1. Giles always limps after they’ve sparred. Nothing that anyone else would see – just a half second slower on his left side. She wishes she could tell him they don’t have to practice, so that he wouldn’t be in pain, but he’d never be ok with that. Instead, every time it gets almost pronounced enough for others to see it, she beggs off. Giles thinks she needs a night off to go to the Bronze or something, and she doesn’t care if that’s what it takes to give him just a little more time to heal.
2. Her Watcher doesn’t go home some nights, when he’s researching hard and fast and furiously. He hides the signs – he’s got two spare suits in his office and it’s not like he’s never alert, with all the gallons of tea. But she sees the little extra rumple in his hair, the little curve in his not so perfectly knotted tie, and she has this overwhelming feeling that she should thank him. But that’s silly, because it’s not her that he’s doing this for, it’s the world. Every night she goes out and saves the world a little bit, but she wouldn’t know how to without him.
3. After a couple of hours of translation, especially if he’s writing with a fountain pen, his hands cramp. He has exercises that he’s supposed to do – he did them once – but it’s like he won’t do them now because he doesn’t want to admit to the pain. She can see it, though. She can see it and all she wants to do is grab his hand and make him stop writing for a minute, calm his fingers down and warm them up. Hold his hands, his beautiful hands, in her own, just for a little while.
4. He was relaxed. Relaxed in a way that she didn’t want to think about too closely because it reminded her of band candy and patrol cars and thoughts that weren’t hers. Even when he’s slightly embarrassed that she’s standing there, that they’re standing there, all three of them, he doesn’t blush – just smiles with chagrin – because he’s relaxed. It makes her a little envious, because she’s never felt that relaxed, not from sex… not yet at least.
5. When he’s truly happy he giggles. Giggles like a fifteen-year old who’s gotten away with hiding the porn mags under his bed. It’s a new thing, this giggling, but she knows it comes from the best place, because it’s the same place that her urge to smile and hug every one comes from. That place where you’re so happy you want every body else to be that happy too. She’s been smiling for two days and can’t seem to stop, and he’s been giggling at Xander’s jokes and Anya’s deadpan and Willow’s babble. Every one’s starting to give them both the ‘hmmm, straightjacket?’ looks. And she doesn’t think her smile can get any wider until he goes and throws his arm over her shoulder when they’re researching that night. The crazy-looks turn into understanding-looks and all she can do is stare into green eyes and grin the biggest grin she’s ever had. And all he does his giggle, a little, and smile down at her like she’s the most precious thing in his world. Which is fine with her.
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