Chapter Three:
The water was warm, the sponge was soft and the soap sweet scented; it was lavender soap actually, probably a gift from Willow at some point or other, although the half used bar gave no real hint to its origins. Buffy had started the task with brisk efficiency, telling herself she’d deal with the stink and get back to the first aid as quickly as she could. The towel she’d tucked under Giles’ head had caught the sluice of water and shampoo that she’d used to rinse the muck from his hair – and then she’d begun to work downwards with gentle attention, soap in one hand and sponge in the other. There was, she’d quickly discovered, an indefinable pleasure in being able to lavish such careful attention on someone you care about. So much a pleasure, in fact, that she barely noticed how her pace slowed and her thoroughness increased, turning the work from necessitous chore to affectionate gift.
There’d been a time – oh, Buffy, the arrogance of youth – when she’d thought her Watcher to be ancient beyond belief, an alien being wrapped in pomposity and armoured in tweed. That particular perception had passed – or perhaps been handed on, since Dawn appeared to have developed a similar view these days. Time had given Buffy a better perspective on things, aided by the mellowing effect of experience and her own, inevitable, growing maturity. He’d gone from ancient purveyor of wisdom to – well, just Giles, really. Solid. Dependable. Part of the family. Friend and mentor and still somehow vaguely alien in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. So that - up until now – she’d never really given much thought to him as a man.
When you’re sixteen, you really can’t imagine anyone over twenty having a personal life. Parents were parents, and the fact that they must once have had sweaty, heart pounding sex in order to produce you was the kind of thing you filed away in the ‘eww’ zone - that place in your head you never wanted to look in. Ever. Mothers, and Fathers, and Teachers – and Watchers – they were asexual beings, creatures who existed outside the raging uncertainties of adolescent life. If they ever crossed that demarcation line, ever demonstrated their humanity, it became a cause of confusion and anxiety; a real reason to panic – at least until the parameters of those relationships could be safely and firmly re-established.
The man under her hands had made love to her mother once. In excusable circumstances, perhaps, but – at the time – a disturbing thing to know. The knowledge had lingered at the boundaries of her personal ‘eww‘ zone, and it had shaken some of the foundations of her world, some of the certainties she’d depended on. There’d been anger, and a little disgust, and a whole lot of ‘I didn’t want to know that’ going on – along with inevitable curiosity, and maybe – just maybe – a hint of jealousy. Her mother. Her Watcher.
Real Oedipus stuff, if she stopped to think about it.
Professor Walsh would have loved that kind of thing. She’d have made a whole lecture out of it, focusing on the dynamics of adolescent development, the issue of ‘safe’ emotional zones and teenage crushes and all the other pysch 101 she’d liked to play around with. The professor would have wanted it all neatly wrapped up and labelled with the names of syndromes and strategies; analysed and dissected with precision.
But Buffy wasn’t sixteen anymore.
Nor were the labels that clear cut. They never had been; she was the Slayer – and her so-called normal, teenage years had been spent fighting the forces of darkness, coping with super human abilities - and wrestling with the agonies of a love so fierce and so deep that it had almost destroyed the world. Heart wrenching, desperate stuff. There’d been nothing Oedipal about Angel, even if he was centuries older than she was.
She’d grown up, got past those things, moved on. She had a normal – well, sort of normal – boyfriend now, and a healthy love life to go with him. She’d learned to lust after TV and movie stars, and to check out the talent at the Bronze without feeling too disloyal if someone caught her eye. A moment’s admiration didn’t bother anyone.
It never hurt to look.
It never hurt to compare, either – and right now, she was amusing herself with just such a comparison, measuring the feel of muscle and skin beneath her fingers, and studying the package, rather than the man inside it.
She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her mother hadn’t got that bad a deal …
Giles had this lean, incredibly well tempered physique for a start; well hidden as rule, concealed beneath his formal suits, or those rumpled t-shirts and sweaters. He wasn’t as sculptured as Angel, nor as brawny as Riley perhaps, but there was definite appeal; lots of taut muscle tone and barely a pinch of flab. No wonder Olivia had lingered – and it really wasn’t that* much of a surprise, was it? He’d spent long months, years, training a Slayer, sparring with her, pushing himself to keep up with her effortless pace. He was still technically a much better swordsmaster than she was, although she’d never tell him that - and he jogged, and – while he’d apparently been moping about without a job or anything - he’d clearly kept himself in trim.
