Title: What The Everlast Saw, an ABH
Author: BJ (darali_starscream@yahoo.com)
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Yeppers.
Feedback: Oh yeah baby. darali_starscream@yahoo.com
Sitch: 'You' are a college student who's pulling flunky detail at a museum. Dr. Giles arrives babysitting a new exhibit and proceeds to drive you bananas. This can only end badly . . . or can it? ;-)
Disclaimer: Giles is the creation and property of Mr. Joss Whedon. All hail Joss. I'm just borrowing him for medical reasons (snerk!). I'll give him back shortly. No money of any kind is changing hands (but isn't making others happy its own reward?). Please don't sue me.

Author's Notes: The sum product of months of time snatched between calls. No wonder my Idle sucks. Don't look for a plot. Don't look for a story. Don't look for any redeeming qualities whatsoever (marches off singing 'Hooray For Smut').

"Asshole . . . dickhead . . . fucker . . . shitheel . . ." Each word punctuated with a thud of your fists against heavy canvas. One by one, you drag up every naughty word learned at your daddy's knee and punch it into the bag.

Bad things come in threes, so you believe. The first Bad Thing is the weather, hot enought to fry bacon on the sidewalk and so muggy your hair feels sweaty. The second Bad Thing is your car. It's broken. And the bus system around here sucks.

For now, you're by yourself in the steamhouse heat. Your aunt, God bless her, is out to the Thrifty Acres to do some shopping. You dart in with a flurry of short jabs, alternating left and right, finishing the fucker off with a soild left roundhouse. "And he hits the mats, TKO! Ding ding ding!" You smack a button on the tape deck and grab the free weights, punching out sets as loud heavy metal shakes the rafters.

So far this summer's been good, you remind yourself. Yeah there's Bad Things, but there's Good Things too. You've got housing, thanks to your Aunt Gwen. You've got your health. You've got a decent summer job, helping move inventory between the old public museum and the new Van Andel place downtown.

And that's where your positive attitude comes to a complete stop. Because embedded in *that* particular gig is Bad Thing Number Three. "Anal retentive shithead. I *know* how to handle antiques! You don't need to stand there breathing down my fucking neck!" And that's not all. There's the lecture you got for being late last week, sneering at your style of dress, turning his nose up at your taste in reading, and getting on your case when you roller-skated into work one day . . . you feel like your nerves have been sitting in acid for weeks. "Just because we're not *all* forty going on fossilized--" Thank God your aunt still has the punching bag your cousin got for his birthday one year. Your dad was a middleweight before he joined the Marines and he taught most of the kids in the family how to box.

"Know what pisses me off?" you ask as you set down the weights. "This is what pisses me off. Everybody else on the damn crew thinks the asshole walks on water." You keep bitching as you grab the jump rope and start skipping. "Aunt Gwen damn near faints whenever he says hi. How come he goes out of his way to be nice to everybody but me? Pinheaded, fiddlebrained, badly-dressed, stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-lookin' . . . *nerf herder*!"

"I'd be insulted if I had any idea what that was."

You miss a skip and whack your ankles a good one with the plastic jump cord. Getting whopped with a horsewhip might hurt more, but it's not a theory you want to test personally.

And there he is his ownself; Dr. R. A. Giles, PhD and what-the-fuck else. You chew back the bad words that try and leap out of your mouth. His mouth is twitching. You really hope he doesn't laugh. If he laughs you'll kill him, and he's not worth quality time at Marquette Max. "Dr. Giles."

He nods, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a briefcase. Ah, a business trip. "Is Wendy around?"

You raise your eyebrow. As far as you know the only living person allowed to call your aunt 'Wendy' is your mother. "Nah she went to get some groceries. Anything I can help you with?"

"No. Thank you." Nope, still hasn't forgiven you for actually laying hands on the Charlemagne pendant. Yeah it's gorgeous, but being ancient and beautiful doesn't make a thing sacred, no matter what Zsa Zsa Gabor might think.

