[fic] Best. Present. Ever.
Jun. 6th, 2012 08:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
akainagiBest. Present. Ever.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
akainagi
Fandom: BtVS, Buffy/Giles
Rating: PG
Status: WIP
Summary: “If music be the food of love, play on …”
Track One:
Buffy had once confided the feeling that her Birthdays were less a pleasant affair and more a source of monumental calamity. Giles suddenly had a new appreciation for the truth of that statement.
“It’s an iPod Giles. It’s not undead or possessed. Yeah, it’s a little cursed maybe, but it is an Apple.”
Giles glared at the 140 grams of circuitry that had just infiltrated his library. “Yes, even I am aware of this particular technological advancement in the methodology of torture, thank you Buffy,” the Englishman replied dryly.
His slayer was positively bouncing with delight. “And see, I even have a little Hello Kitty speaker.”
“How splendid.”
“Yup,” she chirped, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. “I spent half of yesterday loading this bad boy. Best birthday present ever. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff fits in there.”
“All the better to torment me with,” he quipped, not entirely joking.
“Thought you were a Watcher, not a Listener.”
Giles repressed a snort of laughter. With the technological savvy inherent in teenagers everywhere, Buffy had the contraption up and running. The first sound blared forth. David Bowie began musically expounding his fear of Americans. Giles could relate.
Buffy laughed at his expression, teasing him with the comfortable ease gained by years of practice. “Picked that one just for you.” She pointed out.
Giles found that concept irritating and slightly warming at the same time.
Track Two:
Thankfully she kept the damnable thing at a low volume most of the time, in deference to his middle-aged, repressed, British sensibilities. He usually managed to tune out the distraction.
Unless, of course, she was using it as background music to hone her combat prowess. Then it was something just shy of ear shattering. At first Giles was tempted to ban the machine from his presence. However, even he was forced to admit that the cadence seemed to enhance this Slayer’s natural kinetic gifts. He watched her punctuate drum beats and bass riffs with staccato blows to invisible opponents.
The movement of his eyes betrayed his posture. Giles leaned over his book even as his gaze followed the Slayer. She went through the kata with fluid grace. He remembered teaching her the well-worn combination of positions and movements. He had verbosely explained its purpose in practicing the basic forms of any martial art. It had taken her less than two sets to embellish it into something uniquely her own.
The music stopped abruptly, the last note still reverberating through the library. Buffy was halfway through a set when it ended, one leg firmly beneath her, the other extended high in the air. Had the Slayer’s opponent not been imaginary, it would have been in serious danger of no longer having a head. The muscles stood out in bas-relief against Buffy’s small frame; her minimal clothing leaving little to the imagination. She held her position for a solid five seconds, a small and dangerous smile in her eyes, clearly enjoying the exertion on some primal level. It was a testament to the blood in her veins.
And then it was over. Giles had the sense to look away when she turned to him, not wanting her to see the naked appreciation that was probably visible on his face. He attempted to sanitize this thought into something fit for public consumption.
He might be middle-aged, repressed and British, but he wasn’t dead.
Track Three:
At some point Buffy introduced him to the concept of a ‘playlist.’
She enthusiastically explained why the invention of the playlist should be considered on par with that of the wheel. He had listened with barely-concealed amusement. He supposed that for Buffy it was quite novel for her to actually be explaining something to him.
The music hummed fairly unobtrusively in the background, nearly unnoticed. The machine probably didn’t dare interrupt its owner’s enthusiastic exposition.
“You can make a list of music for anything. Happy music, sad music, angry music. Music to sleep by, music to dance by, music to study by.”
“Music to torment your Watcher by?”
Buffy grinned. “That one came factory-installed.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
She laughed. It was a bright, exotic sound. Exotic, at least, to a man for whom restraint had become both an art form and a punishing way of life.
They settled into their respective chairs, and their respective pursuits. His was essays of Sir Walter Scott. Hers was – he glanced at the textbook – English Literature. He stifled a chuckle at that particular piece of irony - Buffy's ability to butcher the language was prodigious. They continued in companionable silence. And when her hand surreptitiously raised the volume on her latest inane pop-tune, he pretended not to notice.
