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summer_of_giles2015-06-22 08:58 pm
callievalpoli.livejournal.com) wrote in summer_of_giles2015-06-22 08:58 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Never to return again (pre-Giles/Wesley) R
Title: Never to return again
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
callievalpoli
Pairing: pre-Giles/Wesley, some Giles/Olivia, some Giles/Ethan if you squint
Rating: PG-13/R - For discussions of drug use and minor character death
Genre: Human AU, kid!fic, lawyer!fic
Summary: Rupert never wanted to have children.
Author's note: I may have written the last 3K of this fic instead of painting my apartment. Not that I didn't have time for both mind. I just may have been a bit too hungover to start writing until, like 2:00PM. Whoops! Unbeta'd. Concrit welcome.
*
Rupert never planned on having children, despite his parents’ continual tendency to mention grandchildren in the past few years. In fact, his former proclivities to sleep with anything with a pulse—and several things without—and a couple nasty motorcycle accidents from when he was at his most reckless had left him all but sterile.
There are ways to get around something like that, obviously. The modern age is nothing if not resourceful. But he’s really never felt the inclination. His life is plenty full with his hobbies, family obligations, and, most importantly, work. He feels no need to fill the hours with making a smaller version of himself and teaching it pleases and thank yous.
It might be different if he ever married, he supposes, but his long time on again, off again relationship with Olivia hadn’t ever been nearly stable enough to lend itself to developing a young person in body and mind. Besides, Olivia had always been even less inclined toward parenthood than Rupert himself.
(He had, at the height of his idiocy, proposed to Olivia. She had caressed his cheek and said, “Darling, you already have a spouse—your work.”)
(They were off again that time for more than a year.)
(Rupert never brought up such sentiments again.)
The thing is, Olivia isn’t wrong. Rupert is all but married to his job. In fact, in some ways his job is more commitment, time, and energy than any marriage would be. Giles, Travers, and Wyndam-Pryce is a legacy he was born into. His grandmother was the first female barrister in their county and built her practice despite having to fight for every small victory tooth and nail. Rupert can still remember the day his father had pulled him aside and told him of his future destiny, to be the next Giles at Giles, Travers, and Wyndam-Pryce. Rupert had thrown a tantrum, far too immature for a boy his age, and had told him that no, he would not, he was going to be a fighter pilot.
That was when he was ten, and he continued to fight his destiny for the next decade, doing everything against his parents’ wishes he could think of… Until, when he, at the age of twenty, came up out of a trip face down in a pool of his own vomit, needle still in his arm, with no clue what he’d taken, or if he’d even given it to himself.
(Ethan had not been so lucky.)
(He never woke up.)
Waiting for the HIV test to come back negative was the hardest hour of his life. He’d gone back to his parents, thoroughly subdued, asking for help. His parents had accepted him back into the fold with very little in the way of stipulations, merely that he clean up his act, and get his degree in law to continue the family firm.
Rupert had gone into rehab and come back out three weeks later a new man—a more subdued man. He never looked back, and the fact that the firm had hushed up any involvement Rupert had in Ethan’s death, if not the death itself, made it remarkably easy for him to do so. Now he lives for the destiny he once fought so strongly against. He works sixty to eighty hours per week, there before most of his colleagues in the morning, and staying long after they leave every night.
In fact, the only other employee who clocks even close to as many hours as he is that Wyndam-Pryce. Not Roger, but that bumbling son of his. Rupert can never quite remember the boy’s name—always just calls him Roger-junior in his head.
(Which is actually a bit of a disservice to Roger. The man may have all the empathy of a robot, but at least he has a modicum of common sense. Unlike his son who has, to date, broken the copier more than a dozen times, stapled his tie to his trousers, and somehow managed to set a brief on fire.)
(The lad doesn’t even smoke.)
Speaking of Wyndam-Pryce, he seems to be attempting to get Rupert’s attention. One hand is holding a coffee cup that seems to have lost some of its contents down Wyndam-Pryce’s front, while the other is holding a pad of paper, shoulder propping one of the work cordless phones to his ear. The elbow of the same arm that supports the phone is making a barely audible knocking noise against his door frame.
Rupert waves him in with a finger. Wyndam-Pryce—what is his first name again? Something alliterative, Wendall or Warren or, drat—grimaces a smile at Rupert and says, “Well, yes. He’s here now. It’s been a pleasure—er—a privilege—er, well. Well…”
He looks likely to continue talking himself into a corner, but luckily the phone, at that moment, chooses to drop the relative safety of the office hardwood. Rupert thinks about asking, but decides it will be quite enough to raise an eyebrow.
“I believe it’s a family matter,” Wyndam-Pryce says. He steps closer to Rupert, quite honestly, closer than Rupert’s ever wanted the lad. “I, ah, believe of a personal nature,” he says in a markedly lower voice.
