TITLE: The Twilight's Last Gleaming

AUTHOR: Laura Shapiro

EMAIL: laura@humandesign.com

DISCLAIMER: If they were mine, they'd get laid more often. At least Joss is stepping up the kissing, though.

SUMMARY: Joyce invites Giles to the 4th of July picnic...for a variety of

reasons.

PAIRING: Joyce-Giles

RATING: NC-17

SPOILERS: Anne, Band Candy

ARCHIVE: Sure, but let me know, and keep my name attached

DEDICATION: This is for Te, who started the whole thing with a sundress and the July heat, and finished it off with a nifty beta.

SPECIAL THANKS: to Jesse, Buffy tapemaster and treasured friend whose critical mind sharpens my own. Thanks are also due to Dawn, who was enthusiastic, and to Spike, who suggested that more Ripper would be a good idea for all concerned parties. And finally to Joseph, who insisted I see Band Candy before starting.

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The Twilight's Last Gleaming

by Laura Shapiro

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The heat woke her up. Floating unwillingly to the surface, struggling against

something formless which coalesced into sweat-soaked sheets, Joyce left behind

(and immediately forgot) a dream of a man's hands on her breasts, hot breath

in her ear, hard heat and hair pressing against her back.

She flung off the sodden sheet and sat up, brushing matted strands from her

cheek with sticky fingers. She had shed her nightgown at some unremembered

point and it lay balled up at her feet. She could smell herself, ripe and

insistent, and she was damp all over. Sunlight poked determinedly under and

around her closed curtains. 8:37 am. Sunday, July 4th. Sunnydale, California.

And her air conditioner was broken.

Joyce slipped her nightgown over her head and got out of bed. Today of all

days, she thought grimly, heading for the thermostat. It cheerfully announced

that the house was cooled to a comfortable sixty-eight degrees, a statement

belied by the perspiration sheening Joyce's face, and had switched itself off

accordingly. She fiddled with the dial, pushing the little red needle down to

fifty-five and switching the lever from "auto" to "cool". A welcoming whoosh

of cool air entirely failed to reverberate through the room.

"Goddammit," she muttered, and headed for the phone, before she remembered: a

holiday, no service, you lose.

She had been looking forward to today for more than a month. Independence Day

was a special one at the Summers home; not overly patriotic, they found it a

welcome excuse to decorate the house, gorge themselves on picnic food, play

party games, and watch fireworks. And this was going to be a special year,

because Buffy...well, Buffy had missed the Fourth, last year.

A shudder rippled through Joyce in spite of the heat, raising the hair on her

arms. And, as had been her ritual every morning for almost a year, she crossed

the hall to her daughter's room and stood silently outside the door,

listening. Listening for Buffy's breathing. And as always, the assurance that

her daughter had come home last night soothed her, gave her courage. She

sometimes chastised herself for needing this daily assurance, knew it would be

far off the end of the overprotectiveness scale for any parent of a normal

teenager. But Buffy's life was far from normal.

On the whole, Joyce had few regrets about the past year. She still resented

like hell, on her worst days, that *her* daughter had been chosen for a

life-threatening career -- why couldn't someone else's little girl be the

Slayer? But for her daughter's sake as well as her own, she was working to be

as supportive as possible, to accept Buffy's life (both what she chose and

what was fated to be chosen for her) with good grace and, where possible, even

with enthusiasm. That was why, along with Buffy's friends and some women she

knew from the gallery, she had invited Rupert Giles to the Fourth of July

picnic. Well, she told herself, it was the *primary* reason.

The sound of her daughter murmuring something in her sleep wiped away the

glimmering sensation of Ripper's tongue stabbing her mouth, and she heard

Buffy rustlingly turn over. The heat was probably getting to her, too. Joyce

shrugged, willing her worry and frustration back into the nighttime corner of

her mind, and headed for the bathroom.

