( hiding is a strong word for what she's doing, one meant for pussies, runaways, felons with a warrant to outrun. (girls who can't stand to have the bones of the past dug up. girls who can't grieve for what they've lost a second time over. girls who need to shove it back into the dirt where it can't haunt and hurt anymore, good fucking riddance.) what ani tells herself it is: relaxing. no different than paid time off before she returns, rested and ready and renewed, to the grind.
buffy needs it, too. though maybe not more than ani needs it, the way an addict needs a nicotine patch before they kick a habit for good; turns out one symptom of withdrawal from an old, fake life is how good it felt waking up to someone beside her. a warm place to hide away in the dark. someone who opened their eyes to her like she was morning sun tapping at their eyelids, soft and daylit and a welcome sight to start a day. it's nice — even if buffy never smiles first thing in the morning. in fact, she always looks like someone pissed in her cheerios, the grumpiness of a girl who's decided only caffeine can prepare her for suffering the world's bullshit.
still, ani stays, because buffy's cranky reign of terror is better than being alone (right back where she started, full circle). which leads her: here, sprawled out on top of buffy's sheets, rummaging through her makeup, cozied up in one of her shirts. maybe one of giles', on second thought, all the starchy collar and crisp-clean lines of an expensive button-up. she doesn't look remotely guilty when he pops his head in, the hellish audacity of a woman who grew up as a younger sister, and all the sweater-stealing and shared gifts and shameless snooping it entailed. )
Hey. ( the end vowels drawn out into a heyyy, bright and breezy as her smile — and shouted over a noisy bassline. ani drops a tube of sticky lip gloss, slides off the bed. pads over to the stereo, bare-legged and unbothered strides, to dial it down. ) Hey, Professor. Long time no talk.
( her eyebrows tip up, a question in their lift. )
Am I bothering you? I know you've probably got those sensitive librarian ears.
[ The way the shirt skims the tops of her thighs -- very bare thighs -- reminds Giles of seeing Buffy dressed the same way, makes him wonder who gave her his shirt (as if it's not obvious), which leads his distracted mind into a brief but vivid mental image of the two of them getting dressed, or undressed, Buffy's deft fingers on the buttons, and God knows what's underneath --
He blinks and makes a conscious effort to keep his gaze on Ani's face. The casual greeting and the brassy roll of her accent reminds him of Faith, not for the first time. Giles clears his throat and smiles, faintly embarrassed. ]
Oh no, no. It's just, um. I was going to go and see about.. about breakfast. [ He wasn't, but he is now. ] I thought perhaps I could bring you something?
( a feline eyebrow tips upward, sign language for: i see you, i caught you, i know what you're thinking. because it's the same line of thought every man has when they queue up for the exhibit that is ani mikheeva, paying an admission fee just to admire her up close and personal; on this glorious morning, it's a ticket paid for not in cash or credit, but cuisine. fair exchange rate, as far as ani is concerned, for how it tips in her favor — a little bit of leg for a big bite of breakfast. for the chance to be catered to, like someone genuinely gives a fuck about taking care of her. from an older guy like giles? she can almost buy into the idea.
a smile slinks across her face, slow as the curious, flickering tail of a housecat, knowing to play cute to get a treat. then, its corners slant into honest, amused surprise, haloed by the hazy, golden corona of late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. )
Oh, shit. ( a dry, cigarette-crackle of a laugh. her nose crinkles, a notch at the tip. ) I mean — they're still servin' breakfast? I forgot to pick something up.
( as if forgetting to pick something up isn't bad, neglectful habit — hours lost to hustling too hard through a double shift, hours lost to the meaningless blur of distractions. weed, sleep, buffy. whatever's available. whatever distraction can rewire her brain chemistry for a few hours.
ani's palms smooth over her stomach, muffling its grumble. its humble disagreement over ani's choice to hibernate in the recesses of buffy's room where the world can be whatever she decides to make it, dozing through breakfast hours, recovering energy from whatever tooth-rotting junk buffy brings back. movie night essentials: the evidence is a crime scene splayed out on the night stand, the end of the bed. corpses of empty wrappers and plastic bags lay scattered, their gummy insides devoured over some mindless, dumbass romcom. they crinkle, accusatory, as ani flops down at the end of the bed, settling into a seated bounce. )
Um. Coffee? Breakfast of champions, you know? ( she nibbles, soft pressure, at the tip of a nail. giving thought to basic needs she's tragically lapsed in. ) And — I don't know what Mary Poppins shit they're callin' it. Some scrambled eggs, if they've still got any. Please?
[ By now Giles is well aware how easy it is to be disarmed by Ani's casual friendliness, the soft-eyed customer service mask she wears while that shrewd and uncannily perceptive mind works away in the background. He knows how to spot it as much as he knows he's liable to fall for it without thinking, all too easy to assume that the nothing-to-worry-about attitude is real. But he's also spent a lot of time around a certain young woman who is also very capable of dissembling over her state of okayness; he's not entirely fooled, noting the telltale signs of someone doing a good job of hiding out so she doesn't have to deal with whatever it is she's hiding out from.
Still, he can't judge -- the maids who clean his room have become very good at replacing the empty whiskey bottles that find their way to the bottom of his wastebasket every few days, hidden under discarded papers. They're all of them doing their best. So he allows it, hides most of his sympathy in a wry smile, nodding along with the small lies. ]
Coffee. And eggs. All right. I'll just -- [ Getting briefly distracted again when he remembers she's wearing his shirt, he gestures at the door. Starts and stops. ] I'll just, um. I won't be long.
