__Waiting For Green__
By Beadtific



Dinner had been delightful. Giles had asked his companion about her day, which led to an amusing story about one of the new slayer activations involving a pet shop, a sticky kennel door and a puppy stampede. He had laughed so hard at the thought of the tiny labradors - who immediately marked every stationary object in sight – that he choked a bit on his wine. Buffy leaned over and put her hand on his arm, wanting him to show her if he needed assistance. When he did glance up, Giles found he had an excellent view of her cleavage. He closed his eyes briefly, coughed for effect and mentally tried a few verbs in ancient Phoenician. Assuring his would-be rescuer he was fine, the watcher launched into a tale about Xander, a severed demon head, a poodle, and a chase through Brussels.

There some slight discomfort over the menu being in French, but Buffy handled it with humor. The remainder of the meal had been filled with delicious food, amusing anecdotes, and comfortable silences. He couldn't remember the last time either of them had thrown back their heads and laughed as long as they liked. It went to his head more strongly than his glass of wine.

The walk back to the hotel was nearly incident-free - Buffy had finally noticed his Prada loafers while waiting for a pedestrian signal - she squealed with joy and hugged his arm again.

A quiet moment later, they stood arm in arm, gazing at the passing traffic. “Giles,” Buffy said, apropos of nothing, “Is this a date?” He stiffened in surprise, and she, immediately believing the worst, dropped his arm and aimed her eyes at the ground.

“I’m sorry. We were having a great time, and then I had to go put my foot in my mouth. Big-ole-honking-foot-in-the-mouthy Buffy. It’s nothing.”

“Would you like it to be a date?” Giles asked, voice slightly husky. She shivered.

“Are you cold?” he said solicitously, praying she was not. “You may have my jacket.”

“N-No, I’m fine.” His slayer said, tugging her wrap tighter. “Hey,” she said, finally looking at him. “You answered my question with a question.”

“You were in a hurry to answer it yourself, so I thought I’d ask a new one,” he said with a half-smile.

“We could dance around this all night, you know,” she said, growling at him.

“I hope you know I’d never toy with your affections.” Giles said softly. When she looked at him blankly, he took his turn to study the sidewalk.

They stood side by side again, though no longer comfortable. Giles stuffed his hands in his pockets, and desperately tried to figure out how to salvage the evening. He could turn right now and make some placating gesture, haul them to safe ground again; but he wouldn’t. Trouble was, he was tired of playing it safe with Buffy.

“The light’s changed,” the discouraged man said, stepping off the curb. A small hand circled around his elbow.

“I would like,” she said shyly, joining him.

“As would I.” Giles gave her a warm smile, and they crossed together.

Entering their hotel, an altogether different kind of tension flowed between them. As they walked the long corridor to their suite, Giles gave his slayer the opportunity to lighten the mood.

"Buffy," he asked, "I was thinking I'd prepare some chocolate fondue for dessert. Does that meet your fine dining criteria?" Buffy had informed him of the rules when she discovered the restaurant menu was in French.

"Yum, fondue," she said, "Let's see: Never order anything you can't pronounce. Fon-due. Check! Rule one okay." She pretended to think, "Rule number two: never order anything you don't know how to eat. Spear food with a little fork; dip in yummy chocolate. Check. Rule number three: never order anything bigger than your head. Planning on dipping a whole watermelon?" Giles shook his head in horror. "Well, then, check!" she said with a bounce.

"And rule four?" Giles prompted.

"Never order anything that looks like snot? That’s pretty much limited to runny cheese and oysters and stuff.”

“I wish I’d known these rules before. How did they come about?”

“Well, Mom gave me the first two when I started dating. Will, Xander and I figured out the third after the Ben & Jerry’s Mega Sundae incident, and Anya came up with the one about snot.”

“That does sound like her,” the watcher chuckled, “Did anyone ask her how she came to her conclusion?”

“Are you kidding,” she laughed, “Who could stop her from telling? I stuck my fingers in my ears did the ‘La-la-la, I’m-not-listening’ thing.”

