I don't suffer from insanity

icons: Giles pairings from s1, s2, s3

2008-03-16T18:11:59Z

269 Giles' pairings from s1-3.
mostly Giles/Buffy, Giles/Xander, Giles/Willow.
Some Giles/Jenny, Giles/Ethan, Giles/Oz, Giles/Joyce, Giles/Wesley, Giles/Faith, Giles/Angel, Giles/Cordelia.
Concept of an OTP is absolutely lost on me.

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Title: The May/December thing, Giles/Dawn

2008-03-13T09:19:58Z

Pairing: Giles/Dawn
Rating: PG-13
post-Chosen, ignoring comics. Written for alixtii for Giles' round at hetfic_minis

“So, was I right, or was I right?” Dawn asked, performing a complicated sequence of gestures Giles could not even begin to comprehend the meaning of.

“You know, you sound quite familiar, I just can’t seem to place it...” he said thoughtfully, and she laughed.

“Yeah. But Buffy would not come up with this highly artistic interpretative victory dance routine.”

“So that’s what it was,” he muttered, as he fumbled through the first aid kit, laying out the things she might need. “I’ve wondered.”

“Also,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “Buffy wouldn’t have spent three consecutive Saturday nights on putting together the pattern of disappearances, and researching local lore.” She glanced over the bandages and antiseptics, and then frowned at him. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“It’s not London, we don’t have the Council’s doctors here,” he pointed out, and she nodded.

“And they would have to notify the police of a bullet wound, I know, I watch CSI.”

He gave her an incredulous look, and she shrugged. “What? It’s highly educational.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said dryly, taking off his shirt, grimacing in the process. She rolled her eyes and moved to help him, easing the material off.

“Doesn’t look fun.”

“Doesn’t feel fun, either,” he offered. “Honestly, since when do demons use firearms?”

“Since they are afraid to approach any girl in the age bracket of fourteen to twenty four for the fear of encountering a slayer?” she guessed, and he smiled slightly. Then he grimaced.

“Fuck. You said you knew how to do this,” he muttered, as she dabbed at the wound, trying to recover the bullet.

“Language, Giles,” she admonished him. “And I do know how to do this. I watch CSI, remember?” she teased.

He frowned again. “Don’t they usually deal with corpses? It’s not a comforting thought.”

“I imagine it’s easier when the patient doesn’t move or talk, yes,” she said wistfully, then held up the recovered bullet. “Look, a souvenir.”

He gave it an unimpressed look. “Very pretty. Now, get on with it.”

She disinfected the wound expertly, then started to work on closing it, working with the needle in a practiced manner. She bit her lower lip in concentration, her hair falling down around her face in waves. “Thank you,” she said quietly, bordering on inaudible.

“What for?” he asked, twisting his neck a bit, to look at her.

“There, in the cathedral. You pushed me away, and...” she shrugged, then pulled at the thread one last time before cutting it off.

“That’s quite alright. You’re welcome,” he smiled, turning to look at her needlework. “Doesn’t look so bad,” he said finally.

“Of course it doesn’t. I told you, I know what I’m doing,” she muttered, looking up with a smile, her face inches from his. “Giles...” she started, and stopped when he pulled away, already reaching for his shirt, trying to put it back on.

“I might start using that CSI show as the instructional video for the first aid course, what do you think?” he asked conversationally, pulling the shirt on with some difficulty.

She sighed. “So, we’re doing that thing where you pretend to misunderstand, again?”

“Dawn,” he said pleadingly, and she shook her head.

“I made a list,” she said. “The first thing you’ll try, would be the age difference. And I'd like to point out I'm not your usual twenty-one years old girl, but a mystical key or whatnot.”

"This is not an existential discussion, Dawn." He looked away. “You deserve much better.”

“Coming to the second item, right on schedule. No, Giles, I deserve the guy who’d stand between me and a bullet. Know one?”

