[ 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.
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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.