Almost by request...
Dec. 17th, 2022 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chicatingGiles hadn’t realised he was counting the hours until Summers returned to the continent until Tara, of all people, took pity on Buffy’s father and invited him back to Revello Drive after the brief but still unendurable service. Tara was a lovely girl and mostly he admired both her maturity and her tendency to feel that every stranger was a friend she just hadn’t met, but sometimes she was just too bleeding nice.
“It’s your own fault, old man” he mumbled under his breath.—whatever else there was to fear about cemeteries, they were an excellent place to mumble piteously. But hadn’t she asked him, as if they were a family, and he were its head, and wasn’t she worried enough about his feelings that that little stammer came out again? It was a mixture that made him feel terrible.
“I think it’ll be good,” and though her voice was hesitant as usual, the tilt of her head was confident. “ For Dawn. He looked so lost, and I think he really has a chance to make it right.”
"Sure. Fine. “ Tara’s eyes looked surprised because he couldn’t quite keep the roughness out of his voice. Maybe she thought it was unshed tears. Maybe it was.
“Whatever you want.” Thinking about it now made him want to rip his tongue out, but at the moment, it was both Tara’s reply of “I just didn’t want to overstep—you know, it’s not my house,” and, even darker thoughts, how easy he might have found it to…dispatch Dawn, if his slayer had seen her as the accident of mystical history that she was--that led him to relent.
The end itself might have been easy, like gutting a trout. Or like pulling the guts out of the turkey for that infernal Thanksgiving she’d insisted on. Just one of the million little jobs Buffy had wanted an adult around for. He'd felt guilty, then, and caught Dawn’s eye, trying to look reassuring and not sorry she was alive at all. He never thought he would pick up this particular American linguistic habit, but, God, it did suck. For a moment, Rupert Giles wanted an adult to call on, too.
“It’s not my house, either,” he’d pointed out, more to get his mind of its sinister track than to encourage Tara, but Watcher habits died hard. Two birds, one stone, and so forth. “You have as much right as anyone.”
Tara beamed, in her understated way. “Yes, but, Giles, you’re so…adult. And I always felt that you and Joyce…kind of had an understanding. She’d trust you to decide what went on in her house. She loved you, Giles. Both of them had. “ She flushed, and was almost beautiful. Which made him even more susceptible, of course, even at his age. “Not the same way, of course.”
“It’s your own fault, old man” he mumbled under his breath.—whatever else there was to fear about cemeteries, they were an excellent place to mumble piteously. But hadn’t she asked him, as if they were a family, and he were its head, and wasn’t she worried enough about his feelings that that little stammer came out again? It was a mixture that made him feel terrible.
“I think it’ll be good,” and though her voice was hesitant as usual, the tilt of her head was confident. “ For Dawn. He looked so lost, and I think he really has a chance to make it right.”
"Sure. Fine. “ Tara’s eyes looked surprised because he couldn’t quite keep the roughness out of his voice. Maybe she thought it was unshed tears. Maybe it was.
“Whatever you want.” Thinking about it now made him want to rip his tongue out, but at the moment, it was both Tara’s reply of “I just didn’t want to overstep—you know, it’s not my house,” and, even darker thoughts, how easy he might have found it to…dispatch Dawn, if his slayer had seen her as the accident of mystical history that she was--that led him to relent.
The end itself might have been easy, like gutting a trout. Or like pulling the guts out of the turkey for that infernal Thanksgiving she’d insisted on. Just one of the million little jobs Buffy had wanted an adult around for. He'd felt guilty, then, and caught Dawn’s eye, trying to look reassuring and not sorry she was alive at all. He never thought he would pick up this particular American linguistic habit, but, God, it did suck. For a moment, Rupert Giles wanted an adult to call on, too.
“It’s not my house, either,” he’d pointed out, more to get his mind of its sinister track than to encourage Tara, but Watcher habits died hard. Two birds, one stone, and so forth. “You have as much right as anyone.”
Tara beamed, in her understated way. “Yes, but, Giles, you’re so…adult. And I always felt that you and Joyce…kind of had an understanding. She’d trust you to decide what went on in her house. She loved you, Giles. Both of them had. “ She flushed, and was almost beautiful. Which made him even more susceptible, of course, even at his age. “Not the same way, of course.”
