Pairing, Characters: Xander/Giles
Summary: Xander is used to being handled firmly by his parents. What happens when Giles takes him in hand?
Disclaimer: Joss said I could, so I am.
A/N: Thanks to spikesdeb for pretty-ing things up for me. Excuse my post-readthru fiddle, it's a habit. *sigh* Mistakes are all mine... see anything amiss, whisper in my ear, would ya? Written for for jasonsnene for ultimate_xander’s “Twinkies For Xander”-athon.
There’s the customary cussing and yelling that greets you in the morning as you sit down at the table and dig into your bowl of Count Chocula, sans milk because your mom can’t sober up enough to go to the grocery store on a regular basis and you forgot that you drank the last of it yesterday. You don’t complain though, because it will only earn you a cuff to the back of the head, or an outright smack to the face and you don’t need to ward off explanations to your friends during lunch period. Nope, better to stare down at the dry, brown bits of bran and marshmallow and just chew quietly.
You hear your dad stomp into the kitchen and head for the fridge, open it and unearth another beer – no matter that it’s only 7:30 in the morning. He’s lost his job again and drinking takes his mind off his troubles. That it dulls his memory enough that he forgets his morning ritual of bemoaning your existence to your face and doesn’t follow up his tirade with something heavier than the open palm your mom would use is just a bonus.
He’s just finished his latest bottle – the counter is doing a good job of keeping him upright – when you finish your breakfast. Careful, like you’re trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you step around him and put your bowl and spoon in the dishwasher then mumble something about being late for school if you don’t hurry.
Your dad’s grumbles follow you out the door, but for once, you’ve no new bruises to add to the plethora already marring your flesh, those covered by long-sleeved Salvation Army reject shirts and pants two sizes too big. You don’t mind the looseness of your clothes, though, since the cloth isn’t pressed snug against your skin – even if you do secretly cringe at the god awful colors and prints.
Sighing, you drop your skateboard onto the sidewalk, plant one foot on the board and kick start your way to school. It’s a wonder you don’t nod off on the way there, given the supreme lack of sleep you got last night, or the night before, or even the night before… and when was the last time you truly slept anyway? But, that’s what school is for – to catch up on some much needed zee’s, the ones you didn’t get because of the nightly shouting match between your parents as they argue over what to watch on the television, and the fear that keeps you awake lest you drift off and miss your father’s lumbering footfall later on when he climbs the stairs to either deliver another beating or hopefully stumble past your door to pass out in his own bed.
The warning bell rings just as you roll onto school grounds and you jump off your board and scoop it up into your arms, race into the building, mindful of Principal Snyder and his eagle eyes as you run down the hallway towards your locker. You want to be in your first period classroom before the tardy bell rings so you won’t have Mrs. Fisher staring at you the entire class for being late, thus making it harder for you to doze off.
You make it, just barely, giving Buffy and Willow a self-deprecating smile as you slide into your seat at the back of the class, conveniently situated behind one of the school’s football team players. Five minutes later, you’re asleep with your eyes open, head propped on your hand.
And so it goes until the last bell rings and school lets out for the day.
When you walk into the library, Buffy and Willow are already there, as is Giles, but then, he’s the librarian and supposed to be there. Or so your befuddled brain reminds you. Catnaps are all well and good, but what you wouldn’t give for eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, something you’ve not had since… ever.
“Willow. Buffy. G-man,” you call out as you drop your backpack on a nearby table and join the others at the counter. “How’s it going?”
The girls’ faces light up and their smiles are welcoming as they call out your name in greeting. Giles frowns, but then, when doesn’t he? It’s the nickname that does it, of course, and you’re not sure why you do it, other than to get a rise out of an authority figure. That, and you know Giles is a safe enough target, one that won’t retaliate because of your smart mouth.
Giles answers your question, immediately launching into a long and monotonous heavily-syllabled diatribe – most of which flies right over your head – about the latest threat to the Hellmouth. At the end, you all move to the table, arms laden with various tomes of size and age that Giles has chosen, to begin your research session.
Part of you wishes you were Buffy when she strips down to sports bra and tights and starts sparring with an imaginary partner, especially if it gets you out of reading. Unfortunately, you’re not, and you heave a sigh and reluctantly grab a book off the stack and place it in front of you.
Your eyes start to droop when you’re barely five pages in. A furtive glance reveals Buffy gone, probably hiding in the stacks with Angel, the two making kissy faces at each other – gag. Shrugging, not like you care, you return your attention to your book. Not a few minutes go by before you’re doing the classic head bob of sleepiness. You can’t help it though, what you’re reading is just so… boring. Never mind pointless, because it’s not like you are the one that ever finds things anyway. It’s usually Willow or Giles with the “eureka, I found it!”
Your eyes flutter and then close altogether, only to jerk open a moment later.