You think a minute. "Well if you wanna hang around for a few minutes, the deck's right around back. I can get you some ice water if you'd like." Your brief and heartfelt prayer that he'll politely decline and come back later gets a wrong answer when he graciously accepts. Trying hard not to scowl -- and failing if the chilly look in his eyes is any proof -- you lead him around the back of the garage. Your uncle was a carpenter on his evenings off and he built a shady little porch out back. Your aunt furnished it with white wicker stuff. Neutral Zone between your hypercivilized auntie and one generation away from redneck trailer trash uncle. You crack the icebox in the corner and peer inside. Water pitcher, sun tea bottle, some pop, some beer. He accepts a glass of cold water and takes a seat. In your favorite chair. Of course.

You excuse yourself to finish your workout and retreat to the garage. The volume on the tape deck goes back up to teeth-cracking and you go back to fighting the world. Obeying the Asshole Law -- the size of an asshole a person is, is directly proportional to the distance you are away from them when you announce this flaw -- you keep your griping to yourself. Which of course only pisses you off more, making your work your body longer and harder. You're going to feel this for days.

"Can I ask you a question?"

What comes out of your mouth would do your father proud. Mister -- oh I'm sorry, *Doctor* -- Giles doesn't bat an eyelash. You sigh. "Fine, ask."

"At the risk of sounding cliched, what in the world did I ever do to you?"

"What do you mean?"

Off come the glasses for a polish. Without them you get the full force of his glare . . . and he could give lessons. "I mean, miss--"

"That's one."

"One what?" Like a lot of people, he fights his accent when he gets irritated. 'What' comes out long and plump.

"Reason. What did I do to make you treat me like less than a valued member of the organization?" Your words come out drawly, pure Michigan twang.

"Other than carelessness with irreplaceable objects, unwelcome scrutiny into private matters, and an utter lack of respect in general?" he volleys back in a nasty tone.

Oh yeah, sorting the mail and going through some stuff of his. "That's part of my job," you snap. "I just helped sort everything. You make it sound like I steamed open the envelopes looking for state secrets. Secondly, I've been antiquing with my mother since I was two and I haven't broken anything yet. Thirdly, having my actual serious work laughed at in my face ticked me off, *okay*?" You're enrolled in the local CC working on basic classes in hopes of transferring to Michigan Tech next year for a degree in physics. You stalk up to him. He's looking a little nervous. You want to cheer. About fucking time. "And *furthermore*," you add, "I would appreciate it if you didn't shove your religion down my throat. I have to take enough shit from the Christian Reformed folks in this damn town."

"What are you talking about?"

"That quiet little talk," you say sarcastically, "where you dangled a cross under my nose and told me I'd better wear it, quote 'for safety's sake' unquote." Oh now with the looming. From glaring to looming. He's good at looming, taller and broader. Without his glasses his eyes look much more vivid than they normally do, a nice light green with a little amber smudge near one pupil. Intriguing. You wonder what he looks like out of a jacket and tie.

That kicks off something else. "And you know what's *really* cute? You have your fucking nerve turning your nose up at my tattoo when you've got one on your arm looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old.."

In the flutter of an eyelash he's across the garage and tapping his fist on the tape deck. He's a lot quicker than you gave him credit for. That, and the sudden, screaming silence, knocks your rant off the road and crashes it into a flaming mess.

"Now," he says, in a tone that could blowtorch paint, "I apologized for the incident with the crucifix at some length--"

"Not to me you didn't."

"Then I will do it now!" he snaps. "It was intrusive and inconsiderate and I'm sorry. That should be the end of it! Secondly, you've no right to go snooping about in my private affairs."

"A tattoo is hardly a private affair."

"You will let me finish!" The man barks more than a pit bull. Growls like one too. "Finally, since we seem to be dealing in tier structures, I think I'm entitled to a little benefit of the doubt. I am not the only stranger here with a collection on tour, yet I *am* the only one you've seen fit to favor with a bad attitude and acidic tongue."

"Oh God, motherfucking priceless. Do you write your own material or does Dennis Leary have kinfolk in England?" Off of his blank look, you sigh, "Never mind. And what gives you the right to make assumptions about the pH base of my tongue anyway?"

Something strange flicks through his eyes. "For the past ten minutes I've watched you do two things badly -- boxing and insulting me. You don't know the first thing about me--"

"I know that you are in more dire need of a blow job than any man in the modern era."

"Are you volunteering?"

You throw a punch, a hard right cross. What you wouldn't give to see the good doctor walking away with a nice fat shiner. Well . . . okay, you're about four inches too short to give him one, but never underestimate the pain of a solar plexus shot.

