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Red Flag Danger
by Alex Dollard
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything in the Buffy/Angelverse. It's owned by Joss
Whedon, Mutant Enemy and FOX.
FEEDBACK: All feedback to prague_spring@hotmail.com please.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Think I'm running out of pairings.
Whenever he sees the red flags waving over the dangerous sea, he always
remembers the artillery.
A strange association, one might think, but the red flags used to indicate
the presence of dangerous undertows or sharks off the Californian coast are
not so different than the ones used to indicate the presence of military
artillery practice sites in England.
He remembers visiting a friend of his mother's, a courtesy aunt, during the
second part of the Trying Times. The part where his parents decided that a
break in their marriage would be good for both of them, apparently uncaring
of the effect it had on their three children. His Auntie May had a house on
the English side of the Welsh Dee, and across the vast salt marsh, the roar
of the artillery testing sounded at odd intervals of the day and night.
To a child brought up under the shadow of the mushroom cloud, it was
chilling. And yet, he and his younger brother Edward had climbed
enterprisingly out of the wide window of their small room and onto the
garage room beneath to watch the flare and sparkle of distant artillery. His
mother had hated it, swearing that with every crackle of gunfire, she heard
Nazi storm troopers coming up the back gates. May Gillespie had told her not
to be ridiculous. This was the late nineteen sixties, more than twenty years
since the end of the Second World War and Rupert Giles had just celebrated
his twelfth birthday.
A rueful smile touches his lips for a moment when he remembers his younger
self, how idealistic he had been, how full of dreams and joy his life had
been, the close bond he had enjoyed with his siblings. But Edward is on the
other side of the world now, settled happily with a wife and family in
Manly, Australia and keeping as far away from Watcher business as he can.
And Serena has been in the earth for more than quarter of a century, his
family's final Slayer causality. Final, because Edward's daughters are
safely out of sight, and Rupert has sworn that he would inflict this life on
no child of his.
Except that despite his best efforts, this is exactly what has happened. He
knows that Buffy Summers is as much his child as if he was her biological
father and while he exults in her, he is also deeply afraid. Afraid that
sooner or later, he won't be able to save her, that the danger she gets into
will be enough to take her out of his life forever.
He is also afraid that he loves her too much to stay away.
Barely twelve hours have gone by since the world was saved from certain
destruction not by a sorcerer, or by a Slayer or a hero, but by a perhaps
not-so-ordinary young man, and he can feel the exhaustion seeping through
him. He wants nothing more than to sink into a comfortable bed and sleep for
several weeks. This is, for the moment, impossible.
Xander and Willow have not yet appeared; there is no answer at Xander's
apartment and although Anya keeps a more-or-less quiet vigil at the window
for them, he doubts they will arrive back tonight. Willow will not want to
face her friends, to face him. Perhaps it's better for her to cling to her
friendship with Xander, the most stable and enduring thing either of them
has, than to try and tackle the wounded feelings of the others. He cannot
help but wonder if Xander's instinctual need to comfort Willow and her need
to take from him would slip into a physical connection. Sexual orientation
or not, he thinks that this would be no bad thing.
Although it may well break Anya's heart all over again. He glances at the
vengeance demon, her blond hair loose down her back; face turned towards the
window, and suddenly feels so very sorry for her. Just as much an outsider
as Spike, he thinks, and where is the blond twit anyway?
"Anya," he says, and he is surprised at the raspy quality of his voice. It
sounds like he's been screaming for hours, "Where's Spike?"
She had started a little at his words, but now she turns around and curls up
into the couch.
"I don't know," she answers wearily, "He left a while ago. Something
happened between him and Buffy, I think. But I'm not sure."
"They were sleeping together," he says gently.
She looks at him directly, "No. I knew that. Everyone knows that. No. This
was something else." She sighs, "I don't think it's very important. He'll
probably turn up soon."
He nods, "You're probably right."
Silence reigns.
Above him, he can hear the muffled voices of Dawn and Buffy as they
allegedly make up Willow's bed for him. He smiles slightly, the rift between
the sisters is beginning to heal, he can tell. Soon, he will tell Buffy some
of what may lie in store for Dawn. Not now. But soon. When everything has
begun to calm down and Spike has reappeared so he can be bullied into
behaving properly and taking up the role that Angel should never have cast
down.
