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Sufficient Champagne
by Cynthia Liskow
Posted: October 7, 2002
Summary: Anya and Giles contemplate love, loss, and lessons learned.
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: I started this story fairly soon after the Season 6 finale, back
when the "Giles and Anya have a talk" idea was slightly original--or at least
slightly more topically relevant. But I got derailed by "The Self-Same Lore,"
and then by another Giles-centric story that I've been puttering on, and in the
meantime, I'm afraid, many people have plumbed these depths. But the other
night, as I was trying to figure out what the heck I'm doing with that other
story, I went back to this one, and remembered that I liked it, and then blammo,
inspiration re-struck, and I finished it up.
Warnings: Spoilers for late Season 6, especially "Hell's Bells," "Seeing Red,"
and "Two to Go/Grave." No Season 7 spoilers, though I'm happy to say that it
hasn't technically been Jossed, either. Yet.
Feedback: Well, duh. cynthia_liskow@att.net
THANKS: What a surprise... Thanks to Rachel for pointing out that this was
Anya's story, not Giles's; to Laura for laughing and nudging me out to the
ledge; and to Jen for thoughtful, funny comments that pushed me over.
Disclaimer: I own a pretty purple spinny-rocky chair. I do not own Giles or
Anya. But I'm happy to trade, Joss, if you're up for it. It's a really pretty
chair.
"Inventory"
Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I'd be better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.
--Dorothy Parker
I'm very glad Giles did not die. I don't say that aloud, of course--it's the
sort of statement that gets eyes rolled at me, no matter how true it is.
Apparently it's inappropriate to express relief over a friend's survival. Their
rules are very confusing and contradictory. It's annoying, and I resent it.
But back to Giles. He's alive, and only slightly concussed. We managed to hobble
out of our ruined store to my car so that I could drive us to the hospital, but
then the stupid man insisted that nothing was broken and that most of his aches
and pains could be healed with aspirin and alcohol. I humored him, but fully
expect to have to call the paramedics later.
So here we are, back in my old apartment. The one that came with human existence
I'd created for myself when I came to Sunnydale. The one that I kept because it
was paid for, even though I was practically living at the place the Xanders got
for me last year.
I'll say this for Cordelia Chase: She screwed everything up with her stupid
wish, that's true, but thank the gods that she was so rich back then, because
otherwise I'd have been in much more trouble when I got caught in my human
persona. I came out of the mess with a nice apartment and a very serviceable
car, thanks to my make-believe Daddy's money. It didn't last forever, of course,
but it certainly was a good start to keep me going until I discovered how to
create money on my own, and the wardrobe alone made my human life much more
bearable. Ugh. To think how close I came to being stuck as a homeless person, or
a Communist. A French Communist!
Right, though. I was talking about Giles. He looks so tired. Much older than
when he left last year. I hope the shower perks him up. I don't like to see him
all stiff and limping and geriatric. And hurt. I hate to see any of them hurt.
Almost as much as I hate to admit to hating to seeing them hurt.
I wish I didn't care. I didn't used to. I remember that. That was nice. And,
frankly, that's part of the reason I came back to the demon life. That was part
of the grand post-non-wedding plan. But I haven't been able to shed Anya and
find my old, comfortable Anyanka self. I still love the Magic Box, and its
customers who trade money for goods and services. I like shopping, especially
for bras, and pajamas, and shoes. I like caramel mochas from the Espresso Pump.
And I lied to Spike that night. I like the Scoobies. They're funny, and loyal,
mostly, and they save the world a lot. I miss them, the way things were before.
Stupid Xander. And stupid Spike and stupid Buffy, and stupid, stupid Tara for
going and getting killed and stupid Willow for loving her so much that she hates
the world without her.
I can hear Giles bumping around in the bathroom. I need to blow my nose before
he sees me like this. I hate that I still cry! What's the matter with me? I
hurry into the living room with several bottles from my little liquor cabinet. I
anticipate that Giles will want Scotch, so I pour a hefty serving over some ice
in one of the tumblers I got on sale at the Pottery Barn. I like the Pottery
Barn.
Giles seems a little less brittle when he emerges. He's able to stand up
straight, which is a great comfort to me. I didn't like him looking so fragile.
It makes me nervous.
"Here," I say, taking him by the arm and steering him toward the couch. "I have
Scotch."
"Anya, you are a jewel," he says with a sigh. He smiles at me as he takes his
glass from my hand and sinks back into the cushions. "Sit, please." He pats the
seat next to him, and I perch on the edge.