Standing under the lukewarm spray, she began to feel almost human again. She

mentally ticked items off her party prep list: chicken to be fried (oh god in

this weather), eggs to be deviled, cabbage to be slawed. Buffy would help hang

the red and blue streamers, set the picnic table. There would be, inevitably,

a quarrel over the music. And, at some point, Joyce would have to take Mr.

Giles aside and apologize to him.

"I don't blame myself. I blame *you*." She shut her eyes against the shame.

She *had* blamed him, that was the problem. Irrationally, she had blamed him

for every sorrow and terror her daughter had faced, had blamed him for the

summer she'd spent wondering if Buffy was even alive. But mostly, and she

could admit this now, she had hated him because he had known before she did

that Buffy had -- that Buffy had had sex. Mr. Giles had been Buffy's

confidant, Buffy had gone to *him*, not to her. And it still stung.

And just when she had begun to realize that Mr. Giles loved Buffy like a

daughter and that (as her Watcher and as her friend) her welfare was paramount

to him -- just when she was starting to trust him, well...then there had been

the band candy incident.

Ripper's arm thrown around her shoulders, the smoky taste of him, his casual

brutality and the way it had shivered through her...she didn't want to think

about how much she had enjoyed that night. It was beyond the simple

carelessness of behaving like a teenager; all the intensity of an adolescent's

emotions had come leaping to the surface when he kissed her. And, sprawled

under him on top of the police car, she had wanted more.

And was entirely relieved, now, that there hadn't been time for any more. The

resulting embarrassment over just those kisses had been enough to stall her

attempts to gain his friendship, to show him her appreciation and trust. Well,

no more. She was determined to overcome that today. It was important to show

him that she knew they were on the same side.

"I owe you an apology, and my gratitude," she rehearsed, sliding the razor

over her knee. Maybe she could break through a little of that British

reserve, some of that stammering self-protection. Show him he was welcome.

She smiled.

Joyce was starting to sweat again by the time she got dressed, slipping a

sleeveless linen sundress, celadon with white flowers, over her lotion-moist

skin. She pinned up her hair, relishing the air against her neck, slipped on a

pair of sandals, and headed down to the kitchen.

She was filling the eggs when Buffy emerged, in her pajamas, and headed

straight for the coffee.

"Why's it so hot?"

"The air conditioning broke. Do you want some milk with those?" Joyce

indicated the box of cereal into which Buffy was digging.

"Oh, good. Not a hellmouth problem. And no, thanks," she munched for a while.

"What are we going to do about the party?"

"Keep everyone outside, I guess. And there's that old fan in the garage."

Buffy snorted. "If you can *find* it."

"I wish we had a pool. It's already eighty-five degrees out there, and not

even ten o'clock yet. There's just no *relief* from it." Joyce finished the

last egg, put the platter in the fridge, licked the yellow-coated spoon.

"Maybe I'll turn on the sprinklers and you kids could --"

"Mom, honestly, we're not *twelve!*" Buffy withdrew a plastic toy from the

bottom of the box. "Darth Maul. Cool. Anyway, if it gets too hot we'll go over

to Willow's. She has a pool."

And her parents are never home, Joyce thought. "All right, Buffy. Now, how

about helping me with the cole slaw?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Party noises drifted in through the back door, opened with the optimistic idea

of catching stray breezes. She and Buffy had at last agreed on Motown (after

her daughter had objected to the Beach Boys and she had overruled Nirvana),

and Smokey Robinson crooned under the chatter. Joyce was frying the chicken,

hot oil occasionally sprinkling her arms with tiny, briefly painful spikes.

Sweat rolled down her sides. She took a sip of her lemonade just as the

doorbell rang.

Giles' discomfort was visible through the small panes in the door, and Joyce's

smile was sincere as she opened it. No wincing, now.

"Mr. Giles. I'm so glad you could make it."

She met his eyes and her smile wavered as desire prickled her gently all over.

She was certainly blushing. As for Giles, his face was tight with forced good

cheer. He looked painfully warm in a buttondown shirt, slacks, and suspenders.

She could see the top of his tee-shirt peeking out under his open collar. At

least he'd left his jacket and tie behind.

