Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I do not own Stargate: SG-1. I am making no money from this.
“Giles!” Buffy’s voice rang out from the hall outside the Head of Council’s office. He ignored it and stayed seated behind his desk, looking over the open book in front of it. He had stopped reading when his Slayer had called his name, preferring instead to take on the semblance of not having heard her.
The room was cozy, with dark wooden inlay and a red carpet. The walls were concealed by bookshelves holding the less dangerous of his personal collection, though one of the walls was entirely taken up by a weapons rack bearing swords, knives, and other blades of various cultures and time periods. Light was provided by tall lamps each in a corner of the room and one by his desk. The drawers of the desk contained various things he was working on at any given moment, some were amulets and rings bearing enchantments, but mostly it was taken up by his notes and observations.
“Giles!” Buffy called him again.
Smiling inwardly, Rupert Giles wondered how long he could hold out before she would push her way in and drag him out to see whatever it was she was calling him for.
He rose from his seat and began re-shelving the ancient books littering the sturdy oak desk. If he was going to be forced to abandon his work for now, then he would prefer to move the priceless resources away from where various liquids could be spilled on them. He was just placing the last of the books in between Demons and Magical Beasts of the Mediterranean
and Dimensions of Terror: A Study
when Buffy shouted for him again.
“GILES! Get out here and meet your grandson!”
He nearly dropped the book in surprise. He was able to keep it from falling, and shoved it onto the bookshelf without looking. Turning he made his way out of the office.
“Buffy, you haven’t gone and had a baby, have you?” He asked, stepping out into the hall. Buffy stood there grinning mischievously, Xander behind her echoing her expression.
“Well, in a way…” Xander said. He shared a look with Buffy.
She continued his sentence, “It’s totally not our fault…”
Giles sighed. “What’s happened?”
Buffy and Xander moved aside to reveal one who they had apparently been blocking from view. Giles stared at the teenage boy in front of him. Blond and dark eyed, he wore the same playful expression as the two adults. Oh, dear. He had a bad feeling about this.
Xander rushed to explain, “Halfrek stopped by, there was wishing involved-.”
“Jack made the wish, not us,” Buffy interrupted. The boy, who Giles assumed must be Jack, sent her an annoyed glance she returned wholeheartedly.
“And now Jack is ours,” Xander finished. Giles took off his glasses and began polishing them, the damn things always fogged up when he was startled.
“And I am his grandfather, how?” He asked, resigned. Buffy and Xander shared another look, Jack shyly sticking close to Xander. It seemed Buffy was elected to explain this time, as she took a small step forward.
“Well, we all decided that since none of us really have a dad and how you were always there for us, that you were kind of our father-figure,” Buffy said, looking him in the eye.
“So that makes you Jack’s grandfather,” Xander told him, pulling the boy over gently by the arm.
“Here, get to know each other, you can do the whole bonding thing,” he said.
Jack rolled his eyes, “I can take care of myself you know.”
He stood by Giles with his arms crossed, looking rather put-upon.
“Of course, but how will you be one of the family if you don’t meet all the members?” Buffy asked. Jack opened his mouth to respond, but Buffy stopped him, saying: “Rhetorical question.”
“Very well,” Giles said. He’d better get a longer explanation later, but seeing as how Buffy and Xander were dressed for Slaying, he’d let them go, just this once.
“What sort of things do you like?” He asked Jack, leading him off to one of the lounges. It seemed he’d be babysitting tonight. And here he'd thought he'd sworn never to do it again, after that time with Dawn. If Jack wanted to eat cookie dough and listen to aggressively perky music, he was out of luck.
“Fishing, opera, the Simpsons, seventies music, hockey,” Jack answered, surprising the Watcher. He laid a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder, guiding him toward the stairs and the lounge.
“Really? I think we’ll get on well, indeed.”
If this boy was to be a new ‘Scooby,’ at that moment Giles felt they couldn’t have found anyone better.
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