FIC: Isolated Elements, 8/?, PG-13 (for now), Grissom/Giles
Title: Isolated Elements
Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: PG-13 for the time being
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Rupert Giles
Type: Crossover with Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Summary: The best laid plans of criminalists and watchers sometimes go awry.
Author’s Note/Warnings: At some point in the future, the two of them will be having hot monkey sex. I think. For now, though, snark reigns supreme. This story is set during the summer between S5 and S6 of Buffy and between S1 and S2 of CSI. One last note - the Grissom/Giles icons that will accompany each part were created for me by the delightful wickedfox.
Feedback: Love it, want it, can’t get enough of it.
Disclaimer: As I’m neither Anthony Zuiker nor Joss Whedon, it’s a pretty safe bet that I own neither of the pretty men. If I did, though, if I did...
Part 1 can be found here. Links to subsequent chapters are found at the bottom of each posting.
~*~*~
Rupert glanced up when Gil returned with the sword. “If you would, please put it over there,” he said, indicating a side counter with a nod of his head as he continued measuring out ingredients.
“No.”
Surprised, he gave Gil a longer look. “I beg your pardon?”
“’No’ is a fairly straightforward word,” Gil said, holding the sword up in an en garde position before allowing the tip to drop down again. “How did you manage to hold this thing at her throat so easily?”
“Years of practice. What did you mean by no?” Rupert frowned slightly, trying to understand why the other man had suddenly decided to stop cooperating.
“Years? Do you often hold a sword to someone’s throat?” Gil lifted his eyebrows, evidently interested in whatever answer Rupert might care to share.
Declining to answer, Rupert focused on the sword. “Have you taken a dislike to the countertop in question, or is it simply that you’ve grown fond of the sword?”
“Neither,” Gil said pleasantly. “You’ll get the sword when I get some answers.”
Hesitating slightly - Rupert refused to admit that he was playing for time - he finally asked, “Answers?”
“Yes. To my questions.” Gil held the sword up once more, grimacing at the weight of it before allowing it to drop again.
“Questions.”
Gil gave him a direct look. “I’m fairly certain there isn’t an echo in here. What’s a Watcher?” Before Rupert could do more than open his mouth, Gil added, “And I don’t want you to tell me a Watcher watches.”
Rolling his eyes at the injunction, Rupert leaned hipshot against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. “Then answering your question will prove to be somewhat impossible.”
After a long moment, Gil narrowed his eyes. “Fine. A Watcher watches. What does he watch?”
“The Slayer,” Rupert said in a clipped tone. When Gil didn’t rise to the bait, Rupert sighed. “What do you know about demons?”
“You mean like Beelzebub?” Rupert gave the man points for not rejecting the question out of hand.
“Not necessarily the demons found in Christianity, but other sorts as well.”
At that, Gil raised an eyebrow. “You mean in other religions?”
“Generally speaking, no.” Rupert allowed the other man a moment to absorb that statement before he continued. “The world did not begin as a paradise -”
“I remember my geology lessons,” Gil said impatiently.
“Nor did it begin quite the way science would have it,” he said with mildly exaggerated patience. “For untold eons, demons walked the earth.”
“Demons. Like Beelzebub.”
“No. Not like Beelzebub.” Rupert took a step toward the door, then hesitated as he caught sight of the library. He stepped back with a small shake of his head. “Do you remember the book I pulled off the shelf earlier?”
With a distrustful look, Gil said, “Yes. What about it?”
“This is much easier to explain with visual references. The Morley compendium has a fair number of illustrations that will help.” When Gil made no move, Rupert snapped, “Do you really want to have to drag me out of there again?”
“Fine.” Still holding the sword, Gil went back into the library, leaving Rupert alone and muttering under his breath.
~*~*~
“Put simply, if you assume that most demons are evil, you won’t be far off.”
Gil rubbed his eyes. An hour after demanding answers, he had a great many of them. Too bad none of them made sense. He took a deep breath and nodded at the statement, thinking that if nothing else, at least that concept meshed with his Catholic upbringing.
“While in your world, police officers deal with human evil - criminals, rather, in my world, the Slayer deals with demonic evil,” Rupert said, sounding very much like one of Gil’s professors.
Gil cocked his head, and with a certain amount of whimsy, he asked, “Demonic criminals?”
