( there's no obvious overhaul to the set dressing of buffy's room when giles re-enters. nothing as visible as four-corners of the wrinkled bedsheets tidy and tucked, or crinkly wrappers dropped into the graveyard of the bathroom trashcan, buried six feet deep so no one can exhume ani's evidence of a mid-level crisis. but there's the slightest impression that the room has lightened — sun biting its teeth through the thin curtains, eating away at a room she's kept dark and private, all funerary colors. an emergency clean-up of her damage, burned away the worst stains before they can be seen and remembered in full, fragile detail.
from the open jaw of the window, a fluttery breeze breathes in fresh top notes of perfumed honeysuckle, overpowering the stale stench of girl-rot in their little enclosed tomb. ani's perched at the windows like some grounded bird ruffled by the wind after a long time going without — chin turned up to the sun, leg half-dangling from the sill's rounded ledge. as the tray gives a tinny clank, she swivels. paints on a smile that's baked in old school lipsmackers, scented skittles on its fire-red tube. it still tastes like a front when she runs her tongue across her lip, all artificial sugar. drawls, consonants polished into brass: )
— If I'd known Buffy had built in room service, I would have stayed over sooner.
( but as she hops down to curl into a seat, legs tucked at a sideways angle, she does feel — better isn't the word. like she's saying see? all good loud enough for him to hear it, even if all good only looks like sunshine and fresh, unrecycled air. (if it's good enough for plants to be considered fucking — fine and functional, it's good enough for her.)
her hands cup around the warm bowl of the mug, an instinctive and direct pinpointing of whatever substance will shock her awake and alive. )
Sorry. ( because, even as the steam wisps between them, it doesn't obscure her sudden insight — that ending note, lilting into cautious, casual hope. the sensation of solidarity that comes with understanding maybe all three of them are fucked in the head, lately. ) She's probably flexing on some dipshit who thinks protein powder's a real food group.
( here's where she'd joke. tease what, am i chopped liver? until he's bumbling like paddington bear. the sympathy of a distraction, instead: )
So. What's on the syllabus, Professor? You come up with a required reading list?
[ As someone well aware of what it looks like when a young woman in trouble is doing her best to try and look very much like she isn't in trouble and is, in fact, totally fine to go out patrolling, Giles doesn't miss the effort Ani's made around the room. His gaze ticks around the slightly less chaotic piles, lingering appreciatively on the slice of bright daylight visible through the curtains. With almost visible effort, he resists looking too closely at what might be a g-string tossed over a pile of DVDs.
Instead, he helps himself to a slice of toast, going about the business of buttering it before he offers it to Ani -- he is a gentleman, after all. And it would probably do her some good to eat something that doesn't end in -splosion or -tastic. It also helps him attempt to ignore the mental image of Buffy "flexing", whatever that means. ]
I'm not a professor. [ Polite correction as he reaches for some more toast. ] I'll have you know, I'm a failed high school librarian. Any delusions of grandeur are entirely unearned.
( ani's lips roll together, in perfect rhythm with the irreverent shrug she eases off of her shoulders. social hierarchy would still rank him above her, on the ladder of influence and importance — a more time-honored profession. as if a paycheck earned with some dead dude's dusty words is worth more than the fat fold of cash tucked away in a thong, somehow — not a real job, not real labor, to anyone who hasn't worked a shift in six-inch stilettos and stayed standing.
her eyes sweep over the creases in his expression, lines in a book written by time, lingers by the dog-earned creases in his eyes. a quiet appraisal, trying to determine where, exactly, he thinks he thinks that revelation knocks dollar signs off of his worth. )
Whatever you say, Professor. ( stubbornly committed to the bit, on a shallow read. subtext says, with a sly wink to match: ) What's wrong with a little grandeur, huh?
