'One Year On' : an Act of Nature story by Jane Davitt & Wesleysgirl. Giles/Xander 1/3

[janedavitt]

Once upon a time wesleysgirl and I wrote a story about Giles and Xander called Act of Nature . I have to admit I fell totally in love with this Giles and Xander, the island, John... but not WG because I'd already fallen for her ages before :-)

We promised ourselves that we'd do a sequel, set a year on, covering the exact same time, just before Christmas.

And here it is.

It's complete, it's been beta read by the adorable flaming_muse ::snuggles her:: and it's going to be posted in three parts. It's R rated this part.

Hope you all like it. It was lovely to write with wesleysgirl ::hugs her hard:: and lovely to revisit this story.




One Year On

by Jane Davitt and Wesleysgirl

Xander woke up with his front pressed to Giles' back and one arm around Giles' waist. It wasn't an unusual way for him to wake up – for the most part, he was wrapped around Giles, or Giles was wrapped around him. It was kind of weird, actually, because, before Giles, he'd never been much of a cuddler. Sure, he'd been happy to snuggle up to someone warm and affectionate, but once he wanted to go to sleep there had to be as little body-touching as possible.

With Giles, it was different.

Even, he'd learned recently, when he was feeling what Giles would probably call 'out of sorts.'

There were only two more days of work until the Christmas holidays and he still didn't want to go in. Xander slid a little bit further under the pile of wool blankets and pressed his cold nose to the back of Giles' shoulder.

The flinch and protesting murmur from a sleepy Giles sounded reproachful, and Xander felt a tiny twinge of guilt, but the alarm would've woken him in ten minutes anyway, he reasoned.

"There are more pleasant ways to be woken up, you know," Giles said, without turning over, the words punctuated by a yawn. His hand reached back and slid along Xander's leg, pulling him in even closer. "And I seem to recall you're rather good at them. So why the ice cube on the back approach today? Did I keep you awake snoring? Steal the covers?"

Giles' warm hand was moving in slow strokes and circles along Xander's thigh as he spoke and was doing a good job of making Xander want to stay exactly where he was for the rest of the day.

And making it even harder to deal with the fact that they couldn't.

"No," Xander said, shaking his head, which meant rubbing the tip of his nose over Giles' skin. "Sorry. I guess... I just wasn't thinking." Which, really, was what he wanted to be doing – not thinking.

Giles shifted away to squint at the clock, taking his back out of reach and allowing the cooler air of the bedroom to work its way under the covers. "No wonder. You're awake early; I can't remember the last time that happened. These days I have to kick you out of bed bodily. I'm still leaning towards the theory that you're hibernating."

He rolled over, all sleep-rumpled hair and drowsy green eyes, and gave Xander a tentative smile before brushing a kiss over Xander's nose. "God, you're freezing," he said, tugging the covers around them both. "And no wonder. It's bloody cold in here."

"I know," Xander said, burrowing further down under the blankets and tugging at Giles to come along with him. "And what's wrong with hibernating? Sounds good to me."

Pretty much anything sounded better than getting out of bed and going into the office. He tugged at Giles again, and Giles obliged him by sliding down, too, so that they were both underneath the covers.

"It's nice and warm in here," Xander said seductively, ghosting his mouth over Giles' in a faint kiss.

"It's supposed to be nice and warm out there, too," Giles said, with a slight frown that vanished when Xander made his second kiss more insistent, though still teasingly light. "Are you trying to distract me and make us late?" he asked, running his fingers up Xander's spine to cup the back of his neck and hold him in place. "Because didn't you do that last Monday?"

"Who, me?" Xander kissed Giles again, then pulled back as what Giles had said filtered through to his brain. "Actually, it wasn't anywhere near this cold on Monday, was it?" He threw off the covers and got up, shivering as he quickly put on a pair of sweatpants and his bathrobe, which was cold, too, after lying on the floor all night. "Yeah, something's wrong. You think it's the boiler?"

"I don't know," Giles said, "but can't it wait?" He sounded slightly indignant. "It's still early... come back to bed. With fewer clothes on?"

Xander ran his hand over an icy radiator and shook his head. "Looks like it can't. You start breakfast, and I'll see what I can do. Maybe the pilot light went out or something."