Rupert would be more appreciative of his discretion if there were a single other body in the office in this early hour. His first inclination is to say something biting enough to the lad to make him leave Rupert’s presence for the next week or more.
But then he remembers his resolve he made when Wyndam-Pryce first started.
The lad had been simply impossible at first, blushing every time anyone spoke to him, let alone reprimanded him. And reprimand him they did. All of his superiors did it on a regular basis, but perhaps the most vitriolic tongue of all had been the lad’s own father. And that had made Rupert harken back to his first days at the firm, still wet behind the ears, and still hearing asides and underhanded compliments about his youthful indiscretions at every turn. Rupert’s always had a will of steel, one that might bend, but would never break. But Rupert could tell from the first few meetings of the Wyndam-Pryce lad that he was not so hardened.
He couldn’t do much to support Wyndam-Pryce, but he made sure to never say a harsh word to the lad. No matter how richly he occasionally deserved it.
“Thank you,” he pauses, still struggling for the lad’s first name, finally just adding, “Wyndam-Pryce.” The lad smiles and doesn’t seem to understand that for the dismissal it is, so Rupert adds a gentle, “That will be all.”
The lad nods and makes to leave, only to somehow catch the coffee cup inside the room. And then he seems to realize he’s holding it, darts back into Rupert’s office, and sets it clumsily on Rupert’s desk, knocking yet more of its contents out of the cup where it belongs onto his heirloom mahogany desk. He grins again, then his smile flattens out and he’s darting back out of Rupert’s office.
Rupert closes his eyes, shakes his head, and untucks his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping somewhat ineffectively at the coffee marring his desk. He refolds the no-longer-pristine square and throws it into the trash can beneath his desk, writing it off. He then circles the desk and picks up the, somehow, none-the-worse-for-the-wear phone.
“Hello… hello… Hello?” is coming shrilly from the other end of the phone line in a distinctly American accent.
“This is Mr. Giles,” Rupert says, returning to his desk chair. “May I ask to whom I am speaking?”
“Mr. Giles? Mr. Rupert Giles?” the voice asks.
“Yes. Again, to whom am I speaking?”
“This is the LA West coroner’s department. I’m calling about Hank.”
“Hank?” Rupert says, trying to muddle through his mental fog to remember any past clients who may have gone under that name.
“Your cousin? Hank Summers?” The voice pauses for a second. Rupert vaguely remembers an offshoot of his mother’s family who has been overseas since before he was born. The voice continues, “He passed away yesterday morning. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Rupert pulls his glasses from his eyes and digs in his pocket for his handkerchief—which he then remembers is in his trash can. “Not to be blunt, but I’ve never met Hank. Is there some reason why you’re calling me?”
“You were named in his will. We were hoping to have you meet with his lawyer as soon as possible. There’s a matter of some delicacy involved.”
Cousin Hank doubtless had a mistress whom the wife didn’t know about. A name like Hank, probably the secretary. Or some crooked money dealings. Heck, for all Rupert knew of the man, he was involved in the drug market. He looks over his schedule for the next week and says, “Would Saturday do?”
The voice on the other end says, “I suppose it will have to.”
“Very well, Saturday then,” Rupert says and hits end on the phone call. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Hopefully he won’t need to give up his full retirement account to hush up Hank’s dirty dealings.
(He pretends not to notice Wyndam-Pryce watching him through his office door.)
(He definitely ignores the faint wave the lad gives him.)
*
“Finally, on the matter of Buffy,” the droning solicitor with a nameplate that has a very fitting ‘Smith’ etched on it says. Rupert feels himself straighten a bit more in his seat. This must be this mistress. Although, with Hank’s wife dead as well, Rupert’s not quite certain why he needed to come in such great state for a simple reading of a simple will of a simple man. Hank is not exactly rolling in riches, and he certainly is of no great import to his community. Rupert had read the local newspaper while waiting for the reading to begin, and other than a short blurb in with the other obits, Hank’s name wasn’t even mentioned in the newspaper.
“While there was a sizeable account set up for Buffy in the account of Joyce and Hank’s deaths, they recently made changes to where she would go after they passed. After Joyce’s parents’ demise, the will was rewritten. You are now Buffy’s caretaker, Mr. Giles.”
Rupert jolted forward in his seat. His mind was so set on this Buffy being a mistress that it took a second for his mind to go the proper place. Little Buffy must be the former Joyce’s little Pomeranian. Some people had the oddest attachments to animals. “Very well,” he said, thinking of just how easy it would be to conveniently ‘lose’ little Buffy before she even got on a plane to go back to England.
“Would you like to see her,” Smith says. “She’s in the other room.”
Rupert nods an accent.
“Don’t worry if she doesn’t take to you right away. It’s been an upsetting few days for her. With Mommy and Daddy passing away, well…” Smith seems to be one of those horrid dog people as well. “I’m sure the two of you will get along just fine.”
