Work Text:
Timeline: Post-Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season 7
Context: Following the destruction of Sunnydale and the activation of Slayers worldwide, Rupert Giles has assumed leadership of the reformed Watchers’ Council. Now based in Bath, he oversees a growing network of Watchers and newly called Slayers.
The Watchers’ Council Headquarters, Bath, UK – Late Evening
Rupert Giles stepped into his office more than ready for this day to end.
No lights.
He didn't bother.
The yellow hush of the streetlamps outside spilled in through the tall second-floor windows.
The Council building was quiet now.
Finally.
The new looming threat dragged him under endless meetings and hallways encounters that forced him to deliver reassuring lies.
He really had no idea how they would avert this danger this time.
He crossed the room, shoulders tight, hand already tugging slightly at the collar of his navy three-piece suit.
His shoes barely made a sound on the floor as he crossed to the sideboard.
The crystal decanter was half-drained.
Appropriate.
He reached for it, unfastening the cap with a sigh.
Glass in hand, he poured.
Behind him, from the shadowed space just past the desk, a voice, smooth and British, with that irritating cadence of command.
"England needs you."
The stream of whisky faltered, Giles paused. His head tilted, just slightly.
"And who exactly is the royal messenger this time?"
"The name is Bond."
He set the bottle down with a gentle clink.
Closed his eyes briefly.
"James Bond," Giles said, in recognition.
Then he turned, glass in hand.
Bond sat in the chair opposite the desk, half in shadow, half caught by the window light. Black suit. Perfectly still.
Giles took a breath through his nose.
"You're early," he said mildly. "Or rather, uninvited."
Bond's lips curved faintly. "Old buildings. Poor security. You should speak to your people."
"I'll add it to my growing list of calamities."
He didn't ask how Bond got in. That would've been redundant.
"I'm aware of your methods," Giles said. "Fast entries. Fast exits. Gaudy collateral left behind."
Bond didn't move. "Not exactly a fan, are you, Mr Giles?"
"Not a fan of the trail you tend to leave." He replied, sipping. "And I particularly dislike being visited by someone whose idea of diplomacy comes with a body count."
"That might be a problem. We're meant to work together on this job."
Giles scoffed under his breath. "Crashed cars. Blown buildings. Blood left for someone else to clean."
"I kill threats," Bond said, flat.
"Aftermath's is not my department. Besides, if someone's left holding the mop… it means they're still alive to do it."
Giles raised his glass, eyes cool over the rim. "Ever tried restraint?"
Bond's response was calm. Too calm. "Tell me, Mr Giles... ever killed anyone yourself?"
Giles froze. Not visibly — but something in him went still.
"…Yes."
"Then spare me the lecture."
Giles looked down at his glass. A self-deprecating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Of course he knew. They all knew. MI6 always did their homework. There's no sweeping the Sunnydale mess under any Persian rug.
He drained the rest of his whisky in one slow pull, then pointed vaguely with the empty glass.
"Oh, you're good," he said.
Not a compliment.
Not quite impressed. Not quite not.
He turned back to the sideboard.
Poured two glasses.
Walking to his desk, he added dryly, "I hope reading it was as unpleasant as living it."
Bond accepted the glass without comment.
Giles lowered himself into the chair across from him, calm, collected.
Their eyes met. Bond's were sharp, scanning.
Not hostile, but clearly assessing.
"I read the file," he said at last. "Supernatural. Demons."
He took in a quiet breath, as if weighing belief against protocol.
"'Things that go bump in the night.'" His lips pursed mildly.
He went on, voice flatter now, brisk. Like ticking items off a list he hadn't decided whether to believe.
"Rituals. Spells. Slayers."
Then, softer, like testing the weight of the word itself:
"Eyghon."
It hit like cold water. A chill under the skin.
Giles didn't flinch.
"Did the file include the part where I spent the next twenty years trying to make sure no one else repeated my mistakes?"
"Yes," Bond said. "And the part where they still did."
Touché.
One corner of Giles' mouth twitched. Dry. Conceding without a word.
He drank.
The tension between them dropped a notch.
Bond lifted the glass, pausing at his lips.
He breathed it in.
Sipped.
A flicker of approval slipped through.
"You came for something," Giles said, breaking the quiet.
"We're circling collapse," Bond replied. "And someone upstairs seems to think the old magic might still have a place in holding the cracks together."
Giles gave a dry huff. "Always lovely when bureaucracy remembers we exist."
He loosened his tie, finally letting the knot slip. Shoulders eased. The tension of the day was starting to slip into the whisky.
Bond let out a short breath. "Let's be clear. I don't believe in magic."
"Of course not," Giles murmured, rolling his glass between his fingers. "All the same, here you are. Slipping into my jurisdiction.
Across the desk, their eyes locked. Two men measuring each other with calm British precision.
Giles leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other.
"Well then," he said, "by all means, do share. And then we can both decide whether there's any point in keeping up this pretense of mutual disdain."
He smirked over the rim of his glass.
Bond raised his drink, letting that crooked smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, you are good Mr Giles. But I must warn you, you won't like the details."
"I rarely do." Giles lifted his own, meeting the moment with a wry salute. "Which is why I never drink for clarity."
The End