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Watchers Unanimous
By spikeNdru, completed July 2003
PG
BtVS/Highlander Crossover
1040 words
BtVS – First half of Season 4
Summary: Giles is depressed, unemployed, not needed, out of the Scooby loop. He throws his guitar in its case and goes for a ride up the coast to think about what he wants to do with his life.
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Rupert Giles felt decidedly unsettled. His skin felt prickly and as if it were stretched too tightly over the underlying bone. The tea kettle shrieked, startling him badly. He rinsed the teapot with boiling water and discarded it. Placing a handful of loose tea in the pot, he filled it with the remainder of the boiling water. While the tea steeped, he went out to the courtyard of his apartment building. The air felt charged and he could smell the ozone, but the skies were clear. It appeared there was no storm in the offing, yet he felt . . . twitchy. His “spider sense”, as Buffy would say, was tingling. Sudden lightning in the northern section of town caught his attention. It was quite spectacular, actually. Blue-white and just bursting all over the place, but no thunder and no clouds. Ah, well . . . perhaps it was heat lightning.
He went back into his flat and poured a cup of tea, adding a spot of milk. He just couldn’t seem to shake this feeling of lethargy. He just couldn’t seem to care . . . about anything. He felt like a fish out of water with nothing to do and no one to do it with. He hadn’t had a close, male friend since Ethan during his university days, and no real romantic prospects since Jenny. Oh, he saw Olivia occasionally, but their relationship was rather. . . superficial. He had always led a rather solitary life by choice, but he hadn’t quite realized how deeply Buffy and her friends had insinuated themselves into his life until they were no longer there on a daily basis. He supposed it was to be expected—they were growing up, getting on with their lives, but he hadn’t expected to feel this bloody depressed! Could this be that horribly banal 'mid-life crisis' rot he kept coming across in periodicals? Maybe he just needed a vacation. A change of scenery would do him a world of good. And there was nothing really keeping him here—he was no longer Buffy’s official watcher since the Council had fired him, he had put himself out of a job as librarian by blowing up the library (albeit with the giant mayor/snake/demon inside) and Buffy no longer seemed to need him—days would go by without her even checking in.
Enough brooding! Getting resolutely to his feet, he packed his valise with the most casual clothing he owned, selected some of the weapons he was most comfortable with—his crossbow, sword and throwing axe—and carried his valise and weapons bag out to his car. He went back inside, rang up Buffy and Willow (naturally, they weren’t in) and left a message on their machine. He picked up his guitar case and left without further ado.
With no particular destination or route in mind, Giles decided to just drive up the coast, stopping when and where he pleased. This would be a perfect opportunity to think about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He chuckled self-depreciatingly—he supposed he was too old to become a fighter pilot, but he could always be a green grocer, if he chose, or perhaps a folk-singer. After all, with Faith comatose, Wesley had left to become a 'rogue demon hunter'. . .
By the time he arrived in Seacouver, Giles was quite enjoying his impromptu holiday. His trusty Citroen had been very well behaved and with each mile further from the Hellmouth, the miasma of depression and uselessness seemed to lift. He checked into a nondescript motel and decided to go for a walk to stretch his legs. He had a lovely dinner at a very decent Thai restaurant and then continued to wander aimlessly around the city.
His attention was caught by a great blues riff coming from a bar called Joe’s Place, as the door opened and a good-looking man exited the bar. Tall, dark, shoulder-length hair and a sense of . . . power. Giles looked closer—not vampire, but mystical power all the same. He vaulted into a vintage Thunderbird without bothering to open the door. The black convertible, the fluid grace—something about this man reminded Giles strongly of Angel, but though he could sense power and danger, there was no threat to humanity at all. Of that he was sure. The Thunderbird’s tail-lights disappeared as the man turned a corner and Giles entered the bar.
After ordering a single-malt Scotch, Giles sat back to listen to the blues guitarist. He appeared to be about Giles’ age or slightly older, with graying hair, piercing eyes and a neatly-trimmed beard. He had the type of face that is often described as “ruggedly handsome” and a gentle, calming aura about him. He was also impressively talented. Giles sipped his scotch and relaxed, losing himself in the music. He began to feel a sort of visceral affinity and bonding with the guitarist. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he felt he knew him as a person, through his music. The music spoke of pain and loss, of loneliness and hope and struggle and decency; of honor and despair and grief. Of striving to make a difference, and of trying to leave this world just a little better than you found it. The music spoke to Giles’ soul and strengthened it.
At the conclusion of his set, the man put down his guitar, picked up a cane and limped over to Giles’ table.
“You’re very good.” Giles greeted him. “Would you care to join me for a drink? I play a bit myself. I’m Rupert Giles.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Dawson.” Joe offered his hand and as Giles extended his to shake, Joe casually glanced at the inside of Giles’ wrist. Joe raised one eyebrow in surprise to find it unmarked. He had been so sure that this Rupert Giles was a watcher!
The End
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