Buffy/Gwen part 2
Apr. 5th, 2004 02:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doylePart 2 of the Buffyficathon fic. It's disturbing how quickly writing this has made me fall for Buffy's character.
Part one can be found here.
The Freaks' Guide to Rome: 2/?
The whole Super Secret Slayer vibe of the night meant that Buffy took the scenic route home, ducking down alleys and circling the Trevi fountain three times before she was sure Gwen hadn’t doubled back and followed her. There was no sign of anyone on her tail, not even a random vamp. That would at least let her pretend she was patrolling and not, for want of a better term, hiding.
Besides, Gwen was the thief supremo. She probably had some incredibly sophisticated computer tracking system that would let her follow people from the comfort of her own home rather than trying to creep about stealthily in clothes that looked sprayed on. Buffy remembered all the times she’d worn similarly skin-tight leather pants on patrol, much against Giles’s protests, and decided she couldn’t claim superiority on this one. The boots, though? Ha. They topped out even her highest pair of killer heels by at least half an inch.
She did a quick sweep of the streets around their building before heading upstairs. The second-floor apartment wasn’t huge, but after months sharing her house with a mass of teenage girls and half the summer on a school bus collecting the North American Slayers, this place was a palace. She and Dawn had heard the precious words “two bathrooms” and declared it home.
“I’m back.” She dropped her bag on the kitchen counter. The apartment was open-plan, the kitchen and dining area occupying the same large room as the carpeted square where the couch and the TV lived. They just called the whole space the front room.
“Andrew called. Giles is mad at you. You’re supposed to call as soon as you get home.” Dawn was sprawled on her stomach in front of the couch, legs in the air and crossed at the ankles, a thick book open in front of her.
“Hey, what did we say? No Sumerian till you finish your math homework.”
“I know, but I smoked crack and watched pay-per-view porn already and I couldn’t decide what else to do while you were out.”
Buffy got herself a tumbler from the kitchen unit and some juice from the fridge. “You so better be lying about the pay-per-view, or you can explain to Giles how it got on the expense account.”
“I’ll say you were majorly frustrated and boyfriendless and…” She cut off in the middle of her jibe, looking horrified and embarrassed and angry with herself.
Buffy looked down at her juice. “It’s okay, Dawnie. I wasn’t thinking about him either.” Pity from Willow she could handle. From her little sister, it ached. She kept her tone light. “Giles probably thinks I’m slacking off from training the new girls to play hookie with hot Italian boys.”
Dawn looked relieved at the return to gentle mockery. She closed the book and rolled onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows. “Come on, tonight was the first date you’ve been on all year, and that wasn’t even with a guy.”
“It was so not a date,” Buffy protested. “If it was a date she would’ve paid. And it was on the council’s tab. So it was like a date with - ew.”
“So what was she like? Mega Catherine Zeta Jonesy?”
“She was…” She thought about how best to describe Gwen. “Not what I expected. About twenty-six, twenty-seven. Clothes Faith would mud-wrassle her for. Doesn’t like to be touched. I mean, really doesn’t like it. The waiter brushed against her arm and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Tall. Dark hair. Gorgeous, in an annoying sort of way.” She shook her head, wondering at the momentary déjà vu. “I have to call Giles. Do your math.”
She took the portable phone into her bedroom, slipping off her shoes as she dialled. The shoes proved it wasn’t a date. If it was a date she would have worn her new silver strappy pair, the ones that were tucked away in the expense report as ‘training footwear’.
“Watchers’ Council, you’ve reached Mr. Giles’s office, how can I help you?” It was said in one breathless babble of words.
“Hi, Andrew. Is Giles there?”
“Buffy, taking off your transmitter was very irresponsible,” Andrew said sternly, or at least what she assumed he thought was sternly. “We couldn’t hear anything you were saying.”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, spent the next few seconds counting the wooden beams there. Better than counting to ten when dealing with little boys who thought they were the Watcher of her. “Andrew, put Giles on, okay?”
