TITLE: HUNTRESS 1/4
AUTHOR: Jaydn Michelle
ARCHIVE: If you want it, take it, but let me know beforehand please.
PAIRING: B/G
RATING: M+
SUMMARY: This is a slightly AU world; three short vignettes where Buffy goes a little 'alpha', and decides on an eventual course of action (warning - segment one is a little disconnected from the other two, given the time lapse, but similar themes are running throughout).
FEEDBACK: Absolutely, I love it - who doesn't?
DISCLAIMERS: Buffy and co. are the property of Joss Whedon, just borrowing them for a little bit.
For Rari and Ruth - two die hard B/G'ers who were gracious enough to act as betas - and *patient* ones at that!

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true?
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
- W.B Yeats.

CHAPTER ONE: BEER

When he awoke - it was sudden, a habit torn from youth, awakening peacefully was a luxury he had lost the moment Catherine Giles had died so many years before. The accompanying start however, was restricted, heart beating too fast, a lithe heat that flooded the left side of his body and a soft moan. It shouldn't have surprised him - not really - Buffy was like any wild animal, seeking the comfort of the pack, burrowing into him, fist knotted in his shirt. Her breathing was steady, fair indication that she was asleep and had been for some time, and that *did* surprise him. Giles wasn't the type to sleep through motion, certainly not the type to sleep through someone climbing into bed with him, and he wasn't sure if he was chagrined or annoyed that it was Buffy who had managed to do both. Relief only came when he realised they were both fully clothed.

He'd originally left her downstairs, out like a light on his couch, curled under a blanket with the flicker of the muted T.V for company. For whatever reason she had found it soothing, and had drifted to sleep within minutes, exhausted.

The smell of smoke and fire.

Her face, pressed to his chest, was sooted with ash, his one attempt to clean her had ended badly…for him. It still hurt to breathe, the heel of her palm slamming into his chest. In Slayer terms it had been a gentle tap, in human terms, it knocked Giles right over the couch. Lesson learnt. Pre-historic Buffy didn't *like* to be washed, and if nothing else, Giles was an astute learner.

He'd fed her, talking constantly, slipping into various dialects to relieve the monotony of his own voice. Buffy had watched, eyes sharp, head tilted, eating with her hands; everything about her still curiously elegant. Stirling conversation it was not, and Giles couldn't help but wonder when the potency in the beer would finally work its will. He wanted his Slayer back, the bright eyed girl with the motor-mouth, not this silent huntress. Or maybe she hadn't been, maybe she was silent only in his company, which troubled Giles more than he cared to admit.

Willow and Xander had left. Neither willing to play host to a Slayer with poor impulse control - and given the fact that no one had known how long the effect of the beer would last, it had seemed prudent to keep Buffy away from the student population.

Hence Giles, rabid Slayer, and one bruised chest.

He shifted, blinking up at the ceiling, watching the play of shadows. If he looked too carefully, Giles knew, he would see faces. Mouths yawning open in rendered screams - the glide of ice along pebbled flesh, a whisper. He shivered, and unconsciously, the girl beside him shivered too; her hand flexing open, resting palm down beside his heart, teasing the edges of the bruise that she had laid upon him before.

It jolted like near-agony, vision swimming, until the shadows were *merely* shadows, flickering at the edge of reality. Nothing there but darkness and light - and a sort of peace where they met.

He turned, resting on his side, wide awake, hearing the girl growl under her breath, one arm looping around his ribs as she followed his retreat. He had it in mind to leave, give her the bed and retire to the couch, study, read, because he sure as hell wouldn't be sleeping again; except that his skin prickled with sudden intensity, and he knew beyond doubt that she was awake. Her breath a warm flutter across his nape; unease settled in. "Buffy?"

Her arm tightened, dragging him three inches back as if he were a child, until his body was pressed firmly against the lines of his Slayer. Her face pressed between his shoulder-blades, voice muffled and barely heard.

He held still.

There was a certain art-form to stillness, something he had learnt at the hands of monsters, Angel, and Eyghon before him. But her grip never tightened to anything other than firmness; locked within the caged circle of her arms. Her first and only words of the night, echoing silent in his mind as sleep reclaimed her.

//Mine//.

___________________

Buffy's grip loosened around four, and he slipped unnoticed from the bed. Partly amused that he was capable of performing the same feat that she had executed against him, the ability to approach - or leave - without disturbing. Trust manifested itself in places other than words, and actions, sometimes, were sublime. He left - soundless as a wraith.

____________________

When Buffy awoke it was eight and her head was pounding like a drum kit in full flurry. Sickly didn't describe her current state, and she rolled with a groan, deciding light was an *evil* substance, before attempting to burrow under the pillows. She burrowed so far she cracked her skull against the head-board with enough force to bite her tongue, and awoke fully with a howl - cursing the indignities of morning rituals.

She wasn't normally this un-co, but then again, she didn't normally drink to excess…and there had to be a lesson somewhere in the midst of all that. A lesson, no doubt, that her friends would bludgeon her with given the opportunity. *SO* not looking forward to it - and where was she anyway?

//Giles'//, a part of her mind supplied. She had a memory of Giles talking to her soothingly - and Giles could soothe the devil himself with a voice like that - so where was her errant Watcher?

She checked herself quickly; she smelt like ash and smoke, clothes grimy, hair a tangled mess, and groaned. Oh well, it was only Giles, and he'd never given a whit about her general appearance - unless it was bloody. She climbed unsteadily from the bed and found him downstairs, damp with sweat, having just returned from his morning run. So all in all, they pretty much looked the pair.

"Morning," her voice was a dry rasp, and she winced.

He studied her intently, expression unfathomable, and then grinned. It was quick, there and gone in an instant, and melted her tension immediately. Trust Giles to find humour in her current sitch - and shouldn't he be lecturing her or something? "Hey you, don't start."

He chuckled, turning back to the morning paper, "It would be rather redundant at this stage. I trust, the lesson is learnt?"

"Yes, beer is bad and the spawn of all things devilish." She collapsed onto the stool, on the opposite side of the counter to him, arms folded and her head pillowed on top. Her tongue was throbbing, which was funny, and she wondered if she sounded like Daffy Duck.

"How are you?"

There was a measure of concern this time, and Buffy decided that she must look the worse for wear. "Groggy. Your head-boards bite."

He blinked, that owlish look of incomprehension, and then shrugged. Buffy reached over, taking the glass of orange juice from his hand, and sipped. He poured another without word.

"Thank you."

He looked startled. "For what?"

"For keeping berserker Buffy off the streets," she touched his hand gently, locking her gaze. "For looking after me, Watcher mine."

He didn't pull away, or dismiss it with British inanities of duty. Instead he smiled faintly - his thumb brushing out to trace the soot from her cheek.

NEXT