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“Ethan, bloody idiot. Couldn’t even fathom that Little Ethan could possibly be his son, even though he’d just broken up with his mother,” Spike droned mockingly.
“Which one’s this Ethan fellow you speak of?” Giles’ finally asked. He’d tried to stay firm in his state of indifference in regards to this silly programme, but he had been forced to have it on an hour each day since he’d been keeping Spike in his home. If he dared to consider depriving his undead houseguest of such, the fits were worse than any Buffy would ever imagine putting up— not even when she’d wanted an entire night off patrolling for the prom.
“The tall one with the perpetual confused look on his face.”
“Ah, I see,” Giles squinted, slipping his freshly cleaned glasses back on his face to get a better look. Just as he got a good look at the good-looking, confused young man, the scene changed to the witchy old woman and her doll. From what he’d gathered, Spike seemed to watch mostly for them.
“Oh, Tab,” the vampire sighed. “What will she have poor Timmy up to now?” He shook his head.
“Why, do you think she’s up to something?” Giles turned toward him. That question earned him a look that seemed to call him dense without a single word spoken.
“You might have noticed, but I can’t exactly have a thriving social life at this time of day,” he said, waving out the window. “Must I also remind you that I’ve been around for the entirety of television history?” His attention returned to the aforementioned television box with rapt attention.
“Touché.”