“God help me, you’ve been rehearsing this,” he muttered. “Did you thought over the fact that your sister will have my guts for garters, and my liver for a pincushion, by any chance?”

“Buffy doesn’t sew, what would she need a pincushion for?” she pointed out, then shrugged. “And given her choices of boyfriends, not like she has any high moral ground to stand on. She has as much of a higher ground as Anakin Skywalker, and we all know how that worked out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I should be used to this.”

“I’m saying that your arguments are pretty much worthless. There’s only one thing you can say to make me forget any ideas of kissing you right about now, and that would be if you don’t want it.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, and she started to smile. She reached out, running her fingers down the side of his face, and he caught her hand, stilling it.

“Dawn, I can’t...”

She nodded. “Fine. I need to be back at the university at seven anyway. But you better figure it all out sooner rather than later. The May/December thing is fun only while you can see me naked and not have a heart attack.”

“Dawn,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound mortified, like it was before, but rather exasperated, pleading with her. She smiled triumphantly and made two steps towards him, leaning in, catching his lips in a short, soft kiss. He didn’t kiss her back, his lips didn’t part, but he didn’t pull away either, and for that moment, this was a victory.

“I’ll be off, now. I might visit you next month. Your birthday, right? I might have just the gift,” she said, smiling widely.

He watched her walk away. Somehow, he didn’t think the gift would be the usual tie. What remained to be seen, however, was whether he was terrified, or happy of this.

***
Requirements:
Woman you'd like paired with Giles: Dawn
Three elements you'd like in the story written for you: an investigation, a cathedral, and a bullet wound
Up to two elements you don't want included:
Rating preference: High.

I couldn't work a higher rating, but I hope you'll like it anyway. It was a fun request to write, thank you :)

Fic: Lines in the sand (AtS, Illyria)

2008-03-13T09:18:43Z

Fandom: AtS
Characters: Illyria, Wesley, (Fred), Fred/Wesley and Illyria/Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Written for, you guessed it, multifandom_pl. Polish version here.

This is important to you. Things have names.
-Illyria, ‘Shells’

He calls me a murderer. Small human word, unimportant, inadequate.

Is the sun to blame, when it dries out human bones and turns them into dust? Would you blame the ocean when it washed away your name, written in the sand in a feeble attempt at leaving your mark? Everything human is like a castle built of sand, and the ocean will be merciless, as mercy would imply interest.

His grief is a whisper lost in the wind, not worthy of my notice.

He can't look at me, turns his eyes away. Once those who dared to look had their eyes gauged out, or melted in their sockets, and their suffering was there to be an amusement for us, like an exotic creature brought in for the show.

I look like her.

I am her. Her blood sings in my veins, warm and rich. Her memories rest in the tips of my fingers, spark after spark setting the fires in the nerve endings. My voice speaks her words, my words are her song, and my steps are her dance, danse macabre, tondue.

The only border is the line in the sand, and the tide had already came.

He triumphs over me. How ould you call it? What you call things is important, names are the oldest, simplest, primitive form of magic, brought down now to the minor detail. Now they call things to define them, not to reign over them. Fools.

They lock themselves in their little boxes, small like their minds, two hemispheres, billions of synapses, no understanding at all. They need to know, now, always, if they're dead or alive, good or evil, here or nowhere.

This body is a little box, a dollhouse, not built to last. I walk, I talk, like the invisible strings were pulling me, nothing for me to control. Dreams, thoughts, desires, sounds, words, words, words. A cage. Shackles. Threads, holding me back, a spider's web, fragile like veins.

He's dying. Death reveals the truth, and his truth is found in a lie.

Human rituals of death and passing are an illusion, a deception. This is a lie for him.

Tears are a part of the ocean - poetry is as truthful as any other lie - salty water blurring the lines in the sand.

Her memories are my grief, her thoughts are my words, her dreams are my despair. Her voice is my lament.

