Someone Else Entirely 1/?
Title: Someone Else Entirely 1/?
Characters: Giles and OC
Rating: T
Setting: Any time within late season five to early season six; before Giles leaves.
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine and belongs to its respectful owners.
Warnings: Nothing to cringe about except a bit of mild swearing.
A/N: Thanks ever so much to my loverly beta gilescandy. Without her, I'd probably be dead or cowering in a corner from trauma. Also, this was originally to be posted on my original posting day, but I screwed up. I'm sorry if it made anyone's job any harder than it should be...
'Huh. What’s this in my right hand? Silky, long, thick… And underneath it-oh. What is that? Supple, smooth, slightly malleable, round, and familiar. It feels nice. Ohp, seems as if my hand’s a mind of its own (a moan purred that he was sure didn’t come from him)… Perhaps I should check upon the mischief my hand’s making.'
When Rupert Giles’ eyes grated open, all he saw was fuzz. Fuzz and different colours that mixed and meshed together and apart, drunkenly spinning all around his fuzz-filled eyes lodged in his fuzz-filled head. After a while of lethargic blinking, those colours sharpened and turned into shapes, which eventually turned into images.
Blonde hair. Long blonde hair. Long pretty blonde hair. And breasts. Small breasts. Small pretty breasts.
Wait a moment. What young blonde lady did he know with long hair and small, nice, firm br-(not the point, Rupert).
Shit.
He shot across the loft in two leaps, blue striped pajama pants sagging dangerously. He struggled to tie the two suddenly paper thin and rather slippery adjusting string ends, large hands fumbling about his pants in haste.
He heard his bed creak in protest as a small body rose from the white linen sheets, and oh dear lord, he was going to get it now, how could he have violated she that trusted him the most and not remember, why couldn’t he remember, he had never been so drunk that he’d forgotten a night spent with a partner and oh god, she was creeping toward him now and here comes that hard slap and oh god how could he betray them like this and just oh god oh god oh god-
“Mmm, you look like you’re having a bit of trouble there, dear... Let me help,” a buttery purr reached his ears.
A buttery purr that he knew, without a doubt in his mind, did not belong to one of his Scoobies.
He nearly dropped his garments in relief.
After he had properly tied the two ends, he looked to the unfamiliar voice and proved that this was not in fact any of his. She was small, yes, with long blonde hair. But her face was a bit too long, cheek bones a tad too low, eyes a smidgen too dark. Close though, close enough to fool him for a split second.
He stared.
What the hell did he do last night?
He blinked a couple of times, wondering why he was so out of sorts today.
‘P-perhaps it’s a Hellmouth thing… I should check the Watcher Diaries, maybe Jonathon Dawson, he lived near the Hellmouth, didn’t he? Damn, I believe the Council had that volume in their possession…’
“Maybe I’d better get going, Ripper… You have my number. Call me, ‘kay?” she withdrew after sensing his reluctance and moved about the loft to find her garments.
‘Ripper…?’
***
Six or seven hours later, the late afternoon sun shone into his apartment, kissing the tops of voluminous books placed haphazardly on the floor. He cradled his “Kiss the Librarian” mug of Earl Grey, flipping through the brittle and yellowed pages of Jonathon Dawson’s Watcher diary, frowning and occasionally scribbling something down on a pad of paper. He murmured distractedly and bit down on the end of his glasses when the doorbell rang.
He looked up quickly, knowing it wasn’t his Scoobies or Olivia. His mouth tipped downward, rising quietly and taking from his desk a letter opener. With the day he was having, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was an apocalypse he had somehow missed. Sliding out of his chair, he was thankful for his years of rebellion granting him practiced stealth. He checked the window from an angle and couldn’t see a face. His jaw hardened and he placed the letter opener in his back pocket. He moved to open the door and meet this unknown guest face to face.
“Hi. I’m Jamie, the demon slayer. I believe you and I have a problem, Mister Giles.”
She was tall, with at least a couple of inches on Willow and Buffy. She was slender, too, with long, raven black, lightly wavy tresses that fell to her midsection. She had a smooth and incredibly light complexion and full, healthy pink lips that fell neatly underneath a delicately sculpted nose, and dark and formed eyebrows all resting upon an elegant and tapered jaw that was upheld by a slender neck. Most alluring, however, were her shockingly light grey and Alice blue eyes framed by thick lashes. She wasn’t thin, but she wasn’t heavy set either. It was a wonderful medium. She wore a plain electric blue halter top that hugged her body, not so tight that it was immodest, and jeans paired with ballet slippers.
For a fleeting moment, Giles compared her to an upper-crust version of Faith.
He gestured in instead of a verbal invite, creating an unspoken and preliminary test.
“It’s daytime, Mr. Giles,” she reminded him with a smirk as she stepped inside his humble abode. “I’m insulted that you think I’d be lying.”
‘Hmm. She’s from the Mother Country… That accent is clipped, elegant… Absolutely British.’
He merely shrugged and made a quick trip to the kitchen, asking for her tea of choice.
“Anyway, I’ve come concerning certain demon. I heard through the grapevine that you were the Watcher to visit. Apparently you actually believe in the greater good, despite the ponces you work for. ” she stopped, beginning to convulse.
It started with her lips. They quivered and shook, silencing the words that died in her throat. Her head jerked violently backward, eyes glazing over as her entire body throbbed and pulsed, tensing one, two, and three hard times. And all at once, it was over. Her body slumped unceremoniously to the hard ground, limp and unconscious.
He carried her to his couch, frowning to himself as he felt her pulse. He busied himself over her, grabbing a damp towel to dab the beaded sweat from her pallid forehead.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“I’m s-sorry… I get epileptic seizures,” she whispered as she trembled in cold sweat. Jamie mopped the liquid exhaustion from her face and arms, not seeing the raised eyebrow on the Watcher’s face.
“Is… Is there somewhere we can go, maybe a coffee shop or something? It'd be an understatement if I said I was famished,” she whispered and gulped, eyes darting frantically about as her breathing shallowed ever so slightly.
He nodded, a million thoughts rushing through his huge expanse of a mind. He held a hand to her and let her clutch him with a death grip as she clawed her way up to a standing position.
"Thanks," she croaked, and he followed her out as he waded knee deep in questions.
'Epilepsy? I very much doubt symptoms of epilepsy include glowing with a celestial light through the eyes, nose and mouth.'