Happy Birthday Lori!
Happy, happy, joy, joy to ljs. It's her birthday, I hear - or will be by the time she reads this. And I have a prezzie. :-)
Now, let it first be said that no one writes Lori's OTP like Lori does. However, I give it a feeble attempt, on occasion. This is a little something I whipped up for her, completely unbeta'd and a bit silly. No master spies, I'm afraid, but it does contain several other of Lori's favorite things.
Takes place, let's say, a bit after "BotN" or whatever that season 7 episode was where Buffy mentioned it was almost Christmas. And it's completely canon, of course. Well, except for that part where Giles doesn't touch anything. Because that was stupid. Or, perhaps Anya just lied about that so she would have an excuse to tackle him and feel him up. Yes, let's go with that.
Now, for a title. Let's see. A fic for Lori, and it has a bit of a holiday theme .... Let's call it,
“You’re wallowing, again.”
He reaches up to remove his glasses and rub a hand wearily over his face, and is a bit embarrassed to find he has a few days growth of beard. Well God forbid he get long enough in front of the mirror to actually shave, what with all the females in the house. He’s lucky he gets to bathe at all.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she says, sitting down on the arm of his chair. “It’s quite attractive.”
He’s confused. Does she mean the stubble? He didn’t think that was “in” anymore.
“Inner torment is very intriguing, I’ll give you that, but ever since you’ve come back you’ve been all tense. More than usual, I mean. And I know you have a lot on your mind, with all the slayers and the watchers being killed, and the council blowing up, and blah, blah, blah. But all work and no play make Rupert a cranky watcher.”
He should be cross with her; she shows such a woeful lack of concern for his colleagues. But after all this time he knows her, sees through the callous comments to the feeling underneath. Anya can’t help those dead slayers and watchers, so she doesn’t waste her time moping about them. Instead she worries about those she can have some effect on. She worries about him.
And did she say ‘play?’
“Anya, where is everyone?”
She looks directly, deliberately, into his eyes. “Everyone is out. Rupie.”
He’s noticed that she only calls him by his first name when no one else can hear. Now, of course, she’s used the little endearment last heard right before their first and only kiss, the memory of which is still seared on his lips and on his brain. That memory has led to many dangerous thoughts over the last few months, and oh he’s in risky territory now, because Anya has been speaking and he hasn’t been listening. It’s not his fault; he’s been distracted. By the curve of her thigh which rests provocatively on the arm of the chair. By the swell of her breast as she leans over to pluck the volume he was reading from his hands and toss it - a centuries old rarity - haphazardly onto the side table. The book nearly knocks over his tumbler of scotch, but thankfully he saves it in the nick of time.
It’s good scotch, after all.
“Would you like a taste, love?” He can’t stop the small smile he feels forming on his lips with this bold foray into flirtation, and enjoys immensely her answering smirk. If he was somehow hoping to embarrass her and thus extricate himself from this perilous situation, his plan is failing miserably. This is Anya, after all. She reaches out her index finger with its perfectly polished nail, and dips it slowly into his glass, swirling the amber liquid delicately, ice cubes clinking together. A most delightful sound. She withdraws just as slowly and places the finger into her mouth. Rosebud lips close delicately, provocatively, as she consumes every drop.
“Actually,” she says, running her tongue over her lips, “I prefer champagne.”
And with that she is gone, an action he would regret if he did not now have the exquisite pleasure of watching her denim clad behind sashaying toward the kitchen. He can still see her from where he sits. She holds the refrigerator door open with her hip, and methodically begins to remove the contents, narrating all the while.
“Diet coke, diet coke, diet coke - that would be Buffy’s main source of nutrition since Spike got kidnapped; Xander’s beer, Xander’s beer, Dawn’s ... I have no idea what this is or why she has not yet died of food poisoning; diet coke, leftover pizza, diet coke - that would belong to our slayer wannabe’s. Here it is! I was afraid that Kennedy person might have found it.”
Triumphantly, she pulls out a bottle of champagne. Tucking it under her arm, she shoves the other items back in the fridge, and then turns to grab something from a high cupboard. Petite as she is, she has to stand on tip toe, even with the high heeled black boots she is wearing, and her shirt pulls up to reveal a smooth expanse of fair skin. He silently thanks whoever placed those champagne glasses on the high shelf. Then she returns to her seat on the arm of his chair, and hands him the bottle.
