One too many!
What a very apt title for a fic posting on New Year's Day.
This one is my contribution to the Drunken!Giles ficathon.
The prompt mentioned Giles, the Mayor and spiked punch! My story refused to go that way. In fact, I had to end it very quickly because, hey I don't know how to write that sort of fic!
Drunken Giles fic
One Too Many by Lilachigh
The wind whistling down the street and sniffing around Sunnydale’s civic offices was cold enough to prompt most citizens to pull on a jacket before they ventured out.
Rupert Giles stood on the sidewalk shivering. When he’d left home earlier that afternoon, he’d decided to walk into the centre of town, relishing the fresh breeze that reminded him a nice Spring day home in England. Now he was cold. He glanced at his watch; sadly it was too late to call in to see how his Slayer was this evening. The meeting of the Education Forward Funding Committee had droned on for hour after hour. Giles had missed lunch and now he realised he’d missed dinner as well.
Sighing he peered down the road for any sign of the cab he’d ordered fifteen minutes ago. But the street lay black and empty.
“Well, I can always walk, I suppose,” he muttered. “Exercise will do me good after listening to those idiots mumbling on.”
Just then a long black limousine pulled out from the underground parking lot, the rear window slid down and the Mayor of Sunnydale smiled cheerfully up at Giles.
“Mr Giles - are you still here? Well, now, that’s a silly question, isn’t it? I mean, I can see you. So, unless you’re some sort of ghost, I reckon that’s you right here.”
Richard Wilkins III, Mayor of Sunnydale, who prided himself on his sense of humour, laughed cheerfully and Giles smiled weakly at the joke. He didn’t like the Mayor that much - all that bonhomie, little quotes and sayings irritated him, reminding him far too much of his late history professor.
“May I offer you a lift home, Mr Giles?”
Rupert hesitated; glanced down the empty street once more, shivered as the breeze gusted again, then reluctantly said, “Well, thank you very much, Mayor Wilkins. If it won’t take you out of your way…?”
“Certainly not. I have an appointment out of town tonight - we’ll be driving right past your house.”
Giles slid into the back of the limousine. He had to admit that sinking into the soft leather upholstery, a carpet under his feet, was a nice change from a cab that would probably have smelt of B.O., socks and hamburgers. The only fault was an overpowering smell of cleaning fluid, but then he realised that the Mayor was probably one of those men who liked things really, really clean.
“May I offer you a small something to keep out the cold, Mr Giles?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly - ”
“Yes, I would usually agree with you - I am not a believer in hard liquor myself - I have seen too many disasters caused by imbibing too much. But you seem a little chilled and the last thing our students need is for their Librarian to fall sick and not be available to help them if needed.”
Giles frowned. Yes, that was certainly true. Not just for his students; he needed to be in good health to keep watch on Buffy Summers. Sometimes she could be - do - say - things that were unexpected and therefore dangerous. And she would often act against his advice - disrespecting his wide knowledge of the vampire and demon world. It was so annoying. After all, he could sense a demon at a hundred yards. It was all down to experience and training but Buffy often just disregarded his advice.
“Well, perhaps just a small one would be beneficial.”
The Mayor beamed, opened the drinks cabinet in front of him,
and busied himself with bottles and glasses. Giles took the proffered glass and sipped carefully. Then his eyes widened. “This is a very nice single malt!”
“Is it?” the Mayor replied innocently. “Well, gee, I’m delighted to hear that, Mr Giles. It was a present from - well, let’s call him a satisfactory citizen, shall we?” And he licked his lips reminiscently.
“Satisfactory?”
“Oh, I meant satisfied. Yes, I was able to help him with a little problem he had with zoning.”
Giles took a larger sip. He couldn’t remember tasting anything quite as smooth as this since his last trip home when Quentin Travers had poured him a drink in his office. “And the problem went away?”
“Yes, everything went away!” The Mayor had poured himself a drink and raised the crystal glass to Giles as they drove slowly through Sunnydale. “I wish some of our present problems could be dealt with as easily.”
Giles nodded. “You mentioned it at the meeting. You’re very worried about our Sunnydale youngsters, aren’t you?”
The Mayor nodded solemnly. “Now, I don’t profess to know as much as you do about teenagers - “
Giles smiled - he knew far too much about some teenagers. Richard Wilkins would be astonished. He took a larger mouthful of Scotch, surprised to find he still had almost a whole glass full.