Next thing you know both your hands are fixed in the small of your back, wrists locked in a steel grip. Dr. Giles, proud owner of his very own personal moat, has you immobilized and helpless, crushed against his chest. Ignoring the shiver in your middle at the smell of his aftershave, you growl, "Let. Go. Of. Me."

"I think *not*." His breath hits your face, hot and scented with mint. You whipsaw around in his grip, fighting for enough space to put your knee where it's longing to go and take this smartass son of a bitch down a notch. His grip doesn't shift a micrometer. It's like being stuck in a trick knot. Every time you move his arms get tighter. And squashed up against him -- and there are muscles under them clothes, lots of them -- you can't get the leverage you need to get loose.

You cool it, going still and waiting for his grip to relax. It doesn't. "Okay. I swear by the last long john in the box that I will not assault you when you let me go. Not let me go."

His throat works as he gulps. "I can't."

"You can't."

"I can't."

"Why not?" Although you've got a pretty good idea why not. Your gaze jerks upward and meets Dr. Giles's. "Oh." The Smartass Reflex pops out of your mouth with, "Tent peg in your pocket or do you just think I'm cute?"

"And you snipe at *my* clever mouth." His voice has dropped into a low and smoky murmur. Your insides all start oozing down your legs. Getting desperate, you torque your body hard and accomplish nothing. His hands clamp down so tight on your wrists your fingers go numb. "Unless you want to make this problem exponetially worse be still!" he hisses.

You quit it. The pair of you are a picture for an artist to paint, you suppose, locked together in close, passionate embrace (and boy, isn't *that* a concept to give a girl a headache), gazing into one another's eyes. Never mind that the passion on your end comes from a deep and feverent wish to take this man and break him in pieces.

Dr. Giles pulls in a deep breath. You gulp at the feel of his chest pressing hard into yours. Tone dropped low, he says, "Well, I don't have a red cape and saber handy, but what the hell, eh?"

"Wh--" his mouth drops onto yours.

If there was a Nobel prize for kissing, he'd definetely be giving the big speech. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tickling against your upper palate in a way that makes your knees weak. Your head feels like it might explode. You arch your hips into his, tipping your face back to give him better access. Oh dear God in heaven, you're about yea close to fainting in his arms.

The kiss breaks with a pop. You both suck in a lungful of air. You make your eyes blank. "Let go of me."

He lets go. You wiggle your fingers to get the blood back. Focusing a glare of pure murder you growl, "I outta have you arrested."

Hanging his head, he stutters, "I know, I know. I'm-- I can't tell you-- mmmph," is all that gets out as you grab his lapels, drag down his head, and shove your tongue down his throat.

Stumbling over each other's feet, you make your way to the back. On the way by, you hit the Play button on the tape deck. Dr. Giles picks you up off your feet and winds your legs around his hips, waddling with you out to the porch. Bending his knees he puts you down on the couch. Hands, big hard hands, caress your back, sliding over your sweaty skin. You reach for his belt and miss, instead getting a handful of hard-going-on-straining flesh. Dr. Giles breaks your kiss with a groan. The sound, the resonance, hell even the soft puff of breath on your sweaty cheeks turns you on beyond belief.

One of his hands sneaks around to your front, cupping a breast as his lips slide down your throat. You bite off a moan as his tongue comes out to play. Mindless with desire you yank his shirt out from his pants, pressing your palms over the skin of his back. Fitting your hands under the belt, you send them on a little recon mission, scoping out the territory. No drawers. Oh wow. No wonder he never bends over.

Something intrudes into your hormone-soaked brain and you pant, "Wait, wait."

"What?" he murmurs from the general vicinity of your left nipple. swishing it through your sport top before shoving the material out of the way.

"We can't. Some--Jesus Christ! Someone might--"

"--see us," he finishes, with his mouth full of your left tit. The mere notion of stopping sends your entire body into despair, but what if Aunt Gwen comes back and catches you? What if Mom drops by to visit? What if your cousin gets rotated back Stateside this very day and goes to reclaim his boombox? What if your uncle rises from the grave and wants a beer?

Dr. Giles pulls your body flush against his, tugging you off the couch to straddle his lap. Shuffling around on his knees he struggles out of his jacket, lays it on the dirty rug, and lowers you onto it.

