Pie Charts And Prophecies (The Lolita Remix)
You didn't mean to look, you really didn't. She had come in bloody and trembling -more from adrenaline and excitement than from anything else. Her shoulders were scratched and raw and her shirt torn from the middle. It was a pink shirt, with tiny flower print and even tinier straps.
You didn't mean to look, but you did, as she talked animatedly about something you didn't quite catch. Her lips moved and her hands moved and everything about her moved, even the torn shirt and its bloody ends. Something about a Shii-ar demon and an impending prophecy. But that's not what you're listening to, that's not what you hear.
Her shirt is so bloody pink, and you can hear it slip against her skin, each breath emitting another little syllable, and another and another and another until you can get glimpse of the bottom of her breast, white and unscathed. When did those get there, you wonder, when did they get so full? The shirt makes another scratching sound and slips some more, until you can no longer catch that little patch of skin.
She waves a hand in front of your eyes and you blink, once (twice) and you pretend to stutter about some new prophecy or something you've just found a few minutes ago. Maybe that's why you looked in the first place, out of concern, out of care. You were worried, you hope, about her well being, her safety. Of course this is a lie. But that doesn't matter.
"At some point," She teases, "We should have set some guidelines, there should have been charts, graphs, timelines. Rules could have been good."
"Rules?" You repeat the word, tasting it with your tongue. Rules would be nice, rules for situations like this. The literature available is far from helpful for situations like this.
"Yeah. Rule number one should have been 'tell Buffy about every Slayer killing prophecy all at once instead of stringing them out for four years."
You smile tightly, and pull off your glasses, feeling the metal bend in your hand, "Ah," you manage and turn back to your book as she pulls up her shirt over her head. She's bandaging her wound with the little pink bandaids that Willow left at your place ages ago. It's healing fast, her cut, and little hissing sounds are coming of her lips.
"Yes ah! If you would just tell me about these things, I could plan for these things, my life could be scheduled." She's just in her bra now and you feel slightly sexless --her comfort around you makes you feel oddly uncomfortable. No teenage girl (not really) should be that comfortable around fifty year old men. Of course she is twenty and you couldn't really ever call her a teenager even before.
"I'm telling you now," You feel your face get hot and you have to sit down. Her bra is barely big enough, and it's so white and soaked with sweat that you have to sit down and put the heavy tome on your lap. This is embarrassing, really, and you feel like you should know better, "I'm telling you these things as I come across them."
There must have been something in your voice because Buffy sighs and looks up at you, her eyes impossibly young, impossibly large, "I know." She sighs again and looks down at the shirt she is holding, still bloody and damp. "I'm sorry."
She sits beside you, see-through bra and all, letting her head rest against your shoulder as you pretend to read the codex. "It's just," She takes a deep breath and the side of your arm rubs against her breast. The shirt's fabric is itchy and you shift in your seat, "Everyone wants to kill me. It's trying, you know?"
You smile again tightly and tell her everything is going to be all right. You move from the sofa, to get closer to being away, away from her and her bra and her breathing. You've become attuned to it, mapping the sounds and the hitches and the lack there of. Breathing means life, and life is so scarce these days it seems.
You explain to her how you can save her. A demon wants to poison her, and it's just a little weed in the desert that you have to get so she will be better.
You tell her this and she smiles and she runs up to hug you before putting on her shirt. You wince a little, because she's so strong (because her chest is so tiny and you can feel every bump and blessing).
She must realize this, because she pulls away quickly, pulls away and looks down and struggles with the extra shirt she leaves at your place. She's got a toothbrush (right next to yours) and a pair of underwear, "Just in case," She says, "Some evil panty-demon decides to terrorize Sunnydale."
"I'm sorry," She doesn't meet your eyes and you don't try. Her fingers come up and you think for a moment that she's going to touch your face, to drag those nails down your lips.
