Double Date

Chapter 7: A Dangerous Fire

A/N: Chapter split and revised in 2024. Happy reading… :)

They stayed locked together, limbs tangled and breaths mingling, the silence between them so heavy it pressed down like a ominous curse. Buffy's head began to lift, and Giles caught her face in his hand, his thumb brushing over her cheek. His eyes roamed over her, lingering on her lips—red and swollen. Then, with a sinking heart, he noticed the rosy flush blooming on her cheek, a patch of skin raw and irritated where his stubble had scraped against her.

He winced as a stab of guilt tore through him. His opposite hand drifted to his chin, running over the coarse bristle there as though he could somehow undo the damage it had caused. "Buffy," he began, his voice low, rough with regret. But the words stuck in his throat, and he could only offer a thumb that traced tenderly along the marks, his eyes dark with remorse.

He drew a shaky breath. "Oh God, I'm—I'm sorry. Terribly sorry." He murmured as he searched her eyes.

Buffy blinked, the apology cutting deeper than he might have intended. His regret, she assumed, wasn't about the abrasions but the entire act itself. Did he already regret being with her again? The thought stung, and she felt a sharp pang of hurt mixed with anger. She knew Giles too well, knew that his mind had likely already begun its descent into denial and remorse.

Feeling vulnerable and unable to meet his gaze, she simply nodded, her throat tightening with a growing sense of rejection.

Giles' heart twisted painfully as his conscience bore down on him. He wasn't sorry for being with her; but for the raw, primal urge that had overtaken him, leading him to act rough and predatory. He focused on the marks he had left, the disarray of her clothes—fabric rumpled, blouse slightly askew. Oblivious to the way Buffy's gaze had hardened, he missed entirely the moment she pulled away, her emotions turning cold.

Buffy broke the silence, her voice edged with bitterness that made him halt his breathing. "Are we gonna make the deal clear this time?"

"I beg your pardon?" Giles asked, genuine confusion laced with a thread of panic.

She took a deep breath as she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Are we going to crack jokes about it, or just act like it didn't happen?"

The coldness in her eyes, the sharp edge in her tone, sliced through him, leaving him grasping for words. The weight of her anger and pain was almost unbearable.

"I…" He paused, feeling as though the ground beneath him had opened up, swallowing him whole. Words failed him, his mind helpless.

Buffy pulled away from his embrace and stood, her movements mechanical as she adjusted her clothes. Giles followed suit, rising slowly, fumbling with his trousers and tucking in his shirt. The air between them felt suffocating.

Giles tried again, his voice shaking slightly, "I— I suppose neither is likely to help."

Buffy remained silent, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her gaze locked on the floor. The coldness in her stance was such a contrast to the heated moment they had just shared, and it terrified him.

Giles hesitated, feeling the emotional gap between them widen. "Perhaps… some time apart? Some physical distance between us... For a while—only a short while," he suggested, the words almost desperate, as if clinging to the hope that space could heal what had just been fractured.

She nodded mechanically.

"A-about a week?" he ventured

Another nod, just as empty.

"I'll… I'll see to it, make some arrangements…" his voice trailed off as he watched her move towards the door, collect her sports bag, and leave without a backwards glance.

The scene before him was one of the most painful he had ever witnessed in a life marked by immense sacrifices. His Slayer had lost trust in him. The bond they had nurtured over the years was now on the brink of destruction, their future shattering and crumbling into ruins.

He closed his eyes, as if he could shut out the image from his mind. The last thing Giles registered was the click of the door closing between them and the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance. Left alone in the training room, his fingers reached out, brushing against the wall, now marked by the sins of their encounter. He longed for the warmth of their connection, yet found himself wrestling with the thought: Had it all even been real?

The scent of sweat still hung in the air, usually familiar after their countless sparring sessions, but this time, tinged with the unmistakable blend of arousal and pheromones. His gaze fell on a torn piece of her underwear, clear evidence of the rawness of it all, proof that it had all been undeniably real. His actions weighed on him, each breath growing heavier, each thought more tangled. His usual composure, the very thing he had always relied on, now felt like a fragile facade, cracking under the strain.

Bending down, he picked up the torn fabric. His eyes drifted across the room until they landed on the punching bag, hanging forgotten in the corner. He needed an outlet, something to ground him from the chaos in his mind. Without further thought, he stuffed the fabric into his pocket and moved toward the bag, his fists clenching with a rare intensity.

He needed to feel something—anything—beyond the aching regret in his chest. Something tangible. Something he could strike. He squared his stance, drew a sharp breath, and let his first punch fly.

The impact resonated through his bones, but it wasn't enough. He struck again, harder this time, and the bag swayed under the force. His fists drove faster, the rhythm building in time with the pounding of his heart. Each blow was an attempt to erase the memory of her touch, her scent, her voice whispering his name as she lost herself in him. The bag swung wildly, absorbing his fury, but offering no relief.

His mind was filled with her; her whimpers, her breathless gasps, the way she had responded to him with such desperate need. He could still feel the heat of her body enveloping him, the way her hips had rocked in perfect rhythm. There was no denying it, he had enjoyed every moment, and he was almost certain she had too. The evidence was there in every desperate kiss, every arch of her back, every tremor that had run through her as she found release in his arms. He punched harder, trying to drive the thoughts away, but they clung to him, relentless. He saw her eyes, wide and uncertain after it was over, the way she'd pulled away from him without a word. Did she regret it? Had she felt coerced? Had they crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed? The questions tormented his mind, and he felt his stomach twist in response. His punches grew wilder, less controlled, as though he could force the answers out of the leather.

Finally, his strength gave out, and he leaned heavily against the bag, his chest heaving. The room was spinning, or perhaps it was just his disjointed thoughts. He rested his forehead against the cool surface, his hands trembling from the exertion.

Giles straightened, pushing himself off the bag, his breathing still ragged. Amidst the chaos, he recognised that what they had shared couldn't be easily defined or contained. But a single, cold truth began to crystallise: They couldn't continue like this.

Whatever they had ignited last night, however intense, had no place. It was a dangerous fire, one that could consume them both if left to breathe. Wiping a hand across his brow, slick with sweat, he forced his breathing to slow. He needed to bury this, bury it deep, where neither of them could reach it again.

They had to go back. Back to what they were before. Before the lines blurred, before the heat of the moment threatened everything. Back to the roles they had always played with such mastery: Watcher and Slayer.

End of part 7