"Ms. -- Joyce, er...thank you. Um, I -- I brought --" he handed her a six-pack

of Anchor Steam. She was impressed.

"Beer? Thanks," she said smoothly, "maybe we can save this until the kids head

over to Willow's. Come on in."

"It's--it's rather warm in here." He followed her in. Christ, she could smell

him, a light spicy aftershave smell mingling enticingly with unmistakably male

sweat. Focus, Joyce. This isn't Ripper. This is Giles, and he needs to be able

to trust you.

"Sorry about that, the air conditioning broke. Just today, wouldn't you know

it?" She put the beer in the refrigerator. "Lemonade?"

"Yes, thanks. Lovely." He drank the glass off thirstily at one go, sweat

rolling down his cheeks. His hair curled damply on his brow. She took the

glass and refilled it. He avoided her eyes.

"Look, Mr. Giles, I --" she began.

"Oh, the others are outside, are they? Thanks, Joyce. I'll just go say hello

to --" and he was out the door, a trace of his scent lingering behind. And

something else, something burning.

"Oh no, the chicken!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was slowly cooking the top of Joyce's head. It was after five, but it

felt like high noon, and what little shade the few trees were offering was now

landing on the fence and in the neighbors' yard.

Joyce was fed up. She hadn't had a moment to talk to Giles, what with the

kids' demands for a constant stream of food and drink and the two or three

eligible divorcees from the gallery flirting with him incessantly. Buffy and

her friends had, predictably, headed for Willow's pool as soon as the food ran

out, and then she had had a terrible time prying Sarah Goldberg away from the

handsome librarian.

She stood as Sarah and the others made their goodbyes, and hustled them as

quickly as she dared through the front door. She hadn't intended to be

completely alone with Giles; she thought it would be too uncomfortable for

him. But now it looked like their only chance to talk. She opened two bottles

of beer and headed back outside.

He was collecting the discarded paper plates and cups into a plastic bag.

"You don't have to do that."

He glanced up at her and then away again, studying intently the greasy

patterns in the coleslaw bowl. "It's no bother, really."

She came toward him, reached for the bag. Her hand brushed his. "But you're a

guest."

His hand trembled and he jerked back from her awkwardly. "No, no, I insist,

really." He stacked the bowl on top of a few platters and headed for the

house.

"Mr. Giles...please...can I talk to you?"

He stopped, set the dishes down on the picnic table. Looked everywhere but at

her, his eyes darting, crinkling against the glare. He had undone not a single

button all afternoon, although he had rolled up his sleeves. The shine of

sweat highlighted the firm muscles of his forearms. She dropped the trash bag

and went to him.

"Let's -- sit down." She dropped into a chair, the plastic burning and

sticking to her shoulders and the backs of her calves. Giles sat, his legs

shifting under the table.

"Mr. Giles..."

"Just Giles, please, Joyce."

She smiled hesitantly. "Giles. I want to apologize. I've been meaning to for

some time --"

"You've done nothing to apologize for. It was my fault. I've been -- I've been

appalled with myself. That side of me," he nervously swigged his beer,

"that...Ripper...it's--"

Joyce almost laughed. "I don't -- Giles, I don't mean that."

He looked at her then, bottle glass eyes searching her in surprise and

something she wasn't sure she recognized. Something that looked like it might

be hope. It looked good on him.

"I was talking about, well...blaming you, for Buffy's running away. I've

regretted that ever since, and I never got to tell you that."

His whole face relaxed, then. She could see him settling, his body subtly

shifting, leaning back a bit, joints unkinking, still with an intensity

glowing in his gaze. Something fluttered in her belly as she saw in his relief

a hint of the feral young man she hadn't been able to forget. Hastily she

raised her bottle to her lips, the bitter, blessedly cool effervescence

tickling her throat.

"You know that I only want what's best for Buffy. Her safety is my first

concern."

"I do know that now. That's what I wanted to say. I know that you're on my

side -- on our side."

He smiled then, a smile she hadn't seen before, sweet and warm.

