TITLE: Change It
AUTHOR: Kimmerwoman
PAIRING: Giles/Anya
RATING: FRT
SUMMARY: One Afternoon in a Bar
DISCLAIMER: Joss & Co. own the characters, and with them have gained fame and riches. I merely play with them and toil in obscurity.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please. kimmerwoman@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: The usual places. You can also find me at LiveJournal. Any one else, please ask.

The following started as an exercise, designed to convince my muse that I can write without her. The jury is still out, but I have her attention, oh yes I do. The inspiration was, Change It, by the late, great Stevie Ray Vaughn. This takes place sometime during the Desert 'Verse, but stands alone.

My thanks to Lori for her quick beta and enthusiasm.

Old Tom has spilled his drink again.

For maybe the millionth time today, I look at the clock, willing that big hand to be on the twelve and the little one on the four. No joy. Another half an hour before Doris walks through that door and I can go home to my Eddie.

I take a damp towel from the sink and amble down to the end of the bar. Tom’s hunkered over, his head in his hands and an apology already on his lips. I pick up the overturned shot glass and wipe down the pock-marked bar. "How about one on the house?" I ask him, and he nods, gratefully. Tom’s one of my regulars and I want to be nice to him.

As I turn to get the bottle from the shelf, a shaft of light bursts into the dark bar. Hot damn, Doris is early, I think as I turn around. Nope, not Doris. Two people are standing in the doorway, their features undistinguishable in the bright sunlight. The door closes behind them and, as my eyes adjust, I see a middle-aged man standing with a woman who looks to be somewhere in her twenties. Father and daughter, I’m thinking, until I see her wrap an arm around his hips and hook her hand around his belt buckle. He’s limping a bit as she leads him to the table closest to the door. I pour Tom his drink, watching her as she tosses her bag on the table and scooches a chair in front of the man. She bends down to take his ankle, I guess to prop his foot on the chair.

"For Christ’s sake, leave it, Anya!" the man growls.

"Fine!" she barks back.

She doesn’t just drop his foot, like I would have, but sets it down on the floor before throwing herself into the chair opposite his. She’s staring at him, watching as he lifts his foot and puts it on the chair. She must have said something, because his head whips around and he takes a deep breath, like he's getting ready to blast her, as I come up to the table. They don’t look like the type to tear up a bar, but one can never be too sure.

"What’ll it be, folks?" I’m looking at the man. Despite the touch of sunburn across his nose and cheeks, he’s certainly the best looking thing to walk into this place in quite some time.

"Beer," he answers, "Whatever you have in a bottle."

The accent makes my knees go just a little wobbly.

"And you?" I ask the woman. Anya, he called her.

"Iced tea with lemon will be fine, thank you."

The atmosphere is a bit icy when I return with their order. I put their drinks in front of them and leave a bowl of pretzels between them.

I keep my eye on them as I clean behind the bar, don’t want to be obvious, after all. They’re talking now, though I can’t hear what’s being said. It would seem that the argument isn’t over. She’s whispering something across the table, shaking her head as she speaks. He says something back that causes her to bite her lip and retreat back into her chair. They stop talking.

He takes a long pull from the bottle and starts to look around, standing up when he spots the jukebox in the corner. I can tell she wants to say something as she watches him limp over to the machine, but she doesn’t say a word.

He puts a hand on the curved glass of the Wurlitzer and leans in, his face glowing pink and orange from the neon light inside. He flips through the title cards, searching the selections until one finally catches his eye. Taking a dollar bill from his pocket, he creases it long-wise down the center before inserting it in the machine and punching the number. The double drum beat and bluesy guitar-licks that open Stevie Ray Vaughn’s Change It tear their way through the quiet bar.

He turns around, his eyes practically burning a trail to the woman at the table. He stretches his hand out as he approaches her and she looks at it, then lifts her eyes to his face. From behind the bar, I can see him cock an eyebrow at her; a silent communication that she answers with a small smile before putting her hand in his. He leads her around the table, spinning her into his body and holding her so close you couldn’t slip a credit card between them.

I couldn’t even pretend not to watch as their hips, locked together as they are, begin to move in time with the music. He holds her hand high, spinning her around before catching, then dipping her low. She keeps her head tilted back as he brings her slowly to vertical, his mouth skimming over her cotton shirt and over her throat as she rises. Near as I can see, there ain’t nothing wrong with his ankle now.

I look over at Tom. He’s oblivious, contemplating the drink in his hand.

"Come to me, baby," Stevie entreats, and I feel a familiar tingle between my legs as I see the man mouthing the words to her. Damn, where the hell’s Doris?

"Come to me one more time." She kisses him, hard.

"Time we got movin’." They walk back to the table. She picks up her bag as he slips a couple of bills under the ashtray. Together, they head for the exit.

"Let’s glide our way home." He pushes the door open, ushering his lover out and standing aside as someone else walks in.

The door slowly closes behind him, and I realize Doris is finally here. Thank god.

I grab my purse and run out the door. Eddie isn’t gonna know what hit him..

END