Shadow Though it Be: An Excursus – Chapter 7
Elisabeth returned from her afternoon out to find that Giles's front door wasn't locked.
Thankfully, Elisabeth opened it and swung herself wearily inside. If the door was unlocked, it probably meant he was home—that and the fact that his car was parked out front. Briefly she wondered whether she ought to have knocked; but then her exhaustion reassumed its supreme place in her mind, and she shut the door behind her and went to drop herself onto the couch and dig through her backpack for her shower bag.
It wasn't till a few moments later that she realized Giles was nowhere to be seen. Or heard. She let the flap of her pack fall and cut her eyes slowly around the room. Nothing. She got up and checked the kitchen. All dark—no Giles. No Giles in the bathroom, or the utility.
The only other place he could be was upstairs. Elisabeth stood in the livingroom, hugging herself gently and debating. Finally she moved toward the stairs and mounted the first few. "Giles?" she called.
No answer.
She went up a few more stairs. "Giles?"
No answer.
Throwing hesitation aside, she hurried up the rest of the steps and knocked on the closed loft door. "Giles!"
She was relieved unto faintness when his muffled voice answered, "Who's that? Buffy?"
"No—it's me—Elisabeth."
"Oh. Uh—just a moment."
"No, really, I just wanted to know where you—"
But his footsteps were coming, and before she could scarper, the door opened to reveal him robed and glassesless, with shaving soap on half of his face.
Her face went hot. "Really," she said, "I just had a moment of worry. I wanted to know where you were." She flapped her hands vaguely. "Go—go on—as you were."
His eyebrow went up. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine—I—" She stopped, blew out her cheeks—put her hands briefly to her head, then took them away. "Yes," she said more calmly. "I just need a soothing bath. And then I need to go out. Can we…?"
"That was the plan," he said, blinking complacently.
"Thank God for your intuition," she said impulsively. "I'm going to have my bath now." Before he could say anything else, she hurried down the stairs and made her escape.
*
This time Elisabeth was able to get the full benefit of a good soak, without her consciousness pinging and warping on her.
Not that she was serene by any consideration. She wasn't used to knowing people, to allowing herself to care about what happened to them. And actually to know what would happen was—
How could she cleanse her mind of the burden?
Elisabeth decided to sing.
She started out softly, gauging the echoes of the bathroom for their acoustic idiosyncrasies. Then she freshened the hot water in the tub and sang out a little stronger, running her voice over a few tunes until it became apparent that blues was the choice of the day. Blues, furthermore, of an enthusiastically rude variety.
The only song of that kind that she knew all the words to was "Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl." So she sang it several times, getting bolder with every rendition, as she reached for her bath gel and razor.
I need a little sugar in my bowl
I need a little sausage on my roll
I could stand some lovin' oh so bad
I'm feeling so funny; I'm feeling so sad…
She paused to dip her head back in the water, reached for the shampoo, and settled back with the second verse for the second time:
I need a little sugar in my bowl
I need a little sausage between my roll
You've been getting different, I've been told
So move your finger, drop it in my bowl…
Nothing like the blues to lift your spirits, she thought. In fact, she was feeling more cheerful by the minute. She washed her face splashily and bawled out the finish before pulling the plug:
What's the matter, baby, come save your momma's soul
I need some sugar in my bowl (I ain't foolin')
I want some sugar in my bowl!
She was in a highly good mood by the time she was getting dressed. She pinned up her damp hair and applied a dash of makeup, then surveyed the result. Not too bad. Healthy, at the very least. She put on her glasses and watch, gathered her bath things and dirty clothing, and swept out of the bathroom.
Giles was standing in the act of climbing (or descending, she couldn't tell which) the stairs, holding a book in one hand and pinning the cordless phone to his face with his shoulder. "No, it doesn't say anything about it," he said. Whatever the reply was, it drew an eyeroll from him. "…Tell me about it. Listen, I'm going to go. Keep looking, and we'll meet up tomorrow…uh…how about at the shop?...Right…I'll bring her with me…Yes—and, Willow? One of you check in with Buffy this evening, would you—I may be out of pocket for some time, and we need to know how things are going on her end…Of course. I'll see you tomorrow." He shut the book. "Yes, goodbye." He took the phone away from his face and turned it off.