"I trust you," she continued, and then watched the smile evaporate.

"I'm not sure you -- I mean, I don't know how you can. After --" Perversely,

she wanted him to go on. But they were making progress here, and if she wanted

him to be her friend she couldn't let him continue.

"Giles, I don't have any regrets about that night," she said levelly, and his

face radiated amazement, and...happiness? She didn't mean to say "I had a

wonderful time." It just came out. She was acutely aware of the way the sweat

was plastering her dress to her body.

"You --" he looked at his hands, then back up at her. "I did, too."

She held his eyes for a long moment, and then she could tell by the way he

started fidgeting that she was going to lose him again, he was going to bolt

if she didn't do something, so she kissed him.

A soft, gentle, sidewise teasing at first, nibbling the saltiness of his upper

lip, the beeriness of his lower. He was still and silent under her mouth, so

different from Ripper, just letting her taste him -- or maybe he didn't want

this. She pulled back, trembling, searched his face. Panic? Or just surprise?

"It's -- it's very hot out here," he whispered.

An idea flew through Joyce's mind and she had to bite down on a giggle. "Yes.

Yes, it is." She stroked his slick cheek and his expression softened.

Maybe..."I'll be right back." And ran across the grass. And turned the

sprinklers on.

Giles gave a yelp and flung himself out of the chair, lunging toward the house

as the first droplets dotted his grey shirt. Joyce allowed herself an outright

laugh now, and yelled "Don't you dare track water into my house."

She ran into the blissful coolness, rushing in and then dashing back,

recalling a thousand childhood summers. She leaned down and let the spray wash

the oily residue of the day from her face, loosening her hair. Then she flung

it wetly back and leapt over the sprinkler to Giles. Dripping, she took his

hand.

"Come on."

"No," he smiled.

"Oh, please. It'll be fun."

"No."

"You know you want to."

"Uh-uh."

"It feels wonderful."

"All right," and he gave an absurd little cry and sprinted into the

shimmering water.

"Oh! Giles! Your shoes!" she cried in alarm, but he was already pulling them

off, hopping and laughing. He peeled off his damp socks as well, laid them on

the picnic table with his glasses, and then ran back, dragging her with him

into the spray.

Water had darkened his shirt to charcoal and his pants stuck to him, outlining

his strong thighs and bottom. He shrugged out of his suspenders and they

flapped loosely at his hips as he bent to face the water, slicking his hair

back and letting the drops run down his face and neck.

Joyce's nipples were rising in response to the cold wetness and she knew they

were clearly visible beneath the sodden linen and thin cotton bra. The dress

itself was becoming a bit of a problem, clinging soggily to her legs and

impeding movement. She gathered the skirt up to her thighs and knotted it. She

looked up, and Giles was watching her...hungrily.

She bounded away from him and danced through the water, the droplets catching

the sunlight and refracting it back in a rainbow. Her freed legs adored the

coolness. Impishly, she lifted her skirt a little and stood astride the

sprinkler, and sighed as the refreshing blast soaked her panties.

"Hey, you're nicking all the water," Giles' voice was at her ear, and then he

shoved her gently out of the way. He had removed his shirt at last, and his

white tee-shirt clung to him and leaned into the spray. She raked her eyes

over him, taking in copper penny nipples raised to fine points, vagaries of

hair trailing south over the small, firm pot of his belly. Just a white

tee-shirt, and she was under him on the police car, running her hands over his

cotton-clad back as he kissed her and kissed her. More.

Now.

She stepped in front of him and drew his face down to hers. As their lips met

she thought of asking, do you want this? but didn't. She didn't want to risk a

"no". Not until she'd tasted him again.

He opened his mouth to her this time, stroking her tongue with his own, but

the kiss was still languid, gentle. Giles, she thought. Not Ripper. Giles. And

perhaps it's better this way, and then he deepened the kiss, laving warm

swathes inside her mouth and she thought, oh, if not better, then at least

very very good indeed.