“But it upsets and worries me that they seem to have no discipline, no respect for their teachers, no sense of responsibility, no - ”
“It upshets, upsets, me that sometimes they scorn good advice,” Giles interrupted. He hadn’t realised that the Mayor had such a clear grasp of the problems teachers had these days.
“I suppose it all comes down to leadership.” The Mayor glanced sideways at the man he knew was a Watcher to a Slayer. He didn’t mind about Slayers - he’d known a few over the years - but this one sometimes seemed to get involved in demon activity outside her remit of dealing with vampires. He thought it would do no harm to plant a few little hints and tips in Mr Giles’ brain about how to deal with Miss Summers and keep her in check.
“Now, I can tell that you are a man who has a good grasp of the basic concepts of leadership,” he continued brightly as he refilled Giles’ glass which had emptied quite rapidly.
Giles shook his head modestly. “Oh well, pubic school, univershity, all that short of thing, you know - ”
“Oh I agree. And it can’t be easy when your followers refuse to follow! Why, I imagine that you have to be quite strict on occasions, put your foot down, insist they obey your - rules. I mean your rules in the Library, of course!” he finished smoothly as Rupert Giles blinked, a warning light trying it’s best to shine through the alcoholic haze that was beginning to descend.
“Oh, in the Librararrryy - library - yes, of course. Rulshs, lots of very impotent, important! rules.”
“And if your students disobey you, I imagine you have stern punishments up your sleeve. Extra hours of study, perhaps?”
“Well - ” Giles found it difficult to imagine Buffy and Xander doing extra lessons as a punishment and Willow would think they were a prize!
“Because a leader can only be a leader if he has followers, of course.”
“Cshertainly.” Giles swayed gently and felt the Mayor’s hand grip his arm as the limousine glided to a halt outside his house and he almost slipped to the floor. “Lishen, please come in. Let me repay the favour. I have a bottle of branny, bransy, brandy! - that a friend sent me from England.”
He patted the Mayor’s arm, wondering why it felt so cold beneath the sleeve. Giles was beginning to feel that Richard Wilkins III was misunderstood. He seemed a thoroughly good chap.
“Well, just a small one, perhaps.” The Mayor smiled genially and left his hand casually on Giles’ arm as he fumbled with his key and finally managed to open the door.
Inside he gazed around, missing nothing. On the surface it seemed like the home of a man who enjoyed books, had an interest in music and a collection of old weapons on his walls. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet…the Mayor hadn’t survived all these years without an instinct for trouble.
But he could see nothing that should concern him. Rupert Giles had found the bottle of brandy and was pouring generous helpings into balloon shaped glasses. He turned to offer one to the Mayor, who niftily sidestepped before the contents of the glass could slop over his trousers. He took the drink, sipped and raised his eyebrows.
“Your friend in England certainly has good taste, Mr Giles.”
Rupert half collapsed onto the sofa next to him. “My friend? Oh yesh, good ol’ Ethan. A very old chum. School friendshes, you know.” He gulped down a mouthful of brandy and wondered exactly what the flavour was - not apricot, not pear, he couldn’t put a name to it.
The Mayor sipped his brandy. “Are you close friends?” he asked idly, enjoying the warmth that was flooding through him. He sighed; it wasn’t often he felt really warm. He was more the cold-blooded type, although he’d always thought he had a warm heart. Perhaps he should drink brandy more often, medicinally, of course.
Giles blinked back tears. “Oh we were very close once. I mean, well, very, very close. And then - ” He sighed tragically. “It all went wrong. I can’t - well, I can’t trust him anymore.” A shudder ran through his body as a sob escaped him. The Mayor tutted and flung an arm round Giles’ shoulders.
“That’s so verra, verra sad.” And he realised he meant it. Rupert Giles was a warm, kind human being and he hated to think he was sad.
Giles gulped another mouthful of brandy. “I know. I mean, did I tell you we were very closh? And he befrayed, restrained, betrayed me. I mean, have you ever been betrayed, Mayor?”
Tears filled Richard’s eyes: oh he knew betrayal. He loved betrayal: indeedy, he rather thought he’d invented it! He took another sip of this rather extranordinary brandy - really, you could almost imagine it had been distilled by some short of magic - and his arm tightened round Rupert’s tweed clad shoulders in sympathy.
“Who was it? Who hurth you, Rupert? Tell me and I’ll, I’ll - ” visions of what he could do roared through what should have been his brain.
“It’s because we’re different, isn’t it?” Giles said sadly, sliding down a little further into the sofa cushions. “Just because we don’t conform, people judge ush. It isn’t fair!”
