Why wasn't she happy? Well, a complex combination of factors. First and foremost was the impending Apocalypse. Followed closely by the fact that her best friend and most powerful ally currently lay incapacitated in a hospital bed. Then there was the burgeoning migraine she was getting from staring at books that made little to no sense. And bringing up the proverbial rear there was the fact that they were so clueless as to how to stop the oncoming danger that they needed to call in Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, in whom she was not exactly brimming with faith.
She'd been sitting at the table in the Magic Box for close to two hours in a tense silence that neither she nor Giles had the heart to break. So she was almost (almost) relieved when the door opened and Wesley walked in.
"Hi." She offered, in a flat tone, as she got awkwardly to her feet. Giles, meanwhile, was rather more forthcoming in the greeting department, offering a hand. "Thank you for coming Wesley, I appreciate that it's very short notice. I trust the journey wasn't too taxing?"
Just Buffy and Giles, thank goodness, Wesley thought to himself, though the reactions were much as expected. Besides, Willow was hurt, wasn't she? So perhaps Buffy's lack of enthusiasm was in part also distraction and concern.
"Hello, Buffy, Giles," Wesley greeted, returning the handshake. "It's no trouble, and the weather was fine, thank you. Is Willow going to be all right?"
"In time," Giles nodded, though he didn't seem entirely sure about that. "It's possible that destroying the source of magic responsible will speed her recovery."
Wesley nodded. That was standard for many magical ailments. "Let's get right to it, then, shall we?"
"Yes, that would probably be best. Time, or the lack of it, is becoming rather a pressing concern." Giles assented, motioning towards the table, and all the assembled heaps of books. He gestured to one in particular, glasses in hand, whilst Buffy looked on, arms folded.
"It's a prophecy that we're dealing with. An ancient demon organization, the Cult of Rashmaket. Their sole aim is to bring about the Apocalypse. We were alerted to their presence in Sunnydale when Buffy had an encounter with a group of them on a patrol."
Buffy nodded, confirming. "Big, ugly blue things, with ridges on their heads, and spines on their arms. Very strong. And not your average stupid grunt type either. They fought with weapons, and they planned ahead. They know what they're doing. I barely got away."
"Which is another reason why it's imperative that we find out where and when the ritual is to be held as soon as we possibly can." Giles continued. "However the text is written in some unknown language that I can't decipher-- which is where I was hoping you could shed some light." He stepped aside to allow Wesley a closer look.
Wesley absorbed all this as quickly as possible and picked up the indicated book. "Blue humanoids with ridges on the forehead and spines on the arms?" he clarified, looking up to see Giles nod. "Sounds Mephidinal, possibly Grenadin." He opened the book and nodded. "Grenadin of some sort. This won't be easy."
He was in full researching mode as he took up a piece of scrap paper and starting jotting down book titles. "Giles, how many of these do you have?"
"All of them, I believe," Giles commented, reading over his shoulder. "Ah, except those last two, but I can procure them."
"Excellent." Giles replied, wasting no time in taking the list with him to the bookshelves, before pulling out the relevant titles and placing them carefully at Wesley's disposal. "And now I shall see if I can get a hold of a couple of specialist dealers. If you need me I'll be on the phone."
He turned to bustle off again, but Buffy cut in, with a wave. "I really don't think I can sit around here any longer. I'm restless. I think I'm gonna go bang some heads together, see if I can find anything out in the demon bars. Giles, is that okay?" She glanced at Wesley, before adding, hastily. "I mean, unless there's anything I can do to help?"
"Actually," Wesley asked tentatively, glancing around the Magic Box, "Could I bother you to help me locate these first?" It might sound stupid, coming from the supposed expert on languages, but Wesley knew from experience that minor differences in shelving systems could leave one scouring entire libraries in search of a single book. "It would save a significant amount of time. And I'm not familiar with Giles' system."
He was setting himself up for ridicule, he knew, but it was worth it if it saved lives.
"And then I'm in full support of head-bashing and similar information gathering techniques."
Buffy stared at Wesley blankly for a second. Seriously, where was the pomposity and the ordering around? Then she blinked, recovering from the surprise (feeling mildly stupid now, too) before nodding her agreement.
"Umm... sure. I don't think anybody really understands Giles' system, but I've known the joys of repetitive dusting enough to vaguely get it." She paused to eye the list. "Yeah, I know I've seen a few of those up in the off-floor section, I'll just... go and. Get them for you."
And with a self-conscious gesture up to the mezzanine floor she turned on her heel and strode off, raising her eyebrows privately to herself as she did.