As they reached the door of their suite, it dawned on Giles that he'd made no provision for lighting candles and turning on some music. "Buffy, I've realized I need to check on one more thing before you enter. Would you mind waiting a moment?"

The slayer's brow furrowed. "Are you sure there's nothing in there for me to be afraid of? There aren't any wild, bite-y books in there or anything?"

"Causing you fear is the farthest thing from my mind," her watcher said truthfully.

"Okay, Mr. Mystery Guy, you may depart."

Giles untucked his charge's hand from his elbow, bowed this thanks, and kissed her slim fingers. He left her standing there with a slightly goofy smile lighting her face.

Once inside the suite, Giles' shaking hands caused him so much aggravation, that he did something he never did for mundane tasks: a spell. A few words set the candles alight, and he hurried back to the door to summon Buffy. As he reached for the latch, the reluctant wizard whirled, picked up his jacket from the floor, placed it on a chair as he muttered another incantation and waited for the CD player to begin. Excellent. He took a deep breath and swept the door open.

"Hey, when you said a moment, you weren't kid-" Buffy walked through the door and came to a complete stop, "-ing."

The room was dim, but the area near the sofa glowed with soft light. Giles had draped the coffee table with his deep blue lava-lava, demoted now from tropical wear to tablecloth. On the table gleamed candles on a silver tray, a small arrangement of daises and tiny pink roses, wine glasses, a bottle of wine and a package wrapped in silver paper.

"Giles," she said in a long, low breath of surprise. "What is this?"

"Simply a thank you," he said, "for opening my eyes." By which he meant several different things, and few of them simple. She gazed at him in wondering gratitude.

"Truly," he murmured, unable to prevent himself from stepping forward to run his hands comfortingly down her arms. "I didn't just storm off to the mall today and pick up a few things, Buffy." Tucking her hand into its place on his arm again, he walked his now-date towards the sofa. She leaned into his shoulder affectionately. "What you said this morning let me view my own thoughts and actions of the last year from a different perspective,” Giles continued. “I can't walk into a building without automatically checking for tactical positions, or walk down a street at night without keeping watch, or take a beautiful woman to dinner without preparing for a skirmish."

Buffy laid a hand comfortingly on his arm, and smiled in commiseration. "I do the same thing. Well, not the taking women out to dinner part."

"A beautiful woman," he reminded her.

"A beautiful woman," she said with a self-doubting wobble. Giles picked up her hand, kissed it and placed it back on his arm. He covered the tiny hand with his own. This seemed to give Buffy the confidence to shift closer to him. Giles responded by leaning back, slipping his arm around her, and drawing her to his side. She kept hold of his other hand, and made a happy little sound.

"Trust me," he said tenderly, and took a deep breath. "I accepted the necessity of my calling that requires me to be cautious and tactical. Accepted it years ago. But today, I realized that nearly every memory that crossed my mind had to do with loss, or mistakes I had made, or dwelling on terrible things that could have happened. No wonder you called me the Grim Watcher of Doom. That's how I behaved."

"Not all the time," she said, sounding sad, tracing circles on his hand.

"But most of it?" he shot her a pointed look.

"You're at your worst when things slow down," she said, leaning back to see his face. "Like now, waiting for Willow's spell, or when we found the last few activated slayers. Well, until the next batch hits puberty."

"I hadn't quite thought of it that way," the watcher mused.

"You're the most fine - the most Giles-y - when there's a hunt on: where are the retired watchers; where did the council stash their money; where are all the activated slayers. Or thorny questions like how to locate a slayer whose aura is blocked by a hellmouth? You and Willow had a real hoot with that one." Giles snorted.

"It's when there's nothing much left to solve or no people left to find that you get all grrr and broody. And I know from broody," the slayer said, poking him in the chest.

"You know, the first thing I tried on this morning was a black pullover and a black pair of slacks," he confessed, trapping her hand.

"A-ha!" Buffy said, managing to poke him harder, "that's the official broody uniform. Your Mr. Angel Broody McBrood Club Decoder Ring should arrive shortly.”

"I will not join any club that would have me as a member," Giles said testily, rubbing his chest. He relaxed and enjoyed holding Buffy for a moment, stroking her soft hair and being mesmerized by the feathery touch of her hand.

