Title: Going Back 1/8
Author: Gail Christison
Pairing: B/G
Rating: PG-15 for romantic stuff and mildy scary bits.
Summary: First of all, this is a sequel to a post Tabula Rasa fic I wrote a long while ago called "The Visitor,"
http://www.wickedsky.com/oncemore/omwf/fanfic_visitor.html in which Buffy goes to England to reconnect with Giles and to tell him something. They do indeed 'connect' and their relationship evolves into a ..well a relationship <g>. This sequel was written purely to explore the dynamics of that new relationship but it turned into an exploration of Giles' past, and an introduction to it for Buffy, as well as a mystery [not sure how that sneaked in there <g>] that needs to be solved.
Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy, Joss..yadda yadda
Distribution: If you want it, please just ask.I like to share <g> Anyone who already has permission...go for it :-)
Feedback: After the length of the birth of this thing? Oh, Ghhhod yesss :-) chriscln@iinet.net.au
Author's notes: Following on from the summary, I should explain that this story was started in 2002. Three pages sat for 12 months before being resumed in 2003 and a healthy chunk written, Emily and Gregor arriving with it :-). Annnnd yet...I've still only just finished it. It was one of those kind of fics. More hiccups than a Saturday night drunk <vbg>
Thanks: At this point I have to thank some people. I'm pretty sure that Ruth and Karen checked out the Scottish accents for me a long time ago, and Gileswench has been great at keeping me going on this thing as well as providing early beta-ing and feedback on parts of it. I also have to thank Karesia for the beta at short notice and amidst adversity. It was profoundly appreciated. :-) With over 2 years to cover I'm sure I've forgotten someone who helped. Please don't shoot me :D
Dedication #1 Happy birthday, Kim and thanks, my friend
Dedication #2 For Dawn M. B/Gers like you keep me writing. :-)
"Buffy!"
"Kitchen!"
"Have you had my grey pullover again?"
"They're called sweaters and...um...kinda wearing it."
Giles half scowled, half smiled. It was going to take him a little time to get used to someone borrowing his clothes without asking. On the other hand, the view was usually worth the aggravation...
He headed down in just his jeans and sneakers, sniffing appreciatively as the flat filled with the aroma of breakfast in the making. He paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs to wonder at the feeling. The sheer and utter contentment and joy of waking up with someone in the morning, coming downstairs not to a cold, empty silence, but to the sound of her voice, the sizzling of whatever she was likely to burn today, and even the low mutter of a radio somewhere. Buffy had switched on the sound system and selected a radio station. After another moment to contemplate the sudden goodness of life, he continued on his way.
She was standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but the missing sweater, pouring batter into a frying pan: his spare frying pan. The first one, with egg white and bacon grease adhered to the bottom of it, attested to the fact that he was in for another marathon breakfast.
"You know we're going to get fat," he teased.
"Slayers don't get fat," she retorted good naturedly, checking the bottom of her flapjack before flipping it carefully.
"Watchers do," he growled ruefully. "You really don't need to make quite so much, you know. I used to get by perfectly well on tea, juice and toast most mornings."
Buffy lifted the pancake out and slid it onto a waiting plate before pushing the pan off the heat and turning to him.
"It's fun. And neither of us has had fun in a very long time. You know, I was trying to remember, and I couldn't."
"Remember what?" he asked curiously.
"The last time I saw you really, really happy."
"There have been plenty of times," he blustered.
"Name three," she challenged.
He stared at her for a long moment. There weren't times the way she meant them. His life had never really allowed for frivolity or joy...until now.
"One," he said in a voice deepened by real feeling. "When you chose to come back from Los Angeles and I opened my door to find you there..." He continued after a beat. "Two: when you were not killed by Hellhounds and you were able to make an entrance at your high school prom. You were far and away the most beautiful girl there." He cleared his throat. "And three..." He got very quiet for a moment. "Three was the moment I saw you standing there, alive, after you...after I was called back from England."
"You cheated." She spoke softly, but she was smiling as she came to him and slid her arms around his neck.
"I did not," he said, only to have the last word muffled by soft lips covering his. The kiss lasted a long time, long enough for Giles to slide his hands up under the sweater and confirm that she was indeed wearing nothing else but. "Well, perhaps a little," he conceded when he lifted his head, "but so did you."
She chuckled and released him. "That's why I always win."
Giles watched her turn back to the stove and slide the pan back onto the heat.
"And that's why I always let you," he growled, amused.
***
"Any plans for today?"
Giles looked up from his half-eaten breakfast, noting that Buffy had only served herself a third of what she'd heaped on his plate.