Wesley knew a lot of languages, but the exact translation of Buffy's tone and expression completely escaped him. He was trying to be polite and not step on anyone's toes. Was he going too far?
Oh well. "Thank you," he called after, and set about clearing a workspace for himself somewhere in the mess on the table, taking notepads and pens out of his bag. He sat down and began scanning the book, making small notations on his pad as he did so.
After having climbed up the ladder and hunted around in the private collection for a few minutes, Buffy was soon back again with the required volumes. She set them down on the table next to Wesley with a quiet 'oof'. Some of them were fairly large.
"That's all of 'em." She announced, now unsure what to do with herself. "So... was there anything else? Not that I'm good for much other than the quality violence. That stuff's all Greek to me. Or, you know, Cranberrin or whatever is is."
Wesley looked up suddenly when the books were set down, blinking out of his researching daze and attempting a thin sort of half-smile. "Thank you very much; no, nothing else." He was tempted to say something nice to counter the statement about not being good for more than violence, but it wasn't really his place, and he couldn't think of anything that didn't sound painfully condescending. "I'd recommend bashing the blue heads with the biggest forehead ridges. Usually the larger the ridges, the higher on their hierarchy ladder," he said instead.
Why wasn't she happy? Well, a complex combination of factors. First and foremost was the impending Apocalypse. Followed closely by the fact that her best friend and most powerful ally currently lay incapacitated in a hospital bed. Then there was the burgeoning migraine she was getting from staring at books that made little to no sense. And bringing up the proverbial rear there was the fact that they were so clueless as to how to stop the oncoming danger that they needed to call in Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, in whom she was not exactly brimming with faith.
She'd been sitting at the table in the Magic Box for close to two hours in a tense silence that neither she nor Giles had the heart to break. So she was almost (almost) relieved when the door opened and Wesley walked in.
"Hi." She offered, in a flat tone, as she got awkwardly to her feet. Giles, meanwhile, was rather more forthcoming in the greeting department, offering a hand. "Thank you for coming Wesley, I appreciate that it's very short notice. I trust the journey wasn't too taxing?"
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"Hello, Buffy, Giles," Wesley greeted, returning the handshake. "It's no trouble, and the weather was fine, thank you. Is Willow going to be all right?"
"In time," Giles nodded, though he didn't seem entirely sure about that. "It's possible that destroying the source of magic responsible will speed her recovery."
Wesley nodded. That was standard for many magical ailments. "Let's get right to it, then, shall we?"
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"It's a prophecy that we're dealing with. An ancient demon organization, the Cult of Rashmaket. Their sole aim is to bring about the Apocalypse. We were alerted to their presence in Sunnydale when Buffy had an encounter with a group of them on a patrol."
Buffy nodded, confirming. "Big, ugly blue things, with ridges on their heads, and spines on their arms. Very strong. And not your average stupid grunt type either. They fought with weapons, and they planned ahead. They know what they're doing. I barely got away."
"Which is another reason why it's imperative that we find out where and when the ritual is to be held as soon as we possibly can." Giles continued. "However the text is written in some unknown language that I can't decipher-- which is where I was hoping you could shed some light." He stepped aside to allow Wesley a closer look.
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He was in full researching mode as he took up a piece of scrap paper and starting jotting down book titles. "Giles, how many of these do you have?"
"All of them, I believe," Giles commented, reading over his shoulder. "Ah, except those last two, but I can procure them."
"I can start without them," Wesley nodded.
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He turned to bustle off again, but Buffy cut in, with a wave. "I really don't think I can sit around here any longer. I'm restless. I think I'm gonna go bang some heads together, see if I can find anything out in the demon bars. Giles, is that okay?" She glanced at Wesley, before adding, hastily. "I mean, unless there's anything I can do to help?"
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He was setting himself up for ridicule, he knew, but it was worth it if it saved lives.
"And then I'm in full support of head-bashing and similar information gathering techniques."
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"Umm... sure. I don't think anybody really understands Giles' system, but I've known the joys of repetitive dusting enough to vaguely get it." She paused to eye the list. "Yeah, I know I've seen a few of those up in the off-floor section, I'll just... go and. Get them for you."
And with a self-conscious gesture up to the mezzanine floor she turned on her heel and strode off, raising her eyebrows privately to herself as she did.
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Oh well. "Thank you," he called after, and set about clearing a workspace for himself somewhere in the mess on the table, taking notepads and pens out of his bag. He sat down and began scanning the book, making small notations on his pad as he did so.
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"That's all of 'em." She announced, now unsure what to do with herself. "So... was there anything else? Not that I'm good for much other than the quality violence. That stuff's all Greek to me. Or, you know, Cranberrin or whatever is is."
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