Title: Welcome Back
Author: malnpudl
E-mail: lcbergstrom@cox.net
Rating: R (for strong language)
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Summary: Some months post-Chosen, Giles and Buffy talk one nightwhile on patrol together.
Disclaimer: BtVS and its characters belong to Joss Whedon, MutantEnemy, Kuzui Sandollar, Fox, UPN, WB, who the hell knows, but it ain’tme. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Feedback: Let me have it. Please?
Distribution: Oh gosh, you mean somebody actually wants it? Sure! Please tell me where it’s going, okay?
Author’s Notes: In response to my own challenge on BGWM and ODD: Buffy and Giles answer the questionnaire from ‘Inside the Actor’s Studio’. (May 2004)
My gratitude to Ruth and ElizaBuffy, brilliant betas both; thanks formaking this a better story, and me a better writer.
“Okay, so much for the cemetery sweep. Nothing to do now but waitfor this guy to wake up.” Buffy gestured at a nearby fresh grave. “I could finish this alone, if you want to go home and get some sleep....” She said it because she thought she should, hoping he’d decline.
Giles shook his head. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay. It’s been a very long time since I’ve gone on patrol with you, and I’verather enjoyed it. Enjoyed your company.” There was a hintof shyness in his smile.
She plopped herself on a marble monument and patted it, inviting himto join her. “Might as well settle in, then. Pull up a headstone. No telling how long it’ll take, uh, Roger here to show up.”
“I’m not comfortable with the use of headstones as furniture. It’s disrespectful.” He pulled a blanket out of the weapons bag,shook it out on the ground, and sat cross-legged on it. Rummagingonce more in the bag, he dug out a thermos. “Tea?”
“Get a load of preparedness guy. You must’ve been a Boy Scout.” She hopped off her perch and settled beside him on the blanket. “Dothey even have Boy Scouts in England?”
“Yes, there are Scouts in England. In fact, the Boy Scouts werefounded by an Englishman, Lord Baden-Powell, in the early 1900s. I wasn’t one, though. Not much of a joiner, I suppose. I didn’tbring cups, so we’ll have to share the lid, if that’s all right with you. Not so well prepared, after all.”
“No problemo.” She accepted the plastic cup and sipped delicatelyat the steaming tea, appreciating its warmth even on this balmy night,then handed it back to him.
They sat quietly for a time, sharing the tea between them.
“Hey, Giles.”
He looked at her.
“I know you don’t watch a lot of TV... or, at least, I assume you don’t...but, have you ever seen a show called ‘Inside the Actor’s Studio’?”
“No, I don’t believe I have.”
“It’s filmed at this drama school in New York and they get all thesebig-name famous actors to come and talk about how they got started in thebusiness and how they prepare for roles and stuff. It’s pretty cool. Anyway, they always end it with the host asking the guest the same tenquestions.”
He waited, one eyebrow cocked.
“I thought maybe while we’re waiting I could ask you the questions. You know. To help pass the time.”
“I don’t see why not. If I can ask them of you, as well.”
“Sure. Fair’s fair.” She took the cup out of his hand andsipped more tea, then handed it back. He took a swig; she noticedthat he drank from the same spot on the cup as she had. It gave hera warm, comfortably intimate feeling. “Um, I suppose you don’t thinkheadstones should be back rests, either, huh? I could use somethingto lean on.”
He turned at right angles to her, presenting her with his back. “Here, lean on me, then.”
She turned away from him and scooted into place. He felt big andwarm and very solid against her back. They shifted a bit, findinga comfortable balance, her small frame against his greater weight.
“Okay, first question. What’s your favorite word?”
“What a curious question. Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.”
“Top-o-head, Giles. That’s what makes it fun.”
“Well, ‘tomorrow’, I suppose. Since I’m never entirely certainthat there will be one. It’s a hopeful word. What’s yours?”
“‘Yes’.”
He smiled around the rim of the cup as he drank. “I like that.”
“What’s your least favorite word?”
He said nothing.
“Giles? C’mon, spit it out.”
“It’s... quite crude.”
“All adults here, Giles. Just say it. All in fun, remember?”
He cleared his throat. “‘Smegma’.” He shifted awkwardly. “An ugly word for something very unpleasant. In my defense, may Isay that I’m sure it wouldn’t have occurred to me except for the regrettablepopularization of the slang derivatives ‘smeg’ and ‘smeghead’ in the ‘RedDwarf’ television series. Very funny show, quite clever, but...” He shook his head.
“Ew. And may I add, ew.”
“Well, yes. Precisely. Your turn; what’s your least favoriteword?”
