Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, I'm borrowing them purely for my own amusement.
Giles rolled over in the empty – wait! Not so empty bed. There was a lithesome blonde asleep next to him. From the smell of the sheets, he guess that he had spent the forgotten evening indulging both in alcohol and sex. In fact, the room had a funny scent to it that indicated that not only had he had sex, but he had performed a bacchanalian ritual spell that he had not used since his college days. The long-forgotten rat-a-tat in his head confirmed that he had overindulged both in alcohol and magic. By forty-eight, you'd think he'd outgrown such stupidity. He looked over at the sleeping woman. At least, by all accounts, she was a woman – not a child. At least in her thirties, plenty old enough to know what she was getting into. And a pretty woman at that. Even blind drunk, he had to admit he had taste. Unless she was a prostitute. While a prostitute was unlikely to stay the night, the bacchanalia spell would have knocked out all but the most head-blind to magic until mid-morning He wasn't that stupid was he?. He sat up in alarm and looked around the room. A tasteful rose-colored wool skirt and black silk blouse lay neatly over a chair near the window. Giles breathed a sigh of relief. Not that stupid. At least, not that incredibly stupid.
Three days before his mother had called him to say that Ethan had died. Well, not died, exactly. Ethan had been mauled to death by a pack of werewolves outside St. Louis. Giles had taken leave from the council and arrived in Vegas eight hours later with the sole intention of getting drunk and high, and perhaps catching a few shows in between bouts of excess. Xander had offered to come with, but Giles had brushed him off. He had arrived in Vegas with thirty thousand pounds in travelers checks and checked into the Belagio the first evening. He had done well at craps the first night, leaving the casino with an upgrade to a suite and fifteen thousand dollars extra to his name. Since his intention had been to blow all the cash, get drunk, and head home, not make more cash, he had been at loose ends and spent the first evening disappointingly clean and well, not sober, but not smashed drunk either. He recalled that he had retired to his new room at midnight to watch “Interview with a Vampire” while working his way though six bottles of Guinness and a huge pile of fried onion rings that the hotel was more than happy to bring – on the house.
All evidence suggested that he had not done the same last night. He was still in the nice suite, and a stack of papers sat on the bedside table. He reached over and lifted them up. It was written notice that he had an IOU from the hotel for twenty thousand US. Well, he must have had another good night last night too. The next one was a notice to a Samantha Carter for thirty-five thousand US. He looked over at the lady in bed with him. Samantha Carter. That was a nice name. American or British, he couldn't tell. Giles rose from the bed. Perhaps a hot shower would clear the woodpeckers out of his head. And order breakfast and tea – and coffee for the lady in case she was American. He was pretty sure room service breakfast was included with his free room.
When Giles exited the luxurious, full-surround shower in his bathroom, his female companion was wearing his shirt and letting in the room service waiter with a steaming cart full of tea, coffee, and food. She sheepishly smiled at him, pulling the shirt closer around her body, but allowing him a full view of her long slender legs. She looked rumpled, and good-humored, and thoroughly shagged. Giles smiled back while stamping down a surge of masculine pride that he'd managed to tumble the lady so well. Giles grabbed a twenty from his wallet by the bed and tipped the waiter. “Congratulations, Mr. Giles, Mrs. Giles.” Samantha raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged.
“Quite right. Thank you for breakfast.” On hearing his accent, Samantha's eyebrow rose even higher. The waiter left, leaving his female companion to shut the door.
“You're British.” Samantha walked to the cart, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She looked down, it was tea, and she handed it to Giles, reaching for the other pot.
“Yes, yes, I am.” Giles took the tea, and, tucking his towel closer around his waist, looked around for his glasses, spotting them on the desk. “Rupert Giles. And I'm guessing you are Samantha Carter.”
“Sam.” She sat down on the bed, wrapping the shirt tighter around her and drawing the sheet over her legs. She blushed, and Giles thought she looked beautiful. “If my sore spots are any indication, you've already seen everything.” If anything, she blushed harder. “You'd think I was some sort of shy virgin.” She chuckled, clearly embarrassed. “I've never...”
“Had a one night stand?” Sam nodded. “Quite understandable.” He cleaned his glasses with a corner of his towel before sitting down next to her. “If it's any consolation, I have not been in such an awkward position for many decades.” Giles lifted the cover from one of the trays. “I took the liberty of ordering breakfast. I hope that's all right.”
