__Paging The Great Wallenda__
By Beadtific
At 7:59 pm, Giles stood at the hallway door of Buffy’s room, settling his
nerves. Now that his frenzied preparations were over, a few concerns clouded the
horizon. Given Buffy’s skittish behavior, and their mutual terror of getting
wounded emotionally yet again, tonight was going to be a tightrope act worthy of
the Great Wallenda. He’d mulled it over it in the shower and decided it was best
to present Buffy with the opportunity of romance this evening, without overtly
pressing it. It would take a delicate touch. And while difficult, it also
allowed him to save face in the event that he was completely mistaken; after
all, he had only an assorted batch of shivers, blushes and a pair of
intoxicatingly dilated pupils; proof, but hardly incontrovertible. She could
just loathe his sweater.
The thought of doing something blockheaded
enough to lose her again set his heart pounding; hence his moment of necessary
collection. He was lucky he hadn’t broken out in cold sweat; very bad for silk.
Steeling himself, he knocked on Buffy’s door at precisely 8 pm. Her
cry that she’d be right there warmed him to his toes. \\She sounds very happy,//
he thought, smiling at his loafers.
Giles left off the conversation with his footwear when he heard her hand on the latch. He would
not miss her reaction for the world.
He was not disappointed. Buffy swept the door open, took
one look and whatever she planned to say died a squeaky death. Her eyes
darkened, her lashes fluttered, and two charming spots of pink bloomed on her
cheeks. Giles felt his own face flush in response, and he couldn’t help but
grin. Her cheeks got pinker.
“Buffy, you look enchanting,” he murmured,
in order not to shout his delight at her response. She _was_ enchanting,
entirely; her lovely hair was down, gently curling around her shoulders. Her
sleeveless dress of fine, dark rose wool brought out the golden of her skin, and
hugged her figure elegantly. A necklace with a tiny pearl was framed by the deep
v-neckline: she was perfection. Well, perfection that was still standing there,
staring. Hoping to help her past her shock, he prompted, “May I help you with your wrap?”
“Hm? Oh! Yes, thank you,” she said somewhat breathily, handing him her pashmina, “Yes.”
Giles stood aside for his slayer to exit
her room, and juggled her wrap into position while holding his own jacket on his
arm. She took a half step towards him, turned her back and glancing back at him,
lifted her hair off her shoulders. The sensuality of the gesture, and the warm
scent of her skin left him a bit dizzy as he settled the shawl across her
shoulders. He tried to think about tightropes, but not very successfully; his
voice still came out a bit husky, “Are you sure you’ll be warm enough? Nights
have been quite cool.” He allowed himself to give her shoulders a light squeeze.
There was a tiny tremor under his hands.
“Well, if I do, you’ll be a gentleman and let me wear your jacket, right?” she said, spinning
around and plucking said jacket off his arm.
“But of course,” he shrugged.
Buffy grinned wolfishly at him and made a twirling motion with her
finger. Giles glowered and stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. She raised
her eyebrows and twirled her finger again. Giles rolled his eyes, spread his
arms slightly away from his body and rotated slowly.
While a little embarrassed to display himself, Giles felt confident that he had chosen an
outfit as far from his baggy sweater as possible. The jade silk shirt was
fitted, eliminating the suggestion of middle-aged spread he had noticed he was
getting from the baggy sweater. The flat-front trousers confirmed he was quite
fit, despite his years and recent stint of travel. He was enamored of the
eye-enhancing effect from the green of his shirt. Add his slayer’s reaction to
all that, and he really felt quite handsome.
He completed his revolution
to find those charming pink spots again on Buffy’s cheeks, and a rather glazed
look on her face. “Natty duds, Giles,” she croaked, snapping out of it. “You look amazing.”
Giles thanked her with a shy grin, “I’m glad you approve, Buffy. Shall we go?”
“Not until I help you with your coat,” she said as
she lifted it. “Hey, is this a candy bar in your jacket, or is it just glad to see me?”
“It’s a stake; we are walking to dinner after all.”
“Ah,” she said, only half-seriously, “the Watcher of Doom Expects
the Worst. You forget Pointy Jr. and I are going with.” She waggled her tiny purse at him.
“Buffy,” her watcher said, managing to communicate hurt, admonition and apology in one word.
“All right, all right, you’re not
Doomy Guy, just Careful Guy,” she said, smoothing the suede across his shoulders
and down his arms. “This is so much softer than the suede jacket you used to have.”
Smiling at her over his shoulder the Giles agreed, “I quite like it.”
“Mm,” she said absently stroking one arm. “I’m sorry, Giles,” she
said, shaking herself, “I’m petting your jacket like a puppy.”
“I’m fairly sure it won’t bite,” he said dryly, tucking her hand under his elbow, and
guiding them towards the elevator.
“Do you?” she teased. Holding his arm with both hands she gave it a little hug.
“Only when provoked,” the
Englishman quipped past a gulp; her breast was pressed against his arm. He cast
a mute appeal for balance to the Great Wallenda. If she kept hugging his arm
like that, he was going to have to conjugate irregular verbs to keep his mind
off its warm weight.
“Grr, arg.” growled Buffy, snuggling closer.
Giles began with Sanskrit.
* * *