They touch your chest and play with the buttons on your shirt, "I got blood all over." Her tongue peeks out of her mouth and she pulls back her fingers, blushing.
You two stand there for a few moments, as Buffy wads the shirt into a tiny little ball. It looks like she's got something to say, but you have nothing to do while she figures it out.
For a moment you think that she's caught on, caught on to your shifting glances and clenching fists. But the moments gone and she's out the door, rushing home. You forgot that it's so late at night, that your circadian rhythm is so far gone that night and day hold no meaning anymore.
You wonder how your definitions have become so bloody screwed, but then that moment is gone too and you head back to the study to double check the prophecy.
Just to be sure.
You weren't prepared for this, for two Summer woman sitting in the car, one too hot, the other too cold.
"It's called menopause, Mom, you're gonna have to get used to it, 'cause it's all downhill from there." Joyce tries to reach across from the front at Buffy whose scrunched up against the door, head pressed against the window. Her reach is too short and Buffy sitcks her tongue out in retaliation.
This wasn't the plan, to be sure. It was just supposed to be Buffy and you. Just the two of you in your car with your music and your goddamn control over the air conditioning. But that's not how it turned out and you've got your shirt loosened and your sleeves rolled up and your glasses resting on a film of sweat. Desert heat and quarrling women do little for your disposition. All this trouble for one little plant, for one little prophecy.
You remember how Buffy came bursting through your door, little white tank top and sunglasses and a big bloody hat.
"Don't you think you're a bit..." You motioned up and down, "Much?"
She just scrunched her nose and shook her head, "Oh come on, how often do I get to cruise in the desert all Fear and Loathing-ish with my tight-wad watcher and painfully tag-alongish mom!"
In came Joyce, dressed more modestly than her daughter. She looks around, her head tilting up and up and up, catching Buffy's biology book perched on your couch, a pair of her tennis shoes dirtying up your nice, tasteful throw rug. Buffy is already in the kitchen, filling up her thermos, digging around the fridge for some lemons to squeeze for taste. She likes adding the Sweet and Low because its sweetens quicker. You know this and when Joyce finally meets your eyes, you realize so does she.
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"Hello Rupert."
"Hello Joyce."
Joyce has managed to stretch and swat at her daughter, sliding back into her seat with satisfaction. Buffy pretends like it hurts and pouts more for show than anything else. Buffy has been doing that lately and you've noticed. She pouts and complains and whines sometimes just for show, just to show the world that she's still there, still human.
You've seen the other Buffy, the one that has no name, the one that lets her muscles twist and turn under her skin, independent of thought. You've seen her brow loosen just before a kill, just before she pulls back her stake. You've seen the way she walks when no one is around to care, when it is just you and her and few headstones.
You've seen the other Buffy and you've seen the one in the car. You've seen them both and you have yet to decide which one is real.
"Oh my god I have to pee like a fat kid in a kiddie pool." She's added hand movements to illustrate the already more than descriptive point and you look at the signs for the next rest stop.
When the car rolls to a stop Buffy is out the door and it's just you and Joyce.
Once you are sure Buffy is inside you turn to Joyce.
"I have something to tell you," You begin and Joyce has no choice but to listen.
Afterwords she will shout at you in such a shrill voice that the family in the car next door will look at you two and think all the wrong things.
"She'll never trust you again." Joyce tells you when she finally calms down, "And she'll be right."
"She's been inside for an awfully long time," You begin, in an attempt to make the wait little less awkward. You always seem to remember the wrong facts at the wrong times --at the worst times. Now, for example, you remember the way she clamped her thighs on your legs against the police car --one year- ages ago. You remember that she gives amazing head to the tunes of the The Doors and The Who. You remember these things along with the some minor facts about the yukka plant and its medicinal properties.
Joyce smiles tightly and looks down at her hands.
"So," She begins, "Does Buffy always barge in like that? Do you mind?"