“I’m sure,” Rupert says.
And then the door is opening and Rupert is looking into big blue eyes that are full of tears. “I want my mommy,” the little girl says.
(Rupert’s fairly sure it won’t be quite as easy as he thought to conveniently lose Buffy.)
(He has never felt so helpless in his life.)
*
The first call Rupert makes is to his parents. The fact that it doesn’t go well lets him predict just how poorly the rest of the calls will go. “I don’t see how you’re even thinking of doing something like this,” his father says. “Just give the girl up for adoption and come back home.”
Rupert makes extra sure the towel tucked into the space at the bottom of the bathroom door is tight enough and says in as calm and measured a tone as he can muster, “Do you have any idea what the American adoption system is like? The girl is too old to even be placed in an orphanage. She will be shunted from foster family to foster family until she decides she can’t take any more and runs away. Do you really expect me to leave her like that?”
“Rupert,” his father chastises. “You don’t even know her. She’s not even blood kin. Hank isn’t even your cousin, not really. He was that bastard off-shoot of your mother’s side that she won’t even admit exists. You couldn’t even mention this child in polite society. And how, pray tell, do you expect to hush up the existence of a child?”
For a second Rupert bites his tongue. His parents helped him during his darkest hour. They were there for him when no one else was. But as soon as he starts thinking of someone being there for him, he can’t help but think how much someone needs to be there for the little girl in the other room. “Really father? That’s the route you are going to take? How does hypocrisy taste to you? Because it sounds rather hilarious from your mouth hearing about how I should just give this child up when you were so recently attempting to pressure me into giving you grandchildren.
“Buffy is mine now, and if you would like to get to know your new grandchild, very likely the only grandchild you will ever have, mind, you can contact me at any time.”
He waits for a second for a response.
Eventually he hits the end call button with a trembling finger.
(He didn’t expect his father to suddenly extend his full support.)
(He still wanted him to.)
*
Buffy cried herself to sleep before they even got to the hotel, which is rather lucky, considering how she’d been kicking and punching at him when she first met him. If he’d had to carry her inside like that, he is certain the police would be at his door before the ink was even dried on the paperwork saying Buffy was now essentially his.
Between phone calls, Rupert pokes his head out into the main room and makes sure she’s still sleeping soundly. She’s curled into a tight ball in one corner of the bed, a stuffed pig held close to her face.
The next call is in some ways easier to make. He’s rather more certain of the outcome ahead of time, so that makes it more predictable, anyhow.
“Giles, Travers, and Wyndam-Pryce. Wesley speaking,” comes the voice from the office.
And yes, the lad’s name is Wesley. Not that Rupert will likely ever need it again. “Wesley, could you connect me with your father?”
“Ah, uhm, Mr. Giles. How was your trip? I mean, I’m sorry for your loss,” Wesley stammers.
“Wesley. Your father,” Rupert says.
“Ah. Yes,” Wesley says.
And then the line is connecting with a classic briiiiing, briiiiing, and Roger is says, “This is Wyndam-Pryce.”
“Roger. It’s Rupert,” Rupert says.
“Rupert, my lad. How is sunny California? Have a nice fling or two with a bikini-clad beauty?” Roger says.
“Actually, my time here has been spent under less pleasant circumstances,” Rupert says.
“I’m sorry to hear that. A death in the family?” Roger says.
“A cousin,” Rupert says.
Roger makes the odd tut-tut noise he makes whenever he doesn’t actually know what to say—basically any time feelings are required to form an empathic response.
“He had a daughter. An eight-year-old girl. I was named the guardian.”
“Well, we can find a loop-hole, I’m sure,” Roger says.
Rupert sighs. He looks at his glasses, already propped on the top of the toilet from the last conversation.
“We aren’t going to,” Rupert says.
Rupert can actually hear Roger straighten in his chair at that. “Is this cousin someone I know? Is this person of any worth?”
“Not to anyone other than the little girl in the other room,” Rupert says with a wry smile on his face.
“And I can’t change your mind about this whole adoption business?” Roger says.
“No, I’m afraid you can’t.”
The chair creaks again. Roger settling back in it this time. “I expect your resignation in my office by Thursday.”
“Right,” Rupert says. There’s the click of phone in cradle, and then, there seems to be a gasp, followed by the deadness of a dropped call.
(It could just be the crackling connection of an international call.)
(Rupert is pretty sure it isn’t the connection.)
*
The last call Rupert makes is definitely the hardest he has to make. She answers the phone, “Ripper.” She’s really the only one who calls him that anymore.
“Olivia,” Rupert says.
“Something’s happened,” she says. They know each other so well. Too well, really.
“Something’s happened.” He suddenly finds it hard to swallow. He’s not quite sure why. “I know you turned me down before when I asked you about being a wife—“
“Ripper,” she tries to interrupt him.
“—but what about being a mother?”
