Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (tv)
Summary/Teaser: Through all the years, there has always been the two of them.
Warnings: adult sexuality (This is set significantly post-series.)
Notes: Unbetaed, originally written for medie's porn battle, prompt: Giles/Buffy, ritual
Title plays on Ani DiFranco's song "falling is like this."
Word Count: 377
Standard Disclaimer: No harm intended; no profit made. Joss Whedon and co. own the characters, I'm just playing with them. I do, however, own this story, so don't steal it. Archive it anywhere; just ask first.
Feedback is always appreciated. Make me blush with praise or rip apart the story with criticism, or both.
They only see each other at Thanksgiving these days. The amount of paperwork Giles has to deal with keeps increasing rather than decreasing, and Buffy's rare vacations always involve Dawn. But Thanksgiving has always been important to Buffy.
She tries to make the rest of the gang come to England for Thanksgiving each year. She has varying success. There are always some who attend. The only constants are her and Giles, though. (Even Dawn has begun to beg off, preferring to spend the holiday with her fiancée's family.)
"My little sister is getting married, Giles. Isn't that weird?" They are sitting on Giles' couch, avoiding the stack of dishes soaking in the sink.
"She is twenty-six years old," Giles points out kindly.
"Don't even remind me of how old that makes me."
"How old that makes you?" Giles chides.
"Yeah, but you've always been old. I'm still getting used to it."
"I shouldn't even dignify that with a response, should I?"
"Nope," she grins. After a pause, "It's weird, though, to think you had a life before me -- I mean, before...."
"I know what you mean."
"Is that selfish? That I don't want to share you with anybody, even in the past?"
Giles swallows. "I never wanted to share you either," he says softly. "Not with Wesley, not with--" A litany of names flits through his mind. "Anyone," he finishes.
He reaches over and takes her hand. She leans over, into him, kisses him gently.
She is on top of him, unbuttoning his shirt, pressing her body against his, kissing him hungrily.
He pulls his mouth away from hers long enough to ask, "Shouldn't we move?" but she silences him: "We're the only ones here."
He fumbles with his zipper as she wriggles out of her panties. His hands are up under her shirt, but she is impatient and soon he is angling his hips and knees to thrust into her, his hands and arms scrambling for balance.
She is glowing. He knows it is the sweat and the artificial light, but she looks more beautiful than he thinks he has ever seen her.
Maybe tomorrow he will get to hold her, touch her, long and tender. But whatever he does, it will be all for her.