Title: Viticulture 1/3
Author: Kimmerwoman (kimmerwoman@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Giles/Anya
Rating: R
Spoilers: None, if you've seen S-7
Summary: Giles and Anya make a get-away to the wine country. Takes place several weeks after the events of Tumbleweeds.
Feedback: Absolutely. Constructive criticism is welcome.
Distribution: BFA, ODD, WatcherGirls, GilesRulesBaby. Anyone else who is interested, please let me know.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Joss, ME and other corporate bigshots.
Notes: Thanks to HeadRush for her red pen and advice. For Lori, who had a birthday and requested Giles and Anya in the wine country.
The sun bounced off the highly polished chrome of the cherry red convertible as it wound its way up the coast. The two-lane road clung to the high cliffs, twisting and turning its way along the edge of the Pacific. The Golden Gate Bridge was behind them, and a dozen small towns, including their final destination, lay ahead. It was, thankfully, unseasonably warm for July, although, 80 degrees along the coast was a damned sight better than the 100-plus they'd left behind in the desert.
"Brolly!" she announced, reading from the paperback on her lap. "Slang for..." Anya looked up sharply, lifted her sunglasses and glared at the man behind the wheel. "Umbrella? You've been letting me use the word inappropriately all this time? Why would you do that?"
"Because I find it adorable." Behind the wheel of their newly acquired '65 Fairlane, Giles negotiated a turn, then threw a quick glance at Anya and shot her a smile. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, the stray strands dancing around her face. As he returned his eyes to the road, he realized he could actually feel her eyes on him. "Darling," he said, contritely, "it wasn't meant to make fun, really."
Anya stared a moment longer, then thumbed through her British-American dictionary, searching for the perfect rejoinder. "Ah, ha!" She leaned across the bench seat and put her lips against his ear. "Plonker!" she said, and she nipped the lobe. Giles barked out a laugh as she settled back in the leather seat.
Las Vegas was two days behind them, their departure hastened by the displeasure of the Cholorus demon from whom Anya had won their new vehicle. The venomous creature, angry at the loss of his prized possession, had made the mistake of loudly proclaiming his belief that Anya had cheated during a particularly cut-throat game of Texas Hold 'Em. Anya, understandably outraged by the accusation, thwapped the demon with her carry-all. Twice. At that point, all hell broke loose. In the midst of the fight, Giles lunged for the table and lifted the keys that lay in the center. Anya was close behind, grabbing the cash then stuffing it in her bag. They took a beat to look at each other. "Well it is my money," she explained with some asperity. With a shove to push her behind him, Giles body- blocked them out of out of the dank back-room. He'd managed to side-step a flying tackle by a hairy creature with blue scales, without injury. By the time they'd arrived at their mobile home on the outskirts of town, he'd formulated his plan for a temporary getaway.
"Tickety-boo."
"Anya, explain to me again why you are studying that infernal book?"
"We come from two different worlds, and communication is very important between lovers. I don't want there to be any misunderstanding because you don't speak American."
"Have I, in the entire time we have known each other, ever uttered the phrase, tickety- boo?"
"No, but when you do, I'll be ready." She anchored her bare feet on the glove box, her toenails painted the same shade as the car. Returning her sun glasses to their proper position, she lifted her face toward the sun.
Giles accelerated out of the curve and into the straightaway. Try as he might, he couldn't find fault with her logic; a thought that made him unaccountably happy.
*****
Anya sat in the car, worrying at a hangnail as she watched Giles inside the phone booth. He was checking on the current temper of the Cholorus, and, more importantly, whether or not the demon knew where they were. Such a sore loser; who the hell was he, calling her a cheat? She didn't cheat. She'd simply correctly calculated the odds of drawing the cards she needed. For fourteen straight hands. She looked around her, running her hand on the soft leather bench. Fully restored, the upholstery was tuck and roll and the paint job screamed, 'hand waxed'. It was clear the Cholorus had invested considerable time and whatever passed for demon testosterone in the vehicle.
She looked again at her partner. He was more animated now, jabbing his finger toward the mouthpiece. Whatever he's heard, it can't be good. Anya could hear his muted shouts of, "No, don't do anything," and, "I'll wait to hear from you," and the anxiety in his voice. She sighed. Maybe keeping the car wasn't such a good idea.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel roused her from her reverie. Giles opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel. "Well?" Anya asked, the waver in her voice nearly imperceptible.
Giles put his hands on the steering wheel, nervously running his fingers around the edge. "According to Gregor, the Cholorus is stomping around like a petulant child, noising on about finding his car." He looked at her, concern clouding his green eyes to almost gray. "He's issued a bounty on the car and, erm, us."