“Thank you.” Sam snagged the nearest tray and lifted it, finding bacon, eggs and pancakes piled high. “Looks wonderful.”
“So, Samantha, er, Sam, Carter what brings you to Vegas?” Giles asked politely. “If I'm not intruding.”
“No, no, I suppose not.” Sam chuckled nervously. “I was supposed to get married this weekend. At the Venetian. My fiance was killed ten days ago while responding to a domestic violence call.” Sam's breath hitched. “He was a cop, a good man.”
Giles nodded sympathetically. He'd dealt with having to bear the bad news to an unpleasant number of parents and significant others since all the slayers had been made active, he knew that grief could bring on uncharacteristic behavior.
Sam continued with a shrug. “Anyway, I used to play a lot of blackjack when I was in college. We would take road trips to Vegas and hit the casinos. So I decided to come anyway.”
“Well, you did well last night. There's a voucher for thirty-five thousand on the nightstand.” Giles pointed over to the sheaf of papers.
Sam let out a sigh. “Really? I don't remember, actually. That must have been before I got drunk. And went to a hotel room with a strange man.”
Giles gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “It's fairly understandable. I've done similar things myself.”
“Woke up in a hotel room with a strange man?”
“Uh, no. But my Eton and Oxford roommate was killed four days ago, and this trip was an attempt to drink and gamble myself into oblivion for about a week.” Giles turned his head to sneeze. “Excuse me. I'm afraid I've rediscovered all my youthful vices for the short term. I only regret that you were caught up in the whirlwind. Not that I regret for a moment meeting as beautiful a woman as you.”
“Flatterer,” however, she smiled to indicate that she was pleased with the compliment. Sam had finished putting salt and pepper on her eggs and buttering the raisin scone she had snagged. “I'm a grown woman, Rupert. I'm certain there was no force involved. In fact, I feel positively... well, not bad, anyway. We must have enjoyed ourselves.”
“Quite.” Rupert cleared his throat awkwardly and tucked into his breakfast. They both ate for a while, in companionable silence until Rupert looked up. “If we had met under more dignified circumstances, I suppose I'd ask, what do you do? Where are you from?”
Sam looked up. “I'm a physicist, employed by the Air Force. I'm not really from anywhere, my father was Air Force as well, so we lived all over. Mostly Germany and the midwest.” She looked up at Giles, who was studying her curiously.
“You wrote the paper on creating stable temporal folds in nine-space. I read that. Very well done, and quite useful.” Giles watched Sam's eyes widen. “I must say, impressive.”
“You read that paper?” Sam sat up straighter and leaned back to get a better look at him. “You implemented the algorithm in some way? There was an error. It could be quite dangerous to attempt any sort of realistic application of the algorithm.”
“Of course, I read the paper. We must keep up with the latest physics in my line of work. I spotted the error and Willow corrected it. The error was minor. Fred generalized the algorithm before we attempted any implementations. I assure you, no one came to any harm.”
“What do you do?” Sam asked.
Giles chuckled and looked embarrassed. “I suppose you'd call me a lowly cog in a rather large machine. I'm an administrator for British firm called the Watcher's Council.”
“I've not heard of it. Do you have any publications?”
“Very few. Most of our publications are in archeology. We fund several joint digs each year with the British Museum, and those results get published. The results of our theoretical science department tends to remain internal to the company unless it is a specific contract with the British government or an academic collaboration.” Giles cleared his throat. “We do receive royalties from several textbooks used at Eton and various British universities. But those are a tiny part of our overall mission, and, as such, aren't really profitable.”
Sam poured herself another cup of coffee. “So you work in London then?”
“Actually, no. We have a London office, but I spend as little time as I can there. I tend to divide my time between Cleveland and Bath. We have a girl's school in Cleveland, and I lecture there on a regular basis. Bath is my home town, my family home is there and I try to do as much work as possible from there.” Giles sighed. “But it never seems that I am home.”
“I know that feeling. I have spent too much time away myself.” Sam snickered at herself. “Of course, until a few weeks ago, home was a small condo three miles from base. Now I have a house eight miles from the base, and a large mortgage, and only one breadwinner.”
“Well, perhaps the thirty-five thousand will come in handy.” Giles nodded at the stack of papers.
“It certainly will.” Sam smiled. “That it will.”
Anyone want more?