( she lends it smoothly, easily, an anora mikheeva seed of wisdom — no point discounting your worth in a world that will try to do it for you, every damn day. the toasted edges crunch satisfyingly under her incisors, an uninhibited murmur of satisfaction purring up her throat. like everything she does, it's a little messy, a little unapologetically filthy, a little savage in its hunger — her tongue swipes the melty lipgloss combination of butter and crumbs from her mouth. )
Are you f— ( through a biteful, a lump stretching out a chipmunked cheek. it stalls the conversation, helps her surprise and curiosity seem subtle; sure, men have invested in her. liked what they saw, a window dressing of tits and ass. none of them ever offered her a reading list, full stop serious, like they were interested in funding her brain; probably never stopped to consider she has a fully functional one, anyway. assholes.
she looks away, nails massacring a sugar packet. with a flip flick of a hand: ) I mean, sure. It ain't like I've got anything else goin' on. Pick out something good for me. No boring ass Hemingway bullshit. I don't wanna read some guy jerkin' himself off over how goddamn smart he thinks he is.
[ Again, there are the reminders of another brassy young woman whose survival had often required being underestimated, as much as it grated against her. He catches himself wondering -- not for the first time -- whether Faith would have been so easily drawn into the Mayor's clutches if he'd made more of an effort to get to know her, to shelter and guide her as he had Buffy. At the time, he'd been too distracted, too frustrated with the boundaries of his calling. And perhaps he'd allowed himself to assume she didn't need his help. Now, he has cause to regret, and is at least self-aware enough to note, as Ani visibly processes his offer, that he might just be trying to make up for that particular mistake.
Still, he doesn't take it back. Nor does he think he'll come to regret reaching out to Ani, even if half the words out of her mouth make him feel both old and, as Buffy would put it, terminally uncool.
He breathes a soft and genuine laugh at her comment, conceding that she has a point with a lift of his eyebrows. ]
I'll do my best. No Hemingway. [ Settling back, he looks down at his cup. ] I, ah.. I enjoyed your thoughts on Dorian Gray. Perhaps if you enjoy my recommendations, we could.. discuss them?
( dorian gray, giles says. bringing up her birthday, the poor trade of her perspective on some classic piece of literature to pay back the kindness with words that weren't her own. gratitude she didn't need to have the vocabulary for when she could steal something he'd like better. the result isn't unlike breaking some unspoken pact. the elephant in the room you're polite enough not to prod and poke at. pretending it doesn't exist, pretending you don't know the shape it takes, pretending you don't know the oppressive space it occupies.
ani's stare shoots up, a quizzical scrunch to her brow. her vertebrae unravel, posture tentatively perking. her tone balances on that tight-wire between skepticism and sincerity without fully tipping over to one side when she exhales, )
Yeah? ( she laughs, not anymore substantial than a breath. ) I would've figured you needed a translator for it. Didn't think you spoke fluent Brighton, Gee.
( or, with a pointed, playfully judgmental eye-flicker over his outfit, like she's highlighting a passage in a book, supporting evidence of her point: not fluent in stripper, either. she flicks away flakes of crust in her next breath, crusting on the pillow of her lower lip. in hindsight, it almost feels — fucking ridiculous, really, that he'd think a peek through the window of her brain would be equivalent in worth to any birthday gift. but — here he is, asking like he wants the personal, stamped invite inside her head.
the sugar sprinkles, full and tooth-rotting, into her coffee; sweetens it to a caramelized brown. the mug lifts to her lips. looms there, even as the steam hazes up into her vision, narrowing her stare into pinholes. )
No homework, right? If you're tricking me into a thesis, I'm out. ( she smiles through a scalding sip. coy: ) And I'm gonna graffiti your books. Warnin' you now.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
from the open jaw of the window, a fluttery breeze breathes in fresh top notes of perfumed honeysuckle, overpowering the stale stench of girl-rot in their little enclosed tomb. ani's perched at the windows like some grounded bird ruffled by the wind after a long time going without — chin turned up to the sun, leg half-dangling from the sill's rounded ledge. as the tray gives a tinny clank, she swivels. paints on a smile that's baked in old school lipsmackers, scented skittles on its fire-red tube. it still tastes like a front when she runs her tongue across her lip, all artificial sugar. drawls, consonants polished into brass: )
— If I'd known Buffy had built in room service, I would have stayed over sooner.
( but as she hops down to curl into a seat, legs tucked at a sideways angle, she does feel — better isn't the word. like she's saying see? all good loud enough for him to hear it, even if all good only looks like sunshine and fresh, unrecycled air. (if it's good enough for plants to be considered fucking — fine and functional, it's good enough for her.)
her hands cup around the warm bowl of the mug, an instinctive and direct pinpointing of whatever substance will shock her awake and alive. )
Sorry. ( because, even as the steam wisps between them, it doesn't obscure her sudden insight — that ending note, lilting into cautious, casual hope. the sensation of solidarity that comes with understanding maybe all three of them are fucked in the head, lately. ) She's probably flexing on some dipshit who thinks protein powder's a real food group.