“That description is more apt than you might think,” Rupert said wryly.
“What does the Slayer do? Arrest the demons and send them to jail?”
Pointing to a drawing of a Polgara demon, Rupert said, “Do you honestly believe something whose main purpose in life is to kill humans has any chance of redemption?”
“You’re saying that all demons are like that? That none of them can be rehabilitated?” Gil frowned. “How do you know there isn’t a sweet little old lady Polgara demon living on the outskirts of Reno?”
“I don’t,” he acknowledged. “Generally speaking, though, if a demon is attacking humans, it’s regarded as dangerous and should be killed with all due haste.”
Gil looked at Rupert over the top of his glasses. “But not due process.”
“Due process is a lovely concept when you’re dealing with humans - or at least ordinary humans. When it comes to demons, however, the Slayer is the judge, jury and executioner,” he answered, looking down.
“What gives him that right?”
“The Slayer is always a girl, and she’s given that right by the Powers That Be.” He said softly, “She alone is chosen among her generation to fight the forces of evil.”
“That sounds like something in a comic book.”
Rupert shrugged as he examined his shoes. “I didn’t write the speech. I merely gave it the first time I met Buffy.”
Gil heard the grief in Rupert’s voice, and he asked carefully, “Buffy?”
“My Slayer.”
“That woman offered condolences on the loss of your Slayer.” When Rupert nodded, Gil asked, “Is she the one you lost in February?”
“No. That was Joyce, Buffy’s mother,” Rupert said, his lips tightening. “She died of complications following surgery for the removal of a brain tumor.”
“So Buffy was the one you lost a month ago?”
“Six weeks and five days ago,” Rupert said tightly. He straightened up and turned back to the cauldron on the counter.
“How did she die?”
“If you’ll put the sword down over here, I can begin working on the spell.” Rupert opened a bottle of dried beetle wings and picked up a pair of tweezers. He began to carefully pull out wings, one by one.
“Rupert?” Gil stepped forward.
“Just a few more things, and then I can make my circle and ver -” Rupert voice broke. He swallowed hard and continued, his gaze concentrated on the cauldron before him. “And I can verify what Ms. Morgan said.”
He stepped close enough to reach out and touch Rupert’s shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation, Gil did just that. “How did she die?”
“I’m really not up to this round of twenty questions,” Rupert said, giving Gil a pleading look. “Can’t you just let me do the spell?”
Gil put the sword on the counter. When Rupert reached for it, he stopped him and said gently, “You can’t avoid the grief forever, you know. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up to you.”
Rupert shook his head. “I haven’t - I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
Pursing his lips, Rupert looked away.
“Can’t what, Rupert?” The question was no less insistent, for all that Gil asked gently.
His voice clipped, Rupert said, “I can’t seem to cry for her. I’ve tried, but -” He looked directly at Gil. “I worked with her for five years, guided her, taught her, learned from her, loved her - yet still, I can’t seem to cry for her.”
“I’m sorry,” Gil said. “I don’t have any answers for you, but I can tell you that everyone grieves in their own way and that sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“Right. Talking about it.” A bitter laugh escaped Rupert’s rigid control. “My choice of confessors is limited to a group of teenagers who have a hard time seeing me as human, let alone someone in mourning, or my colleagues, who view the death of a Slayer as business as usual.”
His hand still on Rupert’s back, Gil steered him toward the door. “You can add a skeptical CSI to the list. Let’s see just how good the scotch is, okay?”
~*~*~
Back in the room where they’d initially arrived, Gil stood behind the bar while Rupert stood in front of it. Gil tilted the bottle of Glenfiddich toward Rupert. “Another?”
Shaking his head, he put his hand over the glass. “No. One is more than enough.”
“Are you sure? I don’t usually prescribe a stiff drink - especially after someone’s already had one - but you look like you could use another.”
Rupert quirked his lips into a half-smile. “I’m certain, particularly given our location.”
Frowning, Gil said, “Isn’t this place safe?”
“We’re in the clutches of an evil law firm, and the operative word here is ‘evil.’” Rupert gave a last look of regret at the scotch bottle Gil held. “Leaving ourselves open by indulging in alcohol isn’t a good idea.”