Track Four:
“Giles. It has like 7000 songs on it. I think you can find something you recognize. You’re from England, not Mars.”
The Watcher glared at the small rectangle of technology in his palm.
“It’s not going to bite you, and you don’t need to stake it. Just do what I showed you and pick something,” Buffy instructed, her voice a mix of amusement and exasperation.
Giles sighed. “Really, Buffy –“ he began.
“If you don’t pick something,” she interrupted, “I’ll play Right Said Fred again.”
Giles earnestly endeavored to pick something.
The device was fairly easy to operate, his grousing aside. He swirled his thumb around the controls and watched line after line of text fly across the screen. Surprisingly, he quickly found something he indeed recognized. He picked it under penalty of Right Said Fred. The room was filled with the familiar strains of 'Comfortably Numb.'
Buffy nodded approvingly upon hearing the selection. “Good Call.”
“Indeed. Although I half expected to hear ‘We don’t need no education.’”
Buffy chuckled at his stilted use of the improper grammar. “Giles, your rap sheet’s longer than mine and I burned down the school gym. Do you really want to start comparing misspent youths?”
“Ah. Point taken,” he admitted wryly. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed Pink Floyd.”
Buffy folded her hands over her books and looked contemplative. “I really only know The Wall. Love the movie. Uber-Freaky, but good. I guess I can relate to the whole wall-between-me-and-the-world-thing. Secret identity and all.“ She looked across the table at her Watcher. “You? Back in your rough ‘n rowdy days?”
Giles wondered briefly when he had gotten so comfortable discussing with this girl a period in his life that even today remained a source of shame. She seemed to coax such things out of him effortlessly. He allowed himself a small, nostalgic smile. “I found them to be quite a revelation, actually. I thoroughly wore out my first copy of Wish you Were Here.”
“Darned phonograph cylinders,” Buffy deadpanned.
Giles glared. “Yes, lets do point out my staggeringly advanced age at every opportunity.”
Buffy snorted, but looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry. I can’t help it you’re so fun to tease.”
The Watcher sighed resignedly. “Then I shall have to endeavor to be less fun to tease.”
“Nah. Wouldn’t be Giles without that.” She smiled. “Giles: Smart, tweedy, glasses-polishing, fun to tease.”
Perhaps it was Buffy’s affectionately warm expression, or perhaps the nature of the conversation, or perhaps the knowledge that his Slayer apparently watched him closely enough to catalogue his personal idiosynchroses. In any event Giles felt a slight flush to his own face. It wasn’t until he was replacing his spectacles that he recognized his own actions.
“Giles.”
“Um, Yes?”
“Made you polish your glasses.”
…
“Brat.”
Track 5
Giles' capacity to be amazed by these young people was apparently endless.
When the “Slayerettes,” as it were, began singing along with Buffy’s latest musical offering, Giles opened his mouth to protest. While it was far after regular school hours, this was indeed still a library. His criticism died a quick death when he recognized the song.
He stared. Even years later he would remember this moment with clarity. Xander with his arm slung over Willow’s shoulder, his singing horribly off key. Willow barely able to force anything past her giggles. Buffy across the table, her study materials forgotten, grinning like a Cheshire Cat and happily singing along. Everyone slapping the table with their enthusiasm.
It had taken him four decades, one misplaced youth, much work and countless mistakes to bring him to this point in his life. And just when he thought he had adapted to the vibrant multifaceted creatures surrounding him, the picture shifted.
By the time the song ended and the laughter had ebbed, he had managed to recover his aplomb.
Xander was still stifling a few snorts of merriment. “C’mon G-Man! Haven’t you ever heard Monty Python before?”
Giles managed a put-upon expression. “Of course I have. Despite what you may have been led to believe, this accent is not just for show. I was just rather surprised you lot had.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Duh, Giles. Very popular with the young-uns these days. Dead parrots-”
“Silly walks,” Willow chirped.