The Mayor slid down next to him, wondering why he no longer seemed to have much control over his legs. He took a final sip of brandy. “You’re like me, Ruperth. We’ve sacrificed so much - friendsh, family, an ordinary life.”
“Family! Yes. No one cares about that.”
“I’ve always wanted a daughter, you know. You’re lucky. You’ve got your Buffy.”
“Buffy? Yesh! Buffy. Sorta lika a daughter.” Giles giggled. “Sorta daughta. That rhymes. Tell you what, Dick, old boy, we can share her. Share Buffy! Then we’ll both have half a daughter each.”
Richard Wilkins III, who had never been called Dick in his whole very long, interesting existence, smiled happily and wondered if good ole boy Rupe really meant sharing in a literal sense which would mean sharpening his teeth and not doing it inside the limousine because there were only so many blood stains that bleach could remove.
Giles realised the room was swimming round and round in an alarming manner. He peered blearily at the bottle of brandy on the table in front of him. A present from Ethan. The present he vaguely remembered he’d meant to pour down the sink because - Ethan!
He struggled to get up, but the sofa cushions were too deep and comfortable. He turned his head and found the Mayor smiling at him. What a good chap he was! Sharing a drink, understanding, sympathetic. Everything Ethan wasn’t. Of course - Giles found himself smiling back, he shared other things with Ethan that Dick obviously wouldn’t…couldn’t…but really he was a very attractive man.
The first rays of sunlight pierced through the widow and sliced into Rupert Giles’ brain. He moaned, thrashed sideways and fell off the sofa with a crash. His eyes shot open and he groaned as the headache thundered down.
“Dick?” he muttered, but, luckily, the room, like the brandy bottle, was empty.
Giles lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. He’d had a very odd, pornographic dream. And that was the very last time he would ever drink brandy. How embarrassing! He must have passed out in the Mayor’s car on the way home. That was because he hadn’t eaten all day, of course. He rolled over and clambered to his feet. He had to shower, get ready for work, for more training with his Slayer.
He tottered upstairs. Well, the only good thing, of course, was that after being delivered home by Mayor Wilkins, he’d had the sense to take off his shirt and trousers and go to sleep in just his boxer shorts!
end
This one is my contribution to the Drunken!Giles ficathon.
The prompt mentioned Giles, the Mayor and spiked punch! My story refused to go that way. In fact, I had to end it very quickly because, hey I don't know how to write that sort of fic!
Drunken Giles fic
One Too Many by Lilachigh
The wind whistling down the street and sniffing around Sunnydale’s civic offices was cold enough to prompt most citizens to pull on a jacket before they ventured out.
Rupert Giles stood on the sidewalk shivering. When he’d left home earlier that afternoon, he’d decided to walk into the centre of town, relishing the fresh breeze that reminded him a nice Spring day home in England. Now he was cold. He glanced at his watch; sadly it was too late to call in to see how his Slayer was this evening. The meeting of the Education Forward Funding Committee had droned on for hour after hour. Giles had missed lunch and now he realised he’d missed dinner as well.
Sighing he peered down the road for any sign of the cab he’d ordered fifteen minutes ago. But the street lay black and empty.
“Well, I can always walk, I suppose,” he muttered. “Exercise will do me good after listening to those idiots mumbling on.”
Just then a long black limousine pulled out from the underground parking lot, the rear window slid down and the Mayor of Sunnydale smiled cheerfully up at Giles.
“Mr Giles - are you still here? Well, now, that’s a silly question, isn’t it? I mean, I can see you. So, unless you’re some sort of ghost, I reckon that’s you right here.”
Richard Wilkins III, Mayor of Sunnydale, who prided himself on his sense of humour, laughed cheerfully and Giles smiled weakly at the joke. He didn’t like the Mayor that much - all that bonhomie, little quotes and sayings irritated him, reminding him far too much of his late history professor.
“May I offer you a lift home, Mr Giles?”
Rupert hesitated; glanced down the empty street once more, shivered as the breeze gusted again, then reluctantly said, “Well, thank you very much, Mayor Wilkins. If it won’t take you out of your way…?”
“Certainly not. I have an appointment out of town tonight - we’ll be driving right past your house.”
Giles slid into the back of the limousine. He had to admit that sinking into the soft leather upholstery, a carpet under his feet, was a nice change from a cab that would probably have smelt of B.O., socks and hamburgers. The only fault was an overpowering smell of cleaning fluid, but then he realised that the Mayor was probably one of those men who liked things really, really clean.