“Damn.” He put the scotch back behind the bar then looked at Rupert for a long moment. “I meant what I said. I’ll listen to whatever you need to say.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Then what do you doubt?”
Caught, Rupert looked mildly embarrassed. “To be frank, I doubt your credulity.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything, in fact.” After noting Gil’s irritation, Rupert relented. “Look, when you get to the point where you can accept my reality as valid, I’ll talk to you.”
“I - I can -” Gil’s frustration was evident.
“You can’t even lie convincingly about it.” When Gil started to object, Rupert raised his hand. “I know you seem to recognize that we’re no longer in your lab, but you’ve yet to be convinced this is nothing more than an hallucination. Am I correct?”
“I -” Gil sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Give yourself a chance to acclimate. If you would still prefer to believe this is simply an elaborate hoax, I’ll -”
“Excuse me?”
Gil’s mouth dropped open as he saw what - who interrupted.
Rupert turned. “Yes? What is it?”
The thing smiled. “Which one of you is Mr. Giles?”
“I am. What can I do for you?” Gil stared at Rupert, as much for his courteous tone as for his apparent acceptance of - that.
“My name’s Clem, and I’ll be your servant while you’re here,” it - he said, his long floppy ears bobbing gently in time to his self-introduction.
“Oh? Tell me, Clem, have you worked for Wolfram and Hart for very long?” Rupert leaned against the bar, his lack of fear doing more to settle Gil’s nerves than anything else he could have done.
“Me? Work for Wolfram and Hart?” Clem laughed. “They wouldn’t hire someone like me in a million years. The worst I’ve ever done is cheat at kitten poker once or twice.”
Gil couldn’t stop himself. “Kitten poker?”
Rupert glanced back at him. “You don’t want to know. Trust me on this.”
Unconcerned by or unaware of the interruption, Clem continued, “No, good old W and H contracted me through Demonpower.”
Again, Gil couldn’t stop himself. “Demonpower?”
“Demonic branch of Manpower,” Rupert said absently. To Clem, he said, “Will you be with us the whole time?”
“No way! You two will only see me when you call for me or when I bring your meals,” Clem said happily. “Don’t worry about me getting in the way or anything. I promise there’s not a chance I’ll walk in on anything you two might be doing.” He followed his last statement with a broad wink, leaving neither man in doubt as to what Clem thought he might walk in on.
Rupert murmured, “Ms. Morgan strikes again.”
When it was clear that Rupert wasn’t going to attempt to correct the misunderstanding, Gil said, “We’re not -”
“Don’t worry about me! Discretion is my middle name!” After a pause, he said, “Actually, my middle name is Leslie, but don’t tell anyone, okay? The guys would just tease me about it.”
“I promise,” said Rupert in a choked tone. One glance at his face told Gil that he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Any-hoo, I’m not here to talk about my problems. I just wanted to let you fellas know that lunch is ready, and when you’re done eating, I’ll take you on a tour of this place. It’s really great here!”
~*~*~
Rupert moved his salad around the bowl, hoping Gil wouldn’t notice that none of it was actually making it into his mouth.
“Hey, Mr. Giles! Still not eating, huh?” Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on Clem’s powers of observation.
Ignoring Gil’s sharp look, Rupert stammered, “I’m not very hungry at the moment.”
“Spike told me you haven’t been eating much since - well - since That Day,” Clem said, setting a piece of shepherd’s pie before him.
Surprised, Rupert said, “You know Spike?”
“Sure I do! We play poker every Tuesday night. It took him a while to get in good with the guys, because of the whole demon-killing kick he’s been on since he got chipped, but he loses a lot, so they don’t mind too much.” Clem put another plate on the table. “If salad isn’t enough to tempt your tummy, here’s some mushy peas.”
“Mushy peas and shepherd’s pie.” Rupert’s voice was faint as he looked at the meal before him. “Wolfram and Hart has certainly done its homework, hasn’t it?”
“They sure have!” Clem put the final offering down - two pints of what was most assuredly good English beer - and said, “I’ll leave you two to finish up, and then I’ll be back with dessert. Hope you like spotted dick!”
Gil, who was in the process of tasting the beer, spit it out at Clem’s final comment. “Was that deliberate?”
“The timing? No,” Rupert said, his lips twitching with a smile. “The dessert? Without question.”