My grief is like the wind over the ocean. The storm is coming.

Title: Now I know how Joan of Arc felt

2008-03-13T09:02:43Z

Fandom: AtS, BtVS
Characters: Lilah, Giles, mentions of Lilah/Wesley
Rating: R?
Written for multifandom_pl ficathon, again. Polish version.

Her mother wanted to call her Joan. Her mother is slim and petite, kind and shy.

She went to church every Sunday, and actually believed in what they were preaching.

Your name is a self-fulfilling prophecy, history is written since your first smile, your first cry. If she were Joan, she would be a saint, a martyr, a witch, a sacriledge, a blasphemy.

Her name is Lilah Morgan.

Not many paths to choose from, for someone with a name like that, but, after a while, all doors are open for her.

*

Everything is a game. And it doesn't matter, that the cards are marked, the dice are weighted down, and the gun in the rulette is always fully loaded.

She gets this task because they don't really know what to do with her. Her skills would be wasted in hell. And besides, she has experience in dealing with Watchers, to whatever end.

Everything is a game. Sometimes, the pawns do enjoy themselves.

*

"Just think, what you could do with resources we're offering," she will say, weeks later, perched up on his desk, legs crossed in a way that makes her skirt rise up high.

"I did think," Rupert will say, not even looking up from a death report of one of the Slayers. "That's exactly why I declined. Again and again."

Lilah thought about it too. And she thinks the Senior Partners are out of their minds. But hey, not here to judge. She's on this show as the Seductress.

Although, it's difficult to corrupt someone who could easily do worse things than anything the her bosses might have planned for him.

*

The most honest declaration of love she ever got, was an axe stroke, last stand in the game already lost, a trial by fire.

Whether you're a saint or witch, death is always the same.

*

The new Watchers' Council has financial difficulties. One shouldn't wonder, as it's run by heroes and do-gooders. Tragic. Evil is always better organised.

For the first meeting with Rupert Giles, Lilah puts on her smart business suit. For now, it's just business, nothing more.

She doesn't put on the scarf. Someone called Ripper would not be wary of a little scar, quite the opposite.

*

There's really no difference between pain and pleasure. Everything is a matter of the point of view.

She didn't feel the axe blow, but she thinks it was just like when his nails dug into her skin, and pain was pleasure and pleasure was pain.

She felt the hell's fires. When flesh burns, it smells sweet.

*

After the sixth refusal, it's getting annoying.

"They will write 'he did the right thing' on your grave," she tells him. "Pity it won't help you, but hey, nice epitaph."

Giles smiles for the first time since she met him. "What did they write on yours?" he asks. Asshole.

*

After the thirteenth, she starts to wonder, whether the Greeks didn't know more about hell than people give them credit for.

She's trying again and again.

Because sometimes, after he gets the news of one more death, when a call to his Buffy goes unanswered and unreturned, after the third glass of whisky, she sees fire in his eyes.

Hell flames are the easy option. Not many are that lucky.

Fic: Awkward. (Good Omens, gen)

2008-03-13T09:01:03Z

Title: Awkward
Fandom: Good Omens:
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale
Written for multifandom_pl, where the prompt was this paiting of Abraham and Izaak. Polish version of the fic is

One good thing about Crowley was his timing. Wine and glasses appeared on the table the moment Aziraphale entered the room.

Under any other circumstances, he would say something about drinking, lips touching, and other things like these, or at least look mortified, but this time he just poured himself a glass and downed it promptly.

Crowley held back any remarks he felt coming, but just filled up his glass, then refilled the angel's.

"So, you've heard," Aziraphale said.

Crowley held back any further comments. Everyone had heard. Metatron was a terrible gossip. One shouldn't wonder.

"It was't my fault, not entirely," said Aziraphale. "The believers are so gullible. And enthusiastic," he added sadly.

"This could be a problem," Crowley agreed.