Before you can answer Buffy's knocking on your window so you lower it. The desert sun is strong and you squint and you watch her glossy lips move and offer you water.
"Cold, Giles, it's cold and you're gonna need it if you keep letting Mom mess with the air."
She leans in through the window to offer Joyce some ice tea and her arm brushes against your jaw. You suck in a breath and hold it as she moves and when she pulls back a little of her shirt has pulled up as it snagged on the door.
Brief peak of skin and you feel Joyce's gaze cold against your neck.
"Th-thank you." You manage to whisper as Buffy slips back into the backseat. She's got her hat back on and when you glance into the rear view mirror she's got the coke on her forehead, letting the condensed beads roll down her neck.
"So how much longer, Rupert," Joyce asks, her gaze leveled with yours, "Until we get there?"
You shift gears and take the car back onto the highway.
It's been seven hours and you've stopped twice, once for gas, another for the girls to use the restrooms, again. Joyce offered to drive, and managed an hour and a half before the sun got to her eyes and she vacated to the back seat. Buffy takes over for you and you welcome Buffy's control over the air when Joyce finally falls asleep.
You can feel yourself begin to doze and Buffy laughs each time you shake --each time your head dips down and snaps quickly back up. "You can go to sleep." She whispers, so as not to wake her mom.
You take off your glasses and rub the bridge of your nose, "Are you sure you remember the way? Because I-"
"Giles."
"It's not much longer, I can-"
"Giles."
"Buffy-"
She puts her hand over your mouth and you catch a taste of her skin before you stop talking.
Salty. Sweaty.
Her hand drops and she lets it fall on yours --the one that's gripping your glasses against your leg in an effort to stay awake.
"Really, it's ok, I think I can handle the next two hours of straight road leading to nowhere."
A tight squeeze and you let your eyes close for a moment you're ready to go to sleep.
It's her fingers against your cheek that wakes you; the way they curl against your jaw and sit softly against your neck. You can feel her softly breathing and you can hear the hitch in her throat.
"Giles?" She asks and you feel your eyes open briefly, for a split second you've turned your head and you can see her profile in the night.
She's smiling and you close your eyes again. Her fingers are gone, back to gripping the wheel and you nod off to all the wrong thoughts.
The car has been idling for a half an hour before you wake up. You wake with a start, your upper body lunging foreward as consciousness is regained.
You can hear her breathing and then you begin again.
"Why have we stopped?" You ask, blindly feeling around the car for your glasses. Before answering she slips your glasses into your hand.
The car is cold and Joyce is snoring.
The lights are off and Buffy is still in the driver's seat, her eyes trained intently foreward.
"Shh." She says simply and you listen, because this is the Buffy you know.
Her fingers have left your hand and begins to reach for the stake in the glove department. They tighten and her pink nail polish flashes in the moonlight. There's something strangely fearsome about that and you would laugh if you weren't afraid something might be listening.
"Stay here." She mouths and before there is a word out of your mouth she's gone, her ancient Slayer ability making your heart go cold once again. There's something stale in the air and suddenly the world slips into focus.
Just as this realization hits you, just as it hits you broadside against the face Buffy's got her fist out and she's already solving the problem for you.
You've been so stupid and for once it's Buffy that's cleaning up your mess. You scramble for the door handle and Joyce is waking up and you can hear the sound of Buffy's clothes tearing and you can hear her grunting and you can 't find the goddamn door handle.
Joyce begins clawing at you from behind, screaming, "My daughter, what is going on, where are we, BUFFY!!!"
So many questions and you can't find the goddamn door handle and the entire car's frame is shaking and goddamn it you can hear her out there, fighting and why aren't you out there yourself, you stupid, bloody bastard.
When you finally get the door open and when you push Joyce back in the car and when you stumble out there, out there where Buffy's got her stake out and shouting at the stupid thing just to stay dead already.
