TWW/BtVS FIC: K'vod hamet (1/1)
For lilka, who wanted Toby (TWW) and Giles (BtVS). I'm not sure if the timelines quite match up, but anyway. I give you - pre-campaign Toby, and Season 3 Giles, post-Faith, Hope and Trick. Not sure if it worked, but anyway.
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Title: K'vod hamet
He has buried friends in his life - illness; murder; accident - but there was always a body before. There was always something for him to watch over and to mourn, and to watch disappear into the earth. Instead, three weeks ago Lilith Turner went to Boston to start her new job and simply - disappeared.
Whoever said that no news is good news should have been made to write out the Brooklyn telephone directory until his fingers bled.
So, here he is, sitting on the steps outside of what had briefly been Lil's apartment, and wondering what to do next. Lil hasn't been seen or heard from in days, and he's carefully skirting around the thought that a floater in the Charles River might not show up for weeks yet. He's half thinking that maybe he should just go home and sit Shiva and be done with it. Of course, 'home' is currently his motel room, with another campaign loss hanging over his head, and part of the reason he's here is because the last time that this happened, Lilith was the one to give him a good shove down West, to where CJ Cregg was rounding up speechwriters for Emily's List. It was a good job, and it was a shame that it didn't last long, but he hadn't really expected it to and valued Lilith's thoughtfulness more than anything else.
And now he's sitting on cold stone steps, probably giving himself haemorrhoids.
"Excuse me?"
Toby's first impression is of tweed. The second is of Englishness. The third never comes, because he has the oddest feeling that this is someone he should know. "Yeah?"
The stranger adjusts his glasses. "Do you live here?"
He considers lying. "Lilith Turner lives here," he says instead. "I'm visiting." He stands and offers his hand. "Toby Ziegler," he says.
The stranger accepts it. "Mr Ziegler, my name is Rupert Giles. I'm afraid I have some bad news."
His grip is warm, and strong, and more comforting than Toby could have imagined. long-fingered, with residual swelling around the knuckles. A bar-fight, maybe, Toby thinks, suddenly dizzy. A bar-fight that fractured his hands instead of breaking them, and that shattered his cheekbones delicately enough to have them heal, albeit haphazardly.
Killed, Rupert Giles tells him. Killed and no body or grave for him to mourn at, just a man Toby has never seen before talking about Lilith like he barely knew her but had always known what she was about. Duty, Rupert Giles said. Honour. Loyalty.
When Toby returns to his motel room, there's a message at reception from L. McGarry.
He has a drink.
*
fin
*
Title: K'vod hamet
He has buried friends in his life - illness; murder; accident - but there was always a body before. There was always something for him to watch over and to mourn, and to watch disappear into the earth. Instead, three weeks ago Lilith Turner went to Boston to start her new job and simply - disappeared.
Whoever said that no news is good news should have been made to write out the Brooklyn telephone directory until his fingers bled.
So, here he is, sitting on the steps outside of what had briefly been Lil's apartment, and wondering what to do next. Lil hasn't been seen or heard from in days, and he's carefully skirting around the thought that a floater in the Charles River might not show up for weeks yet. He's half thinking that maybe he should just go home and sit Shiva and be done with it. Of course, 'home' is currently his motel room, with another campaign loss hanging over his head, and part of the reason he's here is because the last time that this happened, Lilith was the one to give him a good shove down West, to where CJ Cregg was rounding up speechwriters for Emily's List. It was a good job, and it was a shame that it didn't last long, but he hadn't really expected it to and valued Lilith's thoughtfulness more than anything else.
And now he's sitting on cold stone steps, probably giving himself haemorrhoids.
"Excuse me?"
Toby's first impression is of tweed. The second is of Englishness. The third never comes, because he has the oddest feeling that this is someone he should know. "Yeah?"
The stranger adjusts his glasses. "Do you live here?"
He considers lying. "Lilith Turner lives here," he says instead. "I'm visiting." He stands and offers his hand. "Toby Ziegler," he says.
The stranger accepts it. "Mr Ziegler, my name is Rupert Giles. I'm afraid I have some bad news."
His grip is warm, and strong, and more comforting than Toby could have imagined. long-fingered, with residual swelling around the knuckles. A bar-fight, maybe, Toby thinks, suddenly dizzy. A bar-fight that fractured his hands instead of breaking them, and that shattered his cheekbones delicately enough to have them heal, albeit haphazardly.
Killed, Rupert Giles tells him. Killed and no body or grave for him to mourn at, just a man Toby has never seen before talking about Lilith like he barely knew her but had always known what she was about. Duty, Rupert Giles said. Honour. Loyalty.
When Toby returns to his motel room, there's a message at reception from L. McGarry.
He has a drink.
*
fin