chicating | Entries tagged with giles

“I don’t know about you.” Spike said. “ But I need a drink. Back at the crypt, I have a rather disappointing O, a surprisingly piquant A pos, some whiskey…and some cherry cola for the little bit.”
“I’m in for the whiskey,” Giles decided, to nobody’s surprise, except maybe his own. “Although I must confess to a certain anthropological curiosity…”

“I could make a suicide,” Spike offered. “The O isn’t terrible when you mix it with something…or, at least it wasn’t last week. Don’t guess you have some bloody mary mix in that hobbit-hole that you call an apartment, Watcher? You could have one the way they were meant to be enjoyed.”

Giles blanched slightly. “I don’t think we have time for that..Dawn will be wondering where I am.” She wouldn’t believe me, even if she could see it, he thought but didn’t say.Even if he might not have smelled like a tobacconist. Part of the reason he laughed so hard upon hearing that Buffy, resurrected, had found such comfort in Spike, aside from the Charles Addams image of pitching woo among the cobwebs, wasn’t that it was so hard to imagine, but that it was so easy to picture getting quietly…what was that word Xander liked?...getting quietly hammered with a member of the undead. Giles bet there wasn’t a chapter in any codex about that.

Buffy's death creates some strange camaraderie.
“That is, and I never thought I’d say this, perversely comforting, Spike. Might I have a cigarette, please?”

“ It’s what I do, isn’t it? And you asked for that like you were gonna start pouring tea service in a minute…lighten up. Being bad, even cheating death, is supposed to be *fun*.or don’t you remember?”

Caught between nostalgia and diplomacy even in grief and the surreal situation, Giles said “Um…” and found himself hunting for words, as indeed, he’d been all day in one form or another. He dragged deeply on the proffered cigarette and almost enjoyed that the pain in his lungs was worse than he remembered.He coughed, but the smoke somehow dirtying the bright California spring sky matched his mood and satisfied nearly as much as the nicotine hitting his bloodstream.

“Good job they don’t call your lot ‘Speakers’ then. Don’t suppose you could have saved the Slayer with sage wisdom like “Um.”

And Rupert Giles, experienced Watcher and lifelong student of the occult, saw something he’d never expect on a vampire’s face: discomfiture, maybe a little embarrassment.

“Look, Giles, mate…what happened with Buffy? Well, when I said it was your fault…I didn’t mean it. I mean, I’d kind of like it to be your fault, cause I could risk the biggest brain-freeze ever and also get some blood, well, on the hoof, right? Weak and tea-soaked as it would be likely to be.”
“And I was so touched that you were using my name,” Giles replied. “What’s a brainfreeze?”
“Oh, The Nibblet had one of her ice cream things at my crypt and ate so fast, it gave her the biggest headache I’ve seen without a chip. Afterward, she called it that.”

“Ah. Poetic. Clearly, it’s Hank’s fault.”
“Really? So, you’d let me…”
“No, although I swear to Christ, I don’t know why….Dawn perked up a bit when she saw him.”

Giles sent everyone on ahead of him and said he needed some air. He walked rapidly through the cemetery, trying not to think about the latest addition, the freshly-turned earth ready to receive the best part of his life’s work---god, he wished he still smoked. Suddenly, a waft of tobacco floated through the air. Giles looked left and right, uncertain whether something had heard him speak a wish out loud.

Instead, he saw Spike, smoking with one hand and holding Giles’ battered leather billfold with the other. Quicker than a flash, the blond vampire pulled two twenties out and folded them in his jeans pocket.

“Some Watcher you are. You were a million miles away when I…saw you drop this.”

“Well, I did say I found ‘too nice’ frustrating…maybe I’m due to go the other direction.” Giles replied. Part of him wanted to get upset about the dosh, but his mind was doing that cotton-wool codeine thing again, and anyway, it wasn’t like explaining this to Dawn. He couldn’t quite imagine sitting with Spike and explaining how hard he worked to make forty dollars. Maybe somebody should have, but that somebody was bones somewhere, thousands of miles away; even after all this time, an eerie thought. “Just tell me you didn’t stick your hands in my pockets."

Spike’s eyebrow went up. “Been a while, has it? Is that why you dropped the ball?”

“ I did not…drop any ball, and it hasn’t been that long, either. It’s just a matter of professional pride. Ethics, and responsibility, and…” Giles was surprised then to hear the vampire humming something that sounded like John Lennon’s “Whatever Gets You Through The Night” and making cheeky little pelvic motions that would not be out of place on Dawn’s favourite video channel.

“Relax, Watcher. Strictly hands-free, just a simple glamour…I’m not very good at it. And,, you know, gravity. Cause you really did drop it, but I had you open your hand first. Like you were some giant schnauzer and your wallet was my shoe.Not like Dru, but then, I haven’t been round the bend quite as far, either, right? Just needed a distraction, and maybe some lolly to drown my sorrows properly. Coin of my adopted realm…”

Spike shook his bleached head as if to clear it. “Christ, Rupert, is that the bollocks that is in your brain all the time? Even when you’re not a bloody mess? It’d be a miracle if one day you don’t build a tower and end it all, too.”