"Are you sure you should be drinking?" I ask, remembering that he's gotten all
frail on us. "You don't look well at all, and the dehydration and digestive
disruptions caused by alcohol can be very unpleasant."
"I appreciate your concern, Anya," he says in that annoying
more-British-than-thou voice that I missed so much, "but rest assured, I've been
drowning my sorrows for some decades now, and I'm well aware of my own limits.
Four fingers of Scotch will do very nicely against my current head and body
aches, but will not add to the damage."
He skillfully drops some ice into the second glass and pushes it toward me.
"Have one yourself?" he asks, and I notice that my knees and hands are shaking
as I fill my glass with the Scotch.
Giles notices, too.
"You're trembling," he observes with kindness that makes my chest ache. His
hand, warm from the shower, rests on my arm. "You've been extraordinarily brave,
Anya, especially considering all you've been through lately."
The ice cubes shift in my glass as I raise it to my lips. The alcohol burns my
sinuses, and I feel my eyes tearing. His hand moves on my arm, then slides away.
I close my eyes against the sting and listen to Giles's tumbler jingle as he
drinks. I gulp back the swallow that's been simmering against my lips and sniff
past the fumes, but don't respond. What's to say? Yay me for not always being
the evil kind of demon.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he says, tipping back another slug of the amber
liquid and settling in against the cushions. "You've reverted to your demon
incarnation, then?"
I shrug in assent and prepare myself to be berated.
"Mmm," he hums. "Buffy told me, albeit briefly, what happened. I'm terribly
sorry, Anya."
"Oh," I reassure him, "being a demon's not so bad, especially if you--"
I stop speaking when I feel his hand back on my shoulder. He's very tactile
tonight. It's not like him.
"I meant about Xander, of course," he says in an old, sad voice, "and the
wedding."
I sigh heavily and examine the patterns on my ice cubes. "Oh. That." I've heard
this before, but with a slightly different accent. Best to cut this one off at
the pass.
"I'm not going to have sex with you," I tell Giles as kindly as I can while
still being firm. He is silent for a few seconds, and then I can feel the couch
shaking as he deals poorly with my rejection.
"Dear Giles," I say, trying to comfort him. "You're a very nice man, and quite
attractive in an older-and-therefore-wiser-and-more-experienced way." He's
hitching all over, turned away from me. "And I understand you're trying to make
me feel better, which is very sweet, and I'm sure you would be a perfectly
adequate sexual partner."
He's gasping for breath now, choking with grief, poor man. He's collapsed
forward, face buried in his hands. I pat him gently on the shoulder, keeping my
contact purely platonic. No need to rub his face in it, is there?
"But the problem is that I still love Xander, may he rot in one of the stickier
dimensions of hell, and although alcohol and sex may feel good in the moment,
afterwards it's just awkward and uncomfortable. And Xander was really angry last
time, and he almost killed Spike, who's much more durable than you--no
offense--and then Xander got all hurt and vindictive and horrid about people who
have sex with dead things, and it was just bad all around."
He's taking this much harder than I'd anticipated.
"Oh..." Giles sobs, snorting and gasping. He certainly doesn't cry neatly, the
way men do in the movies. It's very loud and embarrassing. "Oh, Lord, Anya.
You... You and Spike?"
"Well, yes, and that's why I won't be having sex with you. You see, I've learned
that--"
He howls. Howls like a dog, and the realization hits me.
He's laughing. At me.
"You're laughing!"
Giles collapses against the side of the couch, positively hooting with laughter.
At me. I smack him on the arm, and he yelps, but the cackling doesn't slow even
a little bit.
"You jerk! Why are you laughing at me?"
"Oh, oh God--I can't--I'm not..."
I feel like crying again. "You are! What exactly about my situation amuses you
so much?" I can feel my nose and eyes plugging up with annoyingly human fluids.
Meanwhile Giles is slowing down, but it's clearly a struggle. I take two big
gulps of my drink before he's able to speak for real.
"It's just... Good Lord, is there anyone here who *hasn't* slept with Spike
since I've gone home?"
I clack my drink down, pleased to notice that it's sloshed out of the glass and
stained his stupid pants. "Well, I'm fairly sure Dawn is still a virgin,
considering the continued fascination with her among the demon community, and as
far as I know Willow and Tara were inactive during their separation. And Spike
hates Xander too much to--besides, neither of them appears to be homosexual--so
I think it's just me and Buffy..."