The other end of the line is completely dead. For a minute he thinks the call has dropped. And then he hears her whiskey rough chuckle.
“I’m serious.”
The laughter ends abruptly. “What happened.”
“A cousin. He passed. Car accident and all that. No family to speak of.” He doesn’t even pause before adding, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
He can hear the smile in her voice. “That’s because you aren’t going to like the answer. Ripper, I’m not meant to be anyone’s mother.”
He sighs. Or rather, he means to sigh. It comes out more a sob. “Then how am I to be a father?”
“Ripper, you’ll be fine. You’ll be good at this.”
“Right. I’ll be excellent at fathering an eight-year-old Californian girl. Whom I’ve never met before. Oh, and did I mention, I’m currently jobless.”
She laughs again, lighter this time. “Stop bitching, darling. Sometimes you’re more of a drama queen than I am. You know you’ll end up on top. You always do.”
“I don’t think I can do this, Olivia.”
“Well, I know you can Ripper.” Olivia’s voice has confidence in spades. Rupert wishes he could feel an ounce of it. “And just because I’m not signing up for mommy duty, doesn’t mean I won’t be here. If you need anything, just give me a call. Only—“
He cuts her off before she can finish, “We’re breaking it off?” he says with a weak smile.
“Right. Only this time it will be a bit more permanent.”
Rupert swallows hard. “Right.”
“I love you, Ripper. I just—I think it’s time we give this song and dance up. Don’t you?” Olivia says.
“I love you Olivia.”
“Stay in touch, you prat. You staying overseas?”
“For the time being. Maybe,” Rupert says. He has no idea how he’s supposed to go about getting a green card. Or how he’s supposed to convince an eight-year-old girl it’s for the best for her to go to England.
“Talk soon. You’ll be a great father, dear.”
“I wish I could believe you,” Rupert says.
“Okay, I’m hanging up now. The fact that we’re not dating any longer means I don’t need to listen to you being maudlin.”
“Goodbye, Olivia.” The call ends with a click. Giles gathers his glasses and suitcoat, and opens the door preparing for his check on Buffy, only to find her on the other side of the door, tears once again in her eyes.
(There are reasons he never wanted to be a father. Tears are definitely one of them.)
*
“Are you giving me up for adoption?” Buffy asks, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Are you putting me in the system? Am I gonna end up living in a cardboard box?” At the last her sobs take her over so she can’t even get any further speculations out.
“Buffy. Buffy, of course not. I signed the papers this afternoon.” Rupert tries bending a little until he’s closer to eye-to-eye with her.
“So—so what!” Buffy chokes out through her sobs.
“So, that means you’re mine now,” Rupert says, patting her on the shoulder.
“But, I’m all—all snotty. And I didn’t read that stupid dog book for English, and I probably failed the test. And I got detention last week for chewing gum during choir.” Her little shoulders slump. “I don’t know why anyone would want to adopt me.”
“Well,” Rupert says, pulling out his handkerchief, “luckily for you, I’ve already adopted you. Do you know what that means?”
Buffy shakes her head no.
“It means that I have to care for you if you’re snotty or you’re not. Although, if you wanted to blow your nose?” He holds out the handkerchief.
Buffy very snottily blows her nose.
Giles gets on his knees and puts a palm on each of Buffy’s shoulders, making sure he has her undivided attention. “It also means I’ll help you with your studies if you need help. And that I’ll chastise you if you get detention. But most of all, it means I’ll always be here to take care of you. No matter what.”
“No matter what?” Buffy says.
“No matter what,” Giles says, and tugs her little body into a hug.
(Behind her back he finds himself looking up at the ceiling, hoping to god he isn’t lying to a little girl.)
*
Sooooooooper seeeeecret Second Author's Note: (Hey, you. Yes you! You made it through this fic I threw together in a few hours while veeeery hungover, and only looked over once. Go team you!!!!)
So this is more complete than I thought it would be at 6:00 this morning, but certainly far from all I have to say in this 'verse. On the other hand, I'm not terribly likely to write the 20,000 more words or so I have in this 'verse (there's Giles forming an LA law firm with Lindsey and Lilah, and Giles adopting Willow and Xander--and obviously Wesley showing up in LA to help Giles with both the firm and Buffy...), UNLESS one of you all secretly loves beta-ing and is maybe English and maybe has any idea what lawyering is (like I don't even watch law based procedurals, people. I'm totally shooting in the dark here. All I have is one and a half watch-throughs of Angel and a lot of Ally McBeal when I was WAY too young to watch Ally McBeal).
SO, basically I'm pimping this out here, folks. I know I write better when I have an in-fandom beta/person to shoot ideas around with. I also know I'm REALLY BAD at being able to find in-fandom Beta's (is there a secret grapevine? of betaness?) IF you're interested, hit me up via PM on LJ or email at the same handle as my LJ one at live.com (I also have a tumblr and a kik under the same name... unless eventually those things disappear from disuse????)