Half an hour tinkering with the boiler didn't get it going. Not, of course, that Xander knew what he was doing; mechanical stuff was a little bit out of his field of expertise, if he even had one of those anymore. Grabbing a clean rag from the pile on the workbench and very deliberately not looking at his long-neglected woodworking tools on the other end, Xander wiped his hands and started up the narrow staircase.

The kitchen, at least, was a little bit warmer; Giles had made coffee, and the smell of that was enough to cheer anyone up. "The water heater's still going, at least," Xander said, gratefully taking the cup of coffee that Giles handed him.

"Small mercies and all that, yes," Giles said. He was paging through the phone book, scribbling down some numbers. "I'll start calling some repairmen, though this close to Christmas... well."

Xander knew what he meant. With Christmas just a few days away, the city seemed to be one giant confusion already, with all the frayed tempers due to stress and over-indulgence that went with the season. No one seemed interested in working, just winding down, and he couldn't blame them.

It hadn't been like this last year, though.

"It's too bad this place doesn't have an open fireplace," he said, remembering the crackle and hiss of the logs burning in the fireplace at Traighshee House and how the scent of the wood smoke had lingered in the air. Giles had taken him to a Guy Fawkes party on November fifth, and the smell of the bonfire had brought back so many memories that he'd spent the night waiting impatiently to get Giles home so they could make some new ones.

"And what would we burn?" Giles asked. He brightened. "I could bring home the contents of my overflowing in-tray."

Xander sipped at his coffee. "You don't have to do that," he said, gesturing at Giles' pad of paper. "I can take care of it."

"Don't be ridiculous – you have enough to deal with at the office. The last thing you need just before the holiday is to spend extra hours on home repairs when there are people well-qualified to make them." Giles didn't even look up at him, focused on what he was doing.

Without saying anything else, Xander set down his cup and went upstairs to take a shower.

Under the hot water, with soap stinging his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was somewhere else. Back on Iona, even, where every night he'd gone to sleep tired, that good kind of tired that you felt right into your bones after a hard day's work. Here, in London, it was just his brain that got tired. Sometimes his eye ached from hours of paperwork and staring at the computer screen, and he felt... well, restless, and frustrated. The training sessions that he and Giles had started when he'd come to London had stopped shortly afterwards, because they were just too busy, and, even though Xander snuck in an occasional run at lunch time when Giles was in a meeting or something, physical activity was few and far between.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't said anything. Oh, sure, he'd complained, but the way Giles had responded made it clear he thought it was just the normal grousing about work that everybody did. And Giles, for all the petty irritants of his job, was loving the chance to prove himself after the way the Council had treated him in the past.

And if he couldn't tell Giles, because, as well as he knew Xander, he seemed to have this blind spot that made him think Xander was doing really well, then who could he tell? Buffy was never around and Willow – Willow was gone. Which made him think back to the day before; the first anniversary of Willow's death. Had to be that which was making him feel this way. Couldn't be –

"Xander? We're going to be – no, we are late," Giles called out, tapping on the bathroom door but not coming in.

He dropped his face down into his hands for just a second, aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing his eye patch, something he only did when he knew he was going to be alone.

Then Xander sighed and straightened up. "I'll be right out," he called to Giles and gave a quick rinse of his hair before shutting off the shower to get ready for work.

* * * * *

Giles let himself into the flat, cursing because the man who'd come out – at double the hourly rate – had left the thermostat turned up so high the place was unpleasantly airless and stiflingly hot. He adjusted it and walked over to the window in the sitting room, opening it cautiously because a rain-laden wind was buffeting the building. The gust of fresh, cold air was welcome, although he knew it wouldn't be long before he'd be forced to close the window again.

The breeze was doing more than cool down the flat; it was blowing hard enough to send the papers scattered over the desk Xander used to the floor. Giles walked over and bent to pick them up, automatically shuffling them square. Something in the middle of the sheaf of paper resisted his efforts, and he tugged it free.

