Falling - Chapter 1

It hadn't stopped raining since he'd arrived back. Raining, as he'd landed at the anonymous airport; raining, as he'd negotiated the now unfamiliar traffic to the west country; raining, as he'd collected keys from uncaring agents; raining, as he'd twisted and turned down dark county lanes to the cottage; raining, as he'd let himself in and inspected the damage eight years of renting had inflicted on its eleventh century peace, and still it rained, two days later, as he tried to find his life, himself and his sanity, back in this dark, unwelcoming land.

Giles woke on the third day with his heart even heavier than it had been on tearing it away from the endless sun. It was still raining, but now it suited his mood. He turned over in the bed and tried to block out the memories.

Two weeks later, and he had not consciously thought about any of it, immersing himself in the every day necessities of settling accounts, shopping, redecorating and attempting - rather vainly - to find a life. No conscious thoughts, but a painful stab of need on glimpsing a certain shade of hair; an embarrassing flush of desire watching someone smoking in a teashop, staring at slim young fingers lifting the tiny, white column to narrow, eager lips; an unwanted tightening in his balls as a thumb ring on a shop assistant glinted dully in the light.

Two weeks of being haunted by desire: mocked by the ghosts of his passion. He had not believed - until it had happened to him - that love involved falling, that love was out-of-control movement from one place where all was clear and secure, to another where it was not, where all was doubtful, painful and confused. He had thought it fanciful when people declared - revelled in - unwise love. Love was something best grown into, like a favourite jacket: comfortable, worn, familiar. Loving without control, loving unwisely, was self-indulgent and only for the weak.

So, ten days away from him, and Giles still had no idea why he had fallen, crushingly hard (in surely the definition of unwise) for someone who was dead, who was a demon, who was a man, who loved women and not men, and who (probably most importantly) did not like him and thought he was a stupid git.

Fallen. Landed… broken.

He'd come home to escape the pain, but had only carried it here, to a dark land where the incessant rain penetrated every crack, slipping in to chill him to the core.

He didn't want to be back there in the sun, though. He knew this odd passion would not be reciprocated. This was not an instance of being able to present his case and win someone over. If he'd picked any of the others, he might have won them over with slow persistence. Buffy - given the right circumstances - might have weakened at his capacity to give comfort and fatherly care. Even Willow - the most unlikely of conquests - might have fallen for admiring exchanges of wisdom and the sharing of dark power. Even Xander, even Xander Harris - at some weak moment - might have been seduced by the very idea of being seduced. However, none of these facets of his personality - fatherly figure, powerful warlock, seducer - would ever have worked on… the one Giles wanted. So, the further away the better. There was to be no fairytale ending to this dark need, no glance that would set their passion on fire, no words or actions that would allow him to press his body against that harder, cooler one.

All summer they'd worked intimately together. All summer… nothing, but then one smile, one casual comment, and the fall had begun.

He wanted, he needed, Spike. And of all the people in the world he could have fallen for, Spike was the least likely to want him back. Dead, demon, man, lover of women, hater of him - two weeks on, and Giles could only let the ache tear at him.

Letters began to arrive, making the forgetting impossible, the remembering painful. Buffy wrote of staking and cemeteries - Spike brought forth in every image. Xander wrote of workday things - Spike's presence haunting every line. Dawn wrote of school and friends - descriptions of their little lives conjured Spike in every word. The ache just got worse.

Three weeks… another letter from Xander. He looked at the smiley face drawn on the flap but didn't feel like smiling. He tossed it to one side of the breakfast counter and went out for a walk in the rain. He wasn't consciously trying to catch a chill - he had no one to care for him, no one to make illness delicious - but walked every day in the rain, miles in the rain, until his muscles ached along with his heart. He returned that day, exhausted, read the paper without interest, lit a fire and poured himself the so-needed first drink: the one that would ease the way for all the rest until sleep came heavily. He got up to fetch some ice - a tenuous link to the other place - and saw the discarded letter.

Expecting nothing of interest, he tore it open as he returned to the couch.

Work… money… good job… Anya….