(Come on. You know you want to! :P)
Author:
callievalpoliPairing: pre-Giles/Wesley, some Giles/Olivia, some Giles/Ethan if you squint
Rating: PG-13/R - For discussions of drug use and minor character death
Genre: Human AU, kid!fic, lawyer!fic
Summary: Rupert never wanted to have children.
Author's note: I may have written the last 3K of this fic instead of painting my apartment. Not that I didn't have time for both mind. I just may have been a bit too hungover to start writing until, like 2:00PM. Whoops! Unbeta'd. Concrit welcome.
*
Rupert never planned on having children, despite his parents’ continual tendency to mention grandchildren in the past few years. In fact, his former proclivities to sleep with anything with a pulse—and several things without—and a couple nasty motorcycle accidents from when he was at his most reckless had left him all but sterile.
There are ways to get around something like that, obviously. The modern age is nothing if not resourceful. But he’s really never felt the inclination. His life is plenty full with his hobbies, family obligations, and, most importantly, work. He feels no need to fill the hours with making a smaller version of himself and teaching it pleases and thank yous.
It might be different if he ever married, he supposes, but his long time on again, off again relationship with Olivia hadn’t ever been nearly stable enough to lend itself to developing a young person in body and mind. Besides, Olivia had always been even less inclined toward parenthood than Rupert himself.
(He had, at the height of his idiocy, proposed to Olivia. She had caressed his cheek and said, “Darling, you already have a spouse—your work.”)
(They were off again that time for more than a year.)
(Rupert never brought up such sentiments again.)
The thing is, Olivia isn’t wrong. Rupert is all but married to his job. In fact, in some ways his job is more commitment, time, and energy than any marriage would be. Giles, Travers, and Wyndam-Pryce is a legacy he was born into. His grandmother was the first female barrister in their county and built her practice despite having to fight for every small victory tooth and nail. Rupert can still remember the day his father had pulled him aside and told him of his future destiny, to be the next Giles at Giles, Travers, and Wyndam-Pryce. Rupert had thrown a tantrum, far too immature for a boy his age, and had told him that no, he would not, he was going to be a fighter pilot.
That was when he was ten, and he continued to fight his destiny for the next decade, doing everything against his parents’ wishes he could think of… Until, when he, at the age of twenty, came up out of a trip face down in a pool of his own vomit, needle still in his arm, with no clue what he’d taken, or if he’d even given it to himself.
(Ethan had not been so lucky.)
(He never woke up.)
Waiting for the HIV test to come back negative was the hardest hour of his life. He’d gone back to his parents, thoroughly subdued, asking for help. His parents had accepted him back into the fold with very little in the way of stipulations, merely that he clean up his act, and get his degree in law to continue the family firm.
Rupert had gone into rehab and come back out three weeks later a new man—a more subdued man. He never looked back, and the fact that the firm had hushed up any involvement Rupert had in Ethan’s death, if not the death itself, made it remarkably easy for him to do so. Now he lives for the destiny he once fought so strongly against. He works sixty to eighty hours per week, there before most of his colleagues in the morning, and staying long after they leave every night.
In fact, the only other employee who clocks even close to as many hours as he is that Wyndam-Pryce. Not Roger, but that bumbling son of his. Rupert can never quite remember the boy’s name—always just calls him Roger-junior in his head.
(Which is actually a bit of a disservice to Roger. The man may have all the empathy of a robot, but at least he has a modicum of common sense. Unlike his son who has, to date, broken the copier more than a dozen times, stapled his tie to his trousers, and somehow managed to set a brief on fire.)
(The lad doesn’t even smoke.)
Speaking of Wyndam-Pryce, he seems to be attempting to get Rupert’s attention. One hand is holding a coffee cup that seems to have lost some of its contents down Wyndam-Pryce’s front, while the other is holding a pad of paper, shoulder propping one of the work cordless phones to his ear. The elbow of the same arm that supports the phone is making a barely audible knocking noise against his door frame.
Rupert waves him in with a finger. Wyndam-Pryce—what is his first name again? Something alliterative, Wendall or Warren or, drat—grimaces a smile at Rupert and says, “Well, yes. He’s here now. It’s been a pleasure—er—a privilege—er, well. Well…”
He looks likely to continue talking himself into a corner, but luckily the phone, at that moment, chooses to drop the relative safety of the office hardwood. Rupert thinks about asking, but decides it will be quite enough to raise an eyebrow.
“I believe it’s a family matter,” Wyndam-Pryce says. He steps closer to Rupert, quite honestly, closer than Rupert’s ever wanted the lad. “I, ah, believe of a personal nature,” he says in a markedly lower voice.
Rupert would be more appreciative of his discretion if there were a single other body in the office in this early hour. His first inclination is to say something biting enough to the lad to make him leave Rupert’s presence for the next week or more.