So there is only he and Anya left. He looks at her again. Never one for a
great deal of makeup, the brief stop she made to her apartment included a
change of clothes and a quick shower. Now her hair falls straight and silky
around her face, and her naked skin glows against the soft blue of the man's
shirt she wears over faded jeans. Xander's shirt, he thinks, and feels
indescribably sad for her.
"Are you alright?" He asks her softly.
"I'm - No. No. I'm not alright. I want to know if Xander and Willow are okay
and Buffy and Dawn are so happy it's making me feel worse. And I wish Spike
was here because he's the only one out of everyone who talks to me like a
person," she said with characteristic bluntness.
Despite himself, he cannot help smiling at little at her words.
"It's not funny," she tells him sternly, but this only makes him smile more.
"I know," he soothes. "And I'm sorry if I don't talk to you like a person."
She shrugs, "You're not as bad as Willow. Or Dawn. Or Buffy." She curls up a
little tighter. "I know what I was. What I am. It's just hard. They don't
see us as people. You know, demons. We're just things. Entertaining and
occasionally useful things, but things for all that."
"I never taught them that." Rupert protests, inwardly fearing that he has.
"No. I think Buffy taught them that. When she had to fight Angel. The only
way she could rationalise killing him was if he wasn't a person. Wasn't
someone she was in love with. If he was a thing, an evil killing thing. It's
understandable."
"But you don't deserve it. Either of you," he adds, thinking about the
irritating blond vampire who has unexpectedly proved to be so helpful.
"No. But the world is unfair. That's something that HASN'T changed in the
last thousand years. Humanity? You can stuff it." She says bleakly.
He wants to tell her that the world isn't really like this, but this is one
of those rare occasions when he can see not just the lovely human girl Anya,
but the thousand year old demon, Anyanka. There is deep cynicism in her eyes
and he suddenly feels very young next to her. He finds this extremely
disconcerting, although it is by no means the first time it has happened.
His contact with Angel was mercifully short but the occasional comment from
Spike startles him into remembering that although he looks like a young man,
he is in fact, several times Rupert's age.
"Where do you think they are?" She asks him after a pause.
Rupert shrugs, "I imagine that they have gone somewhere which has great
meaning for the two of them," he pondered this for a moment, "They had a
friend, a young man who was killed by Angel's sire Darla just after Buffy
first came to Sunnydale. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they have
visited his grave."
"I didn't know that," she says quietly and makes an impatient movement, "I
don't know a lot of things about Xander. I keep telling myself that I love
him, but I don't know anything about him. You all know more about him than I
do. Even Spike knows more about him."
"Well, they did live together," he points out, trying to lighten the mood.
She glowers, "If you can call it that."
He smiles involuntarily at her sardonic tone.
"You know he left me at the altar," she says after a moment.
He clears his throat, "Yes. Buffy told me. I'm very sorry," he adds
sincerely.
She shrugs, "He told me he loves me and I think he does. I just don't think
he loves me as much as he loves Buffy and Willow." There is no self pity in
her voice, just a quiet acceptance.
"Anya," he starts.
"I thought I could make him love me, you know. If I was what I thought he
wanted. But it doesn't work like that, does it? The more I tried to change,
the more I got it wrong."
And now Rupert has to stand up, has to sit next to her and put an arm around
her slender form, unbearably moved by her words.
"I think everyone tries to change to please the person they're in love
with," he says quietly.
"And that always means the beginning of the end. Riley wanted to be all bad
guy for Buffy and ended up leaving because he didn't get that she didn't
need him to be like that and Willow changed for Tara, but we all know how
long that lasted. Even Spike reverted to form," she says bitterly.
She leans against him, turning her face into his broad shoulder with a sigh
that is almost, but not quite, a sob. He gently strokes her hair, separating
the blond strands between his fingers, marvelling at how alive it feels.
"Does it get easier?" She asks after a moment.
"What?" Rupert was caught slightly unaware. He has seen these young people
grow from children to adults over the last five or six years and yet there
is something disturbingly unchildlike about the way Anya feels pressed
against him. A remnant from Willow's amnesia spell, he wonders, remembering
the odd world he had woken into. A world where he was father to a vampire
and was engaged to this lovely girl.