Giles re-dissolves into giggles, and I snatch my glass up again, consider
draining it, but decide it's time to take action. I make an embarrassingly girly
frustration noise, sort of a scream and a growl at the same time, and throw my
drink onto the side of Giles' head.
"Ow!"
At least he's stopped laughing. Giles sits up straight and mops at his face with
his sleeve.
"Here, now! That was uncalled for, really."
I give him my very steeliest,
you-shoplifter-take-that-incense-out-of-your-pants-do-you-think-I'm-stupid?
glare, and, as all men do, he crumbles.
"All right," he concedes, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaning
the whiskey from his glasses, "perhaps it was called for." He squints at his
spectacles, rubs at them some more, and then puts them back on. "But really,
I've just showered and now I'm all sticky again."
"Why were you laughing at me?" I demand. "Is it so unlikely that someone would
want me? Someone besides Xander? Look at me!" I stand up and smooth out the
blouse that clings in all the right places. "I'm very attractive. I know I am!
That was the whole point of picking this stupid body that I've gotten all used
to, even though it's stupid and human and I have a perfectly good demon form
that I used to love. I was one of the most beautiful of all of D'Hoffryn's
girls, and now I don't even like to spend time in that body because it wasn't
the one that Xander smooshed with."
I flop back to the couch, fully aware of the patheticness that I've somehow
personified, and all the more unhappy for it.
"It must've been dreadful for you."
I hate it when they're nice to me, when they put their stupid mortal years of
experience with being human and turn it into empathy that kicks in right when
you're ready to make them start hiccuping frogs. It takes the wind right out of
my sails.
I turn to face him and see that Giles smile that shows he knows we're about to
start bawling. The one that's about to make me start bawling.
"It was," I state firmly. "It was the worst thing I ever felt, ever, and I ..."
I have to stop because I'm going to cry again, and I'm tired of crying, did I
mention that?
A pretty, slender hand flutters up over my chest and then presses against it,
and I realize it's mine. It's Anya's. "I *hurt* Giles."
He smiles kindly, exactly like he would have at the wedding that wasn't. He's
Giles.
"Of course you do. It's natural."
"No, you don't understand," I insist, because he wasn't there, he can't possibly
know.
He didn't see the gown, or Buffy and Dawn and Willow and poor dead Tara looking
so beautiful in their dresses, and if he'd been there then maybe he could have
talked to Xander, talked some sense into his stupid block-of-wood head, and I
wouldn't be feeling this way right now. I lean over a little, clutching my glass
tightly in the hand that isn't pressed against my heart.
"I've felt pain before. I've been both concussed and contused, beaten about the
head and neck, had my bones snapped." I look to him for something. Affirmation?
He should know. He's lived on the Hellmouth longer than I have. He knows about
the bodily damage.
Giles presses his lips together and "Mmm hmmm"s seriously, so I continue.
"I've even felt emotional pain, enough to know the difference between it and the
more common physical sort. When Joyce died, for example, and then when Buffy
died, too. And there was the time that Xander didn't want to have sex with me,
and we broke up for that night. Believe me," I drawl, stretching the words to
make my point very, very clear, "I am no stranger to pain."
"I should say not," Giles agrees and take another sip of his Scotch.
"But this," my fist is thumping against my breast now, for emphasis, I realize.
It sounds like an overripe watermelon--hollow and squishy inside. "This is
unbearable. It's as if someone had taken a ... a really big spoon and dug a hole
in me, and taken out my heart--which I had always considered to be a purely
physical organ, none of that silly namby-pamby organ-of-love nonsense--and
plucked it from my chest, and, you know..."
My hand stops thumping and I find myself sketching vaguely violent signs in the
air, my broken but still polished fingernails suddenly flashing in the
lamplight. I'm having an epiphany, I think. I have a terrible, disgusting vision
of guts, which usually don't bother me, but they're mine this time, and it's
unnerving.
"... And picking it to shreds and then squishing the little bits of it until
they're all beaten and flat, and all that's left is a bunch of bloody, pulpy
stuff that somehow still *hurts* even if it's not in you anymore, and now
there's a big, sucking hole where your life used to be and..." I look up from
the floor, where my heart seems to have been stomped upon.
I hear him snort. He's snorting again! "You're laughing at me again!" I accuse.
"No," Giles corrects me, and his face is serious. "No, I'm most assuredly not."
I set my glass on the table in front of us, wipe my nose as discretely as
possible, and tuck one foot under the other knee so I can turn to face Giles
more directly, see into his eyes.
