Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Giles, Joyce, and all others are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB station. I’m just borrowing them. Please don’t sue me, all my money for the next twenty-five years will be going towards paying off my student loans, you won’t get anything. I don’t presume to own Starbucks or anything relating to it, nor do I want to.
Note: This story takes place sometime after “Anne”, it really doesn’t matter when.
Dedication: To wigginsy and the infamous “unknown” from the posting board, who forced me to look at things through Joyce’s eyes.
Rupert Giles checked his pocketwatch again, thirty seconds later than the last time he had checked it. He physically restrained himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation at himself. The longer he lived in America, the more he felt as if he had two separate personalities: American Giles and British Giles. Of course, the occasions on which American Giles outshone British Giles were few and far between. Nevertheless, spending so much time with Buffy and her companions had left him with some interesting (and distinctly American) habits. Checking one’s watch every thirty seconds when one is nervous. Rolling one’s eyes. Drinking coffee. At this last thought, he dragged himself back to the present. He was waiting rather uncomfortably in Starbucks for Joyce Summers, the mother of his Slayer, to arrive. At her insistence, he had agreed to meet at this particular spot to “just chat” as she put it.
Giles winced inwardly at that prospect. He had never been very good at chatting, especially with Joyce. The mother-daughter similarities were at times remarkable, and they were traits that he reacted quite differently to in one from the other. He was proud of Buffy’s nobility of spirit, disarmed by her insight, and alternately aggravated and charmed by her personable, outgoing nature. However, these same traits in Joyce elicited confusion, begrudging respect, embarrassing self-consciousness, and not a little fear.
“Rupert!” At the sound of his name, shouted rather loudly from the entrance, his head and several others in the shop shot up. Timidly, Giles waved Joyce over to the small table, blushing a little with the attention she had drawn to them. She rushed over to the table and, in a flurry of activity, seated herself, took off her light jacket, and arranged her purse next to her feet.
“Have you ordered anything yet?” she asked him quickly, digging into her purse.
“Ah, well. . .” he sputtered, unsure of what to say exactly.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m paying. Would you like a coffee? Cream, sugar?” Joyce blustered, once again standing.
“Oh, actually -” he started, once again cut off.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it. Be right back!” she called over her shoulder, already out of earshot. Giles sighed. He really only drank coffee at the children’s’ insistence. . . Buffy claimed it was the only thing that got her out the front door some mornings. He had to admit, it came in handy on the occasions when he needed to stay up all night to do research. He could tell why most Americans identified with coffee so much, the two shared many parallels. Both were strong and straightforward, never subtle. Coffee is as flavorful as Americans are colorful. Coffee can make you jumpy, irritable, and high-strung as American so often are. The drink is as hot as the people are hot-tempered. Both are always at least a little bitter about something. Giles managed a small smile as Joyce wove through tables to reach the circular one where he still sat. He still felt odd having a woman pay for and bring him his food. It went against all his ingrained manners, taught to him from a young age on about how to treat women. He had quickly learned, however, not to make American women feel inferior. They hate it with a fiery passion, they revel in their independence. He couldn’t help but recall Buffy’s early outrage at having her independence and choices in life taken away from her when she was called to be the Slayer. Joyce interrupted his train of thought, sitting back down in her chair with a sigh, and pushing a mug of coffee at him.
“Oh, what a day. I swear, running this gallery is more like - well, it’s more like the gallery runs *me*,” she sighed. Giles nodded and stirred a small package of sugar into his cup of coffee.
“Yes, I can imagine that would be very stressful and, uh, time consuming,” he remarked. Joyce responded by nodding slightly, eyes cast down to her hands which were busy fiddling with her large chocolate chip cookie.
“Ms. Summers -” Giles started, but was cut off briskly.
“Joyce, please. I don’t call you Mr. Giles anymore, and, well, you probably spend more time with my daughter than I do,” she pointed out.
“Yes, Joyce. . . what I was going to say is that. . . well, that you, you mustn’t feel guilty about not spending as much time as you would like to with Buffy,” he finished, unable for the moment to meet her gaze.
“How can I not!?” she exclaimed. “Look, I know that her. . . calling. . . wasn’t her fault or her choice, that there was nothing that could have prevented it, but Rupert. . . she’s my child. My only child. I feel responsible for everything that happens in her life. I can’t help but think that if I could somehow have been more involved with her adolescent years that, I don’t know. . .” she trailed off for a moment, a scowl creasing her features as she tried to voice her feelings. “That perhaps someone up there would have. . . passed her over or something.” Giles now stared at her incredulously. She actually felt like it was her fault that Buffy was chosen? The similarities just kept on coming. If she only knew how personally Buffy takes every little thing that goes wrong. . . but Joyce wasn’t finished speaking.
