[ As Buffy scoots closer on the counter, Giles discovers he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He'd been resting one on the sink, but in order to be close enough for Buffy to reach he needs to stand in such a way that the ideal place to steady himself is currently occupied by one bare, carefully groomed, and lightly tanned leg. Impossible, of course, for all he and Buffy have touched each other over the years -- always pragmatic, contact required during training or in a fight, the occasional hug or reassuring clasp, nothing nearly so intimate as sharing space, half dressed, in their bathroom.
It's Giles' turn to deal with a dry throat as he meets his own gaze in the mirror, holding still to let Buffy get to work. There's no question in his mind that she'll be careful, gentle. That she's just as capable of tenderness as she is capable of punching a demon through a brick wall. Above and beyond everything else, he believes in that tenderness. He believes in her.
So he just tips his head back a bit, to give her more room to work, and settles his hands lightly on the counter either side of her. ]
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It's Giles' turn to deal with a dry throat as he meets his own gaze in the mirror, holding still to let Buffy get to work. There's no question in his mind that she'll be careful, gentle. That she's just as capable of tenderness as she is capable of punching a demon through a brick wall. Above and beyond everything else, he believes in that tenderness. He believes in her.
So he just tips his head back a bit, to give her more room to work, and settles his hands lightly on the counter either side of her. ]
Go on, then.