Fic
Title: California Sky
Rating: G/FRC
Pairing: B/G friendship
Disclaimers: Buffy & Co. belong to Joss Whedon, Kazui, Fox, etc.
Spoilers: Season One
Distribution/Archive: Ask first.
Feedback: Please
Summary: A day in the life.
---
The day begins for him around five a.m., when he rolls out of bed and stumbles down his stairs to start a pot of English Breakfast. While it brews, he packs a lunch for the day; usually just a bit of whatever is left over from last night’s supper in a microwavable container. If there’s nothing left over, he slaps together a lunchmeat sandwich. And he hopes, as he does every day, that he’ll have an opportunity to eat it.
After his first cup of tea, he has his shower and shave. He begins to feel more like a human than a grumpy bear woken mid-winter. He rummages through the kitchen looking for anything that the children might not have eaten that he can scarf down for a quick breakfast. If there is anything - and most often, there is not - he eats it; otherwise he sighs and shakes his head and makes a mental note to swing through the deli on his way to the school.
He’s out of the house by six forty-five, and in the library usually by seven. Not that any of them are there that early; classes don’t begin until seven forty-five, and Willow is the only one of the three who will be in her seat when the tardy bell rings. No, he is in the library already looking through books of prophecy and doom, trying to find out which of them might hold the key to his Slayer’s life or death in the coming night.
She arrives, trailing clouds of glory, somewhere between seven thirty and seven forty. She has come to sit on his research table and show off a bit of leg and perhaps mock him in her thoughtless California way for being old and tired. In this bright plastic throwaway culture, he imagines that to her he must seem as much a relic as anything he might have reverently placed under glass back in London at the museum. She is so very young, so full of life and he can never find it in himself to condemn her, even when she is at her worst.
The tardy bell rings after a time and she goes away, promising to return at her lunch break. She may or may not remember this promise. She leaves the library with a breezy farewell - seeya! - and she is gone. He looks up through the window at the bright blue California sky, and he says a soft prayer of thanks for her safety.
He breaks up his mornings. An hour spent on doing the actual job of school librarian - cataloguing books, directing the students who come in for research help, answering questions of a few stray faculty members. Then an hour spent doing his real job - seeking out the demons in the codexes, cleaning weapons, writing out reports or entries in his official journal. Then another hour of librarian, and then another hour of Watcher. Before he realizes it, it is eleven-thirty. He pauses for his own lunch then, if there is time, but sometimes (especially when there is a prophecy), there is not. Her lunch is at noon precisely. Sometimes she comes to see him. When she does, he is pleased and gratified. When she does not, he thinks little of it. She is very young.
When she comes, they spend a pleasant hour actually conversing. The lunch hour is the only time when they are guaranteed time just for the two of them; Willow has physics and Xander has geometry. They both get the first lunch break. Buffy has the third, and the breaks do not overlap. She will see them again in French, after her own lunch is over. At this time, though, it’s just the two of them, and they actually talk.
Sometimes she asks him about himself and his family, where and how he grew up and with whom. She knows all about his brothers and sisters, his many cousins, and his father who died when he was twelve. He knows all about her parents, her cousin Celia who died when they were both very small, her father’s philandering ways and the very real possibility that she might have a sibling she doesn’t know about: there was a girl who resembled her at her high school in Los Angeles and whose name made her father nervous.
Sometimes they talk about pop culture. She loves to explain things to him, references that he’s caught in their speech and doesn’t understand. Other times, she asks him to explain things to her, like the politics behind the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. She teases him about his amazing retention of historical and political facts, but she respects his knowledge and she learns from him. In return, he respects her and learns from her as well.
Then at twelve-forty, she takes her leave of him. As she goes, he looks out the window and at the sun, which is now visible in the California sky. He whispers a prayer again, usually of gratitude. She is the most amazing thing in his life, this ball of vibrance and energy in heart-stoppingly short dresses. He has given his entire life to her, since before she was ever born, and if he had a thousand more lives, he would give them as well, just for the chance to see her happy.
Being a Watcher is all he has ever known, since he was a very small child, and while he used to hate it and rail against his fate, he does no longer. The first time he looked into her eyes, he knew that he belonged to her, body and soul, and he would stay with her no matter what, through the end of time. He smiles and goes back to his work. An hour of librarian; an hour of Watcher.
