Assignment 1-Giles

rcnease@bellatlantic.net

Title: Tales of brave Ulysses
Author: Mediancats
Rating: Pg13 for L.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns the BTVS characters. Mediancats owns the plot.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
  We are not now that strength which in old days
  Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are -
  One equal temper of heroic hearts,
  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

And tiny purple fishes
Run laughing through your fingers
And you want to take her with you
To the hardland of the winter

-- Cream, “Tales of Brave Ulysses”



He hadn’t loved her.

He had never loved her.

The most you could say about their relationship was that it involved
respect. Understanding. A mutual acknowledgement of the vital person
they both protected and cared for. There had never really been a bonding
–

Unless you counted the time with the Band Candy. They’d talked in here
for hours, then they’d gone out and cruised the streets.

He hadn’t really been himself, of course, and Joyce hadn’t been herself.
But they had connected.

First in the metaphorical sense, over chat and “Tales of Brave Ulysses.”
They’d discovered a shared fondness for early Clapton, before he got all
simpering and sentimental.

He needed another Scotch. He also needed to reset the song. Damned album
had moved on to SWLABR, and he needed to push back the needle. CDs were
for pansy-asses who didn’t get the joys of vinyl.

Joyce, now—she’d gotten it.

She’d gotten quite a lot.

That had been the second sense – they two of them had connected
physically, on the hood of a police car. Giles wasn’t going to pretend
it had been anything spiritual; he’d been a horny teenager getting some
action. But it had been a lot of fun.

Especially with the cuffs. Yes, it had been a half-point kinkier than he
let himself be most of the time; so bloody what? He restarted the song.

You thought the leaden winter
Would bring you down forever
But you rode upon a steamer
To the violence of the sun

And anyway, they’d been HER idea.

Sitting here, half-drunk, listening to Cream, he recalled every moment
so vividly. The press of her lips, her thighs, the joy in her laugh. It
had all been joyous, right up to the moment they’d eyed each other in
front of the school and made silent mutual pledges to never mention it
to anyone.

Damn. He was going to get maudlin.

Get, hell; he’d passed maudlin a while back.

But then, if this wasn’t the time to be maudlin, what was?

Someone he’d shared so much with was dead.

Together, independently, and together, they’d managed to raise Buffy
into what she was today. They’d in effect shared custody.

And honestly, he didn’t know if he could do it by himself. He’d never
been the emotional center Joyce had. And to hell with Hank Summers. If
the bastard had cared about his children, he’d have been here.

Joyce had always been there.

And now she wasn’t. And never would be again. Yes, he knew how
simplistic, how puerile, that sounded, but he didn’t give a good
goddamn.

It was true.

For you touched the distant sands
With tales of brave Ulysses
How his naked ears were tortured
By the sirens sweetly singing

The song continued and he poured himself another scotch. He was reliving
the encounter again, and didn’t care at all.

He’d probably do this all night until he collapsed on the couch.

He didn’t care about that either. Tonight wasn’t about him, it was about
Joyce.

No, he didn’t love her.

But he would miss her terribly.