She speaks directly into his old black sweater, "Being without the person
you love." Anya presses her face hard against his chest, inhaling deeply the
indescribably comforting combination of Old Spice, clean fabric softener and
a tang of male sweat which is his signature scent. The sweater is soft and
fresh beneath her tear stained cheek, somehow soothing and she smoothes one
hand across his torso, the fabric sliding easily underneath her questing
fingers. She does not realise the intimacy of the gesture and is
correspondingly surprised when she feels hard muscle under her hand.
Surprised, but obscurely pleased.
He shudders. It has been a long time -- not as long as the children assume
but still a long time -- since he has held a woman in his arms like this. And
responded like this. And despite his best attempts, his body IS responding
to her nearness. Almost forgotten heat is coiling deep in his belly and his
skin has become hypersensitive to every tiny move of her body next to his.
He is faintly disgusted with himself. She's in pain, he reminds himself,
she's in love with someone else. And that perennial favourite, what would
the children think. He thinks, fuck it. They're adults now. Adults enough to
sleep with soulless vampires and run stores and leave girls -- beautiful
girls, his mind corrects automatically -- at the altar and nearly destroy the
world.
So why not? She was never one of his students, not really and he all but
pushed his former colleague together with the eighteen year old Cordelia.
With the ease of one who has practiced long -- and hard -- he pushes the
feelings aside, and concentrates on Anya.
Who had moved her hand to his left thigh and was absently stroking the
bunched up material of his pants.
Absently. It had to be absently. She couldn't be doing this deliberately, he
thinks, still persisting in seeing her as an innocent, much like Buffy. The
warmth of her body seeps into his right side, banishing the sudden cold
sweat that has broken out across his body.
He takes a deep breath and captures her wandering hand. She laces her
fingers intimately with his and somehow, this is worse.
"If you want me, that's okay." Anya says quietly.
His mouth is very dry and he moistened his lips before answering, "What?"
She pulls away from him a little, still within the circle of his arm but
able to look him in the eye as she speaks, "I mean, that if you want to have
sex with me, then okay. Yes. I'd like that."
Rupert dimly wonders if they slipped into an alternate universe while he
wasn't looking.
"Anya," he starts, not knowing exactly what he's going to say to her.
"Stupid," she whispers, "Stupid AGAIN. Sorry. Never get the hang of this.
Why do you think I wanted to be a demon again? All wrong. Always."
"No. No, Anya, you're not stupid." Rupert says, stroking her fingers a
little with his.
"Then you DO want to have sex with me," Anya answers triumphantly.
He can tell that this is a no win situation.
"Anya," he says again and how is it that it seems like he's spent the last
two years saying her name in that exasperated tone of voice?
She smiles blindingly at him and swiftly pulls her hand from his and strokes
it deliberately over his groin. The physiological reaction is pretty much
instantaneous. He jerks back from her hand and his hand lashes out to catch
her wrist. There are other reactions as well.
"Anya, this is not a good idea," he warns her, barely in control of himself.
She shrugs, "So?"
Somehow, he can't think of a response to that. And he's tired of playing the
adult, tired of playing Mr. Responsible. If they really have grown up -- and
now he's thinking more of Buffy and Willow and Xander -- then they should be
able to cope with the fact that 'Dad' is a person too.
He gets heavily to his feet and holds out one hand to her. She takes it,
looking a little puzzled. Again, their fingers lace together, and he tugs
her gently to the back door and out into the night.
He isn't going to make love to her in Buffy's living room.
And it is 'make love' rather than 'fuck', he thinks, not only because he
always associates fucking with men and making love with women, but because
for the first time since Olivia, he cares about his partner. That means
something.
The night sky is very clear and the stars are bright above their heads. A
cool breeze ruffles the leaves of the shrubs and whispers in the trees. Just
out of sight of the big window through which Tara was shot, he stops and
looks at her.
"No is always an option," he tells her. She smiles, a little sadly.
"I want this," then, more quietly, "I want you."
He nods, and steps closer to her. She lifts her face like a flower towards
the sun and he kisses her. Kisses her mouth, the sweet taste of chocolate
and coffee mingling pleasantly, the menthol flavour of toothpaste. He kisses
her cheeks, tasting her tears and her throat, tasting the faint alcohol tang
of the light perfume she sprayed on her neck.