Works for you. Unsure how long you're brain'll be in gear, you undo what fastenings you can reach. Thank God he's wearing one of those snap-button shirts.

He breaks away to lift your top off. God he's a sight, all his clothes hanging open -- and the view down south is nothing short of amazing -- but his tie still around his neck. One arm goes around your back to brace his weight, and with his free hand he hooks off your glasses and sets them on the coffee table.

Five minutes later and you're brain is gone. You're not completely unsophisticated. You've gone through Mom's back collection of Cosmo like any girl does. Most of the sexual stuff you've taken more or less on faith. God knows your last boyfriend wasn't anything to shout about, literally. Dr. Giles, whose given name you *still* don't know, if he doesn't cut out that little tickling thing he's doing, is going to get an earful. With whatever's left of your brain you slide your bandana off and shove it in your mouth.

Down he scootches, pulling off your sweats and underwear. What is he-- no way, he can't-- a shriek jumps out of your mouth as he puts that talented mouth to work. Another cry as you bite down on the bandana, tears squirting from your eyes. He moves delicately, every touch making your hips pop up off the ground. And then your world implodes as you come so hard you blow up.

A moment of heaving to get your breath back, then you glance downward. Nope, his erection hasn't gone anyplace. Overriding his half-hearted protests, you push him onto his back and eel downwards. Carefully -- you've been told not all men care for it -- you lash his nipple with your tongue. His hand comes up and cradles your head. Encouraged, you suckle until his nipple feels like a pebble on your tongue, then slide over to the other one and repeat.

His hand still at your nape, thumb rubbing circles, you scootch downward, yanking his pants to his knees. Carefully, you wrap your hand around what you find. You've never seen an uncircumcised man before and the looseness of the skin throws you. After letting you fumble a minute, Dr. Giles takes your hand and resettles your grip. Shortly after, he's panting, and when your mouth gets involved, he chokes back groans. He even starts talking. Coming from him the word 'fuck' actually sounds erotic and not just dirty. Maybe it's the accent.

Ten minutes later and you're riding him like a pony, clenching your teeth against moans. One of his hands rests above your hip, guiding your movements, the other rubs erratically against your clit. Good *God*, holy Jesus *Christ*, you don't even *like* this guy for heaven's sake! You arch back, loving the way he shifts and presses inside you. From the choking noises he's making beneath you, *dottore* down there is enjoying himself just fine too. The edge of his thumb ticks against that little spot just on one side of your clit and you squeak out a shriek. This is beyond good, so far beyond good it should have it's own ZIP code. And you go taut as a bowstring as everything crashes on you at once and your body turns itself inside out.

Dr. Giles sits himself up a bit, grabs you around the back, and flips you over onto his rumpled jacket. The light nylon and wool over concrete slab should hurt like hell, but it's all irrelevant. You're beyond sensation, you manage to think before he braces himself and starts pumping into you. You bite your lip bloody holding back screeching moans. Suddenly he stiffens against you, hips jittering out a meaningless staccato as he comes inside you. He buries his head in the bend of your neck and shoulder and cries out something in what sounds like German. The last glide of his slick cock within your body sparks another climax and you clamp your teeth on his shoulder to bury the scream.

The two of you lay in a slab of tangled arms and legs and clothing you were too rushed to remove. Dr. Giles, after a long moment of squashing you into the floor getting his breath back, rolls off you onto his side. Feeling clingy for some reason, you follow him and snuggle against his sweaty body. Almost absentmindedly, he works his arm under your head, pulling you closer and stroking your hair.

"Oh Jesus," you say, noticing a fat line of blood staining his open shirt. You pull yourself away meaning to grab a first aid kit. "Hang on I'll--" you wince as you try to put your feet under you, "ow." You've been worked out, pun intended, a lot more than you're used to today.

You're stopped from rising by his hand on your wrist. Looking back at him, clothes hanging open, soaked with sweat and other unmentionables, skin flushed red, green eyes shining, you would not hesitate to call him cute. Gorgeous, really, in a way. He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, lips lingering and wandering a little. You caress his cheek and give him a smile.

---

"So, Giles," you say as you clean out the bike mark on his shoudler, "you got a first name?"

-----

(grin)
-BJ

END