It was a Christmas card, still inside the envelope, which had been torn open carefully. The post mark was Iona, and it was addressed to 'Mr A. Harris' in a neat handwriting Giles had never seen before but had no difficulty in recognizing because he couldn't think of anyone likely to send Xander a card from the island but John.

The Slayers sent there to train barely knew him, Mrs Stewart – well, possibly, but the writing was indefinably, but certainly, masculine. No, it must be from John.

Giles shoved the papers and the card back onto the desk and slammed the window closed.

He told himself, later, that of course he wouldn't have opened it, no matter how much time had gone by while he waited for Xander to get home. In any case, it didn't matter what the card said – it was enough to know that Xander hadn't mentioned it. Had, in fact, tucked it in amongst a pile of other papers where Giles was quite unlikely to have ever seen it, save for the series of events that had unfolded in complete coincidence.

What mattered was that Xander had been distant for days, and Giles wasn't in any way convinced that it had anything to do with Willow's memorial service. Xander had been honest about his feelings there – had spoken about them more openly than Giles would have expected him to. The two of them had spent more than an hour the night before her memorial talking about her, sharing memories of her, but, last night, Xander had seemed distracted from the moment they'd got home, not paying attention to the conversation and barely touching his evening meal. At the time, Giles had written Xander's behavior off as a result of the rather grueling emotions of the service, but now he wasn't so sure.

As it was, he barely had time to bolt the window and turn back around before the front door opened again, admitting Xander and another gust of wind. "Wow. Is it just me, or is it like a sauna in here?"

"It is," Giles said, "but my attempts to change that weren't too successful. I've turned the heating right down; it should cool off soon." He hesitated. "If I'd known you'd be so close behind me, I'd have waited and we could've come home together. Weren't you supposed to be dealing with the last-minute changes to the on-call list over the holidays? Or did you finish that?"

"It's done," Xander said, giving him what seemed an odd, almost hurt sort of look. "I wouldn't have left if it hadn't been. But yeah, it went quicker than I thought it would." He shrugged out of his jacket and brushed his hair back. "I take it the boiler's fixed?"

Clearly, Xander wasn't interested in discussing the other issue any further.

"I think it's safe to assume that, yes," Giles said dryly. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, having discarded his overcoat and suit jacket on entering. "I think I might have to change into shorts or risk heat stroke."

"Nothing wrong with shorts," Xander said, toeing off his shoes and not taking the opportunity to tease Giles for not even owning a pair of proper shorts or to comment on the fact that it would be the only time in London that one might even have the chance to wear warm-weather clothing, both things that he would have done under normal circumstances. "Did you adjust the thermostat?"

"Yes," Giles said, but Xander was already moving over to check it. That done, the younger man turned and looked at him, not quite meeting his gaze, and Giles' stomach twisted. Something was definitely wrong.

"It's my night to cook," Xander said.

"Let me help," Giles said, even though they'd fallen into a routine of taking it in turns because the kitchen was too small for both of them to do more than bump into each other – not that they'd considered that a flaw exactly.

Giles felt a warmth that had nothing to do with external temperature as he recalled several times when they'd let a meal simmer away to a scorched mess because they'd taken accidental brushes of hand on hand and made them deliberate. Which had led to kissing and urgent, fumbled, desperate kissing at that, because, Christ, they just couldn't keep their hands off each other...

Except, apparently, for now, when all Xander did was shrug and say, "It's okay. I can do it."

Still, Giles followed him into the kitchen and stood in the doorway, watching as Xander took a package from the freezer and looked at it for what seemed an inordinately long time.

Xander looked up at him finally. "I'm not really hungry. I think that curry I had at lunch might be staging a revolt." It was difficult to tell if he was serious or just making an excuse.

"I'll make myself a sandwich later," Giles said reassuringly. "Sit down if you're not feeling well; shall I get you a cup of tea? Some water?"

Or a hot water bottle, perhaps a blanket... I sound like his bloody mother, Giles thought ruefully. He gave Xander an appraising look. He didn't look unwell, but claiming to be nauseated was an effective way of fending off someone, and he was starting to wonder if that was what Xander wanted to do.

Xander shook his head and put the package back into the freezer. "No. Actually, I think I might just go to bed." He made a visible attempt to sound more like himself. "Maybe if I can get a good night's sleep I'll feel better in the morning."

