![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: A Proposition
Rating: Teen for mild innuendo
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kivrin
Disclaimer: I am not Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,or a pipe.
Summary: In certain quarters, an unemployed watcher is an interesting commodity.
Notes: Thanks tosahiya and glimmergirl for beta.
Word Count: 1,200.
Rupert had told Olivia that it was delightful to have leisure for his own projects, but the fact of the matter was that by the end of June he'd finished the four articles that he'd been working on when he left England, and he seemed to have lost the knack of starting something new. He'd tried to read up on Sumerian necromancy, NeoCeltic divination practices, the geological history of California, and all manner of things that had caught his eye in the course of other researches only to be put firmly aside with a promise of "Later." Invariably, however, he found his eyes straying back to the Diaries and to collected prophecies. He had resisted making up apocalypses to research, but he feared his strength might not last.
His routine, such as it was, now included lengthy mid-afternoon prowls in the produce section of Safeway, flights of culinary fancy like pain au chocolat (delicious, if a great deal of work) or cactus gallette (inedible), and (not unrelated) jogging twice a day.
On this particular Wednesday evening, Rupert saw the limousine from two blocks away, and spent the last few minutes of his jog wondering who among his fellow condominium owners might have lost a relative and how he might tactfully inquire as to whether blood loss had been a contributing cause of death.
He was, just possibly, desperate for activity.
Though the driver who stood nearby stirring the ice in his Big Gulp seemed perfectly human and at ease, the car's windows were heavily tinted. Rupert casually gave the vehicle a wide berth and took the steps at a slightly quicker pace than usual. Lemonade in the courtyard with a book and stake it would be, then. Just for an hour or so, long enough to determine which of his neighbors was affiliated with the limousine.
When he gained the courtyard, only one door stood open. His own.
"Come in, Mr. Giles," said the woman at his breakfast bar.
Rupert put one foot over the threshold and pushed the door back flat to the wall as he scanned the room. "You're too kind," he said dryly. If she'd searched his sitting room she'd done it carefully; his Nataraja statue still stood askew as he had placed it in front of the most volatile volumes, the handles of his desk drawers looked undisturbed, and there was still dust on the drape over his weapons chest. "To what do I owe this gracious invitation?"
She laughed and unhooked the heel of one sleek pump from the lower rung of his stool. The leg she straightened was long and shapely, especially when displayed in languorous motion. Rupert shifted his gaze to her hands, which were equally attractive (no rings, excellent manicure - thanks to Buffy he could now distinguish strip-mall nails from spa nails at five paces, though this was the first time it had been even potentially useful) but more demurely occupied in extracting a white rectangle from a black leather card case. "I have a business proposition for you." She handed him the card with one hand and took a chocolate-brown suit jacket from his coat tree with the other as she moved past him. "We could sit in the courtyard," she stepped into the sun, "but it's so much more intimate inside, don't you think? More comfortable, now that you can see I'm not," she turned like a model on a catwalk and rejoined him at the threshold, coat over her arm, before she whispered, "that way."
He'd hazard a guess that the perfume was as expensive as the manicure and the clothes. Her chocolate-brown skirt seemed to be painted onto her shapely hips, and her cream silk blouse managed to be flowing and clinging at once. Rupert felt very conscious of his sweatsoaked, misshapen jumper, loose jersey trousers, and dusty trainers. He risked a glance down at the card. Lilah Morgan, Wolfram & Hart, Los Angeles. "And what way is that, Miss Morgan?" he asked. "Not any way that balks at breaking and entering, clearly."
"You know. The big V." She - Lilah - laughed again, conspiratorially, before resuming her perch on his stool. She had high cheekbones and a wide, shapely mouth.
It was possible that he was more lonely than he had quite realized. Rupert raised his chin, checked the corners again for other intruders, and reminded himself sternly of the false Miss French.
"Sit down," Lilah urged him. "Have a drink." She reached through to the kitchen side of the counter and pulled a blue box close enough to open it. "Since I invited myself I thought it was only polite to bring a bread-and-butter gift." She drew a bottle out and showed him the label. "Talisker?"