Anya scooted next to him and reached for his mouth with her own. He met her urgency with his own as their tongues met, then dueled for supremacy. She allowed it to last for a moment before she pulled back then finished with a quick brush of his lips. She looked at him, her dark eyes unafraid. "Ok, honey. What now? Do we take the car back?"
Giles took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. "That would certainly be the wisest course," he replied. He brought her hand to his lap. "It's your vehicle and I think that decision is best left to you. But," he continued before she could respond, "Whatever you decide, I think it would be wise for us to stay clear of Las Vegas for the short term. Let the Cholorus cool off." He let go of her hand to turn the key. The engine roared to life.
"So where exactly are we going?" she wondered. She let her hand stay on his thigh and she gave it a quick squeeze.
"We," he said, as his foot pushed down on the gas. The back end fish-tailed slightly and gravel sprayed out from under the tires. "Are going to hide in plain sight."
Rupert Giles was a man of few, but diverse, friends. Trilby was one. They'd met as young men at Oxford and they'd maintained an on-going, if sporadic, correspondence over the years. An archeologist by trade, it was not unusual for Trilby to spend years at a time digging in some remote province of China. Undoubtedly, it was the prolonged periods of Spartan living that drove him to seek its opposite during his short forays into civilization. In his latest letter, dated well over a year ago, Trilby had mentioned a small inn, "ensconced in bosom of the wine country," that boasted fine food, beautiful gardens and, most importantly, seclusion.
It was late afternoon by the time Giles spotted the discreet wooden sign that he knew, from Trilby's description, marked the entry to Few Oaks. The name was an ironic indication of the owner's sense of humor. There were, in fact, no oak trees on the property. Giles turned right at the sign and headed up a narrow lane that curved it's way through a primeval forest of hazel, sorrel and bay laurel. From their midst, ferns and moss at their feet, coastal redwoods reached for the sky. The air was damp, cool and still; the sun muted by the canopy that stretched hundreds of feet above them. Anya took off her sunglasses and craned her neck upward, astonished by their majesty. Blindly, she reached out for Giles, found his arm and patted it gently. "Oh God, honey," she said breathlessly. "Pull over. Can you pull over?" With a smile, Giles aimed the car for a small turnout just ahead. By the time he'd shifted into park, Anya had slipped her feet into her shoes, unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car.
Giles slid out the open passenger door then closed it. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the car, observing as Anya slowly walked through the grove. As she lifted her chin, her eyes sought the treetops. The damp leaves that carpeted the forest floor became caught between her toes and sandals. It struck him that, since becoming human again, she'd spent all her time in comparatively arid environs. The verdant greenery of Northern California was probably as foreign to her as Arashmaharr would be to him. She continued to look up, a smile on her face, as she moved toward a cluster of four or five trees, the smallest measuring ten feet in diameter. When she reached the largest of the trees, she put her hand on it, rubbing the rough bark. He pushed himself off the car and walked toward her. "They're called 'fairy circles'." he whispered when he reached her.
She looked at him and wrinkled her nose. "Uh, uh," Her voice, too, was hushed. "I've known a fairy or two and, believe me, these trees are much more beautiful than those over-hyped, Disney-fied, creatures." She thought for a moment, then cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why are we whispering?"
Giles laughed, albeit quietly. "I'm not sure," he answered. "It feels...respectful."
She understood that and pushed herself up on tip-toe to give him a quick kiss. "Let's go." She took his hand and, with her other hand still on the tree, she led him around its circumference. When they reached the center of the stand, Anya leaned back against the tree and looked up. "I've never seen anything like them." She slid her fingers between the buttons of his shirt and pulled him to her. She stood on tip-toe and kissed him under his chin. "Tell me about them," she purred.
"Ah, yes." Giles placed his hands on either side of her, trapping her against the tree. He kissed her forehead, her eyes. "Sequoia sempervirens," he began. He was using his Watcher voice. "The coastal redwood. Indigenous from central California to southern Oregon..." Anya twined her arms around him and pressed her thigh against his cock. With a swift intake of breath, he continued. "This particular species is found no more than 50 miles inland..." His hand moved from the tree to her cheek, then slowly down to her breast. "As they require the cool fog and..."
"Rupert?" Anya had to remind herself to breathe.
"Dearest?" he replied laconically. His thumb was teasing at her nipple and he leaned in to nuzzle her neck.
She gasped. "Rupert Giles, if you don't get us into that hotel in the next ten minutes, I'm coming out of retirement!"