"And, they gave me wrong directions. Turn left when you pass the field. What field? Only damn... fields here!"

"I bet they didn't say which left, either," said Crowley, who thought he was getting the hang of this.

The Angel gave him an uncharitable look. "It was so... awkward."

"And bloody," supplied Crowley. He had heard about that too.

"Up to elbows in blood. Really, he couldn't have waited three more minutes?" Aziraphale sighed. "Now we'll have to find someone else. You know how difficult is to find a father willing to kill his son for faith?"

"I can imagine. So many other reasons," said Crowley.

Fic: Feels Like Home (Buffy/Giles)

2008-03-13T08:59:20Z

Title: Feels Like Home
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Rating: G
For scratchingpost1 in Every Slayer Needs A Watcher ficathon.

Buffy’s first impression of London isn’t favourable.

It’s not that surprising, she isn’t in the best of moods. Her flight was delayed for four hours, and then they hit the turbulence right before reaching the British Isles.

And when she finally arrives, and finds a taxi, even though she has the right address, she’s sure of that, it takes three slow drives down the street, and then back, for even her eyes to make out the little number on the house, obscured completely by an ivy. And the numbers on the street are out of order, too. What’s with that, she’d like to know.

So she pushes the doorbell in with a little more force than necessary, and holds it much longer than polite, but she. doesn’t. care.

For a moment, nothing happens, and then she hears an expletive she didn’t think her Watcher knew, and the doors open, and he looks at her with some surprise.

“Buffy,” he says, and she holds back an eyeroll, because talk about stating the obvious.

“Yeah. I caught the earlier plane. Thought I’d surprise you,” a week earlier, sure, but she really needed a change of air. Rome got a bit... crowded. How many ex-boyfriends can a girl have stalking her, seriously? “Can I come in?”

He smiles, slightly, moving back a little. “Only if you can,” he says, and she smiles, too, and crosses the doorway, dropping her bag on the floor. “It’s good to see you,” Giles adds, and she smiles wider, because it feels even better to see him than she thought it would.

She moves to hug him, hiding her face in the awful green sweater she hoped was left somewhere beneath the dust of Sunnydale, but no such luck. “You, too,” she says, her voice muffled, then pulls back.
And then she realises that the strange feeling of unease, as if she was being watched, is entirely justified. “Not happy to see him, though,” she mutters, pointing towards the couch, where Ethan Rayne is sitting, too comfortable and not beaten up enough for her liking.

“Charming as always,” Ethan says dryly. Catching her look, he raises his hand. “Don’t worry, dear, I shall be off now. It’s not necessary to show me the way out, I know it well,” he adds, standing up, and passing her, maintaining the biggest distance he can in the small hallway. “Rupert,” he says with a nod, and then smirks. “Be seeing you,” he offers, as if it was an in-joke, and Buffy scowls at the closing doors.

“Giles?” she asks, her tone demanding an explanation, and he sighs.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, and she almost smiles, losing her resolve face. Instead, she glares. He sighs again. “There was this demon,” he offers, and Buffy smiles this time.

“Isn’t there always? I swear, it’s almost as if there was a reason we meet so many of them. Like fate. Or, wait, I know this one, oh, sacred destiny?”

He shakes his head, small smile playing at his lips. “This could be the case, yes. Ethan happened to have necessary... resources.”

Buffy snorted. “I’m sure he did. Ya sure he wasn’t behind this?”

Giles nodded. “Quite sure.” He shrugged. “I checked. Now, about that tea?”

“I’d love some,” she muttered, walking in, purposefully ignoring the couch, and resting in the armchair. She’d be damned if she sits where Ethan sat. While Giles moved to the kitchen to make the tea, she looked around curiously. In a way, it was just as the apartment back at Sunnydale, earthy colours, muted lamplight, books. It was bigger, and the bedroom was probably an actual room, but it still felt comfortingly familiar. Just as Giles did, besides, or because that awful sweater.