At three o’clock on the dot, the final bell of the day rings. The sound of youth fills the halls outside, and he puts away whatever he is working on, closing the library down for the evening. Some days she comes to him to train; others, she does not. More often than not, she comes. Despite her cavalier outer attitude, he knows that she takes her training seriously. She wants to live, and she knows that what he teaches will keep her alive. Her friends come with her in the afternoons, ordinarily. They train. She leaves, and if he is not meeting her for patrol, she promises to call when it is over.
As she leaves, he looks out the window at the California sky, and whispers a prayer for her safety. He wants someday to look on the faces of her children. He wants her someday to look on the faces of her grandchildren.
After her training is over, he is alone again, and he finishes his last cleanup before leaving the library for the evening. He goes home, has his supper and feeds the stray cat that has taken up residence on his back patio. He doesn’t call the cat by name, but in his mind, when he thinks of it, he refers to it as Lucky. It has only one eye, its left ear is ragged, and it walks with a limp. He has always done irony well.
His evenings are spent in more research, until his eyes will no longer focus on the pages. When darkness truly falls, he looks out his window at the California sky, and he whispers another prayer for her safety as she enters the dank underbelly of the Hellmouth. Sometimes he goes to meet her as planned; sometimes he spontaneously decides to go meet her. Sometimes he stays home and practices his guitar, knowing that she does occasionally need the chance to be out by herself, to feel as though he trusts her to manage on her own. Not that she is usually alone; her friends go with her, or the shadowy figure of Angel follows her.
It is usually after midnight, closer to one o’clock, before his telephone rings. He picks up on the first ring every time. It is her, speaking in a whisper. Just wanted to let you know I’m safe at home, she says, and he smiles as he tells her to get some rest and asks her to swing by the library in the morning to brief him. She says goodnight and hangs up. He switches off lights, puts his guitar away, brushes his teeth and goes up to bed.
Before he gets between his sheets, he walks to the window and looks out at the stars which speckle and spangle the California sky. He closes his eyes, and he breathes out the words of gratitude that don’t even come close to expressing what his heart feels. Then he climbs into bed and puts out the bedside lamp. He drifts off to sleep, and most nights he dreams of her until five a.m. comes again and he rolls out of bed to face another day.
--fin--
Rating: G/FRC
Pairing: B/G friendship
Disclaimers: Buffy & Co. belong to Joss Whedon, Kazui, Fox, etc.
Spoilers: Season One
Distribution/Archive: Ask first.
Feedback: Please
Summary: A day in the life.
---
The day begins for him around five a.m., when he rolls out of bed and stumbles down his stairs to start a pot of English Breakfast. While it brews, he packs a lunch for the day; usually just a bit of whatever is left over from last night’s supper in a microwavable container. If there’s nothing left over, he slaps together a lunchmeat sandwich. And he hopes, as he does every day, that he’ll have an opportunity to eat it.
After his first cup of tea, he has his shower and shave. He begins to feel more like a human than a grumpy bear woken mid-winter. He rummages through the kitchen looking for anything that the children might not have eaten that he can scarf down for a quick breakfast. If there is anything - and most often, there is not - he eats it; otherwise he sighs and shakes his head and makes a mental note to swing through the deli on his way to the school.
He’s out of the house by six forty-five, and in the library usually by seven. Not that any of them are there that early; classes don’t begin until seven forty-five, and Willow is the only one of the three who will be in her seat when the tardy bell rings. No, he is in the library already looking through books of prophecy and doom, trying to find out which of them might hold the key to his Slayer’s life or death in the coming night.
She arrives, trailing clouds of glory, somewhere between seven thirty and seven forty. She has come to sit on his research table and show off a bit of leg and perhaps mock him in her thoughtless California way for being old and tired. In this bright plastic throwaway culture, he imagines that to her he must seem as much a relic as anything he might have reverently placed under glass back in London at the museum. She is so very young, so full of life and he can never find it in himself to condemn her, even when she is at her worst.
The tardy bell rings after a time and she goes away, promising to return at her lunch break. She may or may not remember this promise. She leaves the library with a breezy farewell - seeya! - and she is gone. He looks up through the window at the bright blue California sky, and he says a soft prayer of thanks for her safety.
He breaks up his mornings. An hour spent on doing the actual job of school librarian - cataloguing books, directing the students who come in for research help, answering questions of a few stray faculty members. Then an hour spent doing his real job - seeking out the demons in the codexes, cleaning weapons, writing out reports or entries in his official journal. Then another hour of librarian, and then another hour of Watcher. Before he realizes it, it is eleven-thirty. He pauses for his own lunch then, if there is time, but sometimes (especially when there is a prophecy), there is not. Her lunch is at noon precisely. Sometimes she comes to see him. When she does, he is pleased and gratified. When she does not, he thinks little of it. She is very young.
When she comes, they spend a pleasant hour actually conversing. The lunch hour is the only time when they are guaranteed time just for the two of them; Willow has physics and Xander has geometry. They both get the first lunch break. Buffy has the third, and the breaks do not overlap. She will see them again in French, after her own lunch is over. At this time, though, it’s just the two of them, and they actually talk.
Sometimes she asks him about himself and his family, where and how he grew up and with whom. She knows all about his brothers and sisters, his many cousins, and his father who died when he was twelve. He knows all about her parents, her cousin Celia who died when they were both very small, her father’s philandering ways and the very real possibility that she might have a sibling she doesn’t know about: there was a girl who resembled her at her high school in Los Angeles and whose name made her father nervous.
Sometimes they talk about pop culture. She loves to explain things to him, references that he’s caught in their speech and doesn’t understand. Other times, she asks him to explain things to her, like the politics behind the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. She teases him about his amazing retention of historical and political facts, but she respects his knowledge and she learns from him. In return, he respects her and learns from her as well.
Then at twelve-forty, she takes her leave of him. As she goes, he looks out the window and at the sun, which is now visible in the California sky. He whispers a prayer again, usually of gratitude. She is the most amazing thing in his life, this ball of vibrance and energy in heart-stoppingly short dresses. He has given his entire life to her, since before she was ever born, and if he had a thousand more lives, he would give them as well, just for the chance to see her happy.
Being a Watcher is all he has ever known, since he was a very small child, and while he used to hate it and rail against his fate, he does no longer. The first time he looked into her eyes, he knew that he belonged to her, body and soul, and he would stay with her no matter what, through the end of time. He smiles and goes back to his work. An hour of librarian; an hour of Watcher.
At three o’clock on the dot, the final bell of the day rings. The sound of youth fills the halls outside, and he puts away whatever he is working on, closing the library down for the evening. Some days she comes to him to train; others, she does not. More often than not, she comes. Despite her cavalier outer attitude, he knows that she takes her training seriously. She wants to live, and she knows that what he teaches will keep her alive. Her friends come with her in the afternoons, ordinarily. They train. She leaves, and if he is not meeting her for patrol, she promises to call when it is over.
As she leaves, he looks out the window at the California sky, and whispers a prayer for her safety. He wants someday to look on the faces of her children. He wants her someday to look on the faces of her grandchildren.
After her training is over, he is alone again, and he finishes his last cleanup before leaving the library for the evening. He goes home, has his supper and feeds the stray cat that has taken up residence on his back patio. He doesn’t call the cat by name, but in his mind, when he thinks of it, he refers to it as Lucky. It has only one eye, its left ear is ragged, and it walks with a limp. He has always done irony well.
His evenings are spent in more research, until his eyes will no longer focus on the pages. When darkness truly falls, he looks out his window at the California sky, and he whispers another prayer for her safety as she enters the dank underbelly of the Hellmouth. Sometimes he goes to meet her as planned; sometimes he spontaneously decides to go meet her. Sometimes he stays home and practices his guitar, knowing that she does occasionally need the chance to be out by herself, to feel as though he trusts her to manage on her own. Not that she is usually alone; her friends go with her, or the shadowy figure of Angel follows her.
It is usually after midnight, closer to one o’clock, before his telephone rings. He picks up on the first ring every time. It is her, speaking in a whisper. Just wanted to let you know I’m safe at home, she says, and he smiles as he tells her to get some rest and asks her to swing by the library in the morning to brief him. She says goodnight and hangs up. He switches off lights, puts his guitar away, brushes his teeth and goes up to bed.
Before he gets between his sheets, he walks to the window and looks out at the stars which speckle and spangle the California sky. He closes his eyes, and he breathes out the words of gratitude that don’t even come close to expressing what his heart feels. Then he climbs into bed and puts out the bedside lamp. He drifts off to sleep, and most nights he dreams of her until five a.m. comes again and he rolls out of bed to face another day.
--fin--