Title: A Little Token of Our Thanks (1/4)
A Fox and Badger Story.
Author: Darklady
Dedicated : To Poodle - who wrote the brilliant Parting Gift. This
is a little ... I dare not call it a continuation... so say an inspiration.
Also to Magpie and Wolfling, who own the Old Mystics universe.
This is not authorized, not a part of any other writers universe,
and does not impact on any other authors continuity. Think of it
as AU to an AU.
Archive: Who would want to? Not without permission. Except here, of course.
Pairing: None Active (Giles/Rayne DUH!)(Angel/Wes??? defunct)
Rating. PG ( A few bad words)
Spoilers: Nothing directly. But ... if you don't know what's going on you won't know what's going on. Wes is dead, if that bothers you.
cKKR 2004 (for parts not prior creation of other parties )
"Wyndham-Pryce." Rupert Giles kept his voice strictly neutral. Snarking at a fellow Watcher, even if said fellow was two hours late for a scheduled meeting, would be as unprofessional as... being two hours late.
"Sorry." Roger Wyndham-Pryce panted. He held out his hand - noticed the black smudges on the palm in the nick of time - and pulled it back just before he transferred the filth to *Rupert's* silk suit. "Sorry." he said again, this time to clearer purpose, as he scraped this dirty palm again his striped trousers. It left a streak. "I know I'm late..."
The hand shot out again.
Giles accepted it. Gingerly.
"... my car got booted in Bristol." The elder watcher continued.
"Well, yes." Giles forced a tone of polite concern. "Parking enforcement is getting severe."
Wyndham-Pryce dropped into an armchair, muttering something about "Wasn't parked. Just stopped at a red light."
Giles might have answered - if only to check that his ears weren't going - but before he could there was a sudden sharp *crack*.
Followed by an "ooof".
That last was courtesy of Roger Wyndham-Pryce, who was now sprawled on the hardwood. Somehow all four of the chair legs had managed to shatter. Simultaneously.
"Oh dear." Giles helped the other man to his feet. "You *are* having a rough day."
Wyndham-Pryce needed the help. He tripped over his briefcase. The latch broke, scattering papers, one of which got caught on Pryce's heel. He tried to pull it off, only to give himself a nasty paper cut.
"Been like this all bloody week." Again, the reply was muttered. Aimed less at Giles then at the universe. "Computer crashed, cell phone dead, this morning the bloody pay phone *ate* my credit card..."
That last caught Giles's attention. "Not the Council one, I hope?"
"No."
Giles relaxed for a moment.
Then the man continued. "That one got sucked down the loo last Wednesday night."
"Oh dear." Giles repeated. Although that wasn't what he *felt* like saying.
"Jammed the line and flooded the whole house." Wyndham-Pryce fumbled in his suit coat until he found his cigarettes and a lighter. The pack was crushed. Badly. "Plumber's still don't have the water back." Sighing again, the man straightened out one cigarette as bet he could and raised it to his lips.
The lighter exploded.
"Shit." Two voices sounded as one.
Fortunately the Council quarters were warded. Plus Giles had the presence to cast a quick "Extingo'. No one was hurt.
Wyndham-Pryce flopped into another chair, his head in his hands. This time he didn't even whimper when gravity took its toll.
There was a sharp rip of cloth. Nowhere visible so... there was doubtless another reason Wyndham-Pryce stayed seated. "It's like I'm cursed," he moaned. "No matter what I do, how careful I am or how hard I try, everything just goes to..."
"I understand." Giles sympathies automatically. Then he thought for a minute and realized that he *did* understand. Far too well.
He stepped over the man on floor. "If you'll excuse me a moment?"
That was all he said until he was well into the next office and the heavy oak door was solidly shut behind him. Then Giles shouted. "ETHAN!"
"Yes, dear heart?" The chaos mage answered. His smile was bright, his eyes were twinkling, and ( could one overlook the absence of beard and the presence of designer tailoring ) looking for all the world like an evil Albus Dumbledore.
" Roger Wyndham-Pryce!"
"Dear Wesley's so loving father?" The words were decent. The tone was a curse. Which descriptive Rupert would have chosen with great exactitude.
"How *could* you?!"
Ethan's twinkle notched up an amp. "Easily. And with great pleasure."