"Still no luck?" Elisabeth said, from her position on the couch repacking her bag. She reached for her shoes and began to put them on.
"No, not yet." He sighed deeply. "I'm going to have to resort to less bibliographic methods of finding information soon. Are you ready to go?"
"As soon as I tie this shoe."
"Good."
*
On the road, he asked her:
"Do you have a preference where to go?"
"No," she said. "But can we go someplace where they serve grownup drinks?" She made a wide-eyed child-face at him.
He chuckled. "Of course. That narrows it down quite a bit."
"I'm here to help," she said dryly.
His next remark caught her completely off guard.
"You have a good blues voice," he said.
She choked, and purpled. "Oh, Gawd. You heard that?"
"I do come downstairs on occasion, you know." He was enjoying it, drat him.
She shielded her eyes with one hand, shaking her head and suffering. Giles decided to rub it in.
"Although you could stand to work on your belting."
"Is that so."
"Yes; you know," he gestured searchingly with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel, "you have to—have to give it umph: What's the matter baby, come save your momma's soul—" he demonstrated.
She sputtered and started laughing so hard she found it hard to breathe after a few seconds. Finally, after drawing several little gasps and wiping her tears, she sat up in her seat again and went into a long head-shake. "I'll have you know," she said at last, her voice still husky from the laughing, "that belting properly from the diaphragm is difficult when one is lying supine at a 130-degree angle submerged in water."
"I know," he said.
She started giggling again.
It wasn't till they had come to a stop at a teeming intersection that Elisabeth had recovered enough to take stock of their surroundings. "Hey, look," she said, "there's an English pub over there."
Giles snorted.
"It's even called the Lion of Trafalgar." She looked at him with extra gravity.
He snorted again.
"Let's go there."
"Are you mad?"
"Well, yes, but what's that got to do with it? Let's go there."
"It cannot possibly be a real English pub."
"I know that. I've been to a real English pub."
"You've been in Britain?" He looked over at her, eyebrows raised.
"Not yet."
"Then you haven't been to an English pub."
"I certainly have. It was run by an English couple, very traditional."
"It was an American pub run by English expatriates."
"Hoity-toity," she said. "It was at least authentic, which is more than I would venture for this place."
The light turned green. Giles accelerated slowly forward. "And so why exactly do we want to go to this place?"
"So we can make fun of it," she said.
"More to the point, so you can make fun of me," he said.
"You do know my methods, Watson."
She was pretty sure she heard Giles give a distinctly demonish growl, but nevertheless he turned into the parking lot of the bar and grill.
Giles set the parking brake, put the ragtop up, and turned off the car. "Since when," he said to her, "am I Watson?"
She said: "If you want to be Holmes, you can. After all—you're buying."
"So I am," he sighed. "How I get myself into these things I'll never know."
He undid his seatbelt, stopped again. "Hang on—you don't have any ID."
Elisabeth thought this over. Then said in her best Soho-cum-Oxbridge, "Then we shall have to resort to subterfuge."
Giles groaned. "Oh, God. That's terrible."
"It's good enough for Sunnydale, anyway."
"It'll hurt my ears," he moaned. "And you know you will have to keep it up all evening."
She gave him his own cat smile in return. "I know." And she popped her door open.
*
She was kind enough to Giles, however, that she let him do the talking to negotiate them a table; and it was easy enough to say "Thank you" in such a manner as to make the hostess assume she was of the same country as her date.
When the waiter came, however, things got a little dicier.
"Can I see some ID?" he asked her first off.
"Oh," she said quietly, "all I have is my passport—and—oh dear—I left it at home." She held out an impatient hand to Giles. "Here, Rupert, give me your keys. I'll just nip back to the apartment and get it."