“While I’m quite capable of opening this, in my experience men seem to think it is their right to do so, much like grilling large slabs of meat when they otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near food preparation. It’s quite silly, of course, but if it makes you happy, then, whatever.”
“Anya, really ...” God, she smells good. And when he looks up into her face, her eyes dance merrily and her lips quirk with barely suppressed laughter. He lets out a chuckle and turns his attention, reluctantly, back to the bottle. “Taittinger? How ever did you afford this?”
“Oh, that. Well, you weren’t here when the guy with the magic jacket came by, were you? And I was trying to ...” When she doesn’t finish, he looks up again and she shakes her head vehemently and smiles a tad too brightly. “Oh never mind! Silly me! You wouldn’t be interested in how I came into all that money. Just a silly, silly spell it was, and yes, it was *very* difficult to find a decent champagne in Sunnydale.”
She begins to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze, and he finds he quite likes the effect. Shouldn’t push it too far, though. “Yes, quite. Well, we’ll just ignore the fact that the champagne is ‘hot’ for the moment. It’s far too fine a vintage to waste on the Sunnydale police now, isn’t it?” He pops the cork, and she jumps ever so slightly at the sound, bumping up against his side. Then she holds out the glasses.
“I originally bought this for New Year’s Eve, but I figure hey, it’s almost Christmas, or one of those winter holidays,” she says. “Besides, we might not make it to New Year’s, and I don’t want to waste it.”
He can’t help smiling at her macabre practicality. “Pragmatic as always. And thank you for choosing me to share it with.”
Their eyes lock for a moment, and everything about her, all the sharp angles and precise lines that always seem to be so much a part of Anya, appear to soften and blur as he gazes at her. “You’re the only one who would appreciate it,” she says, her voice softer too, and he wonders if she means just the champagne.
He clears his throat, and pours the bubbly into the flutes she still holds. His hand shakes a little, and both glasses threaten to overflow. The two of them lean in at the same time to take a sip, his hand holding her wrist loosely, their heads close together, faces a fraction of an inch apart.
“Are you alright? I really want you to be alright,” she says, and he finds himself unable to answer, backing away.
“Christmas!” he says, seizing on a neutral topic. “You said, something, about Christmas. And Buffy mentioned decorating the, er, ‘rubble,’ as she put it, but apparently she hasn’t had a chance.” He sets the bottle down on the floor and looks around the room. “Not a shred of tinsel nor a sprig of mistletoe to be found.” He lets out a nervous laugh. Why he mentioned mistletoe he has no idea. Stupid bloody subconscious.
“Some of us don’t need an excuse,” Anya says. She leans in before he has a chance to respond and kisses him. Her lips are soft and warm, and taste of lip gloss and the tang of champagne. One of his hands still holds his glass awkwardly while the other reaches up to caress her face.
“Oh, Anya,” he says, and kisses her again. He envisions tossing the glass aside and pulling her down into his lap. Losing himself in her, forgetting all the pain and death and destruction that has been and is still to come. But there is the turn of a key in the lock, and the moment is over. He pulls away and she reluctantly stands up and moves away from the chair.
“Hey guys, what’s up?” Willow steps aside to let Kennedy through the door. They are both laden with bags, which they proceed to dump on the sofa.
“It’s the holidays,” Anya says dully, holding up her glass, as if that explains everything.
“Great minds think alike!” Willow says. “We got decorations, since most of Buffy’s got trashed. We wanted to surprise her.”
“Mmm, champagne!” Kennedy says, zeroing in on the bottle at Giles’s feet. “Let’s party!”
Anya eyes her with disdain, and Giles wonders what sort of vengeance she might be conjuring in that brilliantly dangerous mind of hers. “If I’m not mistaken, you are not yet twenty-one. It may be legal for Willow to have sex with you, but sorry, no alcohol for you, missy.”
Giles chokes on his champagne.
Kennedy rolls her eyes and stomps disgustedly into the kitchen, while Willow’s face turns as red as her hair. “We’re not! We never! We just met!“ Giles holds out the bottle to her, but she shakes her head. “None for me, either. Why don’t you two get started on the decorating?” she says, before rushing from the room.
Anya tips her glass back and then smiles triumphantly. “Well,” she says, “that was easy.”
He watches as she strolls over to the sofa and starts sifting through the packages. A mischievous smile plays over her lips as she turns to him, holding aloft a sprig of greenery tied with a bright red ribbon.