He laughed into her neck. "Perhaps you'd better give me fifteen."
*****
Anya squinted, then shoved on her sunglasses when they came out of the forest. The sun was blinding, a sharp contrast to the shade of the redwoods. Ahead, she saw the inn's main house, a large, yellow Queen Anne. It was surrounded on three sides by a wraparound porch with delicately turned posts and lacy gingerbreading. Like many of its contemporaries, it was built by a San Francisco family who summered near the Russian River a century ago. Two smaller buildings, clearly modern, but fitting with the original architecture, were tucked behind the large formal gardens in the back.
Giles directed the car to the designated area and shut off the engine. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes to go. With Anya's help, he brought the car's top up and locked it into position. "Wait there," he said as he got out of the car. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and took Anya's hand. With her carry-all slung over her shoulder, she stepped out of the car and into his arms.
"My chivalrous sweetie," she breathed before kissing him.
Hand-in-hand, they strolled up the flagstone path toward the door. Once inside, they found a large, cheery room filled with Victorian clutter and dominated by a mahogany fireplace on the far wall. A small reception desk was just left of the stairs. As they stepped into the room, a cheerful young woman called out, "Welcome to Few Oaks. How may I help you?"
As they crossed to the desk, Giles began, "Oh, hello. I believe we have reservations. Um, Smith. Mr. & Mrs. Robert Smith."
Anya looked up at him, her mouth working hard to remain impassive. The clerk ran a finger down the ledger. "Yes, here you are." She looked up at the couple. "We have you in our 'Garden Room' at the top of the house." The clerk turned to take the room key from its hook. "Will you be here long?" she queried.
"Oh, a few days at least," Giles answered, as he removed his wallet. He handed over a few bills and signed the ledger with a flourish. As she handed over the key, the clerk asked if they'd like her to take care of the luggage. "No worries," Giles responded, shepherding Anya up the stairs. "I'll take care of them myself."
As they climbed their way to the third floor, Anya leaned into Giles. "Good God, honey. Smith? If you were going for subterfuge, you couldn't pick something more appropriate, like Nick & Nora Charles or Peter & Harriet Wimsey?"
Giles draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "Sorry, love. It was the best I could come up with at the time."
"Well, talk to me first, next time," Anya advised, with a little poke at his side. "I know all manner of stealthy getaways."
They ascended the final set of stairs and arrived at their room. Giles inserted the key and swung the door open. As she walked in, Anya gasped. The room was large, painted in hues of cinnamon and vanilla that reminded her of a long ago visit to Marrakesh. The bed, richly dressed in a brocade of blues and golds, lay in front of them. Opposite the bed, a bank of windows, draped in unbleached muslin, stretched nearly the entire length of the wall. Next to the fireplace, a single door; its glass panes covered with sheer silk, led to a private verandah. A fan with blades of thatched palm, hung from the center of the room.
Giles moved in behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle. She leaned against him as he began to nuzzle her neck. "Sweetie, this is beautiful," she moaned as his tongue found that little spot where her collarbone met her shoulder.
As his mouth traced her neck, Giles garbled, "Let's go see the tub, shall we?" He bent down and swept one arm behind her knees and lifted her, drawing her close as he carried her toward the door on the other side of the bed. It was huge, nearly the size of his loft in Sunnydale. Colorful Turkish tiles of tangerine, blues and golds lined the walls and floors. Next to the east-facing window and surrounded by candles of various sizes and shapes, was a raised bath - big enough for two.
Giles slowly set Anya on her feet. "Now, dearest," he said. He ran his fingers along her cheek bones and through her hair. "I lived up to my part of the bargain - got you here in fifteen minutes." He kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Now, I intend to claim my prize," his lips moved down her neck. "But, I think it would be a shame to climb into that lovely bed when we're covered with two days of road grime." Anya shuddered as Giles' nimbly unbuttoned her Thomas Pink sleeveless blouse. She raised her hands to reciprocate, but he arrested their flight, then kissed a palm before moving them back down to her sides. "Don't move," he commanded.
Anya watched as he rooted through a basket on the vanity. He plucked a small bottle from its center and went to the tub. He turned the knobs, and put his hand under the running water then adjusted the temperature before setting the rubber stopper. He opened the bottle of fragrant oil and poured it under the spigot, then looked up at her. She hadn't moved a muscle.