[ The exit is somewhat awkward; he turns and goes back through the bathroom, closing the door again as he goes. In the privacy of his room, he spends a few moments silently cursing his stupidity and inability to concentrate around pretty girls in Oxford shirts, follows with a silent pep talk as he locates his shoes, and goes off out into the house on his unplanned breakfast errand.
It doesn't take long. Maybe half an hour later he returns, knocking at the hallway door to Buffy's room this time. He's juggling a well-laden tray as he enters: a French press full of coffee and a stack of three cups, milk, sugar; a covered plate; a small rack of toast, a crock of butter, and a jar of apricot jam. Carefully, he crosses the room and sets the tray down on the edge of the little table by the windows, moving aside junk food wrappers and hair straighteners to make room. ]
I didn't know if Buffy would be -- ah, joining us. [ He tries not to make it sound too much like a hopeful question, picking up the French press to pour for the two of them. ]
( 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
buffy needs it, too. though maybe not more than ani needs it, the way an addict needs a nicotine patch before they kick a habit for good; turns out one symptom of withdrawal from an old, fake life is how good it felt waking up to someone beside her. a warm place to hide away in the dark. someone who opened their eyes to her like she was morning sun tapping at their eyelids, soft and daylit and a welcome sight to start a day. it's nice — even if buffy never smiles first thing in the morning. in fact, she always looks like someone pissed in her cheerios, the grumpiness of a girl who's decided only caffeine can prepare her for suffering the world's bullshit.
still, ani stays, because buffy's cranky reign of terror is better than being alone (right back where she started, full circle). which leads her: here, sprawled out on top of buffy's sheets, rummaging through her makeup, cozied up in one of her shirts. maybe one of giles', on second thought, all the starchy collar and crisp-clean lines of an expensive button-up. she doesn't look remotely guilty when he pops his head in, the hellish audacity of a woman who grew up as a younger sister, and all the sweater-stealing and shared gifts and shameless snooping it entailed. )
Hey. ( the end vowels drawn out into a heyyy, bright and breezy as her smile — and shouted over a noisy bassline. ani drops a tube of sticky lip gloss, slides off the bed. pads over to the stereo, bare-legged and unbothered strides, to dial it down. ) Hey, Professor. Long time no talk.
( her eyebrows tip up, a question in their lift. )
Am I bothering you? I know you've probably got those sensitive librarian ears.
no subject
He blinks and makes a conscious effort to keep his gaze on Ani's face. The casual greeting and the brassy roll of her accent reminds him of Faith, not for the first time. Giles clears his throat and smiles, faintly embarrassed. ]
Oh no, no. It's just, um. I was going to go and see about.. about breakfast. [ He wasn't, but he is now. ] I thought perhaps I could bring you something?
no subject
a smile slinks across her face, slow as the curious, flickering tail of a housecat, knowing to play cute to get a treat. then, its corners slant into honest, amused surprise, haloed by the hazy, golden corona of late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. )
Oh, shit. ( a dry, cigarette-crackle of a laugh. her nose crinkles, a notch at the tip. ) I mean — they're still servin' breakfast? I forgot to pick something up.
( as if forgetting to pick something up isn't bad, neglectful habit — hours lost to hustling too hard through a double shift, hours lost to the meaningless blur of distractions. weed, sleep, buffy. whatever's available. whatever distraction can rewire her brain chemistry for a few hours.
ani's palms smooth over her stomach, muffling its grumble. its humble disagreement over ani's choice to hibernate in the recesses of buffy's room where the world can be whatever she decides to make it, dozing through breakfast hours, recovering energy from whatever tooth-rotting junk buffy brings back. movie night essentials: the evidence is a crime scene splayed out on the night stand, the end of the bed. corpses of empty wrappers and plastic bags lay scattered, their gummy insides devoured over some mindless, dumbass romcom. they crinkle, accusatory, as ani flops down at the end of the bed, settling into a seated bounce. )
Um. Coffee? Breakfast of champions, you know? ( she nibbles, soft pressure, at the tip of a nail. giving thought to basic needs she's tragically lapsed in. ) And — I don't know what Mary Poppins shit they're callin' it. Some scrambled eggs, if they've still got any. Please?
no subject
Still, he can't judge -- the maids who clean his room have become very good at replacing the empty whiskey bottles that find their way to the bottom of his wastebasket every few days, hidden under discarded papers. They're all of them doing their best. So he allows it, hides most of his sympathy in a wry smile, nodding along with the small lies. ]
Coffee. And eggs. All right. I'll just -- [ Getting briefly distracted again when he remembers she's wearing his shirt, he gestures at the door. Starts and stops. ] I'll just, um. I won't be long.
[ The exit is somewhat awkward; he turns and goes back through the bathroom, closing the door again as he goes. In the privacy of his room, he spends a few moments silently cursing his stupidity and inability to concentrate around pretty girls in Oxford shirts, follows with a silent pep talk as he locates his shoes, and goes off out into the house on his unplanned breakfast errand.
It doesn't take long. Maybe half an hour later he returns, knocking at the hallway door to Buffy's room this time. He's juggling a well-laden tray as he enters: a French press full of coffee and a stack of three cups, milk, sugar; a covered plate; a small rack of toast, a crock of butter, and a jar of apricot jam. Carefully, he crosses the room and sets the tray down on the edge of the little table by the windows, moving aside junk food wrappers and hair straighteners to make room. ]
I didn't know if Buffy would be -- ah, joining us. [ He tries not to make it sound too much like a hopeful question, picking up the French press to pour for the two of them. ]
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.