She falls willingly beneath him, her pale skinned limbs bright against the
dark grass, her legs falling open already to welcome him. He tenderly
unbuttons the shirt she wears, freezes when he sees her breasts, cradled in
red satin. Red. The colour of the red flags, he thinks. Danger. Danger. But
she slides a hand around the back of his neck and will not be denied; their
mouths slide and cling as he deftly unfastens her bra with one hand. She
claws almost desperately at his sweater and he shucks it, casting it
somewhere behind him. Her hands are wild on his back, mapping the muscles,
mapping the scars while his fingers slide with respect between her legs. She
shudders, rocking her hips into his hand. He is amazed at how ready, how
willing she is for this, for him.
And suddenly, the hunger is so great, so all encompassing that he cannot
wait. Has to take what is being so freely offered. There is a moment of
awkwardness and she sobs beneath him, yearning and desperate and then.
Indescribable relief as he slides smoothly home; his aching flesh fully
sheathed within her. He exhales and opens eyes he isn't aware of having
shut. Her eyes are huge, brilliant and vulnerable. He dips his head, kisses
her open mouth, very gently rocking his hips and trying a subtle thrust.
Sweet, he thinks, so very sweet. It is as if all the pain and the grief and
the anger have been smoothed away, leaving only the rounded edges of
experience. The fury of their coupling has washed into this soft, delicious,
voluptuous loving. Their bodies rise and fall together as they move in a
rhythm as certain as the great oceans and as necessary as rainfall. And as
the pleasure and the passion mounts, the roaring in his ears is not the
bitter whine of distant artillery; it is the sound of the ocean crashing on
the shore.
*
It is the soft touch on his chest which wakes him. He feels revitalised,
renewed. As if he has sloughed off an old and cumbersome personality. He
stretches on the cool grass luxuriantly and opens his eyes.
Anya is very softly tracing the thick scars on his chest. There is deep
concentrated tenderness on her face.
"Adolescent encounter with a Fairox demon," he tells her quietly.
"Hmmm," she hums, "I thought I recognised the pattern. Did the summoning
spell incorrectly, huh?"
His mind is full of the fire and flame of a botched ritual, and he nods.
Then laughs, "I've had some interesting post-coital conversations, but I
suspect this is one of the oddest," he tells her, his mind shying away from
Ethan.
She looks down on him lying in the grass beside her, "I've had worse," she
says lightly and he realises that some painful tension has left her.
He sits up and kisses her mouth, swiftly, expecting her to recoil from the
caress. She leans towards him, her mouth opening under his. His hands are
gentle on her and hers lightly stroke his chest, his shoulders and his hair
before they break apart laughing.
"We'd better get dressed," he says, "The others..."
She nods, "I know," and he's obscurely pleased by the reluctance in her
voice.
There is the age old search for clothes and the vivid red of Anya's
underwear seems calmer in the moonlight, less confrontational. Having
located all his clothes apart from his right sock, he bends and hands her
the old blue shirt she'd been wearing. She takes it from him and laughs
suddenly.
"I should give this back," she says a little archly, fingering the worn
cloth lovingly. His mouth twists a little, when he realises that it is the
owner of the shirt who has the greater hold upon her now.
"Perhaps you should," he says, non-committantly.
She looks a little startled, "Aren't you going to let me wear it in? I can
always borrow something from Buffy if you're really desperate for it back."
He's obviously getting old, "What?" he asks, not sure he heard what he
thinks he just heard.
"It's your shirt," she explains, a little shyly, "You left it in the Magic
Box. I meant to send it but I forgot."
He blinks. Smiles. Draws her inexorably into his arms again and kisses her
with such concentrated thoroughness that when he finally releases her, she's
trembling and flushed with desire.
"Or maybe we could just stay out here for another hour," she suggests
breathlessly, "I don't mind not being able to walk tomorrow."
He laughs, a low, husky sound, "We should go in," he says, lightly stroking
the sensitive skin of her back with callused hands. "We have to go in. There
are things to do."
"I think I'm traumatised," Anya declares, curling herself into him, "I need
you to come home with me. Buffy has Dawn, Willow has Xander. I need you,"
she tells him, and the simplicity of her request stuns him for a moment.
Perhaps things are that simple.
Perhaps when the red flags are waving, you stay out of the water.
He can't protect Buffy forever, this he knows. That he does not have the
right to protect her he is beginning to understand. All children leave home
eventually.
Whether the danger is magical or demonic; whether the roar is distant
artillery or merely the crash of the ocean, when the red flags, real and
metaphorical are flying, he, Rupert Giles, will be watching. But he suspects
that when he has to stand and watch the flags flying on the beach, he won't
be alone.
Finis.
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