"Dear Anya," he say in his most soothing voice, the same one he was using on
Evil Willow earlier today. "You have the most direct insights into the human
condition of any being I've ever known. It strikes one off guard, that's all."
I flop my face into my hands in defeat, and when I speak, my voice is whinier
than Dawn's at her very worst. "I'm not even human anymore."
I feel him shrug, and then I feel his arm across my back, and he pulls gently
and I settle against his chest. "You're more human than most people I know," he
says, and that just makes me cry all over again.
"What good's that to anyone?" I croak, and drop my head into my hands again.
"There, there," he murmurs.
I feel his hand on the base of my skull, kneading gently, and although I'm still
not entirely convinced he isn't trying to get me to have sex with him, it feels
too good to tell him to stop. I let myself sag against Giles' side and sob
embarrassingly for several minutes, and the whole time his fingers move against
my head.
When I stop crying, I rest against his chest, catching my breath. Giles shifts
awkwardly and before I can ask what the matter is, he settles back and presses a
soft piece of white cotton that smells slightly of alcohol into my hand.
"There, wipe your nose, love." His hand stays on my shoulder as I sit up and
wipe my face dry with his handkerchief, then blow my nose as politely as I can
with all this stupid snot built up in me. Honestly, humans are so gross. Where
does it all come from?
"Thank you," I say, remembering my manners. I wish I hadn't thrown my drink on
him. I could use the rest of it now. I start to reach for the bottle, to pour
myself another, but my hands are all stupid and shaky and not working.
Giles makes a question noise at me.
"Can I please have another drink?" I ask, and he smiles.
"Wonderful idea," he says and extracts his arm from between me and the sofa.
"Mine could use freshening as well."
I blow my nose again while he pours our drinks.
"So," Giles says as he sinks back down next to me and hands me my glass. "What
are you going to do?"
"Drink this one," I reply, "instead of wasting it on you."
He chuckles and sips. "I meant with yourself."
The Scotch is bracing, and it helps clear some of the built-up snot from my
head.
"I don't know, Giles," I answer simply. "I don't know what to do, about any of
it. You tell me. What should I do?"
He laughs again, but I understand that it's not because he thinks it's funny.
"Well, first I have to suggest for your own safety, and just on general
principles, you should avoid wreaking vengeance upon Xander. Especially by
having sex with Spike."
"That's very helpful, Giles," I say sarcastically. Sarcasm is one subtlety of
human communication, at least, that I have mastered with relative ease.
"Besides, I can't curse him, it turns out. Not myself, and no one else will do
it for me. And..."
"And?"
I sniff and take another warming drink. "It's terrible, because this is my
calling, you know? It's something I've excelled at and taken great pride in...
But I don't think... I don't think I *want* to curse him anymore."
Giles's voice is soft and comforting, like the alcohol. "What *do* you want?"
My chin is wobbling again, but I stop it. I'm done crying for today. "I want it
back the way it was, before he left me. I want him to love me again."
He pulls me to him, sighing heavily. "Oh, Anya..." His voice is thick, and I
wonder if he's going to start with the crying, and what did I say to make that
happen? "I'm quite sure that he does love you. But you've probably begun to work
out that it isn't always as simple as whether you love each other."
"Why not?" I ask petulantly. "It should be that simple. The only reason it isn't
is because men are evil, horrible creatures. Hence the career in vengeance.
Which, by the way, I think I might suck at now, thank you all over again, Xander
Harris."
This time, when Giles laughs, I give up and laugh with him. It's all so stupid.
"Well, what about you?" I ask, turning the tables, I hope. "What are you going
to do?"
"Ahhh," Giles laughs, nodding. "Yet another excellent question." He takes a deep
breath. "Well, I imagine I'll start by finding Willow, now that she has not
ended the world, and see what's to be done with her. What sort of state she's
in. Contain her, though I suspect she won't need any sort of restraints, and
take her to people who can help her."
I'm glad he answered that way. It gives me an opportunity to make fun, and that
always makes a person feel better.
"No," I parrot, "I meant with yourself."
It worked. He smiles at me, eyes twinkling, and I feel much better.
"I've no idea," he admits. "Work out an arrangement for Willow. See if Buffy
needs me here. But," he lowers his voice and tips his head conspiratorially, and
I lean in, intrigued, "and this is a secret I'm sharing only with you for the
moment, so mum's the word... But I seem to've happened upon a life back home. I
met a perfectly charming woman--a scholar who owns a lovely tea room in
Bath--and I'm actually quite smitten with her."