But then he remembers his resolve he made when Wyndam-Pryce first started.
The lad had been simply impossible at first, blushing every time anyone spoke to him, let alone reprimanded him. And reprimand him they did. All of his superiors did it on a regular basis, but perhaps the most vitriolic tongue of all had been the lad’s own father. And that had made Rupert harken back to his first days at the firm, still wet behind the ears, and still hearing asides and underhanded compliments about his youthful indiscretions at every turn. Rupert’s always had a will of steel, one that might bend, but would never break. But Rupert could tell from the first few meetings of the Wyndam-Pryce lad that he was not so hardened.
He couldn’t do much to support Wyndam-Pryce, but he made sure to never say a harsh word to the lad. No matter how richly he occasionally deserved it.
“Thank you,” he pauses, still struggling for the lad’s first name, finally just adding, “Wyndam-Pryce.” The lad smiles and doesn’t seem to understand that for the dismissal it is, so Rupert adds a gentle, “That will be all.”
The lad nods and makes to leave, only to somehow catch the coffee cup inside the room. And then he seems to realize he’s holding it, darts back into Rupert’s office, and sets it clumsily on Rupert’s desk, knocking yet more of its contents out of the cup where it belongs onto his heirloom mahogany desk. He grins again, then his smile flattens out and he’s darting back out of Rupert’s office.
Rupert closes his eyes, shakes his head, and untucks his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping somewhat ineffectively at the coffee marring his desk. He refolds the no-longer-pristine square and throws it into the trash can beneath his desk, writing it off. He then circles the desk and picks up the, somehow, none-the-worse-for-the-wear phone.
“Hello… hello… Hello?” is coming shrilly from the other end of the phone line in a distinctly American accent.
“This is Mr. Giles,” Rupert says, returning to his desk chair. “May I ask to whom I am speaking?”
“Mr. Giles? Mr. Rupert Giles?” the voice asks.
“Yes. Again, to whom am I speaking?”
“This is the LA West coroner’s department. I’m calling about Hank.”
“Hank?” Rupert says, trying to muddle through his mental fog to remember any past clients who may have gone under that name.
“Your cousin? Hank Summers?” The voice pauses for a second. Rupert vaguely remembers an offshoot of his mother’s family who has been overseas since before he was born. The voice continues, “He passed away yesterday morning. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Rupert pulls his glasses from his eyes and digs in his pocket for his handkerchief—which he then remembers is in his trash can. “Not to be blunt, but I’ve never met Hank. Is there some reason why you’re calling me?”
“You were named in his will. We were hoping to have you meet with his lawyer as soon as possible. There’s a matter of some delicacy involved.”
Cousin Hank doubtless had a mistress whom the wife didn’t know about. A name like Hank, probably the secretary. Or some crooked money dealings. Heck, for all Rupert knew of the man, he was involved in the drug market. He looks over his schedule for the next week and says, “Would Saturday do?”
The voice on the other end says, “I suppose it will have to.”
“Very well, Saturday then,” Rupert says and hits end on the phone call. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Hopefully he won’t need to give up his full retirement account to hush up Hank’s dirty dealings.
(He pretends not to notice Wyndam-Pryce watching him through his office door.)
(He definitely ignores the faint wave the lad gives him.)
*
“Finally, on the matter of Buffy,” the droning solicitor with a nameplate that has a very fitting ‘Smith’ etched on it says. Rupert feels himself straighten a bit more in his seat. This must be this mistress. Although, with Hank’s wife dead as well, Rupert’s not quite certain why he needed to come in such great state for a simple reading of a simple will of a simple man. Hank is not exactly rolling in riches, and he certainly is of no great import to his community. Rupert had read the local newspaper while waiting for the reading to begin, and other than a short blurb in with the other obits, Hank’s name wasn’t even mentioned in the newspaper.
“While there was a sizeable account set up for Buffy in the account of Joyce and Hank’s deaths, they recently made changes to where she would go after they passed. After Joyce’s parents’ demise, the will was rewritten. You are now Buffy’s caretaker, Mr. Giles.”
Rupert jolted forward in his seat. His mind was so set on this Buffy being a mistress that it took a second for his mind to go the proper place. Little Buffy must be the former Joyce’s little Pomeranian. Some people had the oddest attachments to animals. “Very well,” he said, thinking of just how easy it would be to conveniently ‘lose’ little Buffy before she even got on a plane to go back to England.
“Would you like to see her,” Smith says. “She’s in the other room.”
Rupert nods an accent.
“Don’t worry if she doesn’t take to you right away. It’s been an upsetting few days for her. With Mommy and Daddy passing away, well…” Smith seems to be one of those horrid dog people as well. “I’m sure the two of you will get along just fine.”
“I’m sure,” Rupert says.
And then the door is opening and Rupert is looking into big blue eyes that are full of tears. “I want my mommy,” the little girl says.