"You propose to drive my car without a license? I think not," Giles said. "If you're going, I'm going."
Elisabeth pouted prettily. "Sometimes I think you love your car more than you love me."
Giles flushed and opened his mouth, but before the apparently incipient argument could escalate, the waiter said, "Hold on, I think it should be okay—that is—if—"
She smiled at him. "It's very flattering that you should ask for my ID at all, you know."
The waiter, who was after all male and undergraduate, smiled back. "So what can I start you all out with?" He handed them each a menu.
"Grand Marnier, straight up," Elisabeth said.
"What sort of drink is that?" Giles scoffed.
"What are you having, then?"
Giles gave her a pitying look, then ordered a single-malt whiskey, neat.
"See?" Elisabeth hissed to him when the waiter had gone. "You don't even have to act!"
Giles grunted and opened his menu.
"Admit it," Elisabeth whispered. "You're having fun."
Giles cleared his throat—Elisabeth suspected—to avert a smile.
"Are you hungry?" he asked her.
"Well," she said, "the pasta with googly things I had with Willow and Tara have rather put paid to my appetite for a while."
Giles grunted again as he perused his menu. "I've had that dish, I think."
"On the other hand, I'm likely to get hungry again soon. I think I'll order an appetizer and munch on it."
"I could eat an elephant," Giles said.
"Do they serve that in England?"
"Don't you know?"
They grinned at each other.
"You are having fun," Elisabeth said.
He tipped his head, lifted his eyes in a little gesture of acknowledgment.
The waiter came back with their drinks, took their orders, and disappeared again.
"At my pub," Elisabeth said, tasting her drink, "you can pay in pounds as well as in dollars."
"A few pounds do not an English pub make."
She grinned and took another sip of her drink. "Mmm…" She held up the glass. "Now that is exactly what one wants."
"At your pub," Giles said, "can one order chips and salsa?"
"No."
"Well, then it certainly has nothing on this place."
She laughed. Then threw him a curveball.
"So when are you going to let me help with the research?"
"Whenever you like," Giles said promptly. Elisabeth smiled to herself. The man could think on his feet, even when baited. Or perhaps especially when baited.
"Okay," Elisabeth said. "I await my marching orders."
"You won't get any tonight."
"Understood."
They sat, taking leisurely sips of their drinks. Elisabeth salted the napkin under her water glass, then drew patterns in the salt grains that had scattered over the table.
When she finally looked up, she saw that Giles was looking curiously at her.
"You are over 21, aren't you?" he said at last.
Elisabeth rolled her eyes. "Giles," she murmured, "I'm pushing thirty."
"Just checking," he said. "Ah, it appears our food has arrived."
"You're joking," Elisabeth said. "That fast?"
But the food had indeed arrived, and for a while neither of them had much to say. True to her prediction, Elisabeth was not terribly hungry, but the artichoke dip she'd ordered was perfect for the occasional nibble while she watched Giles eat. Her good mood was starting to wear off, and (she thought wryly) it was probably not a good idea to try and recover it by singing bawdy blues in here.
"Is it good?" she asked him at length.
He looked up, chewing, and swallowed. "I can't believe I let you do this to me."
She tilted her head and pushed out her chin. "It could be worse," she drawled, "I could have chosen to imitate Spike all evening."
Giles raised his napkin and laughed into it. "That's really pretty good," he said when he recovered.
"Impressions by Elisabeth," she said.
"Do you do me?" His eyes narrowed like those of a cat about to pounce.
"Not to your face," Elisabeth said. "And not in this dimension, so far. And really," she added truthfully, "I haven't been tempted."
He regarded her pensively. "No?"
"No," she said, eyes on her hands crossed limply together on the table. "Being here is different."
He looked at her a moment longer, but she did not look up; so he laid his napkin down on the table, popped a last french fry into his mouth, and went ever-so-gently on the offensive.
"So tell me," he said, chewing, "why are you running away?"
*
Chapter 8