Work Text:
Prequel to: Head over Feet
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Context: This fic uses the complete lyrics of Arctic Monkeys' "Do I Wanna Know?" as dialogue between Buffy and Giles, embedding the song directly into their interaction. It serves as a prequel to my other story, "Head over Feet", which similarly used Alanis Morissette's song to frame their relationship. Both stories employ song lyrics to express the deep, unspoken emotions between them. Enjoy!
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Buffy hesitated outside Giles' door, her hand raised to knock. It was late, and she wasn't sure why she had come. Maybe it was something about the way he had been acting recently, or maybe it was that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. But before she could think better of it, she knocked lightly.
The door opened, revealing Giles, his shirt untucked and a half glass of scotch in his hand. He looked... different. Less put-together than she was used to. Behind him, a brooding rock song played on vinyl, its low hum filling the quiet space as she stepped inside. It wasn't the kind of music she'd expect from him, but then again, nothing about this night would be what she'd expected.
The warmth from inside the room brushed against her face, carrying with it the distinct scent of alcohol.
"Buffy," he said, her name slightly slurred and laced with emotion. His usual controlled expression was gone, replaced with something she couldn't quite read.
Giles didn't meet her eyes, he took a slow sip from the glass.
His voice was low, almost distant. "Been wondering if your heart's still open, and if so, I wanna know what time it shuts."
Buffy blinked, confused by the sudden sequence of words. "What are you talking about? My heart?"
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he looked at her with a flicker of concern that cut through his drunken haze. His voice softened slightly as he asked, "You alright?"
Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his gaze locking onto hers, more intense now. Slowly, he raised his hand, the back of his fingers almost brushing her cheek. His touch hovered just above her skin, his eyes scanning her face as though searching for an answer she hadn't given. Her heart raced unexpectedly.
"Have you got colour in your cheeks?" he murmured, his voice thick with scotch but covered with tenderness she hadn't expected. It wasn't just a question—it was a soft, roundabout way of checking on her, showing that even in his inebriated state, he still cared.
The closeness of his hand, the near-caress of his fingers, sent a shiver through her, her breath catching in her throat. For a brief moment, she felt the warmth of him, the intent in his gesture. And then, just as quickly, he stepped back, retreating into himself once more, leaving her reeling.
She looked closer, noticing how unfocused his gaze was, how his words seemed to slip from him unguarded. "Giles, you're not making any sense." She paused, her brow furrowing. Her concern mixed with a faint flicker of amusement as she studied him.
Giles glanced at her, almost reflexively. "Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift?" he muttered, as if he was talking to himself more than her. But the vulnerability in his voice cut through the tension.
Buffy tried to lighten the moment, though the effort felt forced. "The type that sticks around like something in your teeth."
The joke fell flat, as she feared it would. Her smile faded quickly as the seriousness of the situation wrapped around them again. She straightened up, searching his face for more answers, still trying to feel her way through this unfamiliar moment.
She sighed, her tone less playful now. "Are there some Aces up your sleeve?"
Giles locked his bleary eyes onto hers, and there was something darker, something rawer than she had ever seen before. "Have you no idea that you're in deep?" The cryptic meaning behind his made her chest tighten.
He stepped closer again,"I dreamt about you nearly every night this week."
Buffy's heart stuttered, her breath catching. The way he spoke, the need in his voice. Her pulse quickened, panic rising, but behind it, something unknown flickered.
She shook it off, as she stammered. "Wait, what?"
This wasn't just drunken rambling. There was something deeper, more fragile in his semblance. The room felt smaller, almost trapping.
He lowered his head, ruffling his hair in frustration before raising it again. "How many secrets can you keep?" Giles asked, his eyes searching hers as if this was the crux of everything. He was making sure she understood the significance of what he was saying.
Giles turned away suddenly, restless, his steps uneven. His movements felt as erratic as his thoughts. "'Cause there's this tune I found," he blurted, the words coming out fast, "that makes me think of you somehow."
His voice rose slightly, like the confession had been clawing its way out, something he could no longer suppress.
"And I play it on repeat… until I fall asleep." His steps quickened, the drink in his hand sloshed over the rim, but he barely seemed to notice. His words were coming freely now, each one carrying a rawness that took her by surprise.
