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The afternoon light cuts through the high, arched windows of the estate, casting long, geometric shadows across the polished floorboards. Virginia stands by the window, her silhouette framed by the sprawling, pristine gardens she has spent a lifetime watching from a safe distance. She turns to face Wesley, her expression carrying the specific, heavy exhaustion that comes from a lifetime spent behind velvet ropes and guarded perimeters.
"I've spent most of my life in this room," Virginia says softly, her voice carrying a flat, resigned cadence. "Every time there's a threat, or a suspicion of a threat, the doors lock. The world keeps moving outside, and I just... watch it happen."
Wesley steps forward, adjusting the posture he has so carefully borrowed for this assignment. He sets his shoulders, adopting the brooding, measured stillness he believes defines Angel, though the slight shift of his weight reveals the nervous energy beneath the leather coat. "That caution is precisely what has kept you alive, Virginia," Wesley urges, his voice dipping into a lower, more somber register. "The forces after you are real, and they are patient. You cannot afford to let your guard down, not even for a moment."
Virginia looks at him, searching his face, before a subtle relaxation settles over her features. She accepts the stoic figure before her as the legendary champion she was promised. "Then I suppose I'm in good hands, Angel. My bodyguard." She pauses, a sudden spark of intent breaking through her quiet demeanor. "If I'm safe with you, then I want to go shopping. Now."
Wesley blinks, the stiff dark-avenger facade slipping for a fraction of a second. "Shopping? At this hour? Wouldn't you rather wait until—Rupert?"
"Cordelia told me I'd find you here," a crisp, familiar British voice cuts through the room. "Where are we going?"
Wesley pivots, his breath catching slightly as Rupert Giles steps over the threshold, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief before settling them back onto the bridge of his nose.
"Shopping," Virginia interjects, eyeing the newcomer with sharp curiosity.
Giles doesn't hesitate, adjusting his tweed jacket with an unbothered flick of his wrists. "On we go, then."
Virginia trails slightly behind as they head toward the street, her mind racing with silent deductions. She glances between the broad-shouldered vampire and the older Englishman walking alongside him with an easy, casually dominant air. She vacantly wonders what place this older man occupies in the creature's dark history—whether he is the one who turned him, some ancient sire keeping tabs on his fledgling, or perhaps something as mundane and sinister as a personal, willing blood bank. She says nothing of these theories, choosing instead to focus on the task at hand as they walk into the cool Los Angeles dusk.
"My father's fiftieth birthday is coming up," Virginia explains, her tone shifting to something warmer, though still guarded. "He's impossible to buy for, but he has this absolute obsession with ancient mythologies. Lately, it's the goddess Yeska. I want to find something authentic, something depicting her, but none of the standard shops carry anything like that."
Giles offers a faint, knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with decades of dark-archive experience. "I know just the place."
He navigates them away from the bright neon of the main strip, down a quiet side street to the *Liberate Emporium*. The shop is dark, the "Closed" sign flipped, but Giles approaches the front door without missing a beat. He produces a slim leather kit from his inner pocket, selects a small tension wrench, and picks the lock with practiced, effortless precision. The tumbler clicks open within seconds, and he gently pushes the door wide, ushering them into the dusty, incense-heavy interior.
Inside, the air smells of dried lavender, old paper, and stale candle wax. Virginia wanders down an aisle lined with brass censers and occult trinkets, speaking in hushed tones about the burden of her father's high expectations and the distant, complicated nature of their bond. Wesley listens, offering measured advice on familial duty, but his focus drifts. His fingers trail over a glass display case, resting on a heavy, silver-plated crucifix. Absentmindedly, he picks it up, turning the cool metal over in his hand.
Virginia turns mid-sentence, her eyes locking onto the object in his palm. Her breath catches. "Should you... be touching that?"
Wesley freezes, the blood draining from his face as he realizes the catastrophic flaw in his performance. Before he can stammer out an excuse or blow his cover entirely, Giles glides into the space between them. With smooth, practiced efficiency, Giles takes the cross from Wesley's fingers. He closes his hand over the metal, his eyes narrowing slightly as he murmurs a subtle, barely audible string of syllables under his breath. A faint, fleeting whisper of black magic ripples through the air—a tiny pulse of dark energy that softens the rigid structure of the metal. Giles applies a firm twist of his hands, and the silver-plated crucifix snaps cleanly in half with a dull, heavy crack.
"Doesn't affect him the same when it's made from crude material," Giles says smoothly, casting a fleeting, dry glance at Wesley before turning to Virginia. "This is just a tchotchke for tourists. Synthetic alloys, mass-produced. They keep the more serious artifacts down in the basement."
Virginia looks at the broken metal in Giles' hand, then up at his unflappable face, thoroughly impressed and utterly bewildered. "You've been here before?"
"I dabble in the black arts," Giles replies smoothly, brushing a dusting of tarnished metal off his palms. He turns toward the narrow staircase leading to the lower level. "Coming, Wes?"
Virginia's head snaps toward him, catching the slip instantly. "Wes?"
Wesley holds his breath, but Giles doesn't even pause. He turns back, his expression a masterclass in relaxed, aristocratic condescension, covering the slip with effortless ease.
"I suppose you could call it a nickname," Giles explains, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered. "It's a shortened version of his name before he was turned. An old habit."
Virginia glances between the two men, her suspicion melting into sheer intrigue. "And he lets you use it?"
"We have a special relationship," Giles says, raising an eyebrow with just enough cheeky audacity to push the conversation entirely off balance. "Don't tell me you're homophobic?"
Virginia's eyes widen in shock, her cheeks flushing crimson as she stammers, waving her hands in protest. "No! I didn't—no! Absolutely not!"
Behind Giles, the tension leaves Wesley's chest all at once, replaced by a sudden, lighthearted burst of relief. A genuine, unguarded smile cracks through his stern vampire facade. Stepping up behind the older man, Wesley looms over him, wrapping his arms around Giles' waist and lifting him slightly off the floor.
Predicting the move instantly, Giles mutters a brief, silent levitation spell under his breath, rendering himself weightless in Wesley's grip. Wesley lifts him easily, leaning in to press a warm, grateful kiss against Giles' cheek to punish him for the sheer cheekiness of the rescue. Giles lets out a low, genuine laugh, the quiet warmth of it filling the shadowy shop before Wesley gently sets his feet back onto the floorboards.