“Flying sheep,” Xander supplied.
“Holy hand grenades,” Buffy added.
“Spam!” they all blurted in unison and erupted into giggles again.
Giles shook his head, unable to keep himself from a chuckle. “Yes, well. I may not agree with calling the father of modern philosophy a ‘drunken fart-’”
“I drink therefore I am!” Xander interrupted.
Giles cleared his throat. “Er, yes. Quite. I do hope you all realize that quote is not historically accurate.”
“Oh, please,” Buffy snorted and rolled her eyes. “We had to sit through Ms. McKenzie’s Critical Thinking class with everyone else. And if the guy wasn’t a drunk then he was smoking something. Why else would he spend all of his time staring at an apple?” Buffy struck a pose and adopted a pompous air. “How do I know what’s real: because God told me. How do I know God exists: because I think he does. Blah blah blah.” She looked at her Watcher. “What?”
Giles was the repressed British equivalent of slack-jawed. “I’m merely attempting to come to grips with the fact that I’m sitting here at 8-o-clock at night receiving a lecture on Cartesian Dualism from Buffy Summers. Was there an apocalypse that I failed to notice?”
“Y’know my brain does occasionally actually work on a higher level than ‘plunge-and-move-on.’”
Giles ignored the double entendre that just popped into his mind. “I don’t doubt it for a moment,” he replied honestly.
At least Giles hoped his capacity for amazement was endless, otherwise he would likely be in serious trouble.
+++
TBC!
+++
Track 1: “I’m Afraid of Americans” – David Bowie
Track 2: “Loaded Gun” – Hedonize
Track 3: "Pretty with a Pistol" - Yoko Kanno & The Seatbelts
Track 4: “Comfortably Numb” – Pink Floyd
Track 5: “Drunken Philosophers' Song” – Monty Python
Author:
akainagiFandom: BtVS, Buffy/Giles
Rating: PG
Status: WIP
Summary: “If music be the food of love, play on …”
Track One:
Buffy had once confided the feeling that her Birthdays were less a pleasant affair and more a source of monumental calamity. Giles suddenly had a new appreciation for the truth of that statement.
“It’s an iPod Giles. It’s not undead or possessed. Yeah, it’s a little cursed maybe, but it is an Apple.”
Giles glared at the 140 grams of circuitry that had just infiltrated his library. “Yes, even I am aware of this particular technological advancement in the methodology of torture, thank you Buffy,” the Englishman replied dryly.
His slayer was positively bouncing with delight. “And see, I even have a little Hello Kitty speaker.”
“How splendid.”
“Yup,” she chirped, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. “I spent half of yesterday loading this bad boy. Best birthday present ever. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff fits in there.”
“All the better to torment me with,” he quipped, not entirely joking.
“Thought you were a Watcher, not a Listener.”
Giles repressed a snort of laughter. With the technological savvy inherent in teenagers everywhere, Buffy had the contraption up and running. The first sound blared forth. David Bowie began musically expounding his fear of Americans. Giles could relate.
Buffy laughed at his expression, teasing him with the comfortable ease gained by years of practice. “Picked that one just for you.” She pointed out.
Giles found that concept irritating and slightly warming at the same time.
Track Two:
Thankfully she kept the damnable thing at a low volume most of the time, in deference to his middle-aged, repressed, British sensibilities. He usually managed to tune out the distraction.
Unless, of course, she was using it as background music to hone her combat prowess. Then it was something just shy of ear shattering. At first Giles was tempted to ban the machine from his presence. However, even he was forced to admit that the cadence seemed to enhance this Slayer’s natural kinetic gifts. He watched her punctuate drum beats and bass riffs with staccato blows to invisible opponents.
The movement of his eyes betrayed his posture. Giles leaned over his book even as his gaze followed the Slayer. She went through the kata with fluid grace. He remembered teaching her the well-worn combination of positions and movements. He had verbosely explained its purpose in practicing the basic forms of any martial art. It had taken her less than two sets to embellish it into something uniquely her own.