The peace of it almost took him from his goal. The only way he could get the next part of his confession out was to put some distance between them. He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze as he rose and - by way of apology - said dryly, “I must escape the Poking Finger of Pain.” Buffy sat on her hands and rounded her eyes at him in mute appeal. A rush of affection for her made him smile, but as he re-gathered his thoughts, it drained into an expression of regretful sorrow.

The watcher closed his eyes a moment against his memories. "It's because of the Bringers," he said in a voice etched with pain. "You can't imagine; working so hard to find a potential, only to find one girl after another butchered. Other days I would find her moments before they'd arrive, and we'd have to run for our lives."

"It sounds exhausting,” she said, her voice equally pained. ”I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”

Giles inclined his head, and gave her a painful smile, ”You mustn’t take this on yourself; that’s not my point. You were quite understandably overwhelmed. We both were, and as a result we were unable to give one another the proper support.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew a deep breath. “Last year was like living in nightmare where I kept doing exactly the wrong thing. I kept feeling like I'd missed information at the wrong moment, or understood too slowly, arrived too late, or left too early - every time missing the point by just enough margin that disaster was certain to follow. A girl would die before I could find her; a council would blow up when I couldn’t convince them of danger; and an ally could have been eliminated because I worried more about what he was than who he'd become.” He looked at her apologetically.

"He didn't die," she said softly. "Not then."

"No, Spike’s existence didn’t end because of me, but it could have, and so many of my other nightmares did come true," he looked at the floor. "Worst of all, I betrayed your trust yet again, and nearly lost you for good."

"You didn't lose me." Buffy left the sofa and stood in front of him. "Standing right here. Very right here and very not lost." She held out her arms, and Giles stepped into her embrace, accepting the comfort as he closed his eyes and leaned into her warmth. "Everything bad that happened last year was SO not all your fault. Some fault was the First, because hey, evil. And some of the fault is standing here talking into your nice shirt pocket," she said, bumping her head against his chest a few times for emphasis.

"I know it's not all my fault," he said, enjoying the silk of her hair against his cheek. "It still feels that way sometimes."

"That's because you've been hit on the head so much," she said whimsically.

"Oh yes, let's blame the head trauma," he laughed, kissing the top of her head in thanks. He slid one arm around her shoulders and stood at her side. "I've promised you chocolate, there's a present for you, and the fruits of my shopping trip are hanging in my closet. What would you like first?

"Jinkies," she said, blinking. "I think we need chocolate first."

"As you wish," Giles said, turning towards the kitchen. "Would you like to plunder my closet while I prepare things? Make sure I purchased no brooding uniforms?"

"Giles," she caught his hand. "You know you have to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, right? That feeling that if you don't do your job ultra - perfectly every second, the whole thing will unravel? It does nobody any good – you least of all."

"I know," he said, looking again at the floor. “I will try."

"Good, because I'm all out of clothing metaphors," Buffy said, swinging their hands cheerfully. "Speaking of which, I think I will go through your closet. If there's no strut-y, pose-y fashion show planned?"

Giles shot her a look that said clearly she should know better.

"Can’t blame a girl for trying," she said in mock dejection, "I'm going." She placed a soft, slow kiss on his cheek "Call me when things get all melt-y”, she purred in his ear.

Giles made a tiny moan when her breath hit his ear. Buffy leaned back and gave him a very pleased smirk, which sent Giles on the offensive.

”Have no fear,” he growled throatily, snaking an arm about her waist. Calling forth long-unused dance lessons, Giles effortlessly turned the petite woman into a dip.

For the first time, the normally reserved man let his beloved see the depth of his passion in his expression. His reward was watching Buffy’s momentary surprise melt from wonder to desire. When her breath caught, he pulled her closer. She trembled and slid her hand up his chest.

“You shall be the first to know,” he murmured, as she caressed his cheek. His lips hovered over hers. In a flash of motion, the watcher popped his slayer back on her feet, escaped from her embrace and strolled jauntily off to the kitchenette.

* * *