“Why?”
Taking in the bewildered expression on Gil’s face, Rupert said gently, “You shouldn’t have attempted to explain that we’re not lovers. Ms. Morgan is taking every opportunity she can to make you uncomfortable about it.”
Gil stared at him in disbelief. “What did I ever do to her?”
“You, ah, you arrived with me.” Before Gil could respond, Rupert added, “It might well have thrown her plans into disarray, having someone here who can possibly counter whatever it is that Wolfram and Hart has to say to me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Consider the library,” Rupert said with a direct look.
“Oh. Do you think there’s a spell on it?” After a brief pause, Gil said, “I can’t believe I just asked that.”
“I doubt very much that a spell is involved.” Rupert took a deep breath. “There really doesn’t have to be. They have enough rare volumes and documents in that room to keep me satisfied for a lifetime. I wouldn’t have left off if you hadn’t prodded me along.”
“They’re enabling your addiction,” Gil said thoughtfully.
Aggrieved, Rupert snapped, “I do wish you would stop comparing me to a junkie.”
“If the shoe fits -” Gil caught sight of Rupert’s face and placated him with, “Fine, I’ll stop calling you a junkie. But only if you eat.”
“What?”
“Eat,” Gil said, pointing at Rupert’s plate. “You’re just moving the food around on your plate and going through the motions. It’s not healthy.”
“This is absurd.” Rupert stabbed at the shepherd’s pie, but he didn’t raise the fork to his lips.
“Absurd or not, I can’t have you passing out from starvation. Eat.”
Rupert put a small amount of food on his fork and shoved it into his mouth, wincing slightly when the tines hit his gums. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “Satisfied?”
“Not nearly.” Gil shook his head. “You’re acting like a child right now.”
“I’m not hungry, and you’re forcing me to put food in my mouth, and -” Rupert stopped and took stock of the situation. “You’re right. I’m acting like a child. I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize. Eat.” When Rupert made no move to do so, Gil narrowed his eyes. “Would Buffy want you to starve yourself?”
“That was low.”
“I fight dirty when I have to,” Gil said with a certain amount of smug self-satisfaction. “Now eat.”
Part 9
Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: PG-13 for the time being
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Rupert Giles
Type: Crossover with Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Summary: The best laid plans of criminalists and watchers sometimes go awry.
Author’s Note/Warnings: At some point in the future, the two of them will be having hot monkey sex. I think. For now, though, snark reigns supreme. This story is set during the summer between S5 and S6 of Buffy and between S1 and S2 of CSI. One last note - the Grissom/Giles icons that will accompany each part were created for me by the delightful wickedfox.
Feedback: Love it, want it, can’t get enough of it.
Disclaimer: As I’m neither Anthony Zuiker nor Joss Whedon, it’s a pretty safe bet that I own neither of the pretty men. If I did, though, if I did...
Part 1 can be found here. Links to subsequent chapters are found at the bottom of each posting.
~*~*~
Rupert glanced up when Gil returned with the sword. “If you would, please put it over there,” he said, indicating a side counter with a nod of his head as he continued measuring out ingredients.
“No.”
Surprised, he gave Gil a longer look. “I beg your pardon?”
“’No’ is a fairly straightforward word,” Gil said, holding the sword up in an en garde position before allowing the tip to drop down again. “How did you manage to hold this thing at her throat so easily?”
“Years of practice. What did you mean by no?” Rupert frowned slightly, trying to understand why the other man had suddenly decided to stop cooperating.
“Years? Do you often hold a sword to someone’s throat?” Gil lifted his eyebrows, evidently interested in whatever answer Rupert might care to share.
Declining to answer, Rupert focused on the sword. “Have you taken a dislike to the countertop in question, or is it simply that you’ve grown fond of the sword?”
“Neither,” Gil said pleasantly. “You’ll get the sword when I get some answers.”
Hesitating slightly - Rupert refused to admit that he was playing for time - he finally asked, “Answers?”
“Yes. To my questions.” Gil held the sword up once more, grimacing at the weight of it before allowing it to drop again.
“Questions.”
Gil gave him a direct look. “I’m fairly certain there isn’t an echo in here. What’s a Watcher?” Before Rupert could do more than open his mouth, Gil added, “And I don’t want you to tell me a Watcher watches.”