Even if he was suddenly best buddies with Ethan. Not that she had any high ground to stand on, with the company she kept as of late. She really knew how to pick ‘em, didn’t she?

“I’m out of sugar,” he said, placing the cup in front of her. “I’ll buy some tomorrow,” he added apologetically, and she shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it. I should have called,” she said self-consciously, and he shook his head.

“You’re always welcome, Buffy.”

His matter-of-fact tone surprised her, although she knew it shouldn’t. She looked at him thoughtfully. “So, if I said I want to stay a while, you would be okay with that?”

She didn’t miss the softening in his eyes, and, for some reason, she felt warmer than the tea she was holding.

“Of course,” was all he said, then shifted in the chair, setting in comfortably. “So, how is Dawn?” he started, although he probably knew better than she did. He was almost too excited about that Oxford thing.

She smiled, and launched into the latest story, the one where Dawn aced her Latin and made everyone insanely jealous of her. Giles was listening with a smile.
She knew then, she was going to love London.

Fic: Burn the bridges as you cross them (Giles, Giles/Faith)

2008-03-13T08:57:01Z

Title: Burn the bridges as you cross them
Characters/Pairings: Giles, Faith, Giles/Faith, with Buffy, Jenny, and Ethan.
English version of Spal za soba wszystkie mosty, written for day 2 of multifandom_pl ficathon.
Spoilers/Warnings: It's strange and dark, and my head is a weird place. Post-Chosen, possibly, comics could be taken into account, but not necessarily.

Giles.

He remebers: standing on the edge of the abyss, the city whiped out from the face of the Earth; and smiling.

He remembers: how it feels, to have his hand warmed with a breath, steady, until you squeeze.

He remembers: how one learns that you'll never fly a Spitfire, never soar high above; that the generations of those before you hold you down, keep you grounded do strongly that it might just as well be their dead arms, breaking the earth, forcing themselves on you like poison ivy.

He remembers: walking through the fire for the first time, pure, cleansed, a christening more holy than anything a human religion could dream of creating.

He remembers: fire entering you, the unholy communion, and sex is like death and death is like sex and everything is like the oblivion.

Faith.

For some reason, she trusts him. He is still surprised.

Buffy.

She's dead.

That's everything Giles has to say on that matter.

Sometimes he thinks he might hear the ocean in the palm of his hand, steady movement of the weaves, breaking on the shore.

Faith.

Her hands curl into fists when she's sleeping, her fingernails leaving bloodred crescents on her palms. They're always gone by the morning.

Sometimes she doesn't come back until morning, her hair full of smoke, fire dying in her eyes, her skin still covered with swear.

Sometimes Giles wakes up and her hand is on his, hear ear close to his chest, as if his heartbeat was her lullaby. Those days, and only those, he joins her in the shower, pushes her against the cold bathroom tiles. Or, before breakfast, bends her over the kitchen table, her hands flat on the surface, her hair falling over her face.

When he fucks her, her passion is almost like her anger. That's exactly what he needs from her.

Giles.

Memories might be what makes us who we are.

He can see the problem with that.

Ethan.

He's dead.

The death is almost as final as if Giles killed him himself.

Sometimes he wishes he did.

Giles.

He walks from house to house, continent to continent. All he lacks is a flute. Girls, children, follow him into a war started by few people who thought they could win, could make a change, could challenge the hell itself.

Back then, on the edge of a dead city, everything seemed much easier. He was smiling.

Ethan.

Sometimes he wishes he did kill him.

The only consolation is the thought that he did sent him to a death cell.

Ethan would be pleased. Death is like sex and sex is like death, and everything is... he can't remember. It was a long time ago, in a different country, and besides, he is older now.

Faith.

She knows what his endgame is.

He doesn't know why he gave in and told her, that night when she finally stabbed him in the gut, twisted her knife like an exclamation point, like the corkscrew they used earler that night to open a bottle of cheap wine.

