Title: Anything but Mine
Author: Rainne
Rating: FRM - sexual situations, nothing explicit
Pairing: B/G
Disclaimers: Buffy & Co. belong to Joss Whedon. Do I look like Joss Whedon? Okay, then. The song "Anything but Mine" is by Kenny Chesney. I'm not him, either.
Spoilers: Everything is fair game
Feedback: Yes, please
Distribution/Archive: Ask first.
Summary: Sometime in the future, they come together briefly.
He's not sure how it started, this thing between them. all he knows is that it DID start, and neither of them has any desire to draw it to a close. Neither of them has placed demands on the other, there are no words of long-term commitment or anything, really, past tomorrow morning and a promised quiet breakfast before he leaves again. But then, that's what always happens. they fly in, have their weeks of bliss, and before he leaves, they have a quiet breakfast together, usually in the restaurant of whatever hotel they are staying in. She always stays longer than he; once he thought that perhaps it was out of a desire to be there - to be where he could find her - in case he should change his mind. but he smothered that thought quite mercilessly and it hadn't dared to raise its head since.
She is notoriously hard to find these days. Freed of all constraints, she wanders the world like a gypsy, and there are sparkles in her eyes again. All of her burdens have been lifted from her but those which she chooses to keep: the burden of maintaining even sporadic contact with those who care about her and worry for her; the burden of her destiny when necessary. She needn't worry for worldly things any more; she's a generous expense account provided by the New Council which more than pays for whatever she needs or wants and, funnily enough, she needs and wants very little these days. Her heady freedom is quite enough for her, it seems.
Tonight she looks the part of a gypsy - albeit a blonde one. His mind could spin fanciful tales - some princess stolen away by an evil nursemaid and sold to gypsies, perhaps, and raised free and wild - but he would prefer to forego the fantasy tonight for the reality. Golden haired and laughing-eyed, she wears a peasant blouse which falls off her shoulder in just the right way, and a full, light skirt done in multi-colors which, she tells him, she got in Mexico two months ago. Her sandals dangle from her fingers as she walks in the beautiful white sand, which contrasts against her deeply-tanned legs in the fading sunlight. He is currently watching her from a distance of perhaps fifteen feet; she has stepped off the boardwalk and walked to the edge of the water, looking out into the vast expanse of deepening blue. The sunlight falls across her from her right, bringing the gold in her skin and hair out brilliantly. She takes his breath away. But then, she always has done .
When the last sliver of sun disappears below the horizon, she comes back to him and he wraps his arm around her. They stroll up the boardwalk toward the pavilion with the giant plaster scallop shell, where a band is tuning up. He ponies up the three dollars per person for them to enter the pavilion and they make their way to the dance floor, easily finding their own rhythm as always and letting the rest of the world around them - most of which is trying to two-step - fall away.
Somewhere deep in the music, the words bubble up and he isn't able to stop them. They are a lie and at the same time they are soul-scorching truth and they fall from his lips as easily as sand through the fingers of a child; once said, he is briefly terrified that she will run from him. He's certain he's spoiled their last evening together.
But she surprises him. She throws her head back and gives a full, throaty laugh - the kind he hasn't heard from her since before her mother died - and then she tiptoes up to kiss him breathless. Then she tells him in a voice which is not to be denied that she's ready to go back to the hotel. Now.
Maybe it's the end of the summer lending a poignancy to the night as he watches her once they are in her room; she has stood the French doors open to allow the warm ocean breeze in and she is standing before him now clad only in the light of the full and pendulous yellow moon. It lends an ethereal quality to the gold in her hair and the white sheets contrast with her dark skin beautifully as he lays her down, paying sweet homage to her body with fingers, lips and tongue.
It has never been difficult for him to rouse her body to his; once she finally realized what she had been hiding from herself for so long, it was like iron to a lodestone: she was drawn to him. Her nails claw his scarred flesh and her head falls back, exposing the long column of her throat to his teeth and tongue when she seizes up in ecstasy and cries out his name. After so long, he knows how she likes to be touched; he knows where to kiss and where to skim his fingers and he is perfectly capable of driving her insane with desire. Of course, she's intelligent and quick, and she can return the favor easily. She proves it more than once.
Somewhere deep in their last night together, he holds her sleeping body close in the diffuse moonlight and whispers his love again into her hair. She does not respond; he hadn't expected her to. After a time of simply stroking her warm skin contentedly, he finally drifts off to sleep.
His breathing becomes slow and even, and he does not respond when she lifts her head, looks into his face, innocent in his dreams, and returns the emotion very softly with tears in her eyes, knowing as she does that even if he was awake to hear her, nothing would change. He has a flight out tomorrow, and persuading him not to get on a plane has never been one of her strong suits.
--end--