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sb_fag_ends2014-11-01 12:00 am
drizzlydaze.livejournal.com) wrote in sb_fag_ends2014-11-01 12:00 am
Fic: Five Times Giles Cleaned His Glasses (And One Time He Dried His Eyes)
Title: Five Times Giles Cleaned His Glasses (And One Time He Dried His Eyes)
Creator: drizzlydaze
Rating: PG
Setting: S2 Becoming, S4 Something Blue, S5 The Weight of the World, S6 After Life, S7 LMPTM, post-series
Word count: 709
Prompt: The Spectacles
His glasses are slick with blood, one spindly arm sticking out from the front pocket of his shirt. A lot of him is slick with blood. Given the accounts of Angelus, he should count himself lucky, but something about the excruciating pain puts him off. As Xander assists him, he sees his glasses tip and slip out from his pocket. He catches them with a stiff hand.
He can’t help glancing back at the fray as they make their way out. He sees, improbably, Spike choking Drusilla. Reflexively, he wipes his glasses with the cloth of his shirt, blood smearing blood. Before he can raise it to his face—ill-advised; his arm might just drop off with the effort and elevation—his feet catch on some irregularity on the stone floor. His focus snaps back to escape: he takes a moment to steady himself against Xander and stumbles out the rest of the way.
His mind must be going with his vision, because it looks like Spike’s—and Buffy’s—
He squints, and, in a move that now seems terribly ill-advised, steps forward, taking off his glasses. And if he can’t quite see, he can surely hear the squelching.
“Giles!” Buffy says with a blinding smile. “You’ll never believe what’s happened!”
No, he doesn’t quite think he ever will. He cleans his glasses and doesn’t stop for the rest of the night.
He takes his glasses off, cleans them for a good while as he thinks. Then he puts them back on to read. Every time, the same conclusion. If things go to Hell, and it seems more and more likely with each fruitless search, then there is no other way.
He makes himself think it: Dawn must die.
For Buffy, he knows, that is no way at all.
He’s wearing a hole in his glasses, but the alternative is to—he doesn’t know what he’d do, actually, which is a sign that he shouldn’t. “Dear Lord,” he says, and for good measure: “Good God.” The world is spinning, but it’s a world that’s a good deal brighter than it was a few minutes before.
“It’s okay to freak out,” Willow says, from Sunnydale where Buffy is no longer prostrate. “But it’s amazing, isn’t it? I mean, she’s back and—she’s back, Giles. I brought her back.”
He can’t have this conversation right now. “I’ll book a flight as soon as I can. Is she—where—”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
He almost drops the phone from where it’s tucked against his shoulder. Willow is rambling on when he interrupts, “Is she with you now?”
She pauses. “No, but I can get her to call you back later.”
It’s too much, and there’s something about Willow’s voice that keeps him from speech. He can’t have this conversation now; he certainly can’t have that one over the phone. “No, I’ll be on the scene soon enough,” he finally says. They say their goodbyes and hang up.
He looks around his flat. Most of the boxes are still unpacked.
“It’s worse than I thought.”
“It’s alright.”
He rounds the corner and sees Buffy tending to Spike’s wounds. If either of them notice his intrusion—because that’s what he feels like: an intruder—they don’t show it.
That’s acceptable. He doesn’t particularly want to witness this either. Still, he stands unmoving for a long moment, watching Buffy watch Spike and feeling an uncomfortable knot in his chest. He cannot regret doing what he thought was necessary, but he never imagined he would lose his Slayer by anything less than the final death.
He cannot bear to watch any more; he takes off his glasses and polishes them as he walks away.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He takes his glasses off and embraces Buffy. “Buffy, I—I can’t find the words.” He feels tears pricking in his eyes.
She squeezes. “We’ve been through so much, Giles. Everything. Who else could I possibly ask?”
He sits back and uses his handkerchief to dab his eyes as discreetly as he can. It is not very discreet. “Good Lord I must maintain some dignity. Save some tears, at least, for the day.”
Creator: drizzlydaze
Rating: PG
Setting: S2 Becoming, S4 Something Blue, S5 The Weight of the World, S6 After Life, S7 LMPTM, post-series
Word count: 709
Prompt: The Spectacles
I
His glasses are slick with blood, one spindly arm sticking out from the front pocket of his shirt. A lot of him is slick with blood. Given the accounts of Angelus, he should count himself lucky, but something about the excruciating pain puts him off. As Xander assists him, he sees his glasses tip and slip out from his pocket. He catches them with a stiff hand.
He can’t help glancing back at the fray as they make their way out. He sees, improbably, Spike choking Drusilla. Reflexively, he wipes his glasses with the cloth of his shirt, blood smearing blood. Before he can raise it to his face—ill-advised; his arm might just drop off with the effort and elevation—his feet catch on some irregularity on the stone floor. His focus snaps back to escape: he takes a moment to steady himself against Xander and stumbles out the rest of the way.
II
His mind must be going with his vision, because it looks like Spike’s—and Buffy’s—
He squints, and, in a move that now seems terribly ill-advised, steps forward, taking off his glasses. And if he can’t quite see, he can surely hear the squelching.
“Giles!” Buffy says with a blinding smile. “You’ll never believe what’s happened!”
No, he doesn’t quite think he ever will. He cleans his glasses and doesn’t stop for the rest of the night.
III
He takes his glasses off, cleans them for a good while as he thinks. Then he puts them back on to read. Every time, the same conclusion. If things go to Hell, and it seems more and more likely with each fruitless search, then there is no other way.
He makes himself think it: Dawn must die.
For Buffy, he knows, that is no way at all.
IV
He’s wearing a hole in his glasses, but the alternative is to—he doesn’t know what he’d do, actually, which is a sign that he shouldn’t. “Dear Lord,” he says, and for good measure: “Good God.” The world is spinning, but it’s a world that’s a good deal brighter than it was a few minutes before.
“It’s okay to freak out,” Willow says, from Sunnydale where Buffy is no longer prostrate. “But it’s amazing, isn’t it? I mean, she’s back and—she’s back, Giles. I brought her back.”
He can’t have this conversation right now. “I’ll book a flight as soon as I can. Is she—where—”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
He almost drops the phone from where it’s tucked against his shoulder. Willow is rambling on when he interrupts, “Is she with you now?”
She pauses. “No, but I can get her to call you back later.”
It’s too much, and there’s something about Willow’s voice that keeps him from speech. He can’t have this conversation now; he certainly can’t have that one over the phone. “No, I’ll be on the scene soon enough,” he finally says. They say their goodbyes and hang up.
He looks around his flat. Most of the boxes are still unpacked.
V
“It’s worse than I thought.”
“It’s alright.”
He rounds the corner and sees Buffy tending to Spike’s wounds. If either of them notice his intrusion—because that’s what he feels like: an intruder—they don’t show it.
That’s acceptable. He doesn’t particularly want to witness this either. Still, he stands unmoving for a long moment, watching Buffy watch Spike and feeling an uncomfortable knot in his chest. He cannot regret doing what he thought was necessary, but he never imagined he would lose his Slayer by anything less than the final death.
He cannot bear to watch any more; he takes off his glasses and polishes them as he walks away.
And One Time He Dried His Eyes
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He takes his glasses off and embraces Buffy. “Buffy, I—I can’t find the words.” He feels tears pricking in his eyes.
She squeezes. “We’ve been through so much, Giles. Everything. Who else could I possibly ask?”
He sits back and uses his handkerchief to dab his eyes as discreetly as he can. It is not very discreet. “Good Lord I must maintain some dignity. Save some tears, at least, for the day.”