"Um...apart from possibly going back upstairs after breakfast? Not really. Would you like to get out of the house today? Perhaps you'd like to learn a little about the history of the area, or do the tourist thing and go and gawk at Stonehenge? Or perhaps you'd just like to drive up to London to see the sights..." He smiled fondly. "...Or shop?"
Buffy smiled back, mostly at the first sentiment, as she twirled a fork with pancake impaled on it.
"Getting out is probably of the good. I love you and the last few days have been beyond incredible, but I need to do something. I'm the Slayer. I'm used to patrolling, double shifts at the 'Palace... Stuff, y'know?"
He looked sheepish at her description of what had amounted to days of making love interspersed with sleeping, eating and the occasional shared bath or shower.
"Any ideas?" he asked fondly.
"Well, what do we both like to do?"
"An interesting question, given that we're not really supposed to have anything in common," he pointed out.
"Apart from great sex?" she offered playfully. "Demons, vampires...Slayage?"
"Destinies, and fighting against them, detesting Quentin and the Watcher's Council," he added more seriously. "But as for interests..."
"I know you don't like tractor-truck pulls or sports and for the record, neither do I... or...hey, we both like Sarah McLaughlin...and jelly donuts."
He grinned broadly, remembering how they used to fight over and consume boxes of donuts during all-nighters.
"We also both like fine weapons, training, listening to good music and..."
"Cheese. We both like cheese," Buffy teased. "Although you like the blue stuff and I take the position that no one should enjoy eating their gym socks. And whoever said your music was good music?"
That made him laugh. "All right, we both like cheese. And I'll have you know even Oz worshipped my music collection," he added, trying and failing to look miffed.
"It's okay," she said softly. "There'll be plenty more as we get to know each other. I mean, what did I ever have in common with Owen or Scott...or, other than badness, even Angel or Riley, or God forbid...Spike? NADA. Right now it's enough that you're the Watcher and I'm the Slayer, that we love each other and we both hate the bad guys...and neither of us asked for our sucky jobs. We've been together so long that we know each other better than we know ourselves. None of those guys could say that, and in the end none of them really knew me at all."
"Amen," Giles agreed softly.
Buffy smiled. "Now, where are we going to go?"
*******
"So this is what England looks like?" Buffy watched the rolling countryside slide by between endless miles of green hedge, looking more relaxed and content than Giles could ever remember.
"Um...yes. Parts of it, anyway."
"Well, yeah. I saw some of London and there's Bath City. I think I like this part better...except for the tractors."
Giles smiled to himself.
"So...much demon or vampire activity in 'ye olde' parts of England?"
"Not especially, no...for various reasons."
"Is it much further to where you're taking me?"
Giles chuckled. "Which roughly translates to: 'are we there yet?'"
"You're not going to tell me, are you?"
He sighed. "About another half hour. I think it will be worth the wait. At least, I would like to think so."
Out of pure mischief, a bored Buffy initiated a game of 'I spy,' inducing much eye-rolling from Giles, who kept guessing in spite of himself and then getting annoyed that he was then required to provide a new puzzle to be solved. The 'game' lasted until, after taking a turn off and running up into some foothills miles from the main road, Giles finally brought the rented car, hired in deference to the inclement weather, to a halt at some impressive, tall, wrought-iron gates.
"They don't open by themselves...? Don't they have one of those thingies you talk into?"
Giles snorted. "This is real life, not Beverly Hills."
She watched him climb out of the car and expertly open the gates before pushing them back, as though he'd done it many times before. When they drove through, he stopped and went to close them before driving on.
"This place feels really, really old," a subdued Buffy said a short time later, after they'd driven up the long, leafy driveway, across an old stone bridge over a little brook, and between the truly ancient looking oak and beech trees that lined it. Even all of the shrubs were old time plants. Not that she recognised any of them, but Giles knew them all, in flower or no: the lilacs, the roses, camellias, rhododendron... rows of azaleas and stands of hydrangea, borders of violets and beds where the same annuals or bulbs were planted year in, year out...
"It is," he said finally.
Buffy's head turned from her fascination with the picture-book vision of fairy woods... well, winter ones anyway...or something out of 'Wind in the Willows'. There was a note in his voice: something she wasn't used to; couldn't pin down.
"Giles?"
He cleared his throat as a big old regency house...or possibly even mansion, in honey-coloured Bath stone and a dark shingled roof, came into view.
"It's my home."
*******
Buffy followed Giles to the front door, surprised when he rang the doorbell.