Rolling his eyes at the injunction, Rupert leaned hipshot against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. “Then answering your question will prove to be somewhat impossible.”
After a long moment, Gil narrowed his eyes. “Fine. A Watcher watches. What does he watch?”
“The Slayer,” Rupert said in a clipped tone. When Gil didn’t rise to the bait, Rupert sighed. “What do you know about demons?”
“You mean like Beelzebub?” Rupert gave the man points for not rejecting the question out of hand.
“Not necessarily the demons found in Christianity, but other sorts as well.”
At that, Gil raised an eyebrow. “You mean in other religions?”
“Generally speaking, no.” Rupert allowed the other man a moment to absorb that statement before he continued. “The world did not begin as a paradise -”
“I remember my geology lessons,” Gil said impatiently.
“Nor did it begin quite the way science would have it,” he said with mildly exaggerated patience. “For untold eons, demons walked the earth.”
“Demons. Like Beelzebub.”
“No. Not like Beelzebub.” Rupert took a step toward the door, then hesitated as he caught sight of the library. He stepped back with a small shake of his head. “Do you remember the book I pulled off the shelf earlier?”
With a distrustful look, Gil said, “Yes. What about it?”
“This is much easier to explain with visual references. The Morley compendium has a fair number of illustrations that will help.” When Gil made no move, Rupert snapped, “Do you really want to have to drag me out of there again?”
“Fine.” Still holding the sword, Gil went back into the library, leaving Rupert alone and muttering under his breath.
~*~*~
“Put simply, if you assume that most demons are evil, you won’t be far off.”
Gil rubbed his eyes. An hour after demanding answers, he had a great many of them. Too bad none of them made sense. He took a deep breath and nodded at the statement, thinking that if nothing else, at least that concept meshed with his Catholic upbringing.
“While in your world, police officers deal with human evil - criminals, rather, in my world, the Slayer deals with demonic evil,” Rupert said, sounding very much like one of Gil’s professors.
Gil cocked his head, and with a certain amount of whimsy, he asked, “Demonic criminals?”
“That description is more apt than you might think,” Rupert said wryly.
“What does the Slayer do? Arrest the demons and send them to jail?”
Pointing to a drawing of a Polgara demon, Rupert said, “Do you honestly believe something whose main purpose in life is to kill humans has any chance of redemption?”
“You’re saying that all demons are like that? That none of them can be rehabilitated?” Gil frowned. “How do you know there isn’t a sweet little old lady Polgara demon living on the outskirts of Reno?”
“I don’t,” he acknowledged. “Generally speaking, though, if a demon is attacking humans, it’s regarded as dangerous and should be killed with all due haste.”
Gil looked at Rupert over the top of his glasses. “But not due process.”
“Due process is a lovely concept when you’re dealing with humans - or at least ordinary humans. When it comes to demons, however, the Slayer is the judge, jury and executioner,” he answered, looking down.
“What gives him that right?”
“The Slayer is always a girl, and she’s given that right by the Powers That Be.” He said softly, “She alone is chosen among her generation to fight the forces of evil.”
“That sounds like something in a comic book.”
Rupert shrugged as he examined his shoes. “I didn’t write the speech. I merely gave it the first time I met Buffy.”
Gil heard the grief in Rupert’s voice, and he asked carefully, “Buffy?”
“My Slayer.”
“That woman offered condolences on the loss of your Slayer.” When Rupert nodded, Gil asked, “Is she the one you lost in February?”
“No. That was Joyce, Buffy’s mother,” Rupert said, his lips tightening. “She died of complications following surgery for the removal of a brain tumor.”
“So Buffy was the one you lost a month ago?”
“Six weeks and five days ago,” Rupert said tightly. He straightened up and turned back to the cauldron on the counter.
“How did she die?”
“If you’ll put the sword down over here, I can begin working on the spell.” Rupert opened a bottle of dried beetle wings and picked up a pair of tweezers. He began to carefully pull out wings, one by one.
“Rupert?” Gil stepped forward.
“Just a few more things, and then I can make my circle and ver -” Rupert voice broke. He swallowed hard and continued, his gaze concentrated on the cauldron before him. “And I can verify what Ms. Morgan said.”
