Rating: PG-13
Author: Trekker
Pairing: Giles/Owen (from "Never Kill A Boy On The First Date")
Fandom: Buffy
“I’m afraid Buffy isn’t here,” Giles says.
“Oh,” the boy (Owen?) says, shifting his backpack on his shoulder. “I know. I’m actually here--”
“For a book?”
“Uh, no. For, uh, you, actually.”
He finds he’s watching the boy with a certain degree of wariness, holding the book in his hand in front of him rather like a shield. Buffy had said he was reckless, morbid. Giles knows the dangers of such things all too well.
“Oh, yes?” he says, “Why is that?”
Foolish to be worried, really. Even if this is some plan to get Buffy back through him, he could easily defend himself.
“I just... wanted to talk. I mean, I’ve heard Willow talking about you, and you seem... you know, cool.”
Giles is dubious, but somewhat honored. Warmed, mostly, by the thought of Willow--of anyone, really--speaking highly of him.
Six hours later, however, he is somehow sitting on the library stairs, with Owen beside him and Owen’s guitar on his knee, picking out chords he’s nearly forgotten and debating the merits of English versus American poetry. Or rather, the complete lack of merits of most American “poets.”
He’s tossed his jacket over the railing and loosened his tie, and he hasn’t felt like this in years. So at ease.
But then...
Owen’s hand slides up his arm, and grips his shoulder.
“Older guys are just so hot,” he says, and Giles’ breath catches in his throat, his fingers freeze on the strings.
“See,” the boy says, “I was thirteen and there was this guy. My first time, you know? It’s like... Nabokov in reverse. I just can’t seem to shake it.”
Giles still can’t breathe. Can’t move, as Owen’s hand moves to the nape of his neck, skin to skin. His body draws tight in rebellion, and he looks down into brown eyes, and has a moment of deja vu.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Owen says, and his lip curls a bit as he gives a nervous chuckle.
It is as bad as it sounds.
Giles stands up carefully, and the room reels around him a small bit, calling back even more strongly the days he is now trying to forget. The other set of brown eyes filled with “love me, hurt me, validate me, corrupt me, need me.”
He sets the guitar down on the step, and can’t meet Owen’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Look, it’s cool, we don’t have to--forget I said--” Owen is saying, but Giles knows the only to do is walk away.
But that night he dreams of soft brown eyes and boy’s skin under his hands.
The End