You want to help her, you really bloody do but this isn't the time. You should have told her, you really should have. You should have told her that this is what might happen, what might happen if he was going to save her. This part of the prophecy you didn't translate into English for her, because this was the part that was in it.
"Giles!" She's shouting, "Dammit Giles, I told you to stay in the goddamn car." Her voice is raw as she throws another punch that sends the creature flying against a canyon wall.
You don't answer because you've got a job and she has her part to play and this is how it must go down. The desert rocks are cold, dusty and crumbly and you scramble faster than you thought possible. The plant is here, somewhere around you and you can still hear them fighting. The way her breathing has become ragged and torn and the way her feet begin to scuff and the way she's stopped making wise cracks tell you that the prophecy is going to come to a close soon. You must fulfill your part so you keep climbing and pray to god that Buffy can continue fighting.
It's the lack of sound that tells you something, something you do not want to hear. There was nothing in the air and you stop your mad scramble. The air is silent and this is not a good thing.
When you finally find the plant, and when you finally tumble down the mountain Buffy is splayed in the red dirt, midsection bloody and dripping. Joyce is bent over her body, hands hovering above, flighty and nervous.
When she turns to you she's got tears so red against her cheek that you almost trip over your feet.
"Goddamnit Rupert!" She's screaming at you, and her cheeks are red and when she turns to you you see her hands are clean. Good. But now she's running at you, her hands up and clenched and ready to fall tiny fists against your chest.
You do not have the time for this.
"Where's the creature?" You ask, forcing yourself to take small measured steps to the car.
"Dead," Joyce whispers, turning to look at Buffy, still on the ground.
You can't hear her breath and for once this is a good thing.
"You didn't touch her?"
"No." She whispers again, closing her eyes against the image of her daughter splayed in the copper dirt, "No, no I didn't do a goddamn thing."
"Good." You finally find the bloody bag. The box of latex gloves is in the fourth pocket and you pull at it a little too roughly.
Joyce is still standing by her daughter's body and you hand her a pair of gloves.
"You cannot tell her," Buffy is heavy, much heavier than she looks. She gets your jacket and shirt bloody and Joyce has her hands cradling her daughter's head, "You mustn't."
Joyce doesn't look at you and you pretend that she will listen.
You hope.
When Buffy wakes up she calls for you and you needn't walk far because you've been beside her bed for six days now. Six days of Joyce's hard looks and angry sighs and when Buffy wakes you are treated to another pair.
She asks so many questions that you have a hard time answering all. More specifically, you have a harder time coming up with probable lies. Each time you change the story Joyce gives you another one of those looks.
But it's Buffy that is the worst. She's got those big trusting eyes on you again and each lie becomes easier when you look away.
It takes another day for her strength to come back and over open chinese boxes and splintered chopsticks you think she may have figured it out and when Joyce falls asleep you know this is true.
Buffy tucks her mother in, pulling the scratchy hotel sheets until they are tucked tightly on the side. "She's always so cold," Buffy laughs, and when you barely break a smile she motions to the balcony.
You both stand out there for a few moments, letting the cool desert air do some of the speaking for you. Her eyes are impossibly focused, catching the skyline as she grips the rail.
She is giving you the chance. You know this. The little branch she's holding out is the only one you're going to get and you've got to take it.
But you don't because you can't admit it to yourself yet.
"How long have you known?" You ask finally.
"Two seconds after I woke up."
You sigh and try and think of something to say.
She turns her head, her face blank and empty, "That's a lie." She begins again, "When you told me about the prophecy. I knew. At least I think I did."
That is all she'll ever say about that (you know this) and she turns back to face the desert.
You stand there for a few moments and then you give in. You're a smart man, you know when to give up.
Joyce makes you drive most of the way, more out of revenge than anything else. Buffy sits in the back seat, splayed against the felt to let her stomach heal. She's got her foot resting precariously on the center console, tapping her toe against the leather. There is a song on the radio that she likes, or pretends to at least; more for the benefit of her mother than for anything else.