You gasp and bite back a curse. Your left hand rubs frantically at the back of your right one, trying to massage away the sudden sting, all while trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Your mouth drops open at the ruler Giles is brandishing and your mind is all what. The. Fuck? though you don’t say it out loud. Cursing is okay, as long as it’s not done around adults. And, Giles may be your friend, but he’s still an adult.
Still, your hand hurts.
“Giles?” You’re confused. Why wouldn’t you be? Giles is being very un-Giles like.
There’s a smirk on his lips and a look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before. One that gives you the chills. Scarier even than your dad on his worst day, and that’s pretty darn scary.
“I’m sorry, Xander. But you fell asleep, and I didn’t want your spittle on my books. They’re irreplaceable, you understand,” he replies in an uptight British tone exclusive to staid watchers the world over.
You nod slowly, but you really don’t. Understand, that is. It’s not every day that Giles raps your knuckles with a ruler. It’s not ever that Giles raps your knuckles with a ruler.
“Sorry,” you mumble as you swipe at the nonexistent drool on your chin. Your shoulders hunch like those of a chastised child and you turn your attention back to the book in front of you.
You start reading again, but the words are just words, easily dismissed. You know your eyes are glazing over, something they always do when confronted with too much information, and none of it on your reading level.
The thwack, this time, is harder than before.
Same spot too.
You jerk half out of your seat and look around. Buffy is still gone. So is Willow, and a part of you registers that that is so not fair that they can leave but you can’t, but it pales in comparison to the sting in your hand.
You turn an accusing glare to Giles, and he’s just sitting there, calmly as you please. Smiling. Smiling.
And you swear the ruler is still vibrating slightly from the smack it’s just delivered.
You open your mouth to yell at Giles, because this? This is just a bit much. Where does he get off on disciplining you?
But his eyebrow quirks and though the ruler is lying passively in his hand at the moment, something tells you that that can quickly change. That its next target might not be your hand, but someplace else. Someplace far more painful.
“Giles?” Your voice quavers, and you hate that. Hate that you sound like you’re ten years old, rather than on the cusp of manhood.
Giles is talking though, leaving you no time for self pity. Rattling on about your behavior and it getting out of hand. That you needed someone to guide you – teach you – about respecting your betters. It’s way out of left field and your eyes are anime-wide, blinking in shock as he continues his speech, and you wait for the punch line, or for the gang to jump out from wherever they’re hiding and yell “surprise!” To have them laugh at your expense, because you’re the go-to guy for stuff like that, the comic relief of the group.
That’s not the case, however, because Giles is standing now, walking towards you, glasses gone, eyes narrowed. You shrink in on yourself as he comes to stand behind you, flinch when he grips your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to look up into his eyes.
“You’re going to be a good boy from now on, aren’t you, Alexander?”
Your entire body stiffens in response, every last bit of you.
You wake with a start, swallow rather than choke on the drool pooling in your mouth. The chairs around the table – still piled high with books from the gang’s marathon research session – are empty and you thank god for that as you squirm in your seat and adjust your pants to ease the painful pressure in your groin. Your mind shies away from your dream, and the reason for your being hard, because just… no! Not going there.
“Oh, good, Xander. You’re awake,” Giles calls out, nose buried in a book as he walks towards you.
There’s stammering on your part, of course – you wouldn’t be you without it, right? – mumbling apologies for falling asleep, and oh, look at the time, gotta get home before the parental folk notice your being gone. Your hands fumble with the books in front of you, closing them hard, loud enough that the sound echoes in the near empty room and you hastily stand, mindful of your dick that seems to have a mind of its own. Would you please go down, and oh god, is my shirt long enough? But you don’t look down. You’re dumb, but not that dumb. You’re not drawing attention to that part of your body. No siree Bob. Instead you turn half away from Giles like you’re headed towards the door.
You stumble over your chair and the one right next to it, but that’s okay, as it just confirms your innate clumsiness, rather than your desperation to get away from a very awkward situation… and you do. Mean. Awkward. With capital letters.
“Very well, Xander,” you hear Giles say, but it’s his, “Would you like me to see you home?” in a tone of voice you recognize from your dream that has you freezing in your tracks.
Surely he didn’t—
No! He couldn’t—
You shake your head in reply, refusing to turn around to see if there’s a smirk on his face.
Because, you’ll, like, just die if there is. And why is there never a good demon around when you need one? Or a large hole to swallow you up?
Nope. No ride, but thanks anyhow.
Your shoes are made for walking… and that’s what you do. Out of the library, calmly as you please, down the hall, sneakers making a rhythmic squeak squeak squeak as you go until you reach the main doors.
It’s only once you’re outside that you break into a run – because Giles can’t hear your panicked flight now – down the street, not stopping for anything, or anyone, until you’re safely tucked away in your bedroom.
So when you fall asleep this time and dream about Giles bending you over his knee, butt bare and waiting for the flat of his hand, no one sees you hump your mattress until you come all over the sheets, then settle deeper into sleep with a sated smile on your face.
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