Giles smiled a wintry smile, protestations of his being all right dying before they even reached his lips. “Probably. Hank Summers is back at the house on Revello. Which is why I’m not. In a rather cowardly breach of decorum. Buffy did not ‘end it all’, Spike. She committed a completely selfless act. You wouldn't understand."

“Whatever you have to tell yourself. But if she got Deadbeat Dad to resurface, she performed miracles, too. I’ll tell you, it’d be worth a bit of headache to get some revenge back for Joyce and the little bit."

Current Mood: creative

Giles hadn’t realised he was counting the hours until Summers returned to the continent until Tara, of all people, took pity on Buffy’s father and invited him back to Revello Drive after the brief but still unendurable service. Tara was a lovely girl and mostly he admired both her maturity and her tendency to feel that every stranger was a friend she just hadn’t met, but sometimes she was just too bleeding nice.
“It’s your own fault, old man” he mumbled under his breath.—whatever else there was to fear about cemeteries, they were an excellent place to mumble piteously. But hadn’t she asked him, as if they were a family, and he were its head, and wasn’t she worried enough about his feelings that that little stammer came out again? It was a mixture that made him feel terrible.

“I think it’ll be good,” and though her voice was hesitant as usual, the tilt of her head was confident. “ For Dawn. He looked so lost, and I think he really has a chance to make it right.”

"Sure. Fine. “ Tara’s eyes looked surprised because he couldn’t quite keep the roughness out of his voice. Maybe she thought it was unshed tears. Maybe it was.

“Whatever you want.” Thinking about it now made him want to rip his tongue out, but at the moment, it was both Tara’s reply of “I just didn’t want to overstep—you know, it’s not my house,” and, even darker thoughts, how easy he might have found it to…dispatch Dawn, if his slayer had seen her as the accident of mystical history that she was--that led him to relent.

The end itself might have been easy, like gutting a trout. Or like pulling the guts out of the turkey for that infernal Thanksgiving she’d insisted on. Just one of the million little jobs Buffy had wanted an adult around for. He'd felt guilty, then, and caught Dawn’s eye, trying to look reassuring and not sorry she was alive at all. He never thought he would pick up this particular American linguistic habit, but, God, it did suck. For a moment, Rupert Giles wanted an adult to call on, too.

“It’s not my house, either,” he’d pointed out, more to get his mind of its sinister track than to encourage Tara, but Watcher habits died hard. Two birds, one stone, and so forth. “You have as much right as anyone.”

Tara beamed, in her understated way. “Yes, but, Giles, you’re so…adult. And I always felt that you and Joyce…kind of had an understanding. She’d trust you to decide what went on in her house. She loved you, Giles. Both of them had. “ She flushed, and was almost beautiful. Which made him even more susceptible, of course, even at his age. “Not the same way, of course.”

(rewatching season Buffy 6...I swear Christmas joy doesn't make me think of funerals...that's more an easter vibe, right? even for cafeteria Christians.)

“Christmas cards…” Giles repeated, disbelievingly. “ Don’t suppose there was any Yuletide treasure in those.”

Summers blushed. “Oh, um, sometimes. I was trying to start a business and Joyce was doing all right for herself…I wouldn’t believe everything you hear, if I were you…I’m sorry I didn’t, you know, have a crystal ball.”

Giles drew himself up to full height. Slightly taller than Summers, he was pettily glad to notice, and said in his most reasonable, plummy tone. “I shouldn’t wonder about that…in your place, I’d be surprised if you have any.” The tiny flash of victory, mixed with the ancient thrill of transgression, was cold comfort, but comfort, nonetheless. Next the Watcher turned his attention to Dawn, who seemed almost determined to joylessly eat her weight in biscuits. “Dawn, stop that…you’ll get sick, and that won’t do anyone any good. Especially not Buffy….maybe you should spend a little more time with your father. He’s bound to be leaving again soon.” Not like him to rub it in, but he seemed most unlike himself, these days.

“I know, Giles,” Dawn replied. “I don’t even want them. Not really. But when I have them in my mouth and I notice what they taste like, for a minute, I feel almost normal. Cause I mean, here are the grody ones that Buffy always liked…you know, that taste like coconut? And I found myself thinking, like, ‘more for her’ except there won’t be. Or that Mom will be mad that I’m making a total pig of myself, except if she is, I doubt she’ll be sending a Ghost-o-Gram to let me know about it, right?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Giles smiled reassuringly. “But I’d ease off them just in case.” The girl’s tear-stained face brought back one of his spliced-together memories that he had of Dawn. Namely, that when he’d first met the family, Dawn had been frightened of him, because she thought he’d be watching her all the time. He had seen a lot of her at her most freaked-out and tearstained.

Current Music: Mom watching Katy Tur

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.