TITLE: Splintered and Left

AUTHOR: Aviatrix

PAIRING: Buffy/Giles

SUMMARY: Things have changed, maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. Either way, it's complicated.

DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon and all his people own the characters. I own nothing. Blah.

A/N: Some imagery taken from my lone Big Wolf on Campus fic, because no one's gonna read it anyway. Might as well put it to good use.

This fic was written as my response to all that twoo wuv BeeGee fic - I like it, but it's weighing the ship down. Thx.

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( Dream:

She's in a darkened room, and Giles is leaning over her, his fingers grazing over the pulse point in her neck. She is calm, relaxed.

"I've never seen scars like yours," he says, and he grins, revealing gleaming white fangs.

She does not fight or leave. )

x

They've banded together; for now, at least. They live in more or less the same neighborhood, linked by daily visits that always seem a little forced. How are you, what have you been doing, is the world ending? Giles makes tea, Dawn whines, Xander wisecracks, Willow is shy and awkward.

*Were we really like this?* she wonders.* Is this the past we're trying to pretend never went away?*

It's sweet, in a sad kind of way. But it's not what she wants anymore, it's not what truly is, not what they are, and she bites her lip to keep from telling them what she's been dreaming about.

She's thinking about leaving.

x

She still gets splinters in her hands. From stakes, and, oddly enough, from the old broom she found at a yard sale.

She doesn't share, doesn't open up, doesn't smile that much anymore, but she cleans up after herself, and there's something to be said for that.

Sometimes, Giles sits with her and silently removes the slivers of wood from her hands. He smiles at her, awkwardly, and she tangles her fingers in his sweater before letting him go.

x

"You're not so innocent as you make yourself out to be, are you?" she asks him playfully one afternoon.

They're outside, walking. Dogs barking, fight spilling out of a corner bar, and his face, shadowed by the sun:

"*Excuse* me?"

*At least he's lost the stutter*, she thinks.

"You heard me, mister."

His hands twitched at his side, and she could tell he was doing his best to keep from cleaning his glasses.

"Yes, well, I don't know what you're...what you're trying to get me to say."

"You're all tea and books and comfy sweaters, but you're not really, are you?"

He quickens his pace, his long legs easily outstriding Buffy's.

"How very astute of you to notice," he snaps back at her.

x

After a while, they start falling into the same bed, drunken hands on flushed skin, static-y moans in each other's ears.

*I want you, I need you, Please don't leave.*

His teeth scrape along her neck, leaving light pink lines on her skin. She does not cry out, but her eyes water slightly, and she tangles her hands in his hair and guides him closer to her:

*Harder*

and the lines turn to welts turn to blood welling up, dripping down between her breasts. His tongue is lapping it up, savouring it.

She looks at him through the flicker/flicker/haze of sex, and his eyes are glittering and hard. Teeth flat and even, but still, there's something there...a memory, reminiscent, or maybe just a dream.

*So this is you,* she thinks.* So this is you.*

Later, they'll lie silently, facing apart, and she'll feign sleep while he leaves. But for now, now, they've got hours and minutes ahead of them and although the gin in her blood is making his face blur, she can feel every wrinkle on his body, every blemish.

"I've never seen scars like yours," she whispers.