Joyce falls asleep and Buffy stops humming, falling silent in the back seat. She still moves her foot but not to any beat or rhythm coming out of the radio.
It's her foot that snakes out, slowly searching. It touches your arm and you have to fight the sudden urge to swerve. Her toes clench against your forearm and you let your hand reach out to still them.
Her skin is so achingly warm. The tiny pores and the texture and the way it bends around the bone is so alive, so painfully real that you don't let go. You can't.
You keep touching, passing your fingers against her skin, relishing each tremor that travels down the bone. Her breathing becomes shallow as your hand continues to search, and she stretches her leg until her inner knee is under your fingers.
Soft.
You want to pull back, you want to stop this because this is wrong and you know it and goddamnit this is your slayer and she is your slayer and she is your slayer and she is so soft.
She shudders once more and jerks her leg, accidentally hitting Joyce. Buffy's mother stirs and you pull back your hand.
You know better, you really do.
When you come home she is sitting on your couch.
It has been one week since that moment in the car where you went too far. It has been one week since you have lied and it didn't really count because she already knew.
It has been one week and now she is sitting on your couch. A cup of tea is cooling on your coffee table, and she has one of your reference books perched on her lap. Her hair is pulled back and her shirt is conservative and she is looking everywhere but you.
"Buffy," You manage to get out before locking the door behind you, "What brings you here?"
She doesn't answer except to motion for him to sit.
You do, because she asked and you really have no right to complain.
She is methodical, precise. Cradling the book she closes it as he has always shown her, asked her (begged her) to do. The pages are not dog-eared, there are no nail polish stains or signs of damage.
After this she lifts the tea cup and tucks the bag away in a napkin. Two stirs and she turns to you, holding it out.
"Tea?"
You don't say anything because this behavoir confuses you. Scares you.
"Fine, whatever." She puts the cup back down. You don't know what to say so you just sit there feeling faintly stupid.
"I've been avoiding you all week, you know."
You nod. Suddenly you are thirsty and you take the cup from the coffee table, taking a shaky, careful sip. It is cold and you wonder how long she has been sitting on your couch.
"Do you know why?"
You nod again and take another unhealthy gulp.
A few moments pass with no words, no emotion (that is a lie).
"Set the tea down Giles."
You do and when the cup is down she has moved so bloody fast (slayer strength, your slayer) and she has her thighs around your hips and she has her hips pressed against your thighs and you suddenly cannot breathe worth a damn.
"Are you in love with me?" She asks you, point blank and pressing down hard.
"I-I have no idea." You can't figure out where to put your hands, so you settle for taking off your glasses, hands impossibly still.
She does nothing for a few moments, except to shift, once, twice --more to judge your reaction than anything else.
"What, what are you thinking?" You finally manage to say, because you cannot breathe and you must get the stale air out of your lungs somehow.
She still doesn't answer and it's bloody frightening because she's pressing even harder if it's possible.
"You know what I'm thinking?" She whispers, curious, head set to the side, "I'm thinking about kissing."
And now your lungs are empty and there is no hope for you now.
"Kissing Angel was so cold," She places her arms on either side of your head. Leaning in her breath is hot against your neck.
This is wrong.
"So hard to get used to. And kissing Riley?" Pulling back she places her hands on your lapels, "Empty. Sloppy. But I know kissing you would be fantastic." Undoes a button, "Your attention to detail alone..."
Her phone rings and your soul is saved. She scrambles off your lap and air rushes in to inflate your lungs with its touch. It's Dawn and suddenly you are thankful for little sisters and family phone plans and all sorts of American devices because it gets Buffy off your lap and air back in your system.
By the time she turns around she is at the door and she can't meet your eyes and she probably doesn't want to ever again. You are bloody too old for this.
"Buffy." You manage to get it out before the door shuts behind her.
There is a pause so deep and long you just might break something or drive yourself to drink.