“She knew we were listening,” Giles said, when he finally came on the line. “It’s my fault. I should have realized she’d be expecting something underhand. Maybe if I’d conducted the negotiations by telephone with you there in person…”
“Giles, it’s okay. She’ll do it.”
There was a pause. Then: “Really? Oh, well done, Buffy.”
He sounded happy. That was good. Happy Giles, thrilled with the prospect of getting his hands on those rare books, would be willing to overlook little things like her going five thousand over their agreed limit. The other part, the quid-pro-quo-Clarice, wasn’t a problem. She just wouldn’t tell him. Keeping things from Giles was a finely honed Slayer skill, made easier by not being in the same country.
“Gwen’s casing the vault. She says she doesn’t know yet when the best time for the hit’ll be, but she says no more than a week. Guaranteed.”
“Casing?” Giles said, amusement in his voice. “The hit?”
She laughed. “Okay, vocabulary slightly suffering from making shop-talk with the safecracker. Put down the stones and step away from the glass house, He Who Made an X-Men Reference Last Week.”
“Yes, well, I’ll send Andrew out to you for a few months, see how well you get on.”
In the background she heard, “ooh, can I? Because I’d love to see Dawnie again and I heard Rome has these really cool…”
“Tell him he can come for a weekend,” she said. “Maybe. If he’s very good and does everything you tell him without whining. And he can’t stay at the apartment, he has to get a hotel.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
“Gwen’s calling me in a few days. She’ll know more about the vault then.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear. Goodnight, Buffy.”
“Night, Giles.”
She hung up and checked the clock on her dresser. Nearly one. “Dawn, go to bed,” she called into the front room.
That night she had a strange dream about her silver shoes speeding around Rome on a Vespa; they went faster and faster till they slammed into a giant safe, like one from a cartoon. She thought Gwen’s boots were there too, high and black and impossibly sexy, and all the shoes danced together, but her alarm clock blared the dream away and a second later she forgot.
TBC
My Spikeslashficathon is 3/4 done, will be up tomorrow.
Part one can be found here.
The Freaks' Guide to Rome: 2/?
The whole Super Secret Slayer vibe of the night meant that Buffy took the scenic route home, ducking down alleys and circling the Trevi fountain three times before she was sure Gwen hadn’t doubled back and followed her. There was no sign of anyone on her tail, not even a random vamp. That would at least let her pretend she was patrolling and not, for want of a better term, hiding.
Besides, Gwen was the thief supremo. She probably had some incredibly sophisticated computer tracking system that would let her follow people from the comfort of her own home rather than trying to creep about stealthily in clothes that looked sprayed on. Buffy remembered all the times she’d worn similarly skin-tight leather pants on patrol, much against Giles’s protests, and decided she couldn’t claim superiority on this one. The boots, though? Ha. They topped out even her highest pair of killer heels by at least half an inch.
She did a quick sweep of the streets around their building before heading upstairs. The second-floor apartment wasn’t huge, but after months sharing her house with a mass of teenage girls and half the summer on a school bus collecting the North American Slayers, this place was a palace. She and Dawn had heard the precious words “two bathrooms” and declared it home.
“I’m back.” She dropped her bag on the kitchen counter. The apartment was open-plan, the kitchen and dining area occupying the same large room as the carpeted square where the couch and the TV lived. They just called the whole space the front room.
“Andrew called. Giles is mad at you. You’re supposed to call as soon as you get home.” Dawn was sprawled on her stomach in front of the couch, legs in the air and crossed at the ankles, a thick book open in front of her.
“Hey, what did we say? No Sumerian till you finish your math homework.”
“I know, but I smoked crack and watched pay-per-view porn already and I couldn’t decide what else to do while you were out.”
Buffy got herself a tumbler from the kitchen unit and some juice from the fridge. “You so better be lying about the pay-per-view, or you can explain to Giles how it got on the expense account.”