“May I offer you a small something to keep out the cold, Mr Giles?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly - ”
“Yes, I would usually agree with you - I am not a believer in hard liquor myself - I have seen too many disasters caused by imbibing too much. But you seem a little chilled and the last thing our students need is for their Librarian to fall sick and not be available to help them if needed.”
Giles frowned. Yes, that was certainly true. Not just for his students; he needed to be in good health to keep watch on Buffy Summers. Sometimes she could be - do - say - things that were unexpected and therefore dangerous. And she would often act against his advice - disrespecting his wide knowledge of the vampire and demon world. It was so annoying. After all, he could sense a demon at a hundred yards. It was all down to experience and training but Buffy often just disregarded his advice.
“Well, perhaps just a small one would be beneficial.”
The Mayor beamed, opened the drinks cabinet in front of him,
and busied himself with bottles and glasses. Giles took the proffered glass and sipped carefully. Then his eyes widened. “This is a very nice single malt!”
“Is it?” the Mayor replied innocently. “Well, gee, I’m delighted to hear that, Mr Giles. It was a present from - well, let’s call him a satisfactory citizen, shall we?” And he licked his lips reminiscently.
“Satisfactory?”
“Oh, I meant satisfied. Yes, I was able to help him with a little problem he had with zoning.”
Giles took a larger sip. He couldn’t remember tasting anything quite as smooth as this since his last trip home when Quentin Travers had poured him a drink in his office. “And the problem went away?”
“Yes, everything went away!” The Mayor had poured himself a drink and raised the crystal glass to Giles as they drove slowly through Sunnydale. “I wish some of our present problems could be dealt with as easily.”
Giles nodded. “You mentioned it at the meeting. You’re very worried about our Sunnydale youngsters, aren’t you?”
The Mayor nodded solemnly. “Now, I don’t profess to know as much as you do about teenagers - “
Giles smiled - he knew far too much about some teenagers. Richard Wilkins would be astonished. He took a larger mouthful of Scotch, surprised to find he still had almost a whole glass full.
“But it upsets and worries me that they seem to have no discipline, no respect for their teachers, no sense of responsibility, no - ”
“It upshets, upsets, me that sometimes they scorn good advice,” Giles interrupted. He hadn’t realised that the Mayor had such a clear grasp of the problems teachers had these days.
“I suppose it all comes down to leadership.” The Mayor glanced sideways at the man he knew was a Watcher to a Slayer. He didn’t mind about Slayers - he’d known a few over the years - but this one sometimes seemed to get involved in demon activity outside her remit of dealing with vampires. He thought it would do no harm to plant a few little hints and tips in Mr Giles’ brain about how to deal with Miss Summers and keep her in check.
“Now, I can tell that you are a man who has a good grasp of the basic concepts of leadership,” he continued brightly as he refilled Giles’ glass which had emptied quite rapidly.
Giles shook his head modestly. “Oh well, pubic school, univershity, all that short of thing, you know - ”
“Oh I agree. And it can’t be easy when your followers refuse to follow! Why, I imagine that you have to be quite strict on occasions, put your foot down, insist they obey your - rules. I mean your rules in the Library, of course!” he finished smoothly as Rupert Giles blinked, a warning light trying it’s best to shine through the alcoholic haze that was beginning to descend.
“Oh, in the Librararrryy - library - yes, of course. Rulshs, lots of very impotent, important! rules.”
“And if your students disobey you, I imagine you have stern punishments up your sleeve. Extra hours of study, perhaps?”
“Well - ” Giles found it difficult to imagine Buffy and Xander doing extra lessons as a punishment and Willow would think they were a prize!
“Because a leader can only be a leader if he has followers, of course.”
“Cshertainly.” Giles swayed gently and felt the Mayor’s hand grip his arm as the limousine glided to a halt outside his house and he almost slipped to the floor. “Lishen, please come in. Let me repay the favour. I have a bottle of branny, bransy, brandy! - that a friend sent me from England.”
He patted the Mayor’s arm, wondering why it felt so cold beneath the sleeve. Giles was beginning to feel that Richard Wilkins III was misunderstood. He seemed a thoroughly good chap.
“Well, just a small one, perhaps.” The Mayor smiled genially and left his hand casually on Giles’ arm as he fumbled with his key and finally managed to open the door.