"Not like this." You manage, but the door is already closed and you are left to yourself and an even colder cup of tea.
Next time you see her you are in her bedroom and you've climbed up the tree because Joyce is home and Buffy is home and this was the only around the first one. She's waiting by the window with her arms crossed and her head cocked.
"Who do you think you are?" She laughs, "Angel? 'Cause you're going to need a whole new wardrobe to pull that off." Buffy backs up to let you tumble in, tree branches and all, "You're lucky Mom sleeps like a log."
You feel so bloody old pulling something so young but Buffy doesn't seem to care because she pushes some clothes off of a chair and motions you to sit. You do, gingerly, hoping you haven't damaged anything too permanently.
Her face is clean-washed and scrubbed so goddamn fresh. She sits on her bed across from you and you stare each other down.
"So." She begins
"Yes. Well."
Another pause.
"How was patrol?" It sounds even worse outloud, faltering and stupid.
"Five. Busy night," she says, "It wasn't really much of a contest."
"Good," You say, "Good, that's good-"
"Just do it now."
This comes out of nowhere and you shift in the chair, a white wicker chair that bites into your skin, "Excuse me?"
She doesn't answer because she pulls you up and now you both are standing and Buffy is on her tip toes and before you can make a sane, measured decision she's pressing her lips against your own.
Soft. Warm.
Alive.
A deep breath in and you can smell the silky soap and the face wash and the shampoo she uses. You can feel everything, the beat of her heart under her chest and the way her exhalations fall against your cheek. She is alive and this pressing of lips proof.
You need this proof tight in your arms and she's snaked her hands around to take off your glasses and now she's pressing them against your chest.
At first it is just this pressing of lips and skin and squeezes of arms and waists. But then you want more because this isn't real yet, this isn't enough. You need more proof and you slip your tongue against that cleft of her lips. You press and she opens her mouth enough to let you in. This is the kiss that you think about more times then you care to admit. She's got her hands warm against your waist, and tugging at your belt.
You should know better but by that time you've fallen onto her bed and that inane piggy doll is pressing into your neck and Buffy's straddling you and kissing you and this is insane.
"Buffy," you get out when you've got your tongue to yourself, "god Buffy-"
She pulls back, frowning, "What. What is it?"
"This is...this isn't. No."
He slips out from under her.
"You've been through a lot in the past week. You've...a lot to process," you can't speak and you repeat phrases inanly until you can think, "You've got a lot to process."
When she finally moves she doesn't say anthing and this is probably a Bad Thing.
"Buffy."
Your jacket has slipped during the floor and you bend to pick it up. She is angry, and you cannot blame her, but you cannot continue playing this game either; but you are going to leave through the goddamn front door because you will not suffer that infernal tree again.
Before you leave you open your stupid bloody mouth, "This. Not like this." She doesn't meet your eyes so you stop trying, "We'll take some time. Just to go. Just to leave. When you need it most."
This is your effort to fix things. This has to be. You can't imagine her caring to hear what you think, after you've fucked things up good and solid. You can't imagine that she wants anything more out of this little game, this fucked attempt at reconciliation.
You can't imagine her kissing you either, with lips so deep and hands so warm and a breath you never have to strain to hear and hold track of. You can't imagine any of these things but they have happened and you are here and when you look up she has the most obscure expression on her face.
A genuine smile and she ducks her head, "Yeah," she manages to say and her grin breaks wider as she looks back up at him, "Yeah." She laughs and hugs her arm close to herself, "Maybe after the next apocalypse. We'll see."
Two steps more and you look back again, just to prove it to yourself one more time, "Shall I put it on the schedule then?" You ask and she just smiles some more and waves a little with her finger.
"Good night Giles," she whispers and watches you walk out of her room. She watches you walk down the stairs and when you get to your car and you can't bloody help it anymore because against all fucking odds something may have gone right, she waves again.
This might just work, you tell yourself, even though it shouldn't.