Title: Naked
Author: malnpudl
E-mail: lcbergstrom@cox.net
Rating: PG
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Summary: Giles sings for Buffy. Sequel to “Welcome Back”; takes place almost immediately afterward.
Disclaimer: BtVS and its characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Sandollar, Fox, UPN, WB, who the hell knows, but it ain’t me. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Feedback: Let me have it. Please?
Distribution: OD&D. Anybody else wants it, sure! Just tell me where it’s going, please.
Author’s Notes: Set some months post-Chosen.
Many thanks to Ruth and ElizaBuffy for their invaluable assistance to this fledgling ficcer.

“Make yourself comfortable, Buffy. I’ll start the tea.” Giles slung the weapons bag on top of the chest that sat just inside the front door. He reached in and pulled out the empty thermos. “Are you hungry? I think I’ve got some ice cream.”

“No, thanks, just tea. Would you mind if I grab a quick shower? Vamp dust, y’know.”

“Please, feel free. There’re clean towels... well, you know where they are. Do you have something clean to put on?”

“Yeah, I brought a change of clothes. Never know when you’re gonna get grody on patrol.”

Once he’d put the kettle on and laid out the tea things, Giles returned to the weapons bag and pulled out the blanket he’d crammed in so hastily. Stepping outside, he shook it out, dislodging a few stray leaves and pine needles. Probably a bit of vampire dust, too, for that matter. He folded it neatly and held it for a moment, running his hand slowly over the sturdy fabric in much the same way that Buffy had touched his own forearm just a short time earlier.

Something had awakened in him tonight, delicately stirred by the feel of her back, lithe and strong against his own, roused by that brief, lingering touch of her hand on his arm, a touch he’d suddenly and desperately missed when it was gone. He’d missed her constantly while he was in England, but it was a habitual background ache, a small and ever-present emptiness that had simply become part of him. This new awareness was different, an unfamiliar spark of something hot and bright.

The teakettle whistled just as he heard the shower stop running in the bathroom, and he went back inside to fix the tea, tucking the blanket back into the weapons bag along the way. Never know when it might come in handy again. If he were very fortunate.

Buffy joined him as he brought their tea out to the sofa. “I assume you still take it the same way, yes?”

She nodded and curled up in the corner of the sofa, bare feet tucked underneath her, cradling her mug between her hands. Looking at her, fresh and clean in drawstring trousers and a tank top, Giles suddenly felt intolerably grubby.

“Buffy, would you mind if I leave you for a moment and shower myself?”

“Course not. I’ll just hang out here.”

“I won’t be long,” he assured her. He grabbed clean clothes from his closet and then headed to the bathroom where he quickly stripped. A hurried shower took him only moments; he was inexplicably anxious not to leave Buffy alone too long. The connection they’d made tonight was precious to him, but it felt tenuous after the long months of separation and the previous year’s estrangement. Nevertheless, he made himself take time to shave. A discipline. Or an exercise in trust. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the razor to his face. Steady, he told his reflection, she just got here. She’s not going anywhere. Still he wasted no time before slipping into faded blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that hung open as he slung a towel around his neck and padded barefoot out of the bathroom. Forgot the biscuits, he thought, and turned toward the kitchen, reaching for his shirt to button it.

He nearly collided with Buffy as she left the kitchen with a plate of chocolate chip cookies in her hand. “Got hungry after all--” She stopped, looking at his bare chest; her eyes widened. “My God, Giles. Your... God....” She put the plate down on the counter and went to him, opening his shirt wider and looking at his torso, her expression a mix of horror and compassion.

“Buffy, please....” Pained and embarrassed, he freed his shirt from her hands, turned away, and hastily buttoned it.

“Giles, no. Don’t. It’s okay, I’ve just never seen your scars before. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t... know.”

“I’m sorry. I forget about them, they’ve been part of me so long. I shouldn’t have... I didn’t think...”

“No!” She looked up at him, fierce. “Don’t hide yourself from me. Not any more. We’ve both done too much of that, and I’m tired of it.”

He stood looking down into her eyes, silent, groping for words that eluded him.

After a long moment she reached out and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. He stood unresisting, wanting desperately to stop her and wanting even more to let her continue. When the last button was unfastened she gently spread his shirt and let it fall open at his sides. He stood rigidly still, feeling almost unbearably naked under her gaze.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” she said softly as she turned away to pick up the plate of cookies and then returned to her seat on the sofa.

He looked down at the damp towel around his neck; grateful for something to do, he walked to the bathroom and hung it up to dry. Leaning against the cool tile wall he took a deep, ragged breath and let it out slowly. Another breath, smoother this time. Glancing up, he caught his own eye in the mirror and looked at his reflection; his shirt still hung open where she’d left it, his scarred, middle-aged body on display.

It cost him courage to leave it that way as he left the bathroom to join her in the living room once again.

She handed him his mug of tea; he sipped it, grateful for its familiar, bracing comfort but wishing it were Scotch. He settled on the other end of the sofa and sat, silent, cradling his mug and drinking his tea. His skin felt hot where her gaze touched him.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” she said, breaking the silence.

He looked at her.

“We’ve been part of each other’s lives for a long time,” she said. “You’ve been important to me in a lot of ways. But we’ve never really become friends. Adult friends, equals. Tonight it felt like we were. I liked it. A lot.”

“As did I,” he said quietly.

“I felt... happy with you tonight. I don’t remember the last time I felt happy.”

He felt a rush of emotion that he couldn’t name.

“I’ve been building a new life,” she continued. “And it’s been okay, mostly. Sometimes I’ve even been... contented. But now you’re back, and suddenly I’m feeling happy.”

“Buffy...”

“I don’t know what it means, but I do know I want more of it.”

He looked away, cleared his throat. “I’d like that, too. Very much.” He looked around the room until his eyes settled on his guitar. “Earlier tonight you asked me to sing for you,” he said.

“Yes. Please.” She looked at him over the rim of her mug as she drank.

Nodding, he rose, conscious of his shirt swinging open, of her eyes on him as he moved. He lifted the old Martin off its stand, sat on a straight-backed chair, and began tuning up. The satin-finished mahogany felt silky and surprisingly warm against his skin. The familiar sounds steadied him, the deep bass E string resonating richly through the back of the soundbox and into his chest, then up in pitch through the other five strings until the high E rang bright and clear, in tune with all the rest. He strummed a few open chords, finger-picked twelve bars to limber his arthritic fingers; the scars on his torso weren’t his only souvenirs of those hours with Angelus.

He closed his eyes and sang of peace and loneliness on a rainy English hillside, crooned low and haunting in a minor key. When the song ended he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Giles, that was beautiful. I’ve never heard that song before. Did you write it?”

He nodded, absurdly pleased.

“More?” she asked. “If you want to, I mean.”

And so he played for her, sang for her, songs he’d written while half a world away and missing her.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he opened his eyes and saw her lying on her side on the sofa, head pillowed comfortably on the armrest, her eyes closed and her face soft and at peace.

“Buffy,” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

When she didn’t answer, he rose and carefully replaced the guitar on its stand, then turned and switched off the lamp. Draping a light blanket over her, he stood gazing at her as she lay sleeping in the moonlight.

Quietly he made his way across the room to pour himself a drink, absently reaching for his shirt to button it. He caught himself, looked down at his bare chest, and let his hands fall, leaving the shirt still hanging open at his sides as he reached for the Scotch.

END