He stepped close enough to reach out and touch Rupert’s shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation, Gil did just that. “How did she die?”
“I’m really not up to this round of twenty questions,” Rupert said, giving Gil a pleading look. “Can’t you just let me do the spell?”
Gil put the sword on the counter. When Rupert reached for it, he stopped him and said gently, “You can’t avoid the grief forever, you know. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up to you.”
Rupert shook his head. “I haven’t - I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
Pursing his lips, Rupert looked away.
“Can’t what, Rupert?” The question was no less insistent, for all that Gil asked gently.
His voice clipped, Rupert said, “I can’t seem to cry for her. I’ve tried, but -” He looked directly at Gil. “I worked with her for five years, guided her, taught her, learned from her, loved her - yet still, I can’t seem to cry for her.”
“I’m sorry,” Gil said. “I don’t have any answers for you, but I can tell you that everyone grieves in their own way and that sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“Right. Talking about it.” A bitter laugh escaped Rupert’s rigid control. “My choice of confessors is limited to a group of teenagers who have a hard time seeing me as human, let alone someone in mourning, or my colleagues, who view the death of a Slayer as business as usual.”
His hand still on Rupert’s back, Gil steered him toward the door. “You can add a skeptical CSI to the list. Let’s see just how good the scotch is, okay?”
~*~*~
Back in the room where they’d initially arrived, Gil stood behind the bar while Rupert stood in front of it. Gil tilted the bottle of Glenfiddich toward Rupert. “Another?”
Shaking his head, he put his hand over the glass. “No. One is more than enough.”
“Are you sure? I don’t usually prescribe a stiff drink - especially after someone’s already had one - but you look like you could use another.”
Rupert quirked his lips into a half-smile. “I’m certain, particularly given our location.”
Frowning, Gil said, “Isn’t this place safe?”
“We’re in the clutches of an evil law firm, and the operative word here is ‘evil.’” Rupert gave a last look of regret at the scotch bottle Gil held. “Leaving ourselves open by indulging in alcohol isn’t a good idea.”
“Damn.” He put the scotch back behind the bar then looked at Rupert for a long moment. “I meant what I said. I’ll listen to whatever you need to say.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Then what do you doubt?”
Caught, Rupert looked mildly embarrassed. “To be frank, I doubt your credulity.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything, in fact.” After noting Gil’s irritation, Rupert relented. “Look, when you get to the point where you can accept my reality as valid, I’ll talk to you.”
“I - I can -” Gil’s frustration was evident.
“You can’t even lie convincingly about it.” When Gil started to object, Rupert raised his hand. “I know you seem to recognize that we’re no longer in your lab, but you’ve yet to be convinced this is nothing more than an hallucination. Am I correct?”
“I -” Gil sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Give yourself a chance to acclimate. If you would still prefer to believe this is simply an elaborate hoax, I’ll -”
“Excuse me?”
Gil’s mouth dropped open as he saw what - who interrupted.
Rupert turned. “Yes? What is it?”
The thing smiled. “Which one of you is Mr. Giles?”
“I am. What can I do for you?” Gil stared at Rupert, as much for his courteous tone as for his apparent acceptance of - that.
“My name’s Clem, and I’ll be your servant while you’re here,” it - he said, his long floppy ears bobbing gently in time to his self-introduction.
“Oh? Tell me, Clem, have you worked for Wolfram and Hart for very long?” Rupert leaned against the bar, his lack of fear doing more to settle Gil’s nerves than anything else he could have done.
“Me? Work for Wolfram and Hart?” Clem laughed. “They wouldn’t hire someone like me in a million years. The worst I’ve ever done is cheat at kitten poker once or twice.”
Gil couldn’t stop himself. “Kitten poker?”
Rupert glanced back at him. “You don’t want to know. Trust me on this.”
Unconcerned by or unaware of the interruption, Clem continued, “No, good old W and H contracted me through Demonpower.”
Again, Gil couldn’t stop himself. “Demonpower?”
“Demonic branch of Manpower,” Rupert said absently. To Clem, he said, “Will you be with us the whole time?”
“No way! You two will only see me when you call for me or when I bring your meals,” Clem said happily. “Don’t worry about me getting in the way or anything. I promise there’s not a chance I’ll walk in on anything you two might be doing.” He followed his last statement with a broad wink, leaving neither man in doubt as to what Clem thought he might walk in on.
