chicating

my attempt to answer this no-longer burning question begins here.

Buffy’s father arrived for the funeral, young blonde in tow. Giles, usually not one for gossip, thought “He has a type,” but the woman was more tentative than the Joyce Giles knew, although, polite at least.
One thing about death rituals, Giles mused, gutting as they were(Although he had to admit to thinking ahead on that front, his own emotions hadn’t really kicked in yet, much like when he’d been on codeine for a bout of bronchitis. He hadn’t been properly high, but, rather, it was like everything he felt were in a balloon somewhere above his head.) Where had he been going with that? Yes, well, one could usually get through a funeral on sheer will, overladen with courtesy.

That had been Giles’ intention at least. He couldn’t even remember what it was that Hank did, what small gesture rather cemented his opinion, because after all, he was primed not to think much of the man, both from seeing the occasional struggle—both financial and emotional- in the Summers’ house, as well as the fact that, when Giles himself neglected his duties all over England and then swanned off for just one(comparatively brief and cut-rate) winter break in Ibiza, Giles paid the prize, didn’t he? Of course, there might not have been demons involved in what Hank did…something in property development.

Well, okay, Giles thought. Minimal demons, not exactly zero demons. Demons love cash, after all. Fewer demons than my lot. But I never left any kids. The living beings who counted on me in those days chose me as their leader, more fools them. The Watcher heaved, what even to his own ears, sounded like a gusty sigh, but was prepared to stiffen his upper lip again. But then, Hank ran his hand through his farm-boy hair, or looked at his expensive watch, and Giles could feel Ripper’s energy moving through what felt like his empty heart. Are we keeping you, you arrogant tosser? The Watcher flushed as if he’d spoken aloud. Maybe he had, but Summers still faced him with an outstretched hand, so probably not.

All the more reason to make an effort, Giles thought. Civility in times of crisis, and all that. “Mr. Summers,” he said, smoothly, subconsciously digging up his poshest tones. “I’m Rupert Giles. Friend of the family, erstwhile librarian…sorry we had to meet at such a tragic moment.”
“Call me Hank. Yes, Mr. Giles, Joyce wrote me about you and your shared interests,” Hank smiled, but it didn’t show in his eyes. The young woman, Tammy Something, was practically yanking on Hank’s hands to get him to join another knot of mourners…fancy going all the way to Spain to end up with a quiet little Tammy. Not that Pilar might have changed the story in any way at all, except for giving Joyce’s pride the sense the other woman had something she didn’t. “Christmas cards and whatnot.”
Don’t think I’ll be calling you Hank, Summers.