"If you want to loosen my tongue you'll have to do better than ten-year-old." He strolled behind her to the kitchen door, checking the hallway as he passed, and went to the refrigerator. A courting call from Wolfram and Hart. There'd been tales about them at school, rumors that they were always desperate to snare a Watcher, that they'd offer one anything, including immortality. He'd always considered it rather a joke, but it seemed to be one with a grain of truth.
"Mr. Giles, it's not about what we want from you. It's what we can offer you."
Perhaps a large grain of truth. Rupert poured himself a glass of lemonade and did not think of what might tempt him. "Alcohol of tolerable quality and a moderate display of leg?"
Lilah's back stiffened and, as he had expected, the laughter fell away. "The most extensive occult library in this dimension. An archaeological department with a staff of seventeen. And revenge."
He took a long drink of lemonade and set the glass down on the counter between them. "You mean the Council?"
Her hand shot out and seized his unoccupied left wrist, pressing his hand flat. "I mean Angel." Her fingers curled around his, as if she could see the steel pins within.
Rupert clutched the edge of the counter with his free hand and willed himself to keep still, though the slight curl to Lilah's painted lips told him she could tell his heart was racing and his breath suddenly short. Her grip eased and she stroked the back of his hand. "How much mobility did you lose?" she asked, conversationally.
He swallowed.
"Twenty percent? Fifteen?"
It was only five. It could have been thirty; the surgeon hadn't been able to predict.
"The stitches I know. Thirty-seven. They gave you half a pint of blood and three liters of saline. Because he didn't drink from you. That wouldn't have been any fun. He just bled you bit... by... bit. And never paid." Her voice dropped. "We can squash him like a bug under a sledgehammer. You can hold the hammer."
With his free hand Rupert found his glass of lemonade. The touch of the cold, sweating surface against his palm steadied him. He drew his hand away from Lilah's fingers. "Charming as your hospitality is, Miss Morgan, I must be going now."
"Yes, I can see you have a very busy evening ahead of you." She slipped off the stool and swung on the impeccably tailored jacket. "Think about it, Mr. Giles. When the nightmares come. You have my card."
Rating: Teen for mild innuendo
Author:
kivrinDisclaimer: I am not Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,
Summary: In certain quarters, an unemployed watcher is an interesting commodity.
Notes: Thanks to
sahiya and glimmergirl for beta.Word Count: 1,200.
Rupert had told Olivia that it was delightful to have leisure for his own projects, but the fact of the matter was that by the end of June he'd finished the four articles that he'd been working on when he left England, and he seemed to have lost the knack of starting something new. He'd tried to read up on Sumerian necromancy, NeoCeltic divination practices, the geological history of California, and all manner of things that had caught his eye in the course of other researches only to be put firmly aside with a promise of "Later." Invariably, however, he found his eyes straying back to the Diaries and to collected prophecies. He had resisted making up apocalypses to research, but he feared his strength might not last.
His routine, such as it was, now included lengthy mid-afternoon prowls in the produce section of Safeway, flights of culinary fancy like pain au chocolat (delicious, if a great deal of work) or cactus gallette (inedible), and (not unrelated) jogging twice a day.
On this particular Wednesday evening, Rupert saw the limousine from two blocks away, and spent the last few minutes of his jog wondering who among his fellow condominium owners might have lost a relative and how he might tactfully inquire as to whether blood loss had been a contributing cause of death.
He was, just possibly, desperate for activity.
Though the driver who stood nearby stirring the ice in his Big Gulp seemed perfectly human and at ease, the car's windows were heavily tinted. Rupert casually gave the vehicle a wide berth and took the steps at a slightly quicker pace than usual. Lemonade in the courtyard with a book and stake it would be, then. Just for an hour or so, long enough to determine which of his neighbors was affiliated with the limousine.
When he gained the courtyard, only one door stood open. His own.
"Come in, Mr. Giles," said the woman at his breakfast bar.
Rupert put one foot over the threshold and pushed the door back flat to the wall as he scanned the room. "You're too kind," he said dryly. If she'd searched his sitting room she'd done it carefully; his Nataraja statue still stood askew as he had placed it in front of the most volatile volumes, the handles of his desk drawers looked undisturbed, and there was still dust on the drape over his weapons chest. "To what do I owe this gracious invitation?"