Rupert murmured, “Ms. Morgan strikes again.”
When it was clear that Rupert wasn’t going to attempt to correct the misunderstanding, Gil said, “We’re not -”
“Don’t worry about me! Discretion is my middle name!” After a pause, he said, “Actually, my middle name is Leslie, but don’t tell anyone, okay? The guys would just tease me about it.”
“I promise,” said Rupert in a choked tone. One glance at his face told Gil that he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Any-hoo, I’m not here to talk about my problems. I just wanted to let you fellas know that lunch is ready, and when you’re done eating, I’ll take you on a tour of this place. It’s really great here!”
~*~*~
Rupert moved his salad around the bowl, hoping Gil wouldn’t notice that none of it was actually making it into his mouth.
“Hey, Mr. Giles! Still not eating, huh?” Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on Clem’s powers of observation.
Ignoring Gil’s sharp look, Rupert stammered, “I’m not very hungry at the moment.”
“Spike told me you haven’t been eating much since - well - since That Day,” Clem said, setting a piece of shepherd’s pie before him.
Surprised, Rupert said, “You know Spike?”
“Sure I do! We play poker every Tuesday night. It took him a while to get in good with the guys, because of the whole demon-killing kick he’s been on since he got chipped, but he loses a lot, so they don’t mind too much.” Clem put another plate on the table. “If salad isn’t enough to tempt your tummy, here’s some mushy peas.”
“Mushy peas and shepherd’s pie.” Rupert’s voice was faint as he looked at the meal before him. “Wolfram and Hart has certainly done its homework, hasn’t it?”
“They sure have!” Clem put the final offering down - two pints of what was most assuredly good English beer - and said, “I’ll leave you two to finish up, and then I’ll be back with dessert. Hope you like spotted dick!”
Gil, who was in the process of tasting the beer, spit it out at Clem’s final comment. “Was that deliberate?”
“The timing? No,” Rupert said, his lips twitching with a smile. “The dessert? Without question.”
“Why?”
Taking in the bewildered expression on Gil’s face, Rupert said gently, “You shouldn’t have attempted to explain that we’re not lovers. Ms. Morgan is taking every opportunity she can to make you uncomfortable about it.”
Gil stared at him in disbelief. “What did I ever do to her?”
“You, ah, you arrived with me.” Before Gil could respond, Rupert added, “It might well have thrown her plans into disarray, having someone here who can possibly counter whatever it is that Wolfram and Hart has to say to me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Consider the library,” Rupert said with a direct look.
“Oh. Do you think there’s a spell on it?” After a brief pause, Gil said, “I can’t believe I just asked that.”
“I doubt very much that a spell is involved.” Rupert took a deep breath. “There really doesn’t have to be. They have enough rare volumes and documents in that room to keep me satisfied for a lifetime. I wouldn’t have left off if you hadn’t prodded me along.”
“They’re enabling your addiction,” Gil said thoughtfully.
Aggrieved, Rupert snapped, “I do wish you would stop comparing me to a junkie.”
“If the shoe fits -” Gil caught sight of Rupert’s face and placated him with, “Fine, I’ll stop calling you a junkie. But only if you eat.”
“What?”
“Eat,” Gil said, pointing at Rupert’s plate. “You’re just moving the food around on your plate and going through the motions. It’s not healthy.”
“This is absurd.” Rupert stabbed at the shepherd’s pie, but he didn’t raise the fork to his lips.
“Absurd or not, I can’t have you passing out from starvation. Eat.”
Rupert put a small amount of food on his fork and shoved it into his mouth, wincing slightly when the tines hit his gums. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “Satisfied?”
“Not nearly.” Gil shook his head. “You’re acting like a child right now.”
“I’m not hungry, and you’re forcing me to put food in my mouth, and -” Rupert stopped and took stock of the situation. “You’re right. I’m acting like a child. I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize. Eat.” When Rupert made no move to do so, Gil narrowed his eyes. “Would Buffy want you to starve yourself?”
“That was low.”
“I fight dirty when I have to,” Gil said with a certain amount of smug self-satisfaction. “Now eat.”
Part 9