ljs
in
giles_shorts
Return (Giles/Anya; Rated G)
For il_mio_capitano's December prompt of Home is where the heart is....
TITLE: Return
AUTHOR: LJS
PAIRING: Giles/Anya
RATING: G
LENGTH: 925 words
SUMMARY: Going AU after "Chosen." Giles, mourning, has come back to England. He just has to make one stop first.
“Welcome back, sir,” the Immigration Control official says, and pushes the passport across the desk.
Giles, weary from the transatlantic flight and the last year of loss and apocalypse, manages a smile, barely, and manages not to stumble as he walks toward the baggage reclaim.
Home, he tells himself. This is supposed to be home.
The Scoobies - those who survived - have regrouped. Buffy is healing, stronger now than ever she was, but quietly sad for the loss of Spike; Willow too is stronger, more in control, and Dawn is finding herself. Xander is well, it seems. For all, there has been reconnection with those few Watchers who survived the First’s attacks, and the makings of a new Council are in place. And Giles has taken a step back from them all.
He stands at the carrousel watching the bags coming out of the depths, and he shudders, thinking of Sunnydale falling into the earth, thinking of the constant, threatening rumble as the bus pulled away from the gaping hole that was left.
Thinking of those who were lost inside that same open wound in the earth. Thinking, in fact, of Anya.
He had never felt so old as when he realised she was gone. He had never been angrier - at Buffy for teaming Anya with that bloody Andrew, at her for going off and dying, at himself for never telling her how he felt about her. She had been free those last few months, he could have made the connection he craved, but… he’d been a sodding fool. He’d said nothing when he had the chance.
He still has said nothing about this horrible sense of emptiness, not in the months since the fall. Willow, he thinks, might have noticed; Dawn, too. But he has been waiting for home so that he can break down in private.
His bag comes off the carrousel first. He’s travelling light these days. All he needs to do in London is pick up a couple of arcane texts from that magic shop in Covent Garden, hire a car, and drive back to the West Country where he can hide, read, mourn. He has a deal of mourning to do.
When he’s on the train into town, he retrieves a printout of the email from the magic shop… Ash and Light, it’s called. The hours are irregular, the email notes, but the new clerk will be available any time after nine o’clock to let him in. He should ring thrice.
He lets the paper fall to his lap, and watches outer London flash by, green and grey, new life, old stone.
When he gets off the train at Paddington, he catches the Tube for Piccadilly. He’ll walk from there, he thinks - but he has to force himself down into the depths of the Bakerloo line. He hears the rumble of Sunnydale’s fall in the echoing tunnels.
Ash and Light, he tells himself. That’s where he’s going.
And he does feel better when he climbs up into Piccadilly Circus. The sun is out on this fine September morning. He takes a deep breath, and -
Stumbles, as he smells Anya’s perfume. Blinks himself awake. Tells himself not to be a git about these stupid coincidences, these moments of accidental pain. He’s lost people before. He’ll no doubt lose people again.
But he finds himself walking fast through the streets, taking old shortcuts, looking at his watch. Just past nine o’clock. The shop clerk will be there.
A flash of sun catches his eyes, and he thinks about mornings in the Magic Box, beams of light across the floor, Anya waltzing in and out of the light with potions, candles. With books.
He almost gets mowed down crossing St Martin’s Lane, so lost in the memory as he is. But he’s safe. He’s almost there.
Ash and Light is not in Covent Garden proper, not the new structure, but just off it in an all but hidden lane. Its shop window gleams, although the sun doesn’t reach it. When he gets to it, however, he can’t see through the glass. He can just barely make out a glimmer inside the shop.
The bell is ornate, very old indeed, picked out in gold. Real gold, he thinks with some bemusement. He takes a very deep breath, centering himself, and then presses it.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
There’s a clatter of high heels inside, and a muttering female voice. Without his realising it, he lets his bag fall to the ground - he needs his hands free, he couldn’t say why.
The door opens creakingly, and she’s there. Anya.
He takes off his glasses. She’s still there.
“Hi,” she says, “you must be….” Her eyes widen, and she takes a step back. “You must be… Giles. Giles. You’re Giles.” With each repetition her voice gets higher in that much-missed soprano.
“Yes,” he says. He swallows hard. “Do you know me?”
And around them there comes the rumble of earthquake and the shattering of glass several months and thousands of miles away. Her hand covers her mouth, and then drops away almost at once. “I remember!” she cries, and hurtles across the threshold in a punch of her own particular energy. “Giles!”
The scent of her perfume reaches him just before she’s there, embracing him with her own sweet strength. “Anya,” he says hoarsely, and gathers her close, even as she’s burrowing in. “Anya.”
There are questions upon questions, but he’ll ask them later.