She clutched at his head, his hair slithering wetly through her fingers, hot,

so hot at the scalp and cool at the tips, and she pressed herself against him.

The kiss, inevitably, broke, and she dove for another before he could change

his mind. A rumble sounded deep in his throat and she grinned around his

tongue. Good. No mind-changing.

And then he was stroking her jaw with his thumbs, and then pressing little

sucking kisses to her throat, and his hands were oh god on her ass, stroking

and then gripping and then stroking again. She felt him hard against her hip

and suddenly the wet clothes, as exciting as they'd been a moment before, were

beyond intolerable.

Giles had the same idea and was unzipping her dress as she slid her hands

under his tee-shirt. She moaned at the texture of his chest, smooth beneath a

light sprinkling of fine soft hair, then an abrupt ragged scar, then smooth

again, the whole wet and cool at the surface and suffused with a deeper heat

below. Reluctantly, she moved back to step out of her dress (which was more a

matter of untangling it at this point), and then struggled out of her bra and

panties. Cooling droplets fell on the last of her unrelieved flesh.

The sight of Giles' arms straining over his head as he pulled off the

tee-shirt was more than she could be expected to take, and she buried her face

in his rich, pungent armpit, kissing, moaning, and fumbling with his trousers.

She found another scar and licked along it until she encountered his begging

nipple, which she drew into her mouth. He moaned and ran his hands down her

slippery back.

His hands were warm, firm, strong along her body, handling her gently but

bespeaking an intensity that lay coiled below, in a darker place she had once

visited and hoped to again. Very soon. And then his finger skidded over her

clitoris and slipped inside her and she bit down, maybe too hard, on his

nipple. She heard him gasp, but it was a good kind of gasp, and she was doing

a little gasping herself at the insistent stroking and plunging of his finger.

So good, and she squeezed herself around it and finally, *finally*, got his

pants undone.

And slid down, pushing the offending clothing down with her, and took him into

her mouth, losing his delicious finger from her pussy but gaining, oh, gaining

so much in the hot heft of his cock on her tongue. She wrapped her fist around

the base of him and sucked hard, then swirled her tongue, then slid her mouth

slowly over his length in slow, even strokes, savoring his saltiness, his

musk, the firm fleshiness of him. When she tasted him weeping there she backed

off to accompaniment of his groans, helped him pull his pants all the way off,

and led him down to the sodden grass.

She was kissing him again, savoring his tongue, felt him shiver as he tasted

himself in her mouth. Astride him now, and stroking his cock along the length

of her slit, so slippery, so good, and then...

"Joyce," warningly.

Damn. He was right, of course.

"I'll be back," she whispered in his ear, "in just a minute. Don't. You.

Move."

He smiled. "I won't."

She fairly flew through the house, up the stairs, rummaging in her bedside

table. Ted was the last time she'd had to think about this, but hopefully --

yes, there they were. A bit old, but still usable. And lubricated, not that it

seemed necessary. She grinned and raced downstairs.

Giles lay naked on the lawn, eyes closed to the sun, his head resting on his

right arm. His left hand was stroking his cock. The sun painted him golden,

the sprinkler showered him with shimmering silver light.

Joyce dove in, covering his hand with hers and squeezing, scraping his earlobe

with her teeth. She wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, how divinely

sexy, and all she managed was "ohhh." She couldn't wait.

The condom went on more smoothly than usual and she was astride him again, and

he was holding her breasts in both hands, and his cock was nudging against her

clit, and then he was slickly inside her and hard, so hard, pushing her open,

filling her full.

Riding him now, his hips moving in time to her snapping thrusts, so fast, too

fast, but she couldn't wait, needed him, needed this, and he moved his hands

to her ass and squeezed and she said "yes."

Said yes and circled her clit with her fingers, fast, too fast, too hard, but

she needed it like this, needed him like this, eyes open, mouth open,

breathing heavily and thrusting and strangely silent. She worked him

relentlessly, leaning back to change the pressure, his cock just *right*

against her everywhere, hard and fast and his hands on her ass and she was

coming, and she didn't know what sounds she was making but he seemed pleased,

smiling, and that made her flicker in skidding aftershocks for longer than

usual.