(Rupert’s fairly sure it won’t be quite as easy as he thought to conveniently lose Buffy.)
(He has never felt so helpless in his life.)
*
The first call Rupert makes is to his parents. The fact that it doesn’t go well lets him predict just how poorly the rest of the calls will go. “I don’t see how you’re even thinking of doing something like this,” his father says. “Just give the girl up for adoption and come back home.”
Rupert makes extra sure the towel tucked into the space at the bottom of the bathroom door is tight enough and says in as calm and measured a tone as he can muster, “Do you have any idea what the American adoption system is like? The girl is too old to even be placed in an orphanage. She will be shunted from foster family to foster family until she decides she can’t take any more and runs away. Do you really expect me to leave her like that?”
“Rupert,” his father chastises. “You don’t even know her. She’s not even blood kin. Hank isn’t even your cousin, not really. He was that bastard off-shoot of your mother’s side that she won’t even admit exists. You couldn’t even mention this child in polite society. And how, pray tell, do you expect to hush up the existence of a child?”
For a second Rupert bites his tongue. His parents helped him during his darkest hour. They were there for him when no one else was. But as soon as he starts thinking of someone being there for him, he can’t help but think how much someone needs to be there for the little girl in the other room. “Really father? That’s the route you are going to take? How does hypocrisy taste to you? Because it sounds rather hilarious from your mouth hearing about how I should just give this child up when you were so recently attempting to pressure me into giving you grandchildren.
“Buffy is mine now, and if you would like to get to know your new grandchild, very likely the only grandchild you will ever have, mind, you can contact me at any time.”
He waits for a second for a response.
Eventually he hits the end call button with a trembling finger.
(He didn’t expect his father to suddenly extend his full support.)
(He still wanted him to.)
*
Buffy cried herself to sleep before they even got to the hotel, which is rather lucky, considering how she’d been kicking and punching at him when she first met him. If he’d had to carry her inside like that, he is certain the police would be at his door before the ink was even dried on the paperwork saying Buffy was now essentially his.
Between phone calls, Rupert pokes his head out into the main room and makes sure she’s still sleeping soundly. She’s curled into a tight ball in one corner of the bed, a stuffed pig held close to her face.
The next call is in some ways easier to make. He’s rather more certain of the outcome ahead of time, so that makes it more predictable, anyhow.
“Giles, Travers, and Wyndam-Pryce. Wesley speaking,” comes the voice from the office.
And yes, the lad’s name is Wesley. Not that Rupert will likely ever need it again. “Wesley, could you connect me with your father?”
“Ah, uhm, Mr. Giles. How was your trip? I mean, I’m sorry for your loss,” Wesley stammers.
“Wesley. Your father,” Rupert says.
“Ah. Yes,” Wesley says.
And then the line is connecting with a classic briiiiing, briiiiing, and Roger is says, “This is Wyndam-Pryce.”
“Roger. It’s Rupert,” Rupert says.
“Rupert, my lad. How is sunny California? Have a nice fling or two with a bikini-clad beauty?” Roger says.
“Actually, my time here has been spent under less pleasant circumstances,” Rupert says.
“I’m sorry to hear that. A death in the family?” Roger says.
“A cousin,” Rupert says.
Roger makes the odd tut-tut noise he makes whenever he doesn’t actually know what to say—basically any time feelings are required to form an empathic response.
“He had a daughter. An eight-year-old girl. I was named the guardian.”
“Well, we can find a loop-hole, I’m sure,” Roger says.
Rupert sighs. He looks at his glasses, already propped on the top of the toilet from the last conversation.
“We aren’t going to,” Rupert says.
Rupert can actually hear Roger straighten in his chair at that. “Is this cousin someone I know? Is this person of any worth?”
“Not to anyone other than the little girl in the other room,” Rupert says with a wry smile on his face.
“And I can’t change your mind about this whole adoption business?” Roger says.
“No, I’m afraid you can’t.”
The chair creaks again. Roger settling back in it this time. “I expect your resignation in my office by Thursday.”
“Right,” Rupert says. There’s the click of phone in cradle, and then, there seems to be a gasp, followed by the deadness of a dropped call.
(It could just be the crackling connection of an international call.)
(Rupert is pretty sure it isn’t the connection.)
*
The last call Rupert makes is definitely the hardest he has to make. She answers the phone, “Ripper.” She’s really the only one who calls him that anymore.
“Olivia,” Rupert says.
“Something’s happened,” she says. They know each other so well. Too well, really.
“Something’s happened.” He suddenly finds it hard to swallow. He’s not quite sure why. “I know you turned me down before when I asked you about being a wife—“
“Ripper,” she tries to interrupt him.
“—but what about being a mother?”
The other end of the line is completely dead. For a minute he thinks the call has dropped. And then he hears her whiskey rough chuckle.