“The N-word. I’m not going to say it. I never have and Inever will. I can’t stand any hate speech, but that’s the worst ofall of them.”
“Indeed.” She felt the muscles in his back and shoulders moveas he reached for the thermos and poured. “More tea?” She heldher arm out to her side and he put the cup into her hand; his sleeves wererolled up and she felt of the warmth of his skin as his forearm brushedhers.
“Next question,” she said. “What turns you on?”
“Buffy!”
“Take a chill pill and let me finish the question, okay?” Shegrinned into the darkness. “You can answer it that way if you want,but it can be in any sense -- physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually,however you want to answer.”
“Hm. Music, then. In virtually all senses of the question. Making music, singing, playing my guitar. Especially making musicwith someone, though I haven’t done that in a very long time. I missit.”
“Giles?”
“Mm?”
“Will you sing for me some time? Not really musical Buffy here,so maybe I can’t make music with you, but I’d love to hear you sing forme.”
“I... I’d like that very much. It’s something very special tome, and I’d like to share it with you.” He shifted. “Pass thetea, please?”
She handed it to him, again appreciating the contact as he wrapped hisarm under hers to accept the cup without spilling. Warm, solid, andvery much alive. She felt him breathe, felt the small movements ofhis back, rhythmic and unceasing, peaceful somehow.
“Your turn again,” he said.
“Mm?”
“To answer the question. What... I can’t believe I’m saying thisto you... what turns you on?”
“Life. Hearts beating, air moving through lungs. Mine, yours. Everybody’s. I didn’t feel that way for such a long time, after...”
“After Willow brought you back.”
“Yeah. I felt dead inside, resented being alive. I’m notsure when that changed. Hadn’t really thought about it until justnow, but it really has. I’m just happy to be here and to be aliveand breathing.”
“Buffy...” It sounded like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.
“S’okay, Giles. I know. Me too.”
Shifting, she sat up straighter and then leaned her head back untilit rested against his neck. She smelled his aftershave, she felthim breathe.
“Moving right along,” she said. “Next question. What turnsyou off?”
“Stupid people. No, that’s not right. People can’t helpnot being bright. Aggressive stupidity. Those who are destructivelyignorant, hostile, and insist on rubbing one’s face in it.”
“Why does Principal Snyder come to mind?”
“Hmph,” he grunted. “Quite so. And you? What turnsyou off?”
“Raw oysters. Just don’t get it. Yuck. Like WoodyAllen said: ‘I want my food dead. Not sick, not wounded, dead.’”
He giggled. The sound was so unexpected that she giggled, too.
“You know how they say that oysters are supposed to be aphrodisiac?”he said. “Well, it’s not true. I proved it.”
Agreeably she handed him the straight line. “Oh? How’d youdo that?”
“Once I ate a dozen and only seven of them worked.”
She cracked up. Her shoulders shook against his warm back. She didn’t know how, but she could feel him grinning. Backs can’tsmile, but his did. It was beautiful, this smile of his that shecould feel but not see. He didn’t do it enough.
“Okay, funny man. Next question. What sound or noise doyou love?”
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Once that would’ve been easy to answer. La Bohème. The Puccini opera.”
“What changed?”
“That’s the music that was playing when I found Jenny.”
“Aw, Giles.”
He tilted his head back until it met hers; she leaned her head softlyagainst the back of his neck, offering silent comfort.
“It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. Aches, still, when I thinkabout it, but it’s a quiet thing.” He straightened and reached forthe thermos. “More tea?”
She nodded, missing the closer contact. “Please. So what’syour happy sound now?”
He was quiet for so long she wasn’t sure if he was going to answer. “Your laughter,” he said at last.
“Oh.”
“I missed it dreadfully during that long, awful time. All yourjoy was gone and I didn’t know how to help you find it again. Itwas so hard to see you in such pain and to have no idea how to help makeit better. I wonder now if that’s why I left. I thought I hadsuch good reasons. I was so certain that I was doing the right thingfor you. I was wrong, I think. I’m sorry.” He stopped. She said nothing, and after a moment he continued. “I’m so very gladto hear you laugh again, Buffy. It’s... it’s a beautiful sound.”
She felt his heart beating. She didn’t know you could feel someone’sheartbeat through their back. “Funny. Mine’s your voice. It makes me feel safe and warm and at home. Like all’s well in myworld.”
“Christ, Buffy...”
“So, Giles, what sound or noise do you hate?” Too much, too fast. Or maybe just unaccustomed. Change the pace.
She felt him take a deliberate breath and let it out slowly.
