Work Text:
1.
"What I’m proposing is, um... and I don’t mean to appear indecorous, is, um, a social engagement... Um, a date, if you’re amenable."
And he couldn’t even manage to mumble these words. Frankly, there was no need to rehearse whatever he would like to say to Jenny because the method didn’t take into account one very specific and paramount part of the equation: Jenny. Particularly, she took mercy and all but asked herself out on a date with him.
That went well.
"I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know I was going to fall in love with you. Oh, god. Is it too late to take that back?"
"Do you want to?"
Now, in a world’s quite possibly most uncomfortable chair, granted you spend in it more than a couple of hours under the flickering lights and with an antiseptic smell in the air, Rupert thanked the stars, the galaxies, the universes, and the higher powers out there that he’s able to say, "I love you." She can’t hear him; hypothetically, it's possible only on some subconscious level, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll wake up. And she’ll know. He is hers.
2.
Rupert Giles never had a lot of things in his possession. He tried. Not capitalistically, of course. What do materials provide if they bear no soul? Prehistorics and books were all he ever needed. They’ll stay; they won’t leave. Tea. A little kettle with ornaments. Rupert’s calling. Destiny. Responsibilities. Sorrows of the unknown. He carried it limitlessly, everything else buried in moderation. A step to the right, a step to the left.
"I put myself in your hands."
Jenny’s hands are small. And frequently cold. And "Dear Lord, Jenny, with your eating habits, no wonder you have iron deficiency." Jenny’s eyes are a perfect shade of chocolate. Jenny’s heart is audacious, compassionate, and falsely accused of the crimes it didn’t commit. Jenny is tiny. Her boldness is twice the size she is. And she would fight him if he said it out loud.
Carefully, adjusting her in his arms to not cause any more damage, with Jenny clenching to him and whispering his name as a prayer, he thinks, "Mine. Rupert’s. Not Angel’s, not anymore, never Angel’s."
Something, someone he chose for himself, against all odds.
3.
Family. He gave up on the whole concept of it ages ago. That little boy, who wanted a completely different life path, was always, inevitably alone. Which was fine. As soon as he steered clear of any remaining illusions of normality, he learned how to bottle unnecessary emotions and store them in a dusty closet of his mind, up until his teenage years. Which proved to be an inevitable failure, but solitude didn’t. Detachment was great; it was a winning strategy and the utmost success.
Ours. What a strange pronoun to use, to share! In the quiet embrace of their bedroom, Jenny slept peacefully in Rupert’s arms, her hand resting over the gentle swell of her stomach. With a contented smile, he ran his fingers through her hair as he watched her slumber. In the midst of her dreams, Jenny stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips. Giles leaned in, captivated by the hushed words.
"Lucky," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
"Yes, my love, we are," he whispered, tracing soothing circles on her back.
Thoughts of the battles they had faced together, the shared laughter, and the unspoken promises filled him, replacing the old patterns.
My. Mine.