TITLE: Perfect
AUTHOR: Wyvern
EMAIL:
DISTRIBUTION: Of course, just ask. But please pair it up with "Flipside" or it'll get lonely
SPOILERS: None
SUMMARY: Giles has a tough day, but at least he has someone to kiss it better.
DISCLAIMER: These characters remain the property of their original
owners and no copyright infringement is intended. Once I wipe them down with paint stripper they'll be fine... please don't sue, I have no money!
NOTES: I broke of decorating my study to write this and its partner. First time I've ever been inspired by anything other than sheer terror at the top of a ladder...
DATE: January 2002
It's been a long day.
I open the door and all I want to do is take off my jacket and tie and fall asleep in an armchair for an hour or two. I've really no idea what I should be doing with myself; I was prepared for my role as Buffy's Watcher for so many years and now I've come away from her and from Sunnydale it's so hard to start again.
Not that life isn't full of surprises. They come in so many forms. The way I live now isn't something I would ever have anticipated, at any point in the past. I walk along the hallway, my senses assaulted as I do so by the smell of fresh paint and the sound of loud music. The music is a puzzle; it's a Burt Bacharach CD I bought on a whim some time ago, played once and put away in a drawer somewhere. The reason it's puzzling me is that I can hear him singing along to it. I suppose in all of my collection, it's probably got more songs that he will have heard on than anything else, but why that and not one of his more orthodox "young person" recordings, I cannot guess. I have to admit, his interpretation of the tune is novel, but his enthusiasm is admirable. It's one of the things I love about him.
I reach the open door to the living room. He hasn't heard me come in and he's lost in his own little world of paint and ladders and song. He's a remarkable sight up there, dressed as he is in a white bib and brace coverall which he's slipped down to his waist to allow him more freedom of movement. I have to smile as I watch him there, shirtless, at the top of a ladder, the muscles in his back and shoulders sliding over each other as he paints. As he paints, he dances and he belts out his own interpretation of "(The Man who shot) Liberty Valance". There's paint in his hair and paint up his arms and little splashes over his shoulders, but he's done a first class job on the ceiling and the walls are coming along beautifully. He's pointing the paintbrush as if it's a gun, in time with the music. I cannot help myself; I let out a small chuckle.
He stops singing and turns to face me. He's blushing and there's paint on his face. He skips down the ladder and across the room. I guess what's coming and swiftly throw my jacket off out of the room. I only just divest myself of it in time; his arms are around me and I'm breathing in the heady scent of paint and sweat rising from his body. There are flecks of paint dust in his long, dark eyelashes. I savour the feeling of his bare flesh and when he kisses me I feel a thrill run right through me. I kiss him right back, tasting him and loving him, just glad to be home and in his arms again. He extricates his arm from behind my back. I haven't noticed the paintbrush is still there until he dabs emulsion on my nose. Fortunately, he misses my spectacles and I laugh. There was a time when I would have been so much more uptight about something like that, but now I accept it as part of him. He laughs at me, we laugh together and fall to the sofa in our embrace. The paintbrush discarded, he kisses me again and asks me how my day was. How am I to reply? Up until now, it has been at best mediocre, but now, at home and in his arms, there is only one word that describes it: perfect.
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