasperated, pleading with her. She smiled triumphantly and made two steps towards him, leaning in, catching his lips in a short, soft kiss. He didn’t kiss her back, his lips didn’t part, but he didn’t pull away either, and for that moment, this was a victory.
“I’ll be off, now. I might visit you next month. Your birthday, right? I might have just the gift,” she said, smiling widely.
He watched her walk away. Somehow, he didn’t think the gift would be the usual tie. What remained to be seen, however, was whether he was terrified, or happy of this.
***
Requirements:
Woman you'd like paired with Giles: Dawn
Three elements you'd like in the story written for you: an investigation, a cathedral, and a bullet wound
Up to two elements you don't want included:
Rating preference: High.
I couldn't work a higher rating, but I hope you'll like it anyway. It was a fun request to write, thank you :)