“I’m serious.”
The laughter ends abruptly. “What happened.”
“A cousin. He passed. Car accident and all that. No family to speak of.” He doesn’t even pause before adding, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
He can hear the smile in her voice. “That’s because you aren’t going to like the answer. Ripper, I’m not meant to be anyone’s mother.”
He sighs. Or rather, he means to sigh. It comes out more a sob. “Then how am I to be a father?”
“Ripper, you’ll be fine. You’ll be good at this.”
“Right. I’ll be excellent at fathering an eight-year-old Californian girl. Whom I’ve never met before. Oh, and did I mention, I’m currently jobless.”
She laughs again, lighter this time. “Stop bitching, darling. Sometimes you’re more of a drama queen than I am. You know you’ll end up on top. You always do.”
“I don’t think I can do this, Olivia.”
“Well, I know you can Ripper.” Olivia’s voice has confidence in spades. Rupert wishes he could feel an ounce of it. “And just because I’m not signing up for mommy duty, doesn’t mean I won’t be here. If you need anything, just give me a call. Only—“
He cuts her off before she can finish, “We’re breaking it off?” he says with a weak smile.
“Right. Only this time it will be a bit more permanent.”
Rupert swallows hard. “Right.”
“I love you, Ripper. I just—I think it’s time we give this song and dance up. Don’t you?” Olivia says.
“I love you Olivia.”
“Stay in touch, you prat. You staying overseas?”
“For the time being. Maybe,” Rupert says. He has no idea how he’s supposed to go about getting a green card. Or how he’s supposed to convince an eight-year-old girl it’s for the best for her to go to England.
“Talk soon. You’ll be a great father, dear.”
“I wish I could believe you,” Rupert says.
“Okay, I’m hanging up now. The fact that we’re not dating any longer means I don’t need to listen to you being maudlin.”
“Goodbye, Olivia.” The call ends with a click. Giles gathers his glasses and suitcoat, and opens the door preparing for his check on Buffy, only to find her on the other side of the door, tears once again in her eyes.
(There are reasons he never wanted to be a father. Tears are definitely one of them.)
*
“Are you giving me up for adoption?” Buffy asks, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Are you putting me in the system? Am I gonna end up living in a cardboard box?” At the last her sobs take her over so she can’t even get any further speculations out.
“Buffy. Buffy, of course not. I signed the papers this afternoon.” Rupert tries bending a little until he’s closer to eye-to-eye with her.
“So—so what!” Buffy chokes out through her sobs.
“So, that means you’re mine now,” Rupert says, patting her on the shoulder.
“But, I’m all—all snotty. And I didn’t read that stupid dog book for English, and I probably failed the test. And I got detention last week for chewing gum during choir.” Her little shoulders slump. “I don’t know why anyone would want to adopt me.”
“Well,” Rupert says, pulling out his handkerchief, “luckily for you, I’ve already adopted you. Do you know what that means?”
Buffy shakes her head no.
“It means that I have to care for you if you’re snotty or you’re not. Although, if you wanted to blow your nose?” He holds out the handkerchief.
Buffy very snottily blows her nose.
Giles gets on his knees and puts a palm on each of Buffy’s shoulders, making sure he has her undivided attention. “It also means I’ll help you with your studies if you need help. And that I’ll chastise you if you get detention. But most of all, it means I’ll always be here to take care of you. No matter what.”
“No matter what?” Buffy says.
“No matter what,” Giles says, and tugs her little body into a hug.
(Behind her back he finds himself looking up at the ceiling, hoping to god he isn’t lying to a little girl.)
*
Sooooooooper seeeeecret Second Author's Note: (Hey, you. Yes you! You made it through this fic I threw together in a few hours while veeeery hungover, and only looked over once. Go team you!!!!)
So this is more complete than I thought it would be at 6:00 this morning, but certainly far from all I have to say in this 'verse. On the other hand, I'm not terribly likely to write the 20,000 more words or so I have in this 'verse (there's Giles forming an LA law firm with Lindsey and Lilah, and Giles adopting Willow and Xander--and obviously Wesley showing up in LA to help Giles with both the firm and Buffy...), UNLESS one of you all secretly loves beta-ing and is maybe English and maybe has any idea what lawyering is (like I don't even watch law based procedurals, people. I'm totally shooting in the dark here. All I have is one and a half watch-throughs of Angel and a lot of Ally McBeal when I was WAY too young to watch Ally McBeal).
SO, basically I'm pimping this out here, folks. I know I write better when I have an in-fandom beta/person to shoot ideas around with. I also know I'm REALLY BAD at being able to find in-fandom Beta's (is there a secret grapevine? of betaness?) IF you're interested, hit me up via PM on LJ or email at the same handle as my LJ one at live.com (I also have a tumblr and a kik under the same name... unless eventually those things disappear from disuse????)
(Come on. You know you want to! :P)