The music stopped abruptly, the last note still reverberating through the library. Buffy was halfway through a set when it ended, one leg firmly beneath her, the other extended high in the air. Had the Slayer’s opponent not been imaginary, it would have been in serious danger of no longer having a head. The muscles stood out in bas-relief against Buffy’s small frame; her minimal clothing leaving little to the imagination. She held her position for a solid five seconds, a small and dangerous smile in her eyes, clearly enjoying the exertion on some primal level. It was a testament to the blood in her veins.
And then it was over. Giles had the sense to look away when she turned to him, not wanting her to see the naked appreciation that was probably visible on his face. He attempted to sanitize this thought into something fit for public consumption.
He might be middle-aged, repressed and British, but he wasn’t dead.
Track Three:
At some point Buffy introduced him to the concept of a ‘playlist.’
She enthusiastically explained why the invention of the playlist should be considered on par with that of the wheel. He had listened with barely-concealed amusement. He supposed that for Buffy it was quite novel for her to actually be explaining something to him.
The music hummed fairly unobtrusively in the background, nearly unnoticed. The machine probably didn’t dare interrupt its owner’s enthusiastic exposition.
“You can make a list of music for anything. Happy music, sad music, angry music. Music to sleep by, music to dance by, music to study by.”
“Music to torment your Watcher by?”
Buffy grinned. “That one came factory-installed.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
She laughed. It was a bright, exotic sound. Exotic, at least, to a man for whom restraint had become both an art form and a punishing way of life.
They settled into their respective chairs, and their respective pursuits. His was essays of Sir Walter Scott. Hers was – he glanced at the textbook – English Literature. He stifled a chuckle at that particular piece of irony - Buffy's ability to butcher the language was prodigious. They continued in companionable silence. And when her hand surreptitiously raised the volume on her latest inane pop-tune, he pretended not to notice.
Track Four:
“Giles. It has like 7000 songs on it. I think you can find something you recognize. You’re from England, not Mars.”
The Watcher glared at the small rectangle of technology in his palm.
“It’s not going to bite you, and you don’t need to stake it. Just do what I showed you and pick something,” Buffy instructed, her voice a mix of amusement and exasperation.
Giles sighed. “Really, Buffy –“ he began.
“If you don’t pick something,” she interrupted, “I’ll play Right Said Fred again.”
Giles earnestly endeavored to pick something.
The device was fairly easy to operate, his grousing aside. He swirled his thumb around the controls and watched line after line of text fly across the screen. Surprisingly, he quickly found something he indeed recognized. He picked it under penalty of Right Said Fred. The room was filled with the familiar strains of 'Comfortably Numb.'
Buffy nodded approvingly upon hearing the selection. “Good Call.”
“Indeed. Although I half expected to hear ‘We don’t need no education.’”
Buffy chuckled at his stilted use of the improper grammar. “Giles, your rap sheet’s longer than mine and I burned down the school gym. Do you really want to start comparing misspent youths?”
“Ah. Point taken,” he admitted wryly. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed Pink Floyd.”
Buffy folded her hands over her books and looked contemplative. “I really only know The Wall. Love the movie. Uber-Freaky, but good. I guess I can relate to the whole wall-between-me-and-the-world-thing. Secret identity and all.“ She looked across the table at her Watcher. “You? Back in your rough ‘n rowdy days?”
Giles wondered briefly when he had gotten so comfortable discussing with this girl a period in his life that even today remained a source of shame. She seemed to coax such things out of him effortlessly. He allowed himself a small, nostalgic smile. “I found them to be quite a revelation, actually. I thoroughly wore out my first copy of Wish you Were Here.”
“Darned phonograph cylinders,” Buffy deadpanned.
Giles glared. “Yes, lets do point out my staggeringly advanced age at every opportunity.”
Buffy snorted, but looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry. I can’t help it you’re so fun to tease.”
The Watcher sighed resignedly. “Then I shall have to endeavor to be less fun to tease.”
