Ficlet for Summer-of-Giles: The Watcher's Night Off (Rated G)
Several things happened last night: 1) I freaked out at the realization that today would be free posting day at summer-of-giles, something I'd personally requested from the mods (due to my commitaphobia in signing up to own a whole day in the first place), 2) Asked my wonderful flist for very (literally) eleventh-hour prompts and received help right away, and 3) Whipped up this quickie of a Giles character study. Not quite polished.
Because I got more prompts, this may turn into a ficlet series. I consider the ficlet "Lust at First Sight" the prequel.
Title: The Watcher's Night Off
Length: 340 words
Characters: Giles only
Rated: G/FRC
Disclaimer: Giles is not mine. Oh well.
That meditation reduced stress and promoted healing, he had no doubt. But his particular struggle in life-work balance sought another venue for release, one that embraced his jumbles of thoughts and amassed worries instead of repelling them-as demanded by meditation’s first step in clearing one’s mind.
Then there was the matter of being still in meditation. So much of his work required a certain stillness, both physical and emotional. Duty compelled him. He was always buried in ancient books for research, ever the stoic rock of his Slayer. Even his cover as the high school librarian served as a type of restraint, a gag order imposed on his self-expression.
As a Watcher, peace was his goal, yet violence became his calling. As a librarian, order was his decree, yet chaos ruled his life. As Rupert Giles? Decorum might have been in his blood, discipline in his upbringing, but music-he claimed it as his own, and in turn, it set him free.
So he played, hugging the familiar curves of his Martin D-28 not only to his body, but also to his heart, blasting accumulated bodily tension through perfectly-tuned strings, replacing life’s pressure with the simple pressure of copper wires across strumming fingers. Silence shattered, and joy surged.
So he sang, of all that he couldn’t hold but had yet to let go, repressed emotions soaring into poetry, retelling of memories too painful to lay bare in a sober conversation. He’d never boast of spinning straw into gold, but he weaved pieces of his soul into songs, his words gliding gently over his wounds. Secrets dissolved, and relief triumphed.
It was only when the last note rang out, instantly drowning in applause that he regained awareness of the cafe’s audience, the flimsy “Open Mic Night” banner hanging lopsided over the makeshift stage he occupied. How strange that when he could finally unload his heart in this act of intimacy, it was to a motley crew of strangers, when it’d been too difficult to share with the Scoobies, those closest to him?
Because I got more prompts, this may turn into a ficlet series. I consider the ficlet "Lust at First Sight" the prequel.
Title: The Watcher's Night Off
Length: 340 words
Characters: Giles only
Rated: G/FRC
Disclaimer: Giles is not mine. Oh well.
That meditation reduced stress and promoted healing, he had no doubt. But his particular struggle in life-work balance sought another venue for release, one that embraced his jumbles of thoughts and amassed worries instead of repelling them-as demanded by meditation’s first step in clearing one’s mind.
Then there was the matter of being still in meditation. So much of his work required a certain stillness, both physical and emotional. Duty compelled him. He was always buried in ancient books for research, ever the stoic rock of his Slayer. Even his cover as the high school librarian served as a type of restraint, a gag order imposed on his self-expression.
As a Watcher, peace was his goal, yet violence became his calling. As a librarian, order was his decree, yet chaos ruled his life. As Rupert Giles? Decorum might have been in his blood, discipline in his upbringing, but music-he claimed it as his own, and in turn, it set him free.
So he played, hugging the familiar curves of his Martin D-28 not only to his body, but also to his heart, blasting accumulated bodily tension through perfectly-tuned strings, replacing life’s pressure with the simple pressure of copper wires across strumming fingers. Silence shattered, and joy surged.
So he sang, of all that he couldn’t hold but had yet to let go, repressed emotions soaring into poetry, retelling of memories too painful to lay bare in a sober conversation. He’d never boast of spinning straw into gold, but he weaved pieces of his soul into songs, his words gliding gently over his wounds. Secrets dissolved, and relief triumphed.
It was only when the last note rang out, instantly drowning in applause that he regained awareness of the cafe’s audience, the flimsy “Open Mic Night” banner hanging lopsided over the makeshift stage he occupied. How strange that when he could finally unload his heart in this act of intimacy, it was to a motley crew of strangers, when it’d been too difficult to share with the Scoobies, those closest to him?