“I’ll say you were majorly frustrated and boyfriendless and…” She cut off in the middle of her jibe, looking horrified and embarrassed and angry with herself.
Buffy looked down at her juice. “It’s okay, Dawnie. I wasn’t thinking about him either.” Pity from Willow she could handle. From her little sister, it ached. She kept her tone light. “Giles probably thinks I’m slacking off from training the new girls to play hookie with hot Italian boys.”
Dawn looked relieved at the return to gentle mockery. She closed the book and rolled onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows. “Come on, tonight was the first date you’ve been on all year, and that wasn’t even with a guy.”
“It was so not a date,” Buffy protested. “If it was a date she would’ve paid. And it was on the council’s tab. So it was like a date with - ew.”
“So what was she like? Mega Catherine Zeta Jonesy?”
“She was…” She thought about how best to describe Gwen. “Not what I expected. About twenty-six, twenty-seven. Clothes Faith would mud-wrassle her for. Doesn’t like to be touched. I mean, really doesn’t like it. The waiter brushed against her arm and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Tall. Dark hair. Gorgeous, in an annoying sort of way.” She shook her head, wondering at the momentary déjà vu. “I have to call Giles. Do your math.”
She took the portable phone into her bedroom, slipping off her shoes as she dialled. The shoes proved it wasn’t a date. If it was a date she would have worn her new silver strappy pair, the ones that were tucked away in the expense report as ‘training footwear’.
“Watchers’ Council, you’ve reached Mr. Giles’s office, how can I help you?” It was said in one breathless babble of words.
“Hi, Andrew. Is Giles there?”
“Buffy, taking off your transmitter was very irresponsible,” Andrew said sternly, or at least what she assumed he thought was sternly. “We couldn’t hear anything you were saying.”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, spent the next few seconds counting the wooden beams there. Better than counting to ten when dealing with little boys who thought they were the Watcher of her. “Andrew, put Giles on, okay?”
“She knew we were listening,” Giles said, when he finally came on the line. “It’s my fault. I should have realized she’d be expecting something underhand. Maybe if I’d conducted the negotiations by telephone with you there in person…”
“Giles, it’s okay. She’ll do it.”
There was a pause. Then: “Really? Oh, well done, Buffy.”
He sounded happy. That was good. Happy Giles, thrilled with the prospect of getting his hands on those rare books, would be willing to overlook little things like her going five thousand over their agreed limit. The other part, the quid-pro-quo-Clarice, wasn’t a problem. She just wouldn’t tell him. Keeping things from Giles was a finely honed Slayer skill, made easier by not being in the same country.
“Gwen’s casing the vault. She says she doesn’t know yet when the best time for the hit’ll be, but she says no more than a week. Guaranteed.”
“Casing?” Giles said, amusement in his voice. “The hit?”
She laughed. “Okay, vocabulary slightly suffering from making shop-talk with the safecracker. Put down the stones and step away from the glass house, He Who Made an X-Men Reference Last Week.”
“Yes, well, I’ll send Andrew out to you for a few months, see how well you get on.”
In the background she heard, “ooh, can I? Because I’d love to see Dawnie again and I heard Rome has these really cool…”
“Tell him he can come for a weekend,” she said. “Maybe. If he’s very good and does everything you tell him without whining. And he can’t stay at the apartment, he has to get a hotel.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
“Gwen’s calling me in a few days. She’ll know more about the vault then.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear. Goodnight, Buffy.”
“Night, Giles.”
She hung up and checked the clock on her dresser. Nearly one. “Dawn, go to bed,” she called into the front room.
That night she had a strange dream about her silver shoes speeding around Rome on a Vespa; they went faster and faster till they slammed into a giant safe, like one from a cartoon. She thought Gwen’s boots were there too, high and black and impossibly sexy, and all the shoes danced together, but her alarm clock blared the dream away and a second later she forgot.
TBC
My Spikeslashficathon is 3/4 done, will be up tomorrow.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2004-04-04 09:21 pm (UTC)