She laughed and unhooked the heel of one sleek pump from the lower rung of his stool. The leg she straightened was long and shapely, especially when displayed in languorous motion. Rupert shifted his gaze to her hands, which were equally attractive (no rings, excellent manicure - thanks to Buffy he could now distinguish strip-mall nails from spa nails at five paces, though this was the first time it had been even potentially useful) but more demurely occupied in extracting a white rectangle from a black leather card case. "I have a business proposition for you." She handed him the card with one hand and took a chocolate-brown suit jacket from his coat tree with the other as she moved past him. "We could sit in the courtyard," she stepped into the sun, "but it's so much more intimate inside, don't you think? More comfortable, now that you can see I'm not," she turned like a model on a catwalk and rejoined him at the threshold, coat over her arm, before she whispered, "that way."
He'd hazard a guess that the perfume was as expensive as the manicure and the clothes. Her chocolate-brown skirt seemed to be painted onto her shapely hips, and her cream silk blouse managed to be flowing and clinging at once. Rupert felt very conscious of his sweatsoaked, misshapen jumper, loose jersey trousers, and dusty trainers. He risked a glance down at the card. Lilah Morgan, Wolfram & Hart, Los Angeles. "And what way is that, Miss Morgan?" he asked. "Not any way that balks at breaking and entering, clearly."
"You know. The big V." She - Lilah - laughed again, conspiratorially, before resuming her perch on his stool. She had high cheekbones and a wide, shapely mouth.
It was possible that he was more lonely than he had quite realized. Rupert raised his chin, checked the corners again for other intruders, and reminded himself sternly of the false Miss French.
"Sit down," Lilah urged him. "Have a drink." She reached through to the kitchen side of the counter and pulled a blue box close enough to open it. "Since I invited myself I thought it was only polite to bring a bread-and-butter gift." She drew a bottle out and showed him the label. "Talisker?"
"If you want to loosen my tongue you'll have to do better than ten-year-old." He strolled behind her to the kitchen door, checking the hallway as he passed, and went to the refrigerator. A courting call from Wolfram and Hart. There'd been tales about them at school, rumors that they were always desperate to snare a Watcher, that they'd offer one anything, including immortality. He'd always considered it rather a joke, but it seemed to be one with a grain of truth.
"Mr. Giles, it's not about what we want from you. It's what we can offer you."
Perhaps a large grain of truth. Rupert poured himself a glass of lemonade and did not think of what might tempt him. "Alcohol of tolerable quality and a moderate display of leg?"
Lilah's back stiffened and, as he had expected, the laughter fell away. "The most extensive occult library in this dimension. An archaeological department with a staff of seventeen. And revenge."
He took a long drink of lemonade and set the glass down on the counter between them. "You mean the Council?"
Her hand shot out and seized his unoccupied left wrist, pressing his hand flat. "I mean Angel." Her fingers curled around his, as if she could see the steel pins within.
Rupert clutched the edge of the counter with his free hand and willed himself to keep still, though the slight curl to Lilah's painted lips told him she could tell his heart was racing and his breath suddenly short. Her grip eased and she stroked the back of his hand. "How much mobility did you lose?" she asked, conversationally.
He swallowed.
"Twenty percent? Fifteen?"
It was only five. It could have been thirty; the surgeon hadn't been able to predict.
"The stitches I know. Thirty-seven. They gave you half a pint of blood and three liters of saline. Because he didn't drink from you. That wouldn't have been any fun. He just bled you bit... by... bit. And never paid." Her voice dropped. "We can squash him like a bug under a sledgehammer. You can hold the hammer."
With his free hand Rupert found his glass of lemonade. The touch of the cold, sweating surface against his palm steadied him. He drew his hand away from Lilah's fingers. "Charming as your hospitality is, Miss Morgan, I must be going now."
"Yes, I can see you have a very busy evening ahead of you." She slipped off the stool and swung on the impeccably tailored jacket. "Think about it, Mr. Giles. When the nightmares come. You have my card."
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Thanks for participating!
~e!
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This line kills me.
The whole fic is wonderful: an clever idea beautifully executed.
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V. nicely done.
Oh, and did I say? Woot! \0/ for Kivrin writing Giles! \0/ Woot!
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Thank you so much.
*tucks your "woot"s away in treasure box for rainy day encouragement*
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*blushes* Thank you so much! I had the same feeling about there being such a lack of appreciation of his skills during that period.
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