“Leaf blowers. I detest the bloody things. Ruins what shouldbe something lovely, raking leaves to be composted and turned into leafmold that will be returned to enrich the soil, this season’s dead leavesfostering next season’s new life. Instead people use those wretchedleaf blowers that consume fossil fuels and create hideous noise pollutionand as though that weren’t enough they usually just throw the leaves awayinstead of recycling them back into the soil. And they do it on mySunday morning.”
“Gee, rant much?”
“Oh, and I suppose you don’t mind them?”
“Nah, I hate ‘em, too. Hate my alarm clock even more, though. With everything going on these days -- establishing the new world order,and all -- seems like I never get enough sleep. The damn thing alwaysgoes off too soon. I tried a clock radio so I could wake up to music,but I just slept through it. So now I’ve got one with the most horrible,offensive buzz I could find, just to make sure I really wake up.”
“What a dreadful way to begin your days.”
“Mm. Gotta do what you gotta do. At least it’s not absolutelyevery day. Once in a while I get a day where I can sleep in and Idon’t have to set the alarm at all. Like tomorrow. Heaven. Sheer heaven. God, I love bed. Sleep, I mean; I love sleep.”
“Ah.” He held a hand out. “Tea, please?”
She passed it to him, wishing she had a reason to prolong the contactbetween his arm and her own.
“What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Whoops! Hold that thought --“ She scrambled to her feet ashe slapped a stake into her outstretched hand.
“Okay,” she said a few moments later, plopping back down on the blanketand snugging herself once more against his broad back. “Now, wherewere we?”
“Um, profession. Other than my own, whatever that may be.” He paused. “Would you like to go home now? There’s no moretrouble expected here tonight, after all.”
She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “Not yet. I was having such a good time, and there’s only a few more questions left. Unless you want to?”
“No, not at all. This has been rather nice, hasn’t it?”
“Rather,” she said, drawing out the vowel in exaggerated imitation ofhis pronunciation. There it was. His back, she could feel itsmiling again.
“Impudent wench.”
“Ooh, I’m a wench! I’ve always wanted to be a wench.”
“Hush. So, if I weren’t a Watcher or a librarian or a museum curatoror a shopkeeper. I’ve already said music once; can I say it again?”
“Sure, why not? You can say anything you want, long as it’s true.”
“I think I might have liked to make music for a living. It’s hardto know, without having tried it.” He was silent for a moment. “It’s a quality of life question. A pursuit that affords one greatjoy and satisfaction may be enhanced by the opportunity to make a careerof it, or it may lose its charm and become nothing more than an onerousand commonplace way to pay the bills. But I think I’d have likedthe chance to find out with my music.”
He poured the last of the tea from the thermos and handed her the cupwithout asking. She ran her hand down his bare forearm and restedit there for just a moment before taking the cup from his hand. Itwas a second or two before he withdrew his arm and returned it to his lap.
“And if you weren’t the Slayer? If you could do anything, be anything?”
“When I was younger I wanted to be an ice skater and compete in theOlympics. I took lessons for years. I was pretty good, actually. But then life changed... and anyway I’m too old for that now. Othertimes I wanted to be on the Olympic equestrian team, ride show jumpersover six-foot fences. Competitive kid, wasn’t I? Course, itdidn’t help that I’ve never actually been on a horse, so I guess that one’sout.”
“I’d love to take you riding some day, if you’d still like to learn.”
“Really? You ride?”
“Mm-hm. Love to. One of those things I know I’d never wantto do for a living, but always want to have in my life. There’refew things more wonderful than a long ride on a good, honest horse. Would you like to go with me one day?”
“Yeah. I would. Very much. Thank you, Giles.”
“It will be my pleasure. But you still haven’t really answeredthe question. What would you like to do for a living?”
“Slayage aside? As if it ever could be. I try not to thinkabout it; I always skip over this question mentally when I’m watching theshow.”
“Answer it anyway, won’t you? Please. It’s important todream, Buffy, no matter how far out of reach your dreams may seem. Maybe especially then.”
“Well, I kind of liked being a guidance counselor. And I thinkI did okay at it. I might even get good at it.”
“Do I hear a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence?”
“It’s silly.”
“Doesn’t matter. Say it anyway.”
“I think I’d like to be a pilot. Commercial jets, freight, whatever. I think I’d like to fly. I know I’d like to travel. I likethe... the idea of the freedom of it, up in the sky with nothing but airin every direction. Room to breathe.”
“I don’t think it’s silly at all. I think it’s a lovely dream.”
She stretched her arms up over her head and arched her back, then relaxedagainst him once more. “Coming down the home stretch, Giles. Only three questions left. What profession would you never want totry?”