"Shouldn't you, like, have a key or something?"
He smiled without turning to her. "I have...in a safe deposit box, in a bank. I have people who care for the place. They have their own keys...and their privacy."
The door finally opened. Buffy watched, bemused, as the old lady looked up and focused on the face of the man in front of her.
"Oh," she said, her wrinkled face wreathing in shocked, but delighted smiles. "Oh."
"Hello, Em'."
The old face crumpled. "Oh, Rupert." As she came forward, Giles caught and held her gently for a long moment, his eyes closed, cheek pressed to the auburn and grey hair.
"I'm sorry it's been so very long..."
She finally pushed herself off his chest and straightened. "Ye came home," she said, the joy of it obvious in her tremulous Scots brogue, despite the moisture in her eyes.
Buffy realized then that Giles' eyes were over-bright and his jaw was working way too hard.
"Hi," she said, wriggling her fingers hello. "I'm Buffy. Friend of...Rupert's."
The old lady looked from one to the other then smiled. "Come awa' in. I should'na be keeping ye oot here, like this."
Buffy followed Giles inside and looked around, wide eyed, awed by the stateliness and sense of history of the old home.
"Giles," she whispered as they fell in behind the old woman, "When we were outside I counted at least seven windows upstairs...just on this side."
He chuckled. "At least," he agreed.
They passed a beautiful display cabinet and an old time, half round table with a marble top and a carved, wood-frame mirror set on the wall above it.
"It looks all antique-y."
He smiled again. "It is." He began to point, first to the display cabinet: "Regency." His finger shifted: "Queen Anne: both the table and the mirror." The green gaze flicked up to the stairs. "And the monstrosity on the landing is a Rococo gilt-wood mirror, a family heirloom given to my grandmother by her grandmother when she married."
"Wow. I mean everything is so...you really grew up here?"
"I really did," he said as they passed through a dining room with an intimidating looking table and high backed chairs, and cabinets filled with old, very expensive looking plates and cups and silver stuff.
"Are you like, in line to the throne or something?" she asked, only half-teasing.
He laughed. "Hardly. No, this is the accumulation of a number of generations of my family. I'm not entirely sure where it started, but I remember father thought most of the original fortune was made by a Giles who was a spice merchant and succeeding generations who managed to be extraordinarily clever with their investments, among other things."
"A commoner," she mugged, having watched too many movies.
Amused, he inclined his head in agreement and pointed once more, identifying the table and chairs.
Buffy nodded toward the contents of the cabinet, bemused by all the Kings and Queens. "So, what are those...?" she pulled a royal name out of thin air. "Like, King George or something?"
"Well, one of them," he confirmed, suppressing another chuckle. "The eclectic nature of the collection reflects my family history. These pieces come from both sides, from a rather long line of both Giles and Trewhellas.
"Your mother was foreign?"
Giles snorted. "To you *I'm* foreign. No, my mother was of Cornish descent, but she grew up away from Cornwall, before she met my father in London. She was fond of visiting the place, though."
Buffy was starting to look a little glazed.
"Cornwall is a part of England, Buffy. It's in the southwest of the country. Not terribly far from here, geographically."
She had the good grace to look sheepish. "Nobody ever said Slayers had to be down with the geography thing. Oh, hey, this is so cool."
Giles had never heard his mother's kitchen described as 'cool' before. It was warm, and embracing and, as always, smelled of spices and fresh baked bread and the vaguest of hints of a recent roast.
He sniffed. "You've been baking, Em?"
She chuckled. "Ne'er could hide the new biscuits from ye, even when you were a wee boy. Aye: Ashbourne gingerbread for visitors, shortbread for Gregor, and these..."
Giles' eyes lit up as the old Scotswoman lifted a tray onto the bench.
"Apple cinnamon," he said softly, his hand reaching out for one of the cookies automatically, like a small boy, utterly unable to resist.
"Aye," she replied, eyes growing very bright, "I canna resist a batch whene'er there's baking to be done. And they always get eaten. Gregor always swears he'll get fat, but he's as lean as a greyhound yet, that one."
The back door opened and a tall, straight, craggy old gent came in, shutting out the misting rain, and the breeze that had struck up, before peeling off his damp coat, taking off a sou'wester and laying both over the old chair by the Aga to air as if it were something he'd been doing forever.
Buffy watched him as he turned and saw Giles for the first time. He stood very still, doing the jaw thing Giles was so good at, his vivid blue eyes growing very bright under the white eyebrows. Eventually he cleared his throat and ran a hand through the wavy white-grey hair, before dropping it to his side again.