“Nah. Wouldn’t be Giles without that.” She smiled. “Giles: Smart, tweedy, glasses-polishing, fun to tease.”
Perhaps it was Buffy’s affectionately warm expression, or perhaps the nature of the conversation, or perhaps the knowledge that his Slayer apparently watched him closely enough to catalogue his personal idiosynchroses. In any event Giles felt a slight flush to his own face. It wasn’t until he was replacing his spectacles that he recognized his own actions.
“Giles.”
“Um, Yes?”
“Made you polish your glasses.”
…
“Brat.”
Track 5
Giles' capacity to be amazed by these young people was apparently endless.
When the “Slayerettes,” as it were, began singing along with Buffy’s latest musical offering, Giles opened his mouth to protest. While it was far after regular school hours, this was indeed still a library. His criticism died a quick death when he recognized the song.
He stared. Even years later he would remember this moment with clarity. Xander with his arm slung over Willow’s shoulder, his singing horribly off key. Willow barely able to force anything past her giggles. Buffy across the table, her study materials forgotten, grinning like a Cheshire Cat and happily singing along. Everyone slapping the table with their enthusiasm.
It had taken him four decades, one misplaced youth, much work and countless mistakes to bring him to this point in his life. And just when he thought he had adapted to the vibrant multifaceted creatures surrounding him, the picture shifted.
By the time the song ended and the laughter had ebbed, he had managed to recover his aplomb.
Xander was still stifling a few snorts of merriment. “C’mon G-Man! Haven’t you ever heard Monty Python before?”
Giles managed a put-upon expression. “Of course I have. Despite what you may have been led to believe, this accent is not just for show. I was just rather surprised you lot had.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Duh, Giles. Very popular with the young-uns these days. Dead parrots-”
“Silly walks,” Willow chirped.
“Flying sheep,” Xander supplied.
“Holy hand grenades,” Buffy added.
“Spam!” they all blurted in unison and erupted into giggles again.
Giles shook his head, unable to keep himself from a chuckle. “Yes, well. I may not agree with calling the father of modern philosophy a ‘drunken fart-’”
“I drink therefore I am!” Xander interrupted.
Giles cleared his throat. “Er, yes. Quite. I do hope you all realize that quote is not historically accurate.”
“Oh, please,” Buffy snorted and rolled her eyes. “We had to sit through Ms. McKenzie’s Critical Thinking class with everyone else. And if the guy wasn’t a drunk then he was smoking something. Why else would he spend all of his time staring at an apple?” Buffy struck a pose and adopted a pompous air. “How do I know what’s real: because God told me. How do I know God exists: because I think he does. Blah blah blah.” She looked at her Watcher. “What?”
Giles was the repressed British equivalent of slack-jawed. “I’m merely attempting to come to grips with the fact that I’m sitting here at 8-o-clock at night receiving a lecture on Cartesian Dualism from Buffy Summers. Was there an apocalypse that I failed to notice?”
“Y’know my brain does occasionally actually work on a higher level than ‘plunge-and-move-on.’”
Giles ignored the double entendre that just popped into his mind. “I don’t doubt it for a moment,” he replied honestly.
At least Giles hoped his capacity for amazement was endless, otherwise he would likely be in serious trouble.
+++
TBC!
+++
Track 1: “I’m Afraid of Americans” – David Bowie
Track 2: “Loaded Gun” – Hedonize
Track 3: "Pretty with a Pistol" - Yoko Kanno & The Seatbelts
Track 4: “Comfortably Numb” – Pink Floyd
Track 5: “Drunken Philosophers' Song” – Monty Python
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Date: 2012-06-07 01:31 pm (UTC)Tuesday June 5 & Wednesday June 6, 2012
Date: 2012-06-07 03:40 am (UTC)Re: Tuesday June 5 & Wednesday June 6, 2012
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Date: 2012-06-07 01:33 pm (UTC)Thanks!
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Date: 2012-06-07 01:31 pm (UTC)