“Used-car salesman. Politician. Anything requiring thatone lie for a living.”
“Thus speaks the cynic.”
“One woman’s cynic is another man’s realist. How about you?”
“I’ve already done it. Flipping... whatever they are... at theDoublemeat Palace. I can’t think of anything worse. I’d rathershovel out a sewer.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s in the past now. And I’m gonna make sure itstays there. So Giles, here’s my favorite question -- what’s yourfavorite curse word?”
“You’re joking, surely? No, of course you’re not. They askthis on American television? And people answer?”
“Nope, not joking. And yep, it’s asked and answered, with strategicbleeps, of course, but you can still tell what the word is. C’mon,Giles, what’s yours? Wait, don’t tell me, it’s bloody hell, right? Or pillock. What is a pillock, anyway?”
“A pillock is an idiot, a fool; originally the word was a slang termfor penis, though it’s considered relatively inoffensive these days. And no, my favorite curse word is in fact neither of those. They’rewhat you hear me say most often, perhaps, but that may be partlybecause I censor myself somewhat around you and the others. A holdoverfrom when you were all still children, I suppose. I can be considerablycruder on occasion, especially in certain contexts.”
She waited. When he said nothing more, she prompted him, “So whatis it? Stop fretting about my delicate maidenly sensibilities andspit it out!”
“All right then, since you insist, it’s ‘cunt’.”
“Giles!” she said, appalled.
“So much for your sensibilities.”
“But... that’s such a horrible word. It’s almost as bad as theN-word! It’s hate speak; it’s the worst thing anybody can call awoman.”
“When used hurtfully about a person, that’s true, and I never use itthat way. But when referring to that lovely part of a woman’s body,I quite like it. It’s a venerable word; Shakespeare punned on it,and it was old even then. It’s earthy, crude, simple, and straightforward,and I much prefer it to any of the alternatives. I’ve always thought‘pussy’ was rather demeaning, making something wondrous and powerful soundharmless and insignificant. ‘Vagina’ and ‘vulva’ are too clinical. ‘Quim’ is a nice enough word, and etymologically related to cunt, as ithappens, via Welsh, but a bit antiquated for my taste.”
She was silent, speechless. That lovely part of a woman’s body,he’d said. Giles had said that. He’d said cunt, and pussy,and those other words. And that lovely part of a woman’s body. His muscled back was hot and alive against her own, but she couldn’t feelit smiling any more.
“Buffy?”
She sat, she breathed; she felt him breathe. No, his back wasn’tsmiling, and she missed it.
“It’s okay, Giles. Just threw me for a minute, there. Tookme by surprise, is all. It’s okay.” She felt him relax a little,and was glad. She’d do a lot to feel him relaxed and comfortableagainst her once again.
“If it would make you feel better I could try to come up with a termyou’d find more to your liking,” he offered. “Dutch slang offerssome interesting options, vleesroos, ‘rose of flesh’ or liefdesgrot,literally ‘cave of love’. How do those suit you?”
She giggled, gurgled, snorted.
“Did you just snort?”
“I did not! I never snort!”
“I distinctly heard you snort.”
Thank God, his back was smiling again. So was hers.
Still giggling, she cleared her throat. “Is it my turn yet?”
“I suppose it is. Are you going to be as hard on my delicate sensibilitiesas I was on yours?”
“I’d like to think so, but somehow I doubt it.”
“Out with it, then, or we’ll be here all night. What’s your favoriteswear word?”
“‘Fuck’.” She pronounced it with great authority and considerablesatisfaction.
“Versatile,” he agreed.
They sat contentedly for a moment, their backs smiling at each other.
“Is there any more tea?” she asked.
“No, we’ve drunk it all, I’m afraid. Sorry. I’ll make somemore if you’d like to come back to my place for a bit.”
“That’d be nice. We’re almost done, though, so let’s finish thequestions first, okay?”
“Of course.”
“Here’s the last one, then. If heaven exists...” she hesitated,swallowed. “If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God saywhen you arrive at the Pearly Gates?”
“‘What, you already?’” He was relieved to hear her quiet chuckle. “And you, Buffy?” he said softly, knowing what he was asking her.
“‘Welcome back’,” she said. “Just ‘welcome back’.”
He stood and turned quickly, taking her by the hand and pulling herto her feet as he reached down to gather the blanket and thermos and stuffthem in the weapons bag. With a tender thumb he brushed a tear fromher cheek.
“Come on then, I’ll make us some more tea,” he said a bit gruffly.
Slinging the weapons bag over her shoulder, she slid her hand into hisand fell into step with him as they left the cemetery.
END
NAKED (Sequel)