"Now, where were we?" he mused, as he led Anya to the tub. "Right here, I think." He pushed the unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. He bent down, unstrapped her sandals and raised each foot to slide them off. As he stood, his hand went to the snap on her capri pants and with two fingers, parted it. He slowly drew them down, over her hips - with a quick tongue in her navel - and past her knees. He helped her step out of the cloth puddle at her feet. She stood there, though she didn't know how she was managing it. Her eyes were closed as he turned her around to unhook her bra. He pushed the thin straps down her arms, his fingers brushed against her skin.
"Damn it, Rupert," she cried softly.
"Shh," he whispered in her ear. "You're disturbing the ritual." He pulled her against him and she could feel his cock straining against his jeans, hard on her arse. She moved her hands behind her, found his front pockets and held on for dear life.
He pulled the scrunchie from her hair, then ran his fingers through it - shaking it loose and massaging her scalp from front to back. With his fingertips, he lightly skimmed her face, down her neck, her chest. When they found her breasts, he paused a moment and gave a brief squeeze, eliciting a moan from Anya, who clung to his pockets. He continued his southward migration until he found the lacy scrap he sought. Thank God, Anya thought. Now, please. Now, now, now.
Giles stepped away to turn off the water. "Pillock," she said under her breath. For a brief moment, she wished she had her amulet.
Giles chuckled as he turned and sat on the tiled edge of the bath. She crossed to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in for a kiss that spoke of lust and longing. She stood up and pushed him in.
He sat there a moment, blinking in surprise. He was folded nearly in half, his legs sticking up in the air as he held himself off the bottom of the tub with his arms. Then, he started to laugh, an explosion of sound that had his whole body shaking. Anya didn't think she'd ever heard him laugh like that in all the time she knew him. It was a lovely sound. He was still laughing as she removed his shoes and socks, then helped him to stand in the tub. "Ah, Anya," he chuckled as he wiped the tears from his eyes, "I underestimated you. I really should know better."
Anya worked at the wet buttons of his shirt. "Damn straight," she muttered. "Now." She'd got the buttons undone and was trying to pull the soggy shirt off his back. "I believe you owe me a bath."
*****
It was after seven o'clock when hunger finally drove them out of their bed and out hunting for repast. They dressed casually, jeans and leather jackets for both - a pair of kicky ankle boots for her. He'd gone down ahead of her and as she descended the stairs, she could see him nodding as the clerk pointed with her pen to a map between them. For not the first time, she thought of the vagaries of her life that allowed her, after eleven hundred years, to find this man. When her foot fell on the last riser, he looked up and a smile broke across his face. It caused the little crinkles around his eyes that melted her every single time.
"Ready then?" he asked, as he extended his hand toward her.
"Always," she answered, taking it. Together, they walked outside and headed for the car. The night air was cool and he decided it would probably be best to leave the top up. They made their way down the long driveway down to the main road. "Where are we going?" Anya asked.
"To watch the sunset," Giles replied, as he pulled out onto the highway. They drove down 116, through the area known as 'Pocket Canyon', and headed for Guerneville. As they approached the small town, traffic slowed to a crawl, its streets crowded with year 'rounders in shorts and tank tops and summertime visitors clad in sweaters.
They made it through and continued west, the road mirroring the course of the river. Every few miles, 'don't blink or you'll miss it' river towns came and went. Tree covered coastal hills made way for the grassy knolls populated by dairy farms. As they passed, Anya kept a nervous eye on the black and white cattle grazing precariously on the alarmingly steep slopes. At Bridgehaven they parted company with the river and headed north. Occasionally Giles consulted his map, looking for the unmarked turn-out that was his intended destination. A few miles above Jenner, he found it. After slowing to allow an on-coming car to pass, he drove across the broken yellow line that separated them and parked.
Across the ocean, a fiery ball of dark orange hovered on the horizon. Wisps of fog danced in front and around it, distorting bits of light into blues and pinks and purples. Giles unbuckled his seat belt, then reached for Anya's hand, squeezing it. "Let's hurry," he said as he opened his door. He walked back to the trunk and opened it and removed a large wicker basket and plaid blanket.
"Oh, a picnic!" Anya was at his elbow. She took the blanket from him, then tip-toed up for a quick kiss. "Such a smart man you are." She wiped a bit of lipstick from his cheek as he slammed down the trunk and picked up the basket.
"Yes, I think I am," he returned smugly. Anya smacked his arm lightly, then entwined hers through it as they headed down the path.
