It's late afternoon when Rupert Giles steps out of the library closest to the Kashtta with a pile of books in his arms. As far as he's concerned, his first day in Chicago has, thus far, been completely successful.
Ten months ago, Giles was in Sunnydale. It was the year 2000.
He's still not exactly sure how it happened-no one ever is, according to
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She decided, you see, that she was going to get ahold of a cell (which she did) and call Buffy's number from back home. Just on the off chance that the Buffy who'd known her here was still out there, and had the same number.
A lot of ringing later got a rather impersonal voice mail automatic announcement, which Tay doesn't know what to think of, so she leaves a message. Just in case.
"Um, hey. It's Tay. Not your Tay, I'm... I fell through the rift. And... we were friends back home, and I heard we were friends here, too. So... I guess if you want to, come back to Chicago. I miss you. Oh, and if this isn't Buffy--" And that's when she runs into a man carrying a stack of books.
Oops.
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He didn't expect the impact to knock the books out of his arms, but there you go.
Immediately: "Sorry. I didn't... see you there."
Okay, so he sometimes lies.
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Never let it be said that Tay couldn't be taught to interact with the masses.
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Giles takes the books from Tay and sets them back in his arms, rearranging them so they're in the order they were before.
Much better.
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"I'm pretty hard to dent," she replies drily, and casts about for her phone, and groans when she sees it popped apart on the sidewalk a couple feet away. "That thing isn't, though. Shit, and I was borrowing that, too."
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And driving.
He disapproves.
"Terribly sorry about that. Is it... fixable, perhaps?" He glances over at it and cringes. "Nevermind."
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She eyes the stack of books in his arms. That is quite a lot of books. And the guy is obviously not a mundane, she can feel that. "So, uh... d'you live in the Kashtta?"
This would be an introduction of sorts, Giles. We're sorry Tay is worse than Faith at people.
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"No; I'm mostly just visiting. I mean, technically, yes, but I'm only going to be there temporarily."
Probably.
It all depends on what Tay's answer to his next question is. "Sorry, um. I couldn't help but overhear what you were saying. You mentioned someone named Buffy?"
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How honest to be?
...Wait, a British guy with glasses, a suit, and books? Didn't Buffy say she'd had a sort of mentor like that?
Right. Honest. Just in case. "I've been having some trouble, and Xander's great and all, but I just thought if I could find her... And it's weird, 'cause there's another Buffy running around but she has no idea who I am, so I've kind of been avoiding her, and I'm really hoping you give a shit and know her 'cause otherwise I just made an idiot of myself."
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"That's-"
And there go the books. Again. He fumbles with them and tries to keep them from all falling, but fails completely.
He doesn't seem particularly bothered about it this time.
"I certainly do," he says, careful to keep his voice even. "Give a-" He clears his throat. Right. "You've just given me the single best piece of good news I've heard in... close to a year. The only piece of good news, actually-if I've understood you correctly, that is. Just to be clear: Buffy Summers is here in Chicago. Is that what you're telling me?"
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Not that she'd actually admit that...
"Yeah," she affirms. "And Xander Harris. They're from different points in the timeline, but..." But they're here, and that's what matters. Obviously. She shakes her head a little and starts picking up books. "Seriously, though, I think you got too many of these, you keep dropping 'em."
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"Good lord," he mutters. "I can't believe it."
All this time he's been on the wrong continent.
Ridiculous.
He snaps out of his shock when Tay starts picking up his books and quickly bends down to help. "You'd be amazed how many times I've been told that," he chuckles. "I suppose I always underestimate how cumbersome they can be in large stacks."
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"Um, I'm Tay."
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"I'm Giles. Um. Rupert Giles. Buffy may have mentioned me."
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"Yeah, stuffy British dude who worked in the library. She missed you a lot. My Buffy, anyway."
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It's... slightly comforting.
And then he looks affronted. He's lost count of how many times that word has been used to describe him. In fact, he'd wager a guess that thanks to him and all the other stuffy British gentlemen out there, "stuffy" and "British" are now synonyms.
"Yes, well. I'm her Watcher."
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