"Of course," Giles said, trying not to let his disappointment and concern show. He flinched inwardly as Xander walked past him with a sidelong glance, not pausing for the touch Giles was longing to give him. "We're still going to brave the crowds and search for a Christmas tree aren't we? If there are any left, that is. It's a little late, but we've been so busy..."

They had been busy, Giles thought suddenly, realizing uneasily just how many nights they'd both arrived home with barely enough time to eat and shower before falling into bed to do no more than sleep. Perhaps Xander was simply tired, and he was reading too much into this situation?

"Yeah. We should definitely get a tree." Something in Xander's voice reminded Giles that they hadn't had one the year before. Xander hesitated, then said, "Come to bed soon, okay?"

"It's still a little early," Giles pointed out with a smile, "and I might take advantage of you not being around and wrap some presents. But I won't be long, I promise." He hated himself for what he did next, but jealousy he'd thought long-dead prompted him to nod towards Xander's desk. "Are the tape and scissors in there? I think you used them to wrap the parcel you sent to Buffy and Dawn, didn't you?"

Xander blinked and frowned, rubbing his brow over his eye patch as if he really weren't feeling well. "I think so. Let me know if you can't find them, and I'll try to get my brain to work." Without another word, he turned, and after a moment Giles heard the creak of the third step as he started upstairs to the bedroom.

Xander's complete lack of self-consciousness about the possibility of Giles rummaging around in his desk wasn't needed to make Giles feel both pathetic and guilty – he'd felt that way since the moment he'd seen the card – but it added a gloss of contempt to his self-loathing.

Pouring himself a measure of whiskey – and scowling because, as chance would have it, it was the same single-malt John had given Xander over a year ago – Giles sat down in a chair with his back to the desk and sipped at it slowly. The silence of the room after a day spent with a phone that rang seconds after he'd hung up and a secretary who'd succumbed to the Christmas spirit and spent the day humming carols wearing a red hat with a white pom-pom was welcome, but he couldn't quiet the jangle of his thoughts.

It had been a good year. Oh, there'd been awkward moments, and, although he'd shielded Xander from the gossip as much as possible, spiteful comments that verged from the slanderous to the scurrilous, but they'd weathered them. Xander's competence and the undeniable cachet of being one of the Slayer's inner circle – and somehow, when people spoke of Buffy, one could almost hear it as 'The Slayer,' because, shared power or not, she was still special – had stilled the wagging tongues without Giles having to exercise his authority, which he hadn't really wanted to do.

Harder to deal with had been his own doubts about the wisdom of beginning a relationship with someone so much younger and so emotionally damaged.

That Xander had never shown any signs of regret had helped to lull him until he'd almost, God forgive him, taken it for granted that he was sharing his life with someone he loved, respected and liked. Someone who could arouse him with almost embarrassing ease, too, which was perhaps less easy to take for granted.

With a small, icy shock, Giles realized that he and Xander hadn't made love for days. Every night for the last week there'd been some reason, some delay that had meant by the time they got into bed one of them was already asleep or too tired to do more than murmur a 'good night'. They'd kissed and held each other, and Giles was used to waking up with Xander curled close, but there was something distancing them, and now Giles was aware of it he couldn't see how he'd been so blind.

He heard the sound of water running in the bathroom upstairs – Xander brushing his teeth, something he never failed to do no matter how tired or ill he was – and then the toilet flushed. The rain outside covered up the squeak of the mattress as Xander got into bed, but Giles could imagine it well enough that he didn't need to hear it.

Now that Giles really thought about it, he realized that Xander had been a bit distant, a bit unreachable, for weeks. Possibly longer. Why hadn't he seen it? The thought that Xander might be unhappy with him, ready to move on, made him feel ill, and, at the same time, resigned, because there'd been a small part of him that had suspected all along that this would happen sooner or later.

Getting out of his chair, he went over to the chest by the wall – 'his', in much the same way that the desk was Xander's – and took out Xander's Christmas presents.

He liked wrapping presents as little as the next man, but he'd told Xander that was what he was going to do, and he was damned if he was going to add lying to the tally of his misdeeds.