After a few more frantic steps, Giles stopped abruptly, his back to her. His eyes fell on the dark stains his drink had left on the cushion of the couch. "Spilling drinks on my settee," he muttered, a flicker of frustration breaking through.
Buffy stood frozen, watching him unravel. The man who was always so steady, so in control, was falling apart right in front of her. Her stomach tightened as she realised she didn't know how to stop it.
The tension in the living room was almost suffocating. He turned, slower this time, and when he spoke, his question was quieter, more tentative, as if he wasn't even sure he wanted an answer.
"Do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways?" The words seemed to hurt as they left his mouth, like admitting the truth was harder than he'd imagined.
Buffy swallowed, her mind scrambling. "Giles… You've been drinking."
He chuckled dryly, but there was no trace of amusement in it. His eyes met hers, piercing. "Ever thought of calling when you've had a few?" he asked, his tone soft but direct. A beat of silence followed, and then, a whisper, "'Cause I always do."
The vulnerability in his gaze broke through, and a thought stirred at the edges of her mind. Buffy stared at him, her mouth slightly open, beginning to sense there was something deeper behind his words—something she hadn't allowed herself to see before.
Her brow furrowed, and she asked incredulously, "What are you doing?"
Giles' eyes locked onto hers, his voice breaking thick with emotion. "Crawling back to you."
The words were laden with a raw desperation she hadn't expected. The weight of his surrender was heart clenching, like he was admitting a painful truth he could no longer hide.
Buffy, still struggling to process it all, asked softly, hesitantly, "Are you saying... you, like, have feelings for me?" Her face was a picture of disbelief.
There was a silence before Giles gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—betrayed by drunken sincerity.
Her stomach fluttered, "It's late, you... you're tired," she countered weakly, trying to find some way to make sense of this.
Giles let out a dry, humourless laugh. "Baby, we both know, that the night were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day..." He paused, his eyes searching hers, then let out a resigned sigh.
He seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for her response, but when none came, he steadied himself, a glimmer of confidence crossing his face.
He stepped closer, his tone growing more decisive. "I don't know if you feel the same as I do... but we could be together if you wanted to."
Giles moved in even closer, his breath fanning across her skin. The air charged.
"So, have you got the guts?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse. He leaned in, and without thinking, his lips hovered near her neck, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
He lingered, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin without touching. Her scent, her nearness, filled his senses, anchoring him in place, making it impossible to pull away.
Buffy's breath hitched at the sudden intimacy of the act, her pulse quickening, but she remained still.
He shifted, slowly, his face gliding up over her skin.
She felt the pull, the tension between them almost unbearable. Buffy took a shaky breath, her body betraying her even as she tried to regain control. Her lips parted, but the words felt heavy. She should push him away, should tell him to stop—but the warmth of him, the nearness, made her hesitate. Her voice came out softer than she meant, almost trembling. "Simmer down, and—"
"Pucker up," he interjected, his voice rough with barely concealed desire. His breath carried the faint, smoky scent of scotch as he leaned in closer, his eyes flicking to her lips.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," he murmured, his lips hovering near hers. "It's just... I'm constantly on the cusp of trying... to kiss you."
The bold and drunken words left no doubt about what he desired.
Buffy held her breath, struggling to steady herself against the storm of emotions crashing over her.
His voice trembled slightly, low and rough, his lips almost brushing hers, "Do you want me... crawling back to you?"
It wasn't just hurt—it was frustration, the raw edge of someone who knew he was at his breaking point.
Her eyes widened, her thoughts racing, her body still betraying her. She felt the heat of him so close, her heart hammering in her chest. She had no idea how to respond—everything about this was unexpected, confusing, wrong, and yet...
Buffy swallowed, the words not coming as easily as they should. "You are confused. I don't... You don't... You should... be saying this to someone else." Her voice was soft yet firm, trying to push him back, trying to make him see reason. But even as she said them, her eyes flickered towards his lips for the briefest second, and her heart fluttered in her chest.
Giles stepped back, visibly catching himself and Buffy took a steadying breath, a subtle signal she wasn't entirely unaffected either.
"Now..." he began, his free hand running through his hair as if trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I've thought it through."