I elbow him, very gently, of course, because I know that at least some of his
ribs must be cracked, and shake my head with a smile.
"You! Look at you, all blushing and dopey. No wonder you wouldn't have sex with
me! A girlfriend!"
The phone rings, and I stand up, still pointing and grinning. I don't know why
this makes me so happy. He's male, after all, and human to boot, so it will
surely end badly. But for now, it makes me happy to think of Giles in love.
I pick up the phone, knowing full well who it will be.
"Ahn," Xander says when I answer. "Thank God. Are you okay? Is Giles with you?"
"I'm all right," I say. "And Giles is, too. Is anyone else dead?"
He has his smiling voice on. "No, we're all okay, Willow, Dawn, Buffy. We all
made it."
I feel Giles waiting to hear the news, so I smile at him and give a thumbs up.
He tips his head briefly, sighs loudly enough for me to hear him from across the
room, and tilts back the rest of his drink.
"Good," I say to Xander, and then there's a pause that makes me wonder if I've
broken some telephone etiquette rule. Right, don't express relief that people
haven't died.
"Listen," he says, and I can practically hear him breathing. I want to hear him
breathing. "Can I see you later?"
"Why?" I ask, and this time I know I'm being rude. But I don't care. It's a
perfectly legitimate question.
"I... I just need to talk to you. Tell you some things, ask you some things."
I've heard this before.
"I'm not going to have sex with you. Giles is here for one, and I'm still very
angry at you." There's a snorting noise from the couch, and I scowl at Giles and
wave a hand to shut him up.
"Okay," says phone-Xander.
"And, just so you don't come with an axe or anything, you should know that I'm
not having sex with Giles, either. Although he is attractive and has been very
nice to me today." I say that last for Giles's benefit, because I don't want to
hurt his feelings, new girlfriend or not.
"And again I say, okay." Xander lowers his voice, to his serious stuff
conversation tone. "I just need to see you, talk to you. Is that all right?"
I feel a weird fluttering high in my stomach. "Yes."
"Okay, I'll be over in a couple of hours, then. Gotta get some stuff done here,
get Willow to Buffy's. But then I'll be over."
"Okay." I hang up before I say anything stupid, and I turn to Giles.
"Everyone is alive, Xander's got Willow and is taking her to Buffy's, and then
he's coming over here. Giles, what do I do?"
He pushes off the sofa and comes over to me, putting his hand on my shoulder
again. "Do you love him?"
"Unfortunately," I answer.
"Then listen to him," he says gently. "Talk to him. See if you can work things
out. They may not be the way they were, but they may still work."
"Okay," I say, though I hear doubt in my voice.
"And Anya," he says, and his voice is soft and kind. "A bit of advice, if I
may..."
I nod eagerly. I hope this is good.
"Whatever you choose to do, remember that while friends and lovers come and go,
enemies tend to last a lifetime. Be careful that you don't make the wrong
enemies. I would be very sad if you were to be slain."
I feel my eyes narrow. He's made the statement in a friendly enough manner, but
I can hear the warning undeneath the gentle voice, and I nod, tucking that one
away to think about later.
Our gazes lock for a moment, and then Giles raises his eyebrows and nods
sharply, indicating that he has finished dispensing advice.
"Good" he says with authority as he starts for the guest room. "I, for one, am
exhausted and am going to sleep, if you don't mind."
He's almost at the door when I grab him from behind and hug him fiercely. "Thank
you, Giles," I say into his back while he twists to put his arms around me. "You
are the nicest human being I've ever known."
"Well, thank you, Anya," he replies, and kisses my forehead. "You're the most
lovely demon I've known."
It seems an appropriate time to end the hug, so I step back. He smiles at me and
turns to the door again, but then turns back.
"Oh, one more thing... Stick to your guns. Don't have sex with him. It would be
confusing for both of you. And besides, I'm just in the next room, and I think I
should very likely die if I were forced to hear."
"Okay," I agree. He has a point. Plus, I've already wrested him back from the
arms of death once today. I don't need to do that again any time soon.
The door to the guest room clicks shut, and I hover uncertainly in place, trying
to arrange things in my mind. I'm not successful, so I set about arranging my
apartment instead. It's a much simpler task--the clearing of used glasses to the
dishwasher, the wiping down of dusty surfaces--and I hope it will keep me
occupied and calm until Xander arrives.
I hope he gets here soon. Lemon Pledge makes me sneeze.
Feed me? cynthia_liskow@att.net
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