Title: Tea and Sympathy

Rating: PG

Pairing: None. Giles and Joyce friendship.

Spoilers: Season 2 episode "Killed by Death," and the events that happened before that…namely "Passion."

Author's Note: The brief bit of dialogue between Giles and Joyce in the hospital during "Killed by Death" (the part where she says she's sorry to hear about Ms. Calendar, and she's grateful for the way he looks out for Buffy, and that if he needs anything…) was posted on Tumblr, and it got me thinking, and this popped into my head. Giles was obviously touched by her kind words…what if he took her up on her offer? I have a feeling Joyce was probably thinking more along the lines of giving him a nice casserole, but she's getting this instead. It's because I like her, honest.

I'm setting this on the night after Buffy gets taken to the hospital, after Giles and Willow have been researching in the library. I'm imagining that they quickly wormed their way into the hospital to report to Buffy, Willow stayed, and Giles, well…this.

I'm very outspoken about the fact that I ship these two. I do, very much so. But I also ship Giles and Jenny (I maintain that one can ship both, and so I will continue to do so), and I'm nowhere near callous enough to write romance when Jenny is barely cold in the ground. Absolutely not. Consider this a beginning of sorts. Of friendship, I mean. Or don't consider it anything at all, if you hate it. *shrug* Do feel free to tell me what you think, I'm kind of enjoying this whole writing thing that I keep swearing I don't do.

I gotta learn to write shorter Author's Notes.

Oh, and, as always, they belong to Joss. I'm just a person with nothing better to do than analyze his characters and play with them.

Joyce Summers settled down on the living room couch with a sigh and a basket of unfolded laundry. It was the sort of thing a mother did - distract herself with chores while her only daughter was lying in a hospital bed with a severe case of the flu – especially since sleep was doubtful to come very easily tonight. In the middle of smoothing the more stubborn wrinkles out of Buffy's favorite cotton sundress, a sudden sound shattered the silence around her. The door. Someone was knocking.

The knock came again as she stood to answer it - a precise, yet tentative knock. Joyce had no idea exactly how a knock could sound tentative, but having heard it she could think of no other way it could possibly be described.

She opened the door, unsure of who to expect, or who would be calling on her at this hour. She hadn't expected him, and a mild panic began to rise in her at the possibilities of what his showing up at her front door could mean.

"Oh! Mr. Giles. Is...is something wrong? Is it Buffy? The...the hospital? They didn't call...did something happen...?"

"No, no," he hastily reassured her. "Buffy is fine. Willow's there now. Visiting hours are over, but the nurse agreed to let one of us stay for a while, since Buffy has been so...upset. I...felt rather unnecessary. And I got the distinct impression that they wished me to leave so that they could have, um, "girl talk.""

"Oh? How'd they manage to convey that?"

"They told me so."

Joyce stifled a laugh. The poor man. Her worry mollified for the time being, she ran her eyes over him, taking him in. He looked a little ragged, worn thin, and, she realized, extremely nervous in an apprehensive sort of way. His hands fidgeted in his pockets as he looked down at her door stoop, his scuffed shoe absently working at rubbing away a smudge of long-dried mud from the spot of cement illuminated in the yellow-tinged circle of brightness from the porch light.

"Won't you, uh, come in?" She finally asked, stepping backward to admit him. He looked up briefly, met her eyes with a flash that seemed to be scolding her for some breech of decorum that she hadn't realized she'd committed, and then dropped his head again and followed her through the door.

He was being very quiet, and very much not forthcoming about the reason for his visit. She decided to prompt him.

"Is there...something I can do...?"

He looked up with a jerk, as though he was startled by her voice. Deep in thought and a million miles away, she thought, recognizing the expression. He let his head fall again and sighed deeply.

"I...I just..." He sighed again, and started over. "What you said, last night. I...it meant...it meant a lot, and, and, I...I know you were just, just being polite, but...your offer...if, if I needed anything..." He stopped, pulled a hand out of his pocket long enough to push his glasses up his nose and run it down his face tiredly before shoving it back in again, and let out another sad sigh. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stopped by. It's late. I'll just...I should go."

He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. "What do you need?" She asked, softly, withdrawing her hand as he turned back around.

His eyes looked into hers, finding nothing but friendly compassion in them. No pity. Not the slightest trace of pity at all. A smile almost found its way to his lips. "I...I need...a friend." He took a shaky breath and continued. "Just...a friend. Someone to have a conversation with over a, a cup of tea. Someone who's old enough to know what LP's are and isn't shocked that I don't know or care about the lives of the Spice Girls or, or something called Dawson's Lake."

"Creek." Joyce smiled broadly, almost laughed, but the laughter died and the smile slowly faded as she took in his appearance. Realization dawned. "You don't have anybody, do you?" Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and strained with the weary compassion of one who understood and empathized. His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "Other than the kids, I mean."

His mouth closed, and his expression eased back into something resembling sorrow. "Not...not in this country, no. Not any-" he stopped, unable to finish the word or the thought. "No. And the children...they...they mean well, I know they do, and I...I don't know what I'd do without them, but..."

"But sometimes you just want to spend some time with someone your own age." She finished for him.

"God, yes." He sighed, looking a little bit guilty that his young friends weren't quite all that he needed at times.

"Especially..." Her voice trailed off, unsure of how to convey the differences in how youth and adult handled grief, the difference between lost innocence and jaded weariness, unsure if she should even mention it, unsure if he wanted to talk about something still so raw and obviously affecting him, unsure of a lot of things when it came to Rupert Giles, the strange librarian who made friends with students and seemed to care a great deal about her daughter's welfare.

But he met her eyes, and somehow he seemed to know exactly what she meant without her needing to say anything. "Yes," he whispered. "Especially."

There was a long moment of silence between them, neither looking at the other, neither sure if they were doing the right thing, each wondering if they'd made a mistake in putting themselves in the position they were currently in.

Joyce made her decision. She had offered, and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to follow through.

"Come on," she smiled and nodded toward the kitchen. "I think I can accommodate the cup of tea, though I don't know about the conversation. I'm a bit rusty."

And Rupert Giles smiled. A genuine smile full of relief and gratitude. He said nothing as he followed her into the kitchen and sat down on the stool she indicated with a wave of her hand. He said nothing as she set about making tea. He only smiled.

Several cups of tea and a conversation full of mutual tales of lost loves, past lives, the grievances of living, and the mishaps of a little blond girl full of mischief and wonder later, and it was time to call it a night.

"Thank you," he said softly and sincerely as he turned to leave, his eyes open and gentle...eyes that had not shed a single tear that night, but that shone with the raw emotion that told her they'd shed plenty in the past. "Thank you for everything."

She nodded and smiled shyly, tamping down the silly impulse to reply with 'what are friends for?" and gave him a small wave instead. She didn't know if they were friends. She still found him rather odd, rather...displaced, in more ways than one. There were things he wasn't saying...something in the way his eyes glimmered with unspoken pride and affection when she spoke about Buffy...but, she thought she saw a depth to him, hidden layers that she doubted the kids could see, even if they thought enough to look. Rupert Giles was a good but complicated man. She didn't know if they were friends. But as she watched him walk to his car looking less ragged than when he had arrived, and as she watched him give her a small smile and a wave as he climbed inside and drove away, she thought that she'd very much like to be.

End.