He glanced down, his grip tightening around the glass. "Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new."
The words felt distant, yet it carried an undeniable vulnerable truth—something that couldn't be taken back.
Giles stared at the scotch, swirling it once before downing it in a long gulp. The burn slid down his throat, but he didn't flinch. He seemed to embrace the momentary distraction from the emotional rawness of it all.
His gaze stayed on the empty glass, drunk and pensive.
Buffy, still trying to process everything, watched him closely. She hadn't seen this coming—or maybe she had, in the quiet moments she never let herself linger on.
Her mind spun in every direction—how had she missed this? Yet, at the same time, why did it feel like she'd always known? Her throat tightened, and her voice came out soft, uncertain. "Giles, I'm surprised..." The words faded as her thoughts tangled, contradicting one another, but she forced herself to continue. "I... I don't feel the same," she added, though an uneasy weight settled in her chest, as if she were trying to convince both him and herself.
"You've been my Watcher... and a friend." She searched his face, looking for a way to soften the blow. "Just… not in the way you seem to see me."
As her words lingered, her gaze involuntarily shifted downward. Her eyes traced the broad line of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched across his chest, hinting at a solid, sturdy frame. She hadn't allowed herself to notice before—his quiet strength, how he filled the space between them, how naturally his presence commanded any room, really. Her eyes flicked to where his shirt hung untucked at his waist.
A warmth crept into her body, something she wasn't used to feeling—not for him. A new appreciation for the man standing before her that had little to do with his endless intellectual words.
Buffy blinked, forcing her gaze back to his eyes, trying to brush aside the unfamiliar and sudden awareness she felt.
She forced herself to step back, widening the space between them, hoping the distance would clear her head. "Let's just continue as we are—Watcher and Slayer, like we always have. I... I mean, just friends."
Giles blinked a few times, her words slowly sinking in through the haze of alcohol. He swayed slightly, catching himself before giving a small nod, his face softened by a sad smile—one that showed he understood, even though it hurt.
He brushed past her, almost hurried toward the front door, as if trying to escape the blow of her rejection. His steps were uneven yet purposeful, the scent of scotch trailing behind him, mingling with the echo of his vulnerable confession.
"Sad to see you go..." His voice carried resignation, an unspoken invitation for her to leave, though the hurt still clung to his words.
His hand gripped the knob, and he paused. His shoulders tensed as he looked back at her, his eyes filled with a soft sorrow that knotted Buffy's stomach.
"Will you be okay?" she asked softly, taking a small step toward him.
He nodded, his eyes drifting down to the floor, unable to meet her gaze. Then, with a quiet exhale, he murmured, "...was sorta hoping that you'd stay."
The door creaked open, and Giles stood there, a little wobbly but still holding himself upright. There was a strange grace in the way he let her go—even though it wasn't what he wanted.
As Buffy crossed the threshold, the door shut softly behind her, but the tightness in her chest stayed. She walked a few steps, then paused, her mind replaying the look in his eyes, the way his words, and actions had cut through her defences. Her feet moved forward, but her heart felt like it was being pulled back.
For a long moment, Giles stood there, motionless, his hand still gripping the glass. The silence of his apartment engulfed him, more oppressive than ever. In the background, the vinyl had long since finished, leaving only the faint crackling of the needle spinning aimlessly in the inner groove.
He looked down. His knuckles were white from gripping the glass too tightly, and only then did he notice the trembling—the involuntary shake that betrayed the calm he'd tried to maintain.
He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, trying to steady himself. The reality of the events was terrifying. The truth he had confessed. Her rejection. The walls he'd carefully built, now crumbled. Years of suppressed feelings, unspoken love, unraveling in a single moment.
His breath hitched, and in a surge of pent-up emotion, he snapped. With one swift, reckless motion, he hurled the glass across the room.
It flew from his hand, crashing into the wall with a splintering sound. It was as though all the emotions he'd buried had exploded in that single fit of rage.
He stood there, his breathing ragged—chest rising and falling, staring at the broken pieces. It was all shattered now. What was once whole between them had fractured, and the fear of losing Buffy completely gnawed at him, louder than the steady crackle of the vinyl.
(...refer to my Headover Feet story for the Continuation)