Inside he gazed around, missing nothing. On the surface it seemed like the home of a man who enjoyed books, had an interest in music and a collection of old weapons on his walls. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet…the Mayor hadn’t survived all these years without an instinct for trouble.
But he could see nothing that should concern him. Rupert Giles had found the bottle of brandy and was pouring generous helpings into balloon shaped glasses. He turned to offer one to the Mayor, who niftily sidestepped before the contents of the glass could slop over his trousers. He took the drink, sipped and raised his eyebrows.
“Your friend in England certainly has good taste, Mr Giles.”
Rupert half collapsed onto the sofa next to him. “My friend? Oh yesh, good ol’ Ethan. A very old chum. School friendshes, you know.” He gulped down a mouthful of brandy and wondered exactly what the flavour was - not apricot, not pear, he couldn’t put a name to it.
The Mayor sipped his brandy. “Are you close friends?” he asked idly, enjoying the warmth that was flooding through him. He sighed; it wasn’t often he felt really warm. He was more the cold-blooded type, although he’d always thought he had a warm heart. Perhaps he should drink brandy more often, medicinally, of course.
Giles blinked back tears. “Oh we were very close once. I mean, well, very, very close. And then - ” He sighed tragically. “It all went wrong. I can’t - well, I can’t trust him anymore.” A shudder ran through his body as a sob escaped him. The Mayor tutted and flung an arm round Giles’ shoulders.
“That’s so verra, verra sad.” And he realised he meant it. Rupert Giles was a warm, kind human being and he hated to think he was sad.
Giles gulped another mouthful of brandy. “I know. I mean, did I tell you we were very closh? And he befrayed, restrained, betrayed me. I mean, have you ever been betrayed, Mayor?”
Tears filled Richard’s eyes: oh he knew betrayal. He loved betrayal: indeedy, he rather thought he’d invented it! He took another sip of this rather extranordinary brandy - really, you could almost imagine it had been distilled by some short of magic - and his arm tightened round Rupert’s tweed clad shoulders in sympathy.
“Who was it? Who hurth you, Rupert? Tell me and I’ll, I’ll - ” visions of what he could do roared through what should have been his brain.
“It’s because we’re different, isn’t it?” Giles said sadly, sliding down a little further into the sofa cushions. “Just because we don’t conform, people judge ush. It isn’t fair!”
The Mayor slid down next to him, wondering why he no longer seemed to have much control over his legs. He took a final sip of brandy. “You’re like me, Ruperth. We’ve sacrificed so much - friendsh, family, an ordinary life.”
“Family! Yes. No one cares about that.”
“I’ve always wanted a daughter, you know. You’re lucky. You’ve got your Buffy.”
“Buffy? Yesh! Buffy. Sorta lika a daughter.” Giles giggled. “Sorta daughta. That rhymes. Tell you what, Dick, old boy, we can share her. Share Buffy! Then we’ll both have half a daughter each.”
Richard Wilkins III, who had never been called Dick in his whole very long, interesting existence, smiled happily and wondered if good ole boy Rupe really meant sharing in a literal sense which would mean sharpening his teeth and not doing it inside the limousine because there were only so many blood stains that bleach could remove.
Giles realised the room was swimming round and round in an alarming manner. He peered blearily at the bottle of brandy on the table in front of him. A present from Ethan. The present he vaguely remembered he’d meant to pour down the sink because - Ethan!
He struggled to get up, but the sofa cushions were too deep and comfortable. He turned his head and found the Mayor smiling at him. What a good chap he was! Sharing a drink, understanding, sympathetic. Everything Ethan wasn’t. Of course - Giles found himself smiling back, he shared other things with Ethan that Dick obviously wouldn’t…couldn’t…but really he was a very attractive man.
The first rays of sunlight pierced through the widow and sliced into Rupert Giles’ brain. He moaned, thrashed sideways and fell off the sofa with a crash. His eyes shot open and he groaned as the headache thundered down.
“Dick?” he muttered, but, luckily, the room, like the brandy bottle, was empty.
Giles lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. He’d had a very odd, pornographic dream. And that was the very last time he would ever drink brandy. How embarrassing! He must have passed out in the Mayor’s car on the way home. That was because he hadn’t eaten all day, of course. He rolled over and clambered to his feet. He had to shower, get ready for work, for more training with his Slayer.
He tottered upstairs. Well, the only good thing, of course, was that after being delivered home by Mayor Wilkins, he’d had the sense to take off his shirt and trousers and go to sleep in just his boxer shorts!
end