So, of course, my modem breaks when it's my posting day at summer_of_giles - thanks modem! My internet provider (Rogers) promises to have someone at my house today between 2pm-5pm to fix it and I am tentatively optimistic this'll happen. *crosses fingers and toes* Anyway, I'm at a coffee shop so I could work on the edits my betas gave me and post!

This is one of those fics that turned out very differently than I'd planned (it was supposed to be much more Giles/Xander-y than it is), yet also it's very much what I'd envisioned in my head. I'm quite happy with it and am pleased that writing Giles continues to be so enjoyable - so I hope you enjoy!

Title: The Hard Land of the Winter
Author: cordelianne
Pairing: Giles, Giles/Xander if you squint
Rating: PG
Word Count: Exactly 1000 words. In fact it's 2 sections, each 500 words.
Warnings: Tolkien-inspired melancholia, warm tea, anthropomorphized office furniture (or not).
Summary: Set post-Chosen.
It’s not so much odd as unexpected.
An unexpected nostalgia for the narrow stacks, the wooden table, the days and nights that bled into one other as they pored over tomes full of faded text and obscure references. Even for the smell of that floor – a blend of disinfectant and artificial pine.
A/N: The title comes from Cream's "Tales of Brave Ulysses" (written by Eric Clapton and Martin Sharp). Although this isn't a songfic, a few pieces of lyrics found their way into the fic.
Thanks to the completely awesome and wonderful savoytruffle and spookymonkey for their invaluable pre-reading, betaing and support. Any mistakes are mine (and you're always welcome to point out my mistakes).




The Hard Land of the Winter
by Cordelianne


It’s not so much odd as unexpected.

An unexpected nostalgia for the narrow stacks, the wooden table, the days and nights that bled into one other as they pored over tomes full of faded text and obscure references. Even for the smell of that floor – a blend of disinfectant and artificial pine.

And for the worrying. Giles definitely hadn’t expected to miss worrying about her.

His slayer.

Worrying whether she would survive the fight or the night. And even that wasn’t enough because then it was about surviving the year, and then the year after that. Ten years later, it’s strange to have that worry gone.

He’s succeeded. Buffy survived. She changed the world.

The phrasing makes that sound so trite, like the tag line for some Hollywood film. It doesn’t come close to describing what Buffy had accomplished.

Accomplished without me.

The thought slips out unbidden, reason trailing behind, reminding him that he played a role. That he guided Buffy, and stood there by her side – stands.

Thumping and clattering ring through the house as ten young women – slayers – rush down the stairs of their tiny headquarters. Off to fight a demon and not for a jaunt about town, he hopes, but he doesn’t know their destination.

The age of Watchers has ended.

He sips his tea and chides himself for indulging this Tolkien-inspired melancholia. He truly is getting old. But if it’s any comfort, so is Xander.

Giles glances across the room – it isn’t far, the other desk just a few paces away – and watches Xander flip through forms, a frown on his face. It’s not just the eyepatch that makes him seem closer to thirty than twenty, it’s the bits of grey that pepper his hair. He’s grown it back into that floppy style from the days when Giles first met his young charge’s unorthodox allies, but it only serves as a constant reminder of all the years that have passed.

The boy has grown up.

It’s funny, when he tries to remember his first impression of Xander, he can’t. Not because his memory is hazy, rather because his focus was on his responsibilities, his duties. As if while staring at the main design of a quilt, he’d failed to see the blue stitching that bound all the pieces together.

Even trying to hone in on the blue doesn’t produce satisfactory results. It’s as if the thread were always already there, had slipped into his life without his notice and it wasn’t until he had returned to England – alone – that he observed its absence.

Giles swirls the remains of his tea and replaces the cup – barely warm tea always disappoints. The light that once streamed into the room had faded, becomes increasingly dim. He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. He ought to heed his doctor’s advice and not inflict further damage on his eyes.

He flicks on his desk lamp.

It’s not the violence of the sun, but it’s all he has.

***

The chair creaks.

Possibly it has for weeks, but Giles only noticed six days ago. Of course now that he’s aware, he hears each creak that Xander makes, each shift in his chair, each squeak of the wheels when he rolls closer to his filing cabinet.

He hears the sighs, too.

Sighs from Xander, obviously, and not the chair. Chairs don’t sigh, or at least Giles has yet to encounter any anthropomorphized office furniture, though he rules out no possibility.

But an area he’s less sure about is whether Xander’s movement – frequent movement – in his chair is a new development or something he’s been doing for years. He casts back in his memory to the library, and recalls Xander reading – or, rather, flipping through – books but cannot remember movement or lack thereof.

He reflects then on his apartment, the Magic Box and Buffy’s house all in turn, but his memory just presents him with a blank in this area. He’s not sure which is less appealing, that his powers of recall are declining with age or that he was all but unaware of Xander back in Sunnydale.

It seems as if the tables have been turned.

Despite the close proximity, Xander rarely looks up from his work, and if he does it’s only to frown off into space.

Giles now fully understands the term “wallflower.”

It’s not a matter of shyness. It’s about lack of significance.

It’s not that he’s being purposefully ignored or pushed aside, but that he’s become less necessary, finds himself fading into the background. Soon, he feels, his features will be indistinguishable from those of the flocked floral wallpaper. And, dear lord, if it must happen, why must it be such ridiculous wallpaper?

He watches Xander stride from the room, carrying a map marked with red circles.

His training hasn’t prepared him for this; there’s a gap. He was meant to outlive his slayer or die in the field, not pass the torch to the next generation.

It’s anticlimactic.

And boring.

He’s been saying it for years but he bloody well needs a life. Perhaps he should get onto that.

Giles closes the folder in front of him and stands up. He slides his arms into his jacket one at a time, each movement deliberate, methodical. He picks up his briefcase. As his hand slides into the grooves on the handle he’s aware that this is a repetition of an action he’s been doing for years.

He pauses, stares down at the leather case with its worn edges and frayed threads. He should put it down and walk out, get on with his life. Either that or retire.

He hears its call like a sweet sirens’ song, enticing him into the sparkling waves.

He closes his eyes.

“Giles?” Xander’s voice sounds higher than normal. “You okay?”

His hand tightens on the briefcase. Giles opens his eyes and meets Xander’s one. He adjusts his jacket and smiles.

“Just tired.” He rests a hand on Xander’s shoulder. “Good-night.”



*end*