“Look,” she says, moving towards him. “Mistletoe.”
Hope you like it. Happy Birthday, Lori!
Now, let it first be said that no one writes Lori's OTP like Lori does. However, I give it a feeble attempt, on occasion. This is a little something I whipped up for her, completely unbeta'd and a bit silly. No master spies, I'm afraid, but it does contain several other of Lori's favorite things.
Takes place, let's say, a bit after "BotN" or whatever that season 7 episode was where Buffy mentioned it was almost Christmas. And it's completely canon, of course. Well, except for that part where Giles doesn't touch anything. Because that was stupid. Or, perhaps Anya just lied about that so she would have an excuse to tackle him and feel him up. Yes, let's go with that.
Now, for a title. Let's see. A fic for Lori, and it has a bit of a holiday theme .... Let's call it,
“You’re wallowing, again.”
He reaches up to remove his glasses and rub a hand wearily over his face, and is a bit embarrassed to find he has a few days growth of beard. Well God forbid he get long enough in front of the mirror to actually shave, what with all the females in the house. He’s lucky he gets to bathe at all.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she says, sitting down on the arm of his chair. “It’s quite attractive.”
He’s confused. Does she mean the stubble? He didn’t think that was “in” anymore.
“Inner torment is very intriguing, I’ll give you that, but ever since you’ve come back you’ve been all tense. More than usual, I mean. And I know you have a lot on your mind, with all the slayers and the watchers being killed, and the council blowing up, and blah, blah, blah. But all work and no play make Rupert a cranky watcher.”
He should be cross with her; she shows such a woeful lack of concern for his colleagues. But after all this time he knows her, sees through the callous comments to the feeling underneath. Anya can’t help those dead slayers and watchers, so she doesn’t waste her time moping about them. Instead she worries about those she can have some effect on. She worries about him.
And did she say ‘play?’
“Anya, where is everyone?”
She looks directly, deliberately, into his eyes. “Everyone is out. Rupie.”
He’s noticed that she only calls him by his first name when no one else can hear. Now, of course, she’s used the little endearment last heard right before their first and only kiss, the memory of which is still seared on his lips and on his brain. That memory has led to many dangerous thoughts over the last few months, and oh he’s in risky territory now, because Anya has been speaking and he hasn’t been listening. It’s not his fault; he’s been distracted. By the curve of her thigh which rests provocatively on the arm of the chair. By the swell of her breast as she leans over to pluck the volume he was reading from his hands and toss it - a centuries old rarity - haphazardly onto the side table. The book nearly knocks over his tumbler of scotch, but thankfully he saves it in the nick of time.
It’s good scotch, after all.
“Would you like a taste, love?” He can’t stop the small smile he feels forming on his lips with this bold foray into flirtation, and enjoys immensely her answering smirk. If he was somehow hoping to embarrass her and thus extricate himself from this perilous situation, his plan is failing miserably. This is Anya, after all. She reaches out her index finger with its perfectly polished nail, and dips it slowly into his glass, swirling the amber liquid delicately, ice cubes clinking together. A most delightful sound. She withdraws just as slowly and places the finger into her mouth. Rosebud lips close delicately, provocatively, as she consumes every drop.
“Actually,” she says, running her tongue over her lips, “I prefer champagne.”
And with that she is gone, an action he would regret if he did not now have the exquisite pleasure of watching her denim clad behind sashaying toward the kitchen. He can still see her from where he sits. She holds the refrigerator door open with her hip, and methodically begins to remove the contents, narrating all the while.
“Diet coke, diet coke, diet coke - that would be Buffy’s main source of nutrition since Spike got kidnapped; Xander’s beer, Xander’s beer, Dawn’s ... I have no idea what this is or why she has not yet died of food poisoning; diet coke, leftover pizza, diet coke - that would belong to our slayer wannabe’s. Here it is! I was afraid that Kennedy person might have found it.”
Triumphantly, she pulls out a bottle of champagne. Tucking it under her arm, she shoves the other items back in the fridge, and then turns to grab something from a high cupboard. Petite as she is, she has to stand on tip toe, even with the high heeled black boots she is wearing, and her shirt pulls up to reveal a smooth expanse of fair skin. He silently thanks whoever placed those champagne glasses on the high shelf. Then she returns to her seat on the arm of his chair, and hands him the bottle.
“While I’m quite capable of opening this, in my experience men seem to think it is their right to do so, much like grilling large slabs of meat when they otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near food preparation. It’s quite silly, of course, but if it makes you happy, then, whatever.”