North of the Golden Gate, California does not meet the Pacific with a gentle gradient, sloping toward the ocean. Instead, the end of the world is marked with broken and jagged cliffs, pressed and formed by the forces of plate tectonics and erosion over millions of years. Circuitous walkways and the occasional, well-placed staircase, beckon intrepid beach-goers to the sandy strip below. As they walked down the well-worn path, Anya leaned heavily on Giles' arm and wished she'd chosen different footwear. They reached the bottom of the bluff and took a minute to scan their surroundings. They weren't alone. The promise of a July sunset had drawn others to the sea. Giles spotted what looked to be a secluded cluster of rocks, a hundred yards or so down the beach. "Down here," he said, jutting his chin. With Anya still on his arm, he reset his grip on the basket and they plodded ahead through the dry sand.
The rocks were grouped together in an informal v-formation that opened toward the sea. Anya dangled a corner of the blanket, then ran her hand across the top, until she found the other corner. She shook it loose, flapped it open and laid it out on the soft sand. Giles set the basket down, plopped down next to it, then opened its hinged top. "A bit of the local grape," he said as he drew out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. He dipped his hand in again and brought out two glasses and an opener. He made short work of the cork and poured the wine, handing a glass to Anya before he took his own. He propped his back against a rock, bent his knees and positioned Anya between them. Giles wrapped his free arm around her and Anya snuggled against his chest, her head on his shoulder. As though planned, they each let out a contented sigh as they watched the sun dip into the sea.
"Um, honey?" The combination of wine and Giles had Anya as relaxed as she ever had been. Still. "This is really wonderful, but," she lifted her head up and looked at him. "Its going to be dark soon. Shouldn't we be finishing our picnic some place where we won't trip and fall off a cliff or be pulled into an undertow and eaten by sharks because its dark and we can't see?"
"Ah, well. I'd thought of that. Sit up a moment, won't you dearest?" Anya sat up and scooted around until she faced him.
Giles straightened and crossed his legs. From his jacket pocket, he removed a polished black stone and held it in his palm. Breathing deeply, he concentrated on the sounds of the surf crashing on shore and found his center. He visualized his power as bits of gossamer floating. As he plucked the delicate strands from the air, he wrapped them 'round the stone. Anya's eyes widened as she saw thin bands of white snaking their way around the lima bean shaped rock. When the last bit of black disappeared, the stone rose about six feet then exploded in a shower of light, creating a cocoon around them.
Giles opened his eyes. The irises had gone to dark green - not black, Anya noted with some relief.
He shook a little, "I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid," he noted with a small laugh. He unfolded his legs and stretched. Looking around at the soft, translucent glow surrounding them, he propped his elbows on his bent knees. "But I think this will do nicely."
"Hide in plain sight," Anya agreed. She set aside her glass and reached for him through his parted legs. Her strong fingers gripped the back of Giles' neck and she felt a tingle, the fading electricity of his expended magics. "Rupert, I'm hungry," she whispered as she began nibbling his bottom lip. "Starving, actually. How do you propose to correct this unfortunate situation?"
Giles pulled his head back slightly, a wicked gleam in his eye. In a single move, honed and perfected during his street-fighting "Ripper" days, he swung a leg and arm around her and rolled. Anya let out a shriek, then laughed as he loomed over her, his arm still under her back. She shifted beneath him and he took her chin between his thumb and fingers, a solemn look on his face.
"Be still now, Ms. Jenkins," he intoned. He brushed his fingers down her throat, to the vee of her blouse. "As the senior partner of this relationship, I can't have you impugning my skills as provider." A quick flick of thumb and forefinger undid her top button and his tongue tasted the exposed skin. "What is it you crave, dearest?" he inquired, his voice a low rumble. Anya's dark eyes glittered behind half-closed lids as she watched him work his way down. Flicking, then tasting. "What will sate your need?" Flick, then taste. Her back arched when he arrived at the final button and, as he slid his trapped arm out from under her, she gripped his wrist. "You Rupert," she managed. "Only you."
*****
A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, its light bent and refracted into silvery hues as it passed through their shelter. On his knees, Giles positioned himself between her legs, unbuckled the thin leather belt that encircled her waist and pulled it through the loops. Anya gasped, as the muscles of her belly instinctively contracted when he delicately brushed her with the tip of the calfskin. Slowly, he drew it across her chest, tracing soft circles around each perfect breast. A low moan escaped her lips as he set aside the belt and bent to take the hard nipple with his tongue and teeth. Anya let go of his wrist and fastened a hand on his thigh, blindly seeking the buttons of his jeans with the other. Target found, she'd succeeded in freeing the first and second buttons when, with a just- past-gentle nip, he released her breast and pushed himself up to a squat.
"Dearest, have you forgotten the senior partner's in charge?" He lifted her booted foot, took hold of the heel, and slid it off. "You really must let me work." Off went the other boot.