Title: Dialogue
Author: Lorien
Spoilers: 7x22 Series Finale
Characters: Giles, Buffy
Rating: G
Length: Vignette
Disclaimer: This is mine, they aren't.
Summary: Post-Apocalyptic dialogue between watcher and slayer.
Notes: As this is my first fic, do feel free to send brutally honest critiques/edits privately at my email address. I would appreciate it, actually.

Breezes of dusted smoke press around her. Click, click. Rhythmic boot-heels tap the rocks of the edge on which she perches. Her fingers dig into collapsed earth. She sits between her past - now a crater below her - and a future that waits amongst the world behind her.

"I've been preparing a particularly sensitive binding spell. Aramaic, certainly. I'll need to know a few specifics regarding your experience -- and his -- within the hellmouth." He stands behind her with his head tilted back, hands hanging deep within the pockets of his coat. Sculpted lips quirk upwards in irony.

"Fooled me once..." Slow ripples of tension move across her back. "You really have no right to ask about him."

His chest heaves a sharp, breathy laugh. "Don't I?"

Pause. The tension flows from her and she visibly shakes from its departure. "The amulet -- he became sunlight. And dust."

His body bends to sit at her left, a hand cast protectively to the ground just behind her form. Pebbles and sand stumble from beneath him, tripping into the cavernous depth beyond the rocky edge.

She watches them fall - listens to the clank of stone against metal as they hit a green road sign caught in the cliffs below. Her tired shoulders slump. "All this time as a Slayer... I've lost count of how many people we've buried. I didn't love enough of them."

His head turns to stare pressingly into her profile. "I've loved two of them."

The steadily persistent intonation of words brought her eyes to his. Silent truths passed between. A slight sharp nod and she gives a quick grin. "You'd think after that jump I'd have a fear of heights." Her head tilted as she peered below. "Oh well."

"Right, about that. Would you please find another ledge from which to dangle? Preferably one not above the sinkhole into hell."

"Think it goes that deep?"

He slides back across the gravel. "Let's not find out, hmm?" Standing, he offers her his hand. She joins him in a creaky rise. They move cautiously, years of aching drifting behind them. Forms lean restfully into one another.

She not-quite murmurs around his corduroy, "So. Where do we go from here?"

His stomach bunches into a throaty cough and hummed measure.

"Okay, rephrasing. What do we want to do?"

Looking down, "I rather think that it's up to you."

"Um, no. If I take the lead I'll burst into not-so-motivational speeches. All the new mini-Buffies of the world will rise up and slay me. I'm gonna be quiet for a while."

He nods with vague agreement, "Fire bad, tree pretty?"

"You've got it, Watcher-Mine."

His breath hitches at the old sentiment, and her arm squeezes at his waist in affirmation of the claim.

"Yes, well. Those mini-Buffies, god help us, will also need watchers, and there are texts to be re-gathered..."

She interrupts. "Giles. What do you want to do?"

They continue in a slow shuffle towards the campsite of survivors undergoing transition from weeks of adrenaline.

"I want to hear you laugh."

She sighs. "I'm tired. Will you take a post-apocalyptic chuckle instead?"

"We'll begin training in the morning."

END