She knows, and still she follows him.

He really must play that fucking flute wonderfully.

Jenny.

She's dead.

He remembers: standing over her grave, mourning someone for the very first time.

Maybe because he didn't kill her himself.

Giles.

He drinks his tea without sugar, black, carefully measured out.

He keeps it in the same jar he did in Sunnydale, he could have packed a book, but chosen a worthless memento instead.

If you look at it with your eyes half-closed, the jar looks kind of like an urn.

Fic: Using the Library Computers, Rules of. (BtVS, gen)

2008-03-13T08:53:00Z

Title: Using the Library Computers, Rules of.
Characters: Xander, Giles, traces of Xander/Giles if you're so inclined.
English version of Zasad Korzystania z Komputerow w Bibliotece, written for the 4th ficathon at multifandom_pl
post-Chosen, no comics.

From: Xander
To: all Slayers
Re: using the computers in the library

No, guys, seriously. I know the wi-fi hadn't been installed yet, no matter what certain Watchers who shall not be named had promised (Giles, looking at you), and that teenage girls have needs (and need to use MySpace), but there are limits.

The limits are:

1. The Watchers' use of the computers is a priority. If you disagree, go talk about it with Giles, he'll give you a research assignment in Latin. And don't think you'll get a book with pictures, oh no.

2. Google. It is grand and wonderful, but either you clear the search history, or you don't search for 'demons orgies rituals'. Just go ask Giles, if you pick the right moment (before his third cup of tea, when he's lost in cross-referencing at least three books, one of them in a dead language. Guard this information, it had taken me long years to work it out), he'll give you all the info and supply a reading list before he realises he really shouldn't be telling you that, and starts cleaning his glasses.

3. Wikipedia. It's tempting, I know, but don't go editing the entries on the Watchers and senior Slayers, mkay? And if you get caught, saying that 'Xander started it' is not going to help you. Besides, it's an evil lie.

4. YouTube. Posting videoblogs is cool. Posting videos of Slayers fighting demons? Is not. No, not even if you disclaim that the dusted Vampire was just a clever use of After Effects.

5. You really have nothing else to do but set up a voteangelorspike.com?

6. I have no idea what the hell, and who's responsible, but the authoress of the erotic fiction about certain Watchers who shall remain nameless, better take it down before Giles finds out. And do you even know how big an inch is? Don't think so.

Xander.

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176	177	178	179	180

181	182	183	184	185

186	187	188	189	190

191	192	193	194	195

196	197	198	199	200

201	202	203	204	205

206	207	208	209	210

211	212	213	214	215

216	217	218	219	220

221	222	223	224	225

226	227	228	229	230

231	232	233	234	235

236	237	238	239	240

241	242	243	244	245

246	247	248	249	250

251	252	253	254	255

256	257	258	259	260

261	262	263	264	265

266	267	268	269

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

36	37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44	45

46	47	48	49	50

51	52	53	54	55

56	57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64	65

66	67	68	69	70

71	72	73	74	75

76	77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84	85

86	87	88	89	90

91	92	93	94	95

96	97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104	105

106	107	108	109	110

111	112	113	114	115

116	117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124	125

126	127	128	129	130

131	132	133	134	135

136	137	138	139	140

141	142	143	144	145

146	147	148	149	150

151	152	153	154	155

156	157	158	159	160

161	162	163	164	165

166	167	168	169	170

171	172	173	174	175

176	177	178	179	180

181	182	183	184	185

186	187	188	189	190

191	192	193	194	195

196	197	198	199	200

201	202	203	204	205

206	207	208	209	210

211	212	213	214	215

216	217	218	219	220

221	222	223	224	225

226	227	228	229	230

231	232	233	234	235

236	237	238	239	240

241	242	243	244	245

246	247	248	249	250

251	252	253	254	255

256	257	258	259	260

261	262	263	264	265

266	267	268	269