When You Are Tired of London
Part Six: Giles’ Morning
There should be, thought Giles, a limit to just how many times one should stop to ogle shoes when investigating mysterious threats from, allegedly, beyond the grave. Of course, he knew that expressing the illogic of stopping at every shop in Knightsbridge would in no way be a deterrent to Buffy, so instead he just rolled his eyes and took comfort in her, relative, restraint.
“What?” said Buffy, at the look on his face, “It was only a couple stops. It’s not like I’m making you carry them. Unless, of course, you wanna?”
“Buffy, you’re superhumanly strong and have endurance that by far surpasses that of any normal human being. You can carry your own fashion accessories.”
Buffy sighed. “No chivalry for the superhero.”
“You seem much more…giddy… than you usually do on a mission.”
Buffy smiled. “Well, we don’t usually end up anywhere… nice. It’s usually, ‘Ooooh, you go trek through the spooky graveyard, I’ll go crawl through the smelly sewers!’ There won’t be sewers, will there?”
“I don’t believe so, no. Moral cesspools, perhaps.”
“You really don’t like your cousin, do you” Which is weird because, identical?”
“WE ARE NOT….I mean, there’s no… I have better posture.”
Buffy gave him her best, winning smile.
“Whatever.”
Giles didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, but relief overtook him when he found the gallery he was looking for. It was one of those “contemporary” galleries, where—and he was quite certain of this—those bearing too much money and too little taste purchased formless sculptures as part of an elaborate practical joke perpetrated by the city’s artistic elite. He entered, and Buffy followed.
He didn’t see his quarry, and Buffy became seemingly hypnotized by a stack of precariously perched bronze rectangles that, he was quite certain, symbolized the existential angst of the Labour Party or some such silliness.
“Hmm,” said a voice from behind them. “Makes you long for the days when art meant something, doesn’t it? When form and expression could touch some deep recess of the soul.”
Giles and Buffy turned to see a large, older black man smiling at them.
“Rupert Giles,” said the man, seizing his hand enthusiastically. “Good to see you, you old dog.”
Much to Buffy’s surprise, Giles seemed oddly cheered.
“Buffy, this is the man I came to meet, Patrick. Patrick, this is my colleague, Buffy Summers.”
Patrick gently took her hand and kissed it.
“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Summers, although why a beautiful young woman like you is wasting her time parading around with this old man, is beyond me.”
Buffy giggled, but then quickly glanced to see if Giles was perturbed. He wasn’t, so she went back to letting herself enjoy the attention.
“I thought you said all of James’ friends were roustabouts?”
“Gadabouts. And they are. It’s just that Patrick’s the only likeable one in the bunch.”
“Well I won’t argue with that,” said Patrick, grinning broadly. “But you sounded rather urgent on the phone.”
“That’s my cue,” said Buffy. “Gotta motor.”
“I thought your appointment wasn’t until later,” said Giles.
“Much later,” said Buffy. “Hours. But there are shoes longing to be free now, and only I can save them. Giles, it’s my sacred duty. Nice meeting you, Patrick. Bye!”
And with that, Buffy left.
“Spunky girl, Rupert. A bit young for you, isn’t she?”
“Nothing like that,” said Giles, who found himself relaxing a bit for the first time since the day before. “She’s more like…”
“A daughter?”
“Perhaps. But enough about me.”
“Yes, you said James had been receiving threats. What kind of threats?”
“They were…” Giles struggled for the delicate way to phrase it. “They were evidently voices of doom from beyond the grave.”
“Really?” said Patrick. “How terribly exciting, although I must say I’m a bit disappointed it was James and not me. I’ve been dabbling in the occult for years, and haven’t seen a thing.”
“Dabbling in the occult, you say?”
“Why, yes,” said Patrick, quite proudly. “It’s all the rage in London. I know every medium between here and Surrey.”
“That’s not terribly far.”
“Not really, no. I’m working on expanding.”
Giles laughed, gently.
“So. Did James have any dealings with Mediums, or… or the occult, or any such thing?”
“James? I should think not. If it doesn’t make you money and you can’t stick your Willie in it, he loses attention right quick.”
“Yes,” said Giles, coolly. “He’s not very deep, is he?”
“No,” said Patrick. “He really isn’t. Of course, if he was messing with the ‘forces of darkness,’” he said, putting on his best melodramatic voice, “It’s only because he’s always wanted to emulate you.”
“Me?” said Giles, shocked. “Surely you’re joking.”
“Not at all. James has always looked up to you. He started smoking because you did. Bought his first Velvet Underground album because you liked them. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if all of the stupid, juvenile things he’s done with his life had been a vain attempt to emulate you.”
Giles was floored by this thought.
“But I…. I grew out of all that.”
“Not the Velvet Underground, surely?”
“Well, no, not that, but the rest….”
“And not the occult, either, I take it?”
“It’s not like it used to be,” said Giles, defensively. “I have… responsibilities.”
“Right,” said Patrick. “So you’ve grown up, gotten responsible, and you’re still cooler than he’ll ever be.”
“Well, I don’t know about…. Well, all right. But his… follies… are his own making.”
“Agreed. Never meant to insinuate otherwise. But still, I find it odd that you’re up here chasing some ghost on his word.”
Giles furrowed his brow.
“He’s family,” he said. “I don’t much like the prat, but I couldn’t not help. Not when I could make a difference.”