“Anya, really ...” God, she smells good. And when he looks up into her face, her eyes dance merrily and her lips quirk with barely suppressed laughter. He lets out a chuckle and turns his attention, reluctantly, back to the bottle. “Taittinger? How ever did you afford this?”
“Oh, that. Well, you weren’t here when the guy with the magic jacket came by, were you? And I was trying to ...” When she doesn’t finish, he looks up again and she shakes her head vehemently and smiles a tad too brightly. “Oh never mind! Silly me! You wouldn’t be interested in how I came into all that money. Just a silly, silly spell it was, and yes, it was *very* difficult to find a decent champagne in Sunnydale.”
She begins to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze, and he finds he quite likes the effect. Shouldn’t push it too far, though. “Yes, quite. Well, we’ll just ignore the fact that the champagne is ‘hot’ for the moment. It’s far too fine a vintage to waste on the Sunnydale police now, isn’t it?” He pops the cork, and she jumps ever so slightly at the sound, bumping up against his side. Then she holds out the glasses.
“I originally bought this for New Year’s Eve, but I figure hey, it’s almost Christmas, or one of those winter holidays,” she says. “Besides, we might not make it to New Year’s, and I don’t want to waste it.”
He can’t help smiling at her macabre practicality. “Pragmatic as always. And thank you for choosing me to share it with.”
Their eyes lock for a moment, and everything about her, all the sharp angles and precise lines that always seem to be so much a part of Anya, appear to soften and blur as he gazes at her. “You’re the only one who would appreciate it,” she says, her voice softer too, and he wonders if she means just the champagne.
He clears his throat, and pours the bubbly into the flutes she still holds. His hand shakes a little, and both glasses threaten to overflow. The two of them lean in at the same time to take a sip, his hand holding her wrist loosely, their heads close together, faces a fraction of an inch apart.
“Are you alright? I really want you to be alright,” she says, and he finds himself unable to answer, backing away.
“Christmas!” he says, seizing on a neutral topic. “You said, something, about Christmas. And Buffy mentioned decorating the, er, ‘rubble,’ as she put it, but apparently she hasn’t had a chance.” He sets the bottle down on the floor and looks around the room. “Not a shred of tinsel nor a sprig of mistletoe to be found.” He lets out a nervous laugh. Why he mentioned mistletoe he has no idea. Stupid bloody subconscious.
“Some of us don’t need an excuse,” Anya says. She leans in before he has a chance to respond and kisses him. Her lips are soft and warm, and taste of lip gloss and the tang of champagne. One of his hands still holds his glass awkwardly while the other reaches up to caress her face.
“Oh, Anya,” he says, and kisses her again. He envisions tossing the glass aside and pulling her down into his lap. Losing himself in her, forgetting all the pain and death and destruction that has been and is still to come. But there is the turn of a key in the lock, and the moment is over. He pulls away and she reluctantly stands up and moves away from the chair.
“Hey guys, what’s up?” Willow steps aside to let Kennedy through the door. They are both laden with bags, which they proceed to dump on the sofa.
“It’s the holidays,” Anya says dully, holding up her glass, as if that explains everything.
“Great minds think alike!” Willow says. “We got decorations, since most of Buffy’s got trashed. We wanted to surprise her.”
“Mmm, champagne!” Kennedy says, zeroing in on the bottle at Giles’s feet. “Let’s party!”
Anya eyes her with disdain, and Giles wonders what sort of vengeance she might be conjuring in that brilliantly dangerous mind of hers. “If I’m not mistaken, you are not yet twenty-one. It may be legal for Willow to have sex with you, but sorry, no alcohol for you, missy.”
Giles chokes on his champagne.
Kennedy rolls her eyes and stomps disgustedly into the kitchen, while Willow’s face turns as red as her hair. “We’re not! We never! We just met!“ Giles holds out the bottle to her, but she shakes her head. “None for me, either. Why don’t you two get started on the decorating?” she says, before rushing from the room.
Anya tips her glass back and then smiles triumphantly. “Well,” she says, “that was easy.”
He watches as she strolls over to the sofa and starts sifting through the packages. A mischievous smile plays over her lips as she turns to him, holding aloft a sprig of greenery tied with a bright red ribbon.
“Look,” she says, moving towards him. “Mistletoe.”
Hope you like it. Happy Birthday, Lori!