chicating

Buffy/Shameless
Rupert Giles felt unexpectedly shaken and lost as he approached the house in the slightly seamy neighborhood in Chicago. He didn’t care what the research said; in his view the El was proof of something demonic. He rapped on the door that looked like it hadn’t been painted in a few eventful decades, and a young woman, probably the target of his quest, came out. She was a watchful brunette in a concert t-shirt and tiny shorts caught somewhere between “tempting” and “Where’s the rest of your outfit?”. Essentially, the Faith Lehane zone. Giles reminded himself that talent, not opportunity, was distributed equally, however much he might have envied whoever got to meet the potential Slayer who did such nice work with the trained stallions.
Fiona sized up their guest. A little confused, but too on the ball(and well-dressed in a tweedy sort of way) to be a social worker. No clipboard, either, so this wasn’t about elections or census. “LIP!” she yelled. “Your professor’s here!”
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Gallagher. I don’t even know your, um, Lip.”
“As far as that goes, get in line. “ she said. “Once he gets working on those calculations and stuff in there, the rest of us might as well not exist. “
“No, I’m not an instructor.”
“Well, given the briefcase, I took a gamble that you’re not…” she made an almost-universal marijuana gesture. “a glaucoma patient.”
“No. Not for years,”