The rules we set ourselves are: 100 words per quatrain, 50 for the couplet. Now, for those of you who know me, realize just.how.very.hard. it is for me to restrain myself to 100 words.
I'm not sure if I kept all the ideas tightly segregated into their own little drabblets, as they kind of seemed to leak into other drabble, but...here goes.
Title: No Quiet Find
Series/Pairing: BtVS, G/W
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not for profit. Characters property of Joss Whedon.
Giles forced himself to go through the rituals of evening; tea and translations - props of coiled patience as he waited to hear his Slayer had survived another night. The wait never became any easier, though tonight, he caught himself nodding off, teacup drooping in his hand.
Snorting at himself, he wiped the floor carefully and washed his cup, all with the deliberate care of one who was awake merely via force of will. He roused briefly at the ring of the phone. A few murmured words, and his day was done – Buffy's safe call setting off a near-Pavlovian response.
Yawning, he mounted the stairs. At least tonight he could count on sleep – he'd pushed himself into study and hard training to force himself to rest.
He entered his bed with a grateful sigh, the sheets cool against his skin. His bones were already heavy with sleep, as were his eyes, and yet, when he closed them – Wesley walked and spoke and turned his head just so. His long, elegant fingers caressed a page. Startlingly blue eyes glanced into his. Giles thought of this evening in the library, and Wesley, and wanting…and what on earth was he going to do?
His presence in the library was a glittering thing, drawing Giles' attention time and again.
Foolish, really, how necessary it was to force himself not to stare, not to be near him, not to touch. Listening to his frustrated sighs tonight had been near torture - so he all but chased Wesley away.
Remembering those sighs pulled a groan from Giles' throat as his hand dipped beneath the sheets and slid down his body. He imagined coaxing happier sounds from that sweet mouth, and making that long body arch beneath his. Bright eyes and warm skin, shining for him alone…
Giles grimly rolled over. These feelings were impossible. Wesley was impossible. Still, he shimmered, an elusive, perplexing treasure - just out of reach.
Attempting to force meditation, sighs and glances resurfaced in a different light and Giles mused sightlessly, wondering. Instead of chasing away, what if he had just chased?
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
the dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:</i>
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.