Welcome back, he thinks as she looks up, as he bends to kiss her. This is home.
TITLE: Return
AUTHOR: LJS
PAIRING: Giles/Anya
RATING: G
LENGTH: 925 words
SUMMARY: Going AU after "Chosen." Giles, mourning, has come back to England. He just has to make one stop first.
“Welcome back, sir,” the Immigration Control official says, and pushes the passport across the desk.
Giles, weary from the transatlantic flight and the last year of loss and apocalypse, manages a smile, barely, and manages not to stumble as he walks toward the baggage reclaim.
Home, he tells himself. This is supposed to be home.
The Scoobies - those who survived - have regrouped. Buffy is healing, stronger now than ever she was, but quietly sad for the loss of Spike; Willow too is stronger, more in control, and Dawn is finding herself. Xander is well, it seems. For all, there has been reconnection with those few Watchers who survived the First’s attacks, and the makings of a new Council are in place. And Giles has taken a step back from them all.
He stands at the carrousel watching the bags coming out of the depths, and he shudders, thinking of Sunnydale falling into the earth, thinking of the constant, threatening rumble as the bus pulled away from the gaping hole that was left.
Thinking of those who were lost inside that same open wound in the earth. Thinking, in fact, of Anya.
He had never felt so old as when he realised she was gone. He had never been angrier - at Buffy for teaming Anya with that bloody Andrew, at her for going off and dying, at himself for never telling her how he felt about her. She had been free those last few months, he could have made the connection he craved, but… he’d been a sodding fool. He’d said nothing when he had the chance.
He still has said nothing about this horrible sense of emptiness, not in the months since the fall. Willow, he thinks, might have noticed; Dawn, too. But he has been waiting for home so that he can break down in private.
His bag comes off the carrousel first. He’s travelling light these days. All he needs to do in London is pick up a couple of arcane texts from that magic shop in Covent Garden, hire a car, and drive back to the West Country where he can hide, read, mourn. He has a deal of mourning to do.
When he’s on the train into town, he retrieves a printout of the email from the magic shop… Ash and Light, it’s called. The hours are irregular, the email notes, but the new clerk will be available any time after nine o’clock to let him in. He should ring thrice.
He lets the paper fall to his lap, and watches outer London flash by, green and grey, new life, old stone.
When he gets off the train at Paddington, he catches the Tube for Piccadilly. He’ll walk from there, he thinks - but he has to force himself down into the depths of the Bakerloo line. He hears the rumble of Sunnydale’s fall in the echoing tunnels.
Ash and Light, he tells himself. That’s where he’s going.
And he does feel better when he climbs up into Piccadilly Circus. The sun is out on this fine September morning. He takes a deep breath, and -
Stumbles, as he smells Anya’s perfume. Blinks himself awake. Tells himself not to be a git about these stupid coincidences, these moments of accidental pain. He’s lost people before. He’ll no doubt lose people again.
But he finds himself walking fast through the streets, taking old shortcuts, looking at his watch. Just past nine o’clock. The shop clerk will be there.
A flash of sun catches his eyes, and he thinks about mornings in the Magic Box, beams of light across the floor, Anya waltzing in and out of the light with potions, candles. With books.
He almost gets mowed down crossing St Martin’s Lane, so lost in the memory as he is. But he’s safe. He’s almost there.
Ash and Light is not in Covent Garden proper, not the new structure, but just off it in an all but hidden lane. Its shop window gleams, although the sun doesn’t reach it. When he gets to it, however, he can’t see through the glass. He can just barely make out a glimmer inside the shop.
The bell is ornate, very old indeed, picked out in gold. Real gold, he thinks with some bemusement. He takes a very deep breath, centering himself, and then presses it.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
There’s a clatter of high heels inside, and a muttering female voice. Without his realising it, he lets his bag fall to the ground - he needs his hands free, he couldn’t say why.
The door opens creakingly, and she’s there. Anya.
He takes off his glasses. She’s still there.
“Hi,” she says, “you must be….” Her eyes widen, and she takes a step back. “You must be… Giles. Giles. You’re Giles.” With each repetition her voice gets higher in that much-missed soprano.
“Yes,” he says. He swallows hard. “Do you know me?”
And around them there comes the rumble of earthquake and the shattering of glass several months and thousands of miles away. Her hand covers her mouth, and then drops away almost at once. “I remember!” she cries, and hurtles across the threshold in a punch of her own particular energy. “Giles!”
The scent of her perfume reaches him just before she’s there, embracing him with her own sweet strength. “Anya,” he says hoarsely, and gathers her close, even as she’s burrowing in. “Anya.”
There are questions upon questions, but he’ll ask them later.
Welcome back, he thinks as she looks up, as he bends to kiss her. This is home.