A lanky, English trim, part Hugh Grant, part James Bond and all reserved boyish charm … well, except for when he let Ripper out, and he was pure hard edged, guttersnipe confidence – even more so than Spike, who’s laconic act paled a little beside the real thing. Giles in English tweed, or Ripper in black leather … Buffy found herself clenching the sponge so hard she was showering his stomach, and she grinned embarrassedly, hastily mopped up the excess water, and covered her moments distraction by paying determined attention to his chest.
Which didn’t help at all, really …
He was in the middle of telling her some rambling anecdote or other, content to lie back and study his ceiling while she attended to him with such intimacy. His distant, distracted awareness of what she was doing might have been insulting in other circumstances – but she was well aware of how far out of things he was, and grateful for it, given the ugly nature of the wound she’d inflicted and had yet to deal with properly. Besides, she liked the sound of his voice, that gentle accent, slurred by the drink and meandering through his unconnected thoughts with mellow, almost musical profundity.
This is how the prophets speak, she thought, reaching to cradle his right hand and sweep the sponge along the curve of his arm. Caught up in ecstasies while temple handmaidens attend to their every need … She rather like the idea of being a temple handmaiden. Especially if it meant spending days beneath sunlit olive trees, listening to wisdom – and not chasing demons down sewers in the middle of the night.
"Parcelanus, I think," he was saying, slipping into a fragment of Latin, correcting it in Greek and returning to English again as if all three were his native language. "That – against the fall of the night, light and joy are the only bastions."
"And the Slayer," she interjected teasingly, paying careful attention to his fingers in a way she’d never have got away with had he been sober.
"Of course the Slayer," he retorted pointedly, then sighed. "Buffy?" he asked, still staring at the ceiling. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?"
That was a new one. She paused in her ministrations to throw him a surprised look. "No," she answered gently, wondering where that had come from. "I don’t think you have."
"Well," he considered. "You are. Beautiful. A -a light in the dark. A diamond, glimmering in the depths of a mine. Breathtaking. Like – like sunset over dreaming spires …"
O-kay. So drunk Giles could also be poetic Giles and –waaait a minute!
She was perched right on the edge of the couch, her legs tucked back and her feet planted to anchor her against the floor as she twisted round to lean over him. Just when had his left hand – the one she’d had neither her eyes nor her hands on - slid so gently up the curve of her leg? And how long had it been sitting where it was sitting now, not doing anything, just being there with gentle confidence?
"Giles?" she asked warily. "Did you know you have your hand on my butt?"
Bare butt. No underwear, since it was festering, like the rest of her clothing, inside the laundry basket along with his.
"Uh-huh," he acknowledged happily – as did the hand, which applied a soft squeeze. "Nice butt. Muscled butt. Slayer’s butt. Kicks butt," he concluded, and giggled at the thought.
Buffy didn’t know what to say to that.
She didn’t know what to do, either.
He was drunk. He had no idea of what he was doing, and he’d never dream of doing it if he had. Or maybe – just maybe – he’d think about it, but he’d never succumb to the temptation, never give in to the impulse – although the impulse had to be there, didn’t it, for it to surface now? Like this? The possibility raised all sorts of issues, none of which she wanted to examine too closely.
Because that gentle sensation, warm and certain against her skin, was doing odd things to her heart rate and
stirring all sort of other responses, most of which were entirely inappropriate and none of which she would ever have expected. The touch was a caress, not a grab. There was no threat in it, no demand; just familiar affection – and it felt good. Reassuring. Comfortable.
And it was Giles’ hand. On her body. Her ‘very naked under his shirt body.’
So how was she supposed to react? With indignation? Should the comeback be: ‘yeah, and it’ll kick yours if you don’t remove those fingers right this instant?’
Too harsh, Buffy. Too cruel. Maybe he was drunk, but he was hardly lurching at her with animal lust, and there was nothing crude, or groping about what he was doing. In fact, his thumb was busy tracing little spirals against her skin and – oh god, did he have any idea how sensuous that was?
Maybe she should laugh. Dismiss the moment with a ‘hey, that doesn’t belong there’ kind of thing. That might work. Might diffuse the situation and tip their suddenly teetering relationship back to safe and comfortable ground.
Did she want it to stay safe?
Hadn’t she just been thinking about how much she took him for granted, how she’d just made assumptions about his place in her life without really making any space for it? What kind of space did she want to make? Where did he fit in the grand scheme of things? And where – exactly – did he want to fit?
