Title: Touches (Prologue)
Author: Kim
Email: lawyergirl152003@yahoo.com
Written: January 2004
Paring: Giles/Xander
Rating: R, maybe NC-17
Distribution: Usual places, if you’d like to have it, just let me know.
Disclaimer: None of the boys belong to me. They belong to Joss, ME, Fox, etc.
Feedback: Tell me you love it; tell me you hate it; tell me what you’d do differently; just tell me!
A/N: Thanks to Jen for being the font of all Buffy knowledge and for her ever constant cheerleading (which some may call nagging). Thanks to Phen for the beta, without you I am a comma-less being. Thanks to Wenchie for last-minute advice and for running the ficathon. More Giles is always of the good.
Summary: This is written for the first GRB ficathon. Written for Neena, who wanted a story set in Season 4 or later. She wanted UST resolving itself, an after-battle massage, and a secret from Giles’ past revealed. She did not want bondage, an established relationship between our duo, or character death. Ms. Wench threw in Gay Larry and rope. I promise this story is set Post-Chosen, but it needed a prologue.
Sunnydale 1998
Xander Harris was nothing, if not a persistent pest. “But, Buffy gets to fight the forces of darkness with all kinds of weapons.”
“Xander,” Giles remonstrated from where he stood by the card catalogue, cleaning a sword.
Xander plopped into a chair at the research table and crossed his arms over his chest in a display of extreme childishness. “It’s not fair. Buffy’s Watcher’s pet.”
“Buffy is the Slayer, Xander. She is neither my pet nor favorite. She is what she is. It’s her duty to fight.”
“We help,” Xander mumbled sullenly.
“Yes, you do. Ill-advised though it may be, your assistance is always extremely welcome.”
Xander perked up a bit. “I did get the rocket launcher.”
“You did. Quite resourceful.”
“I could be more resourceful if you’d teach me to use the sharp toys.”
“The mere fact that you call them toys is reason enough for me to say no.” Giles abandoned the sword in favor of polishing his glasses in an effort to vent his frustration.
“Come on, Giles. You got all British and upset last week when I almost dropped the curvy sword on your toes. Something about not knowing my ‘arse’ from a . . .”
Giles cut him off. “It’s a scimitar, and you weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Please, Giles. I won’t know a scimitar from my arse unless you show it to me.” Xander blushed suddenly. “A scimitar, that is. I think I’m good on my arse, or I mean, I know where it is, and you probably do too.” His speech grew even more stuttery. “Not that you look, I just meant. . .”
Thankfully, Giles rescued him, cheeks crimson himself. “That will do, Xander. Thank you.” To avoid any further painful discussions of anatomy, he picked up the sword he had been cleaning. “Come here.”
Xander eagerly bounded forward, confident that if one pouted enough, triumph was always in sight. Giles thought he was tough, but Xander had honed his skills on years of wearing away at resolve-face-Willow.
Giles handed him the sword, which Xander held awkwardly. “Now,” Giles began, “hold it in your hand firmly yet loosely.” A vein in his temple began to throb after watching Xander struggle to do just that for several moments. Stepping behind Xander, he placed his hand around the boy and corrected his grip. “No, like this.”
After establishing Xander’s grip, Giles tried to teach him to move through some of the basic forms. Sword-work, however, is an art that a person could spend a lifetime perfecting, and Xander Harris had the attention span of a gadfly. Sensing the boy’s rising frustration level, Giles stepped behind him again. He fitted his body against Xander’s, and placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. “Move with me.”
Slowly they went through the forms. Each thrust of the sword brought Giles’ body fully against his young partner. After several run-throughs, they were moving in perfect unison, their breathing in concert, the sword an extension of each. Deciding to demonstrate a high thrust, Giles used his left hand to bring Xander’s around to the sword as well, essentially wrapping his arm around the boy. At the movement, Xander’s breathing sped up. They stood that way for long seconds until Xander started to turn his head slightly. The library doors chose that moment to swing open, announcing Buffy and Willow’s presence.
Xander and Giles sprang apart, grateful that neither girl had seen their swordplay. Xander never asked Giles to train him again.
Sunnydale 2000
“Xander?” Giles called from the bathroom. “Did you find that rope? It’s on the back patio.” He eyed Spike, not wanting to take his eyes off the vampire until he was safely trussed with stronger rope. Having not heard Xander reply, he backed up slowly toward the door. “Xander!” He yelled again, turning to go out at the last minute.
“Right here, G-Man,” Xander responded right as he and Giles collided. Both were stunned for a moment, and they stood, bodies pressed against each other, neither moving. Meeting Giles’ eyes, Xander licked his lips nervously. “I got the rope.”
Giles stared back. “Right,” he said finally. Reaching down without losing eye contact, he removed the rope from Xander’s hand, fingers brushing. “And don’t call me that.”
Sunnydale 2002
Xander’s brain screamed with exhaustion. He needed sleep, needed time to process that his best friend in the entire world had almost ended it, and that he had stopped her. But first, he needed to hug the man before him. And if that hug lasted longer than strictly necessary, Xander told himself it was because he and Giles had almost died – he was just glad they hadn’t. And if over the next several weeks, Xander availed himself of every opportunity to be the person Giles leaned on before he was well enough to move around on his own, Xander rationalized that it was because he was the only one strong enough to help. And if his brain mentioned that Buffy was a heck of lot stronger, Xander told it to shut up.