__Splintered And Left__
By Aviatrix
(Dream:
She's in a darkened room, and Giles is leaning over
her, his fingers grazing over the pulse point in her neck. She is calm,
relaxed.
"I've never seen scars like yours," he says, and he grins,
revealing gleaming white fangs.
She does not fight or leave.)
* * * * *
They've banded together; for now, at least. They live in
more or less the same neighborhood, linked by daily visits that always seem
a little forced. How are you, what have you been doing, is the
world ending? Giles makes tea, Dawn whines, Xander wisecracks, Willow
is shy and awkward.
*Were we really like this?* she wonders. *Is this
the past we're trying to pretend never went away?*
It's sweet, in a sad kind of way. But it's not what she wants anymore, it's not what truly
is, not what they are, and she bites her lip to keep from telling them what
she's been dreaming about.
She's thinking about leaving.
* * * * *
She gets splinters in her hands. From stakes, and,
oddly enough, from the old broom she found at a yard sale.
She doesn't share, doesn't open up, doesn't smile that much anymore, but she cleans up
after herself, and there's something to be said for that.
Sometimes, Giles sits with her and silently removes
the slivers of wood from her hands. He smiles at her, awkwardly, and she
tangles her fingers in his sweater before letting him go.
* * * * *
"You're not so innocent as you make yourself out to be,
are you?" she asks him playfully one afternoon.
They're outside, walking. Dogs barking, fight spilling out of a corner bar, and his face,
shadowed by the sun:
"Excuse me?"
*At least he's lost the stutter,* she thinks.
"You heard me, mister."
His hands twitch at his side, and she can tell he is doing his best to keep from cleaning his
glasses.
"Yes, well, I don't know what you're...what you're trying to
get me to say."
"You're all tea and books and comfy sweaters, but
you're not really, are you?"
He quickens his pace, his long legs easily outstriding Buffy's.
"How very astute of you to notice," he snaps back at her.
* * * * *
He isn't, not really. Not at all.
* * * * *
After a while, they start falling into the same bed,
drunken hands on flushed skin, static-y moans in each other's
ears.
//I want you, I need you, Please don't leave.//
His teeth scrape along her neck, leaving light pink lines on her skin. She does
not cry out, but her eyes water slightly, and she tangles her hands in his
hair and guides him closer to her:
//Harder//
and the lines turn to welts turn to blood welling up, dripping down between her breasts. His
tongue is lapping it up, savouring it.
She looks at him through the flicker/flicker/haze of sex, and his eyes are glittering and hard. Teeth flat
and even, but still, there's something there...a memory, reminiscent, or
maybe just a dream.
*So this is you,* she thinks. *So this is you.*
Later, they'll lie silently, facing apart, and she'll feign
sleep while he leaves. But for now, now, they've got hours and
minutes ahead of them and although the gin in her blood is making his
face blur, she can feel every wrinkle on his body, every blemish.
"I've never seen scars like yours," she whispers.
* * *