Too many mixed signals. Here she was, paying him the kind of intimate attention a lover might, letting her imagination roam into places that ought to have big red warning signs fencing them off. And the physical triggers; scent and touch and stuff like that – hitting buttons all over the place. But she had a boyfriend, one that made her feel loved, that inspired deep and happy feelings in her .. and why was she even thinking about this, because the whole thing was just ridiculous, wasn’t it?
Giles’ hand. Her butt.
And if he moved his fingers just a hairsbreadth further, she’d be lost, tumbling through doors not meant to be opened, unleashing a flood of emotions and needs that would carry her away – and might just prove too much for either of them to bear …
He was drunk. He was hurt. Right now, succumbing to any of those feelings would be wrong. Very wrong. Taking advantage of something she couldn’t even be sure existed in the first place. Just because she felt – well, might that be an echo of the whole Faith thing? That ‘slaying gets me hot and I don’t care who’ routine? She rather hoped not, but she couldn’t be sure.
Couldn’t be sure of anything right now, especially the reasons why he might be doing what he was doing – the motivations, the temptations to which he’d fallen prey. He was a man, after all; how many times had he watched her train, seen her flaunt her firm and muscle-y body in front of him without a thought as to what it might do, what it might stir in reaction? Everybody had those sort of thoughts from time to time. That was just being human. Didn’t mean they really wanted to act on them, wanted to turn idle fantasy into reality, or even consciously acknowledge that such desires existed.
And the way she felt – the way he was making her feel, right now – that was totally scary, for all sorts of reasons …
"You know," she said a little shakily, reaching down to unhook his hand and carefully remove it from the danger zone, "I didn’t think you noticed things like that."
He laughed, squeezing her fingers affectionately. "I am your Watcher, Buffy Ann Summers who is the Slayer. I notice everything about you."
I am. Not ‘I was’ or ‘I used to be’. Am. The affirmation echoed something she’d always known and had never quite been able to formulate before. His faith in her, his confidence in her destiny had anchored her. Had given her the ground to stand on, the space into which she could grow and become what she was meant to be. He believed in her. He always had. Even in those dark days when she hadn’t been able to believe in herself.
Along with that revelation came a second, one just as profound. In gifting her with that faith, in accepting her destiny and his place in it, he had put himself utterly in her hands. She defined him. She was, without doubt or question, his reason for being who he* was. And that was something she’d never seen before, never comprehended in all her struggle to understand what being the Slayer was all about. It had been his destiny, his duty – and he’d made it into something more, something precious. Something worth something.
Which was a lot of somethings, but she didn’t care, because understanding all that made her feel very humble. Very responsible.
And very, very loved …
Buffy relaxed with a wry smile, wondering what she’d been getting so uptight about. She’d shared her soul with this man – and she was worried because he’d paid her an unexpected compliment? Because he’d been a little more intimate than she might normally expect? Wasn’t she about to put her hands on just as intimate parts of his anatomy, and hadn’t she just been admiring stuff about him that she’d never paid too much attention too before? So there was chemistry. So? She trusted him. She always had and she always would; trusted him to do the right thing, to keep her – not safe exactly – but cherished. Which, now she stopped to think about it, was a far more important thing for someone to make you feel.
Besides, she loved him. Loved him with a confident certainty that warmed her all the way through – even if knowing it added to her sense of guilt over the way she’d behaved just recently. Not to mention being responsible for sinking a six inch crossbow bolt into him, barely two hours ago.
Which was really what she ought to be focusing on getting back to, not letting herself get distracted like this …
"Notice everything, huh?" she teased, retrieving the sponge and sweeping it firmly down the arm she now held captive. "Such as – when I’m about to shoot you?"
"I noticed," he protested. "I just – didn’t get out of the way fast enough."
"Oh yeah," she countered. "Like that’s an excuse." She paused to heave a quiet sigh. "I’m sorry, Giles, I really am. Sorry for – everything. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this," she continued, finding him an affectionate smile, "because you are so out of it right now, and I don’t think you’re going to remember a thing about any of this."
"Tha’s probably just as well," he announced. "Because …" His hand moved up, his fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt so that he could tug her down towards him. Lips – light as feather down – brushed
her forehead, bestowing a whiskey wreathed beneficence. "I love you," he breathed, smiling at her with brilliant honesty. His hand fell away, his head fell back – and he promptly passed out.
Buffy sat there for a long moment, just staring at him.
Savouring the words, savouring the smile – and the kiss, which had set her tingling all over.
"Love you too," she whispered, finally bending to plant her own kiss – just as gently – on his unheeding lips.