( here's where she'd joke. tease what, am i chopped liver? until he's bumbling like paddington bear. the sympathy of a distraction, instead: )
So. What's on the syllabus, Professor? You come up with a required reading list?
no subject
Instead, he helps himself to a slice of toast, going about the business of buttering it before he offers it to Ani -- he is a gentleman, after all. And it would probably do her some good to eat something that doesn't end in -splosion or -tastic. It also helps him attempt to ignore the mental image of Buffy "flexing", whatever that means. ]
I'm not a professor. [ Polite correction as he reaches for some more toast. ] I'll have you know, I'm a failed high school librarian. Any delusions of grandeur are entirely unearned.
[ He pauses, then looks over at her. ]
Would you -- would you like a reading list?
no subject
her eyes sweep over the creases in his expression, lines in a book written by time, lingers by the dog-earned creases in his eyes. a quiet appraisal, trying to determine where, exactly, he thinks he thinks that revelation knocks dollar signs off of his worth. )
Whatever you say, Professor. ( stubbornly committed to the bit, on a shallow read. subtext says, with a sly wink to match: ) What's wrong with a little grandeur, huh?
( she lends it smoothly, easily, an anora mikheeva seed of wisdom — no point discounting your worth in a world that will try to do it for you, every damn day. the toasted edges crunch satisfyingly under her incisors, an uninhibited murmur of satisfaction purring up her throat. like everything she does, it's a little messy, a little unapologetically filthy, a little savage in its hunger — her tongue swipes the melty lipgloss combination of butter and crumbs from her mouth. )
Are you f— ( through a biteful, a lump stretching out a chipmunked cheek. it stalls the conversation, helps her surprise and curiosity seem subtle; sure, men have invested in her. liked what they saw, a window dressing of tits and ass. none of them ever offered her a reading list, full stop serious, like they were interested in funding her brain; probably never stopped to consider she has a fully functional one, anyway. assholes.
she looks away, nails massacring a sugar packet. with a flip flick of a hand: ) I mean, sure. It ain't like I've got anything else goin' on. Pick out something good for me. No boring ass Hemingway bullshit. I don't wanna read some guy jerkin' himself off over how goddamn smart he thinks he is.
no subject
Still, he doesn't take it back. Nor does he think he'll come to regret reaching out to Ani, even if half the words out of her mouth make him feel both old and, as Buffy would put it, terminally uncool.
He breathes a soft and genuine laugh at her comment, conceding that she has a point with a lift of his eyebrows. ]
I'll do my best. No Hemingway. [ Settling back, he looks down at his cup. ] I, ah.. I enjoyed your thoughts on Dorian Gray. Perhaps if you enjoy my recommendations, we could.. discuss them?
no subject
ani's stare shoots up, a quizzical scrunch to her brow. her vertebrae unravel, posture tentatively perking. her tone balances on that tight-wire between skepticism and sincerity without fully tipping over to one side when she exhales, )
Yeah? ( she laughs, not anymore substantial than a breath. ) I would've figured you needed a translator for it. Didn't think you spoke fluent Brighton, Gee.
( or, with a pointed, playfully judgmental eye-flicker over his outfit, like she's highlighting a passage in a book, supporting evidence of her point: not fluent in stripper, either. she flicks away flakes of crust in her next breath, crusting on the pillow of her lower lip. in hindsight, it almost feels — fucking ridiculous, really, that he'd think a peek through the window of her brain would be equivalent in worth to any birthday gift. but — here he is, asking like he wants the personal, stamped invite inside her head.
the sugar sprinkles, full and tooth-rotting, into her coffee; sweetens it to a caramelized brown. the mug lifts to her lips. looms there, even as the steam hazes up into her vision, narrowing her stare into pinholes. )
No homework, right? If you're tricking me into a thesis, I'm out. ( she smiles through a scalding sip. coy: ) And I'm gonna graffiti your books. Warnin' you now.