Joyce lay unmoving against his chest, getting her breath back. She didn't

really want it back. She wanted to lose it. She wanted him to lose his.

"Giles."

He was still so hard inside her.

He kissed her neck hungrily, burrowing. "Yes?"

"Giles, I want..." God, she might be making a horrible mistake. Please don't

let him be angry. Please let him trust me. "God, that was wonderful,

Giles...but I want..." she pulled back from him, studying his face, a mask of

wanton pleasure as she slid slowly back and forth against him.

"What is it, Joyce?"

"I want to see Ripper again." His face changed, from pleasure and pride

to...something unreadable. Damn her big stupid mouth, damn her crazy ideas,

damn damn damn. "I-- I'm sorry, you don't --"

His hand covered her mouth and he flipped her over, slipping out of her in the

process. He held her back against his chest, shoving her onto her knees, and

she realized she'd forgotten how strong he was. "You want Ripper?" he

whispered hoarsely in her ear. She opened her mouth under his hand, trembling,

nodded yes. Oh please yes. She could smell him all over her.

And then his hand was on the back of her neck, forcing her head down, and his

cock was shoving into her pussy, hard, from behind. Gained entry, rough and

hot, almost painful, so deep. His fingers dug into her shoulder, pulling her

to, and he slammed into her, grunting, grazing her cervix and sending an

aching vibration through her. Again. And again. Battering her. Ruthless. The

ache spread from deep inside her, from her very vitals, sucked her whole body

into a black hole of want. She felt his thumb pressing against her asshole,

and she was so open, so open, and she swallowed him up without a thought and

god it was almost too much, lightning blazing through her, his thumb and his

cock working in tandem.

Ripper was snarling, a harsh animal sound, and when his thumb slipped inside

her so easily it seemed to change its tenor, become louder or fiercer or

something, more frightening, and then he was gone from her, and she fell naked

and bereft to the wet grass, panting. The sun, glaring rudely in her eyes, was

starting to go down. The sprinkler rained down on her back and she shivered,

needing his heat.

But he wasn't through, he was back, she could hear him grappling with another

condom, and then she knew, and she was a little afraid but not too much, and

then he was back, kneeling astride her, push push pushing against her eager

muscle. And she thrust herself back, inflamed by his naked need, willing

herself to open, open, worked her hand under herself and stroked her cunt. And

she opened and he parted her and slid in, fire and ice stinging through her,

and Ripper groaned as he sank to the hilt.

His hand was back at her neck, digging in, she would have bruises and they

would make her smile. He was grinding her down into the lawn, and she was so

hungry, she wanted to thrust back against him but she was pinned, pinned under

the merciless pounding of his cock, blades of grass imprinting her flesh,

writing Ripper's name, she thought whimsically, across her flattened breasts.

And then whimsy was beyond her as the fire raged, she tried to pull him in,

greedy around his hardness, her hand working her, working her, knuckles

digging into the lawn, and she could smell the grass, could smell the dirt,

could smell herself, could smell his animal smell as he snarled and she

grunted and yes, god, it was Ripper, and she was coming again, and then she

heard him roar.

Roar and plunge deep, and she felt him grow and pulse inside her, and the

tremors took him almost out and then in again, gentler this time, and then he

collapsed on top of her.

But for their breathing, it was quiet, a strange unspeaking, unlaughing,

ungroaning quiet. Crickets were just beginning to sound, and the sprinkler

pattered gently on the ground. The sun was almost gone, the sky just beginning

to purple. Her hand was numb, and she pulled it awkwardly out from under them.

It was covered in pussy, dirt, and stray blades of grass. She needed a shower.

He slid out of her, pulled the condom off. Was this Giles or Ripper now, she

wondered, and rolled toward him, snuggling up against his chest. She looked

into his eyes, and he looked back, but she couldn't tell.

In the distance, the evening's first firework crackled, shrieked, and boomed.