Nights like this are the worst. Quiet nights, nights where he can hear himself think, loud and clear. Nights where the sandman requires hefty bribes in the form of beer or whisky (or both) before Xander can drift into an uneasy state of something kind of like sleep, but without the restful part.
Okay. Ground rules. Thinking about Giles the way you’d think about Angel or Spike or Riley, or even Parker, was wrong. Giles was not allowed to be attractive.
She’s there for a good minute and a half before he notices her. She’s tempted to break the moment, to make some joke about the necklace he’s holding, how between its scrubbing bubbles and the slicing dicing scythe, their weapons should have their own infomercials. Instead she just stands there until he looks up.
Things used to be simple. Black and white. Good and Evil. G-d and Country. Boys and Girls.
Buffy swallowed a sigh and turned around. The guy was tall, a bit on the skinny side, with overly-pomaded dark hair, glasses, and a suit so stuffy it could only mean one thing: new Watcher.
“Do you guys all come factory-equipped with tweed? Tell the Council they can bite me. I’m through.”
Faith thinks they seem almost too thin to be legal, like she’s fucking a school girl, but that’s B, all skin and bone and self-righteous attitude.
“Heads, you sleep in the motel room; tails, you sleep on the bus.”
Faith’s voice breaks into Buffy’s solitary contemplation of the sunset. The three months since the closing of the hellmouth have reduced their numbers as most of the girls, slayers now, have gone off, either home to their parents or to find their own way, but solitude is still in short supply.
“I believe this is what they call a Mexican standoff.” Xander glared at Spike. Spike glared right back.
“Tell me a story.”
“Dawnie, you’re too old for stories.” Still, Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh.