Summary: Giles and Willow have unfinished business, post-Grave.
Disclaimer: I own nothing -- all hail Mutant Enemy, Fox, and Joss Whedon. Quotations in italics are taken from the episode "Grave".
Notes: For the Willow/Giles ficathon. My assignment was for the lovely gwynnega: Two things I want included in the fic: S6 ep "Grave," sex in the Magic Box. One thing I don't want included in the fic: character death. Preferred rating: NC-17.
Not sure about the NC-17ness, and this came out *very* differently than I'd expected. Hope it works for you! Massive apologies for the lateness, as well. Now I get to read...
Special thanks: To sleipnirrr who provided me with the missing scene from Grave that I needed to hear so desperately, and to Colleen, who always encourages and Mint, who listened to me whine.
Giles wanders aimlessly about the rubble that remains of the Magic Box. There are bits of gold buried in the piles -- half a book here, an unbroken artifact there. Not much to show for his life in Sunnydale. He's walked away from it more than once, but this time, it has walked away from him. In the hands, the very veins, of one of the most powerful witches he's ever encountered. One whose teaching he abandoned, when he last left Sunnydale behind.
Icy resentment (guilt) presses at him, and he feels her coming to consciousness across town. Wretched girl (beloved student). Filled with arrogance, and power (grief, oh the crippling grief).
She has been a murderer (his victim), loosing power and rage in a consummate act of justice (mercy), all unfeeling. Would she ever be the same (never. secret joy)?
Giles rubs at the tightness between his eyes with thumb and forefinger in a fruitless attempt to stave off the waves of psychic agony that echo across the distance. Her numbness, his burden (care).
With a sigh, Giles bends again to his rescue mission. There is one thing he needs above all others from this (his) wreckage, but searching for bits and pieces of what he once knew does no harm while he waits for her.
He supposes that his unconscious hears her feet in the dust, or that he has picked up traces of her scent, but more than these, he feels her enter the store with a familiar (pain) tingle. The one that lights your bones, telling your body that its enemy (mate) is in the vicinity.
Panic (pleasure) grips him. The waiting is over (neverending).
She stands inside the door, head down. Brief, furtive glances around, as if she might hide under the fallen walls, or turn and run, then without warning, her eyes lift and (impossible) connect.
They hold an apology (demand), and he will not face it yet. Giles retreats to what is left of the training room.
He can feel her tears and anguish, and he refuses to see them. Giles throws the punching bag across the room. He wants (needs) to be hard, but she pulls at him (always).
When he gives in to necessity (his desire) and returns to the Magic Box proper, she's sitting on the floor, spine straight against the counter, head on knees. Her body shakes, but it's not from the spasms that wreak havoc when she sleeps. It's grief (pride), locked in. He knows it (her).
Eventually, he walks to her and touches her shoulder. He wants her to look at him (know him). Needs to see what's there.
Shame on you
His fingers tighten on her shoulder, and she slackens against his grip (possession) when he drags her to standing.
But I can still hurt you if I have to.
And he wants to (save her). Translucent skin pinks up when he drags his fingers from her shoulder to her neck (own her). He feels her pulse flutter before she shudders and leans into him (disappears).
It's all ... nothing.
Small hands find their target (dear god), and he tries to pretend he is still (was ever) in control. The tremors begin, and his hands go to their involuntary tasks, finding the small of her back, pulling her head up to face him (drown in her).
She squirms, arm trapped. Still her eyes are shuttered (dead). Before good sense intervenes, his mouth finds hers, hot. His tongue plunges, schooling her to live, trying to chase away the scene on repeat in his mind.
I wonder what Tara would say about that.
Their voices tangle in his mind, even as his hands gather hers (gently-no). He pushes her against the counter (threatening tenderness), and razes her with his lips. She is so soft (hard), and tastes of deadest winter (spring exists). The heat at his center drives him (she will never leave him) to an ancient rhythm.
You were jealous.
Of more than her power. Of the knowing, the confidence. The self-sense he saw now burgeoning in her sloe-eyed passivity. The sense he searches for in the coral of her nipples (puckered at his touch), along the baby-fine hairs of her belly, in the depths of her navel. She screams when his tongue touches (Her).
That's why you ran away.
From whom? The scene plays on, but any notion of where he ends and she begins has left him now. Only the musky scent of Willow, her shallow gulping, and the furious grinding of her pussy against his too-clothed cock are real.
He releases her hands and pushes her onto the countertop, head resting on the cash register, skewed sideways from their first battle.
The belt comes undone.
you need to stop.