“I have wished so often that I could be there for Buffy more, but I. . . I was always occupied trying to just provide for her. My husband, Hank, he. . . he adores Buffy, he truly does, but he became such a workaholic. He was never around much, and always acted impulsively and irresponsibly. Sometimes I felt like I had two children,” Joyce laughed nervously. “Hank’s spontaneity and impulsiveness were what I fell in love with, but he never changed. When Buffy came along, I became the bad guy. She loved to play with him because he was fun, but I had to fill in when it came to discipline. I made her eat her vegetables, I made her clean her room, do her homework, get to school on time, come in at midnight on weekends. Then Hank’s work became his play. He never wanted to come in for dinner, so to speak.” Joyce paused, taking in a deep breath. “That was the main reason why we split up. I had to take in more hours after I became the curator of the gallery, and I guess that’s why I never noticed Buffy’s new. . . extracurricular,” she finished, taking another sip from her frapuccino. A long silence ensued as the two adults just sat, eating and drinking.
“You’re an amazing listener,” Joyce mumbled at length. Giles chuckled lightly, cleaning his glasses.
“Well, those five teenagers are my life,” he said seriously. “They’re quite bashful about talking to me directly, so. . . I’ve picked up quickly on listening. Even when they’re not saying a word,” he mused. Joyce shook her head in amazement.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she breathed, her tone genuinely awe-struck. “I can barely contain my frustration at one teenager!”
“It can be rather frustrating,” Giles agreed. “But really, they’re remarkable people.” Joyce looked at him questioningly. He sighed, trying to think of a way to express himself. “I suppose it’s a bit easier for me to look at them as people, rather than children, since I’m not their parent. I suspect it’s very difficult for a parent to stop thinking of their child as anything but that, even when they’re grown and moved out of the house for good. Probably because they have a tendency to act quite differently away from the home, more like the person they are seeking to become, not in a role, like daughter, son, or sibling. They are sometimes amazing to watch. They’re still children in many ways, but they’re almost adults. It’s a wonder to watch them grow and find themselves. It’s tremendously easy to see their mistakes, having lived over them yourself, but they’re just feeling things out. They swing drastically from operating on instinct to acting cautiously from lessons already learned. They haven’t yet begun to harden themselves to the rest of the world, they walk with their emotions five feet in front of them and their hearts on their sleeves, making it all too easy for them to get hurt, yet they’re willing to try again.” Giles paused for a moment before continuing. “These five children especially have grown up so much so quickly. . . knowing what they know about evil, both human and supernatural, has made them more aware and appreciative of the times they spend in the sun. I find myself able to relive all of what they are just experiencing for the first time, and it’s touching and a little frightening to be someone that they put so much trust in. . . but I’m never suffering for company.” Giles stopped his speech abruptly when Joyce’s hand closed over his own. He looked up, surprised, to see Joyce looking at him with tears in her eyes.
“I’m so glad she has you. . . that you could be there for her. She’s never said so flat out, but I know that she loves and trusts you a lot. It’s the way she brightens a little when she speaks of you, the way she says so posessively ‘*my* Watcher’. . . the same way she always spoke about her father,” she whispered gratefully. Giles opened his mouth to protest, but she just shook her head gently. “I’m glad I can finally try to know her better, but I feel like I’ve missed so much, too much, already. . .” she trailed off, and Giles squeezed her hand comfortingly.
“You know, Buffy has a tremendous respect for you and all you do for her. It’s like you said, she will never come out and say it. . . but if you could only have seen her before you knew about her calling, you would know exactly how much you mean to her. Whenever there was danger about or a newfound evil to battle, her first thoughts were always of you and your safety.” Giles told her with the air of someone putting words to a secret held inside for many years. “She once confided in me, on an occasion when she had been grounded for a reason other than her unavoidable duty. . . she said something to the effect of: ‘And I thought taking care of the world was hard, taking care of me is a job worthy of Superwoman.’” Joyce began to laugh and swiped a hand quickly at her eyes.
“Ohhh, that girl,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair. She suddenly fixed a serious gaze on Giles. “Tell me about her. Tell me about them.” He looked shocked for a moment, then confused.
“I-I’m, ah, n-not sure-” he stammered, when he was interrupted by Joyce.
“What are they like? Alone, together? When they work, when they play?” Giles took a deep breath before he began tentatively.
“They’re a very close-knit group. Of course, dealing with something like vampires and demons will do that to anyone, but they trust each other with their very lives. That’s not a bond broken quickly. Willow and Xander have known each other since they were born, is my understanding. They’re all extremely loyal to each other, and they’re very protective of one another. . .” Giles continued for nearly an hour, talking enthusiastically about his charges. As he spoke of Buffy’s determination and selflessness, Willow’s brilliance and strength of heart, Xander’s sense of humor and bravery, Oz’s humanitarianism and unflappability, and Faith’s impetuosity and love of life, he sipped his cup of coffee. When had he come to enjoy coffee? For the longest time, he only drank tea. . . he couldn’t deny it, he really liked the strong bitter liquid. As he sat in Starbucks, chatting with the mother of his slayer, he slipped into American Giles without a hitch. And he smiled wider than he had in weeks.