Author: Apocalypse, the Slasher of the ;-)
Summary: Giles knows someone. Someone who could help in the battle against the First. He really could.
Rating: R (Eventually)
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine; they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I merely steal them now and again to do naughty, naughty things to them. Mmm, yeah.
Warnings: Slash. And sex ... a touch of sadomasochism ...
Pairing: Giles/Ethan. Oh yes.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Giles couldn't decide whether or not to appreciate the aptness of the weather. The idea of working inside a cliche didn't appeal, but there was a certain poetic justice to it.
Then again, it wasn't much fun to drive through.
The rented Jeep's headlights cut through the sheet-like rain. The rain fell differently here. It wasn't the spattering rain you got in Sunnydale, or the prickly downpour of the Pacific Northwest, or the heavy, acidic stuff that knifed into you on the Eastern seaboard of the United States; it wasn't the friendly, constant murky drizzle that was so popular in the British Isles. It fell like sheets, like torrents, like the deluge.
He drove slowly. There would be no sense in dying in some absurd car accident before the evening's work was finished. He almost missed the turnoff, and he might have if he had not known exactly what he was looking for; he turned onto the unmarked road and drove down it until he came across the secret facility. The building complex was modern and fairly well-lit but not well-marked and it was behind a heavy metal gate.
Giles pulled up to the security booth in front of the gate and rolled down the window of the rental Jeep. The interior would get completely soaked, but that was probably par for the course around here.
The security man shined his flashlight into the driver's side window. Giles flinched at the sudden brightness.
"Fucking weather," said the security guard. His accent placed him firmly within the continental United States, possibly the South, although ... hmm. Maybe Maryland? Giles wasn't sure. It wasn't important.
"Absolutely," Giles answered.
"Crazy. Have you got clearance?"
"Here it is," said Giles, handing over the laminated card. It was forged, of course, but he had a man on the inside.
The security guard squinted at the laminated rectangle illuminated by his flashlight. "Mr. Hammer?" he said.
"Yeah?" said Giles.
"You a Brit?" he asked, peering through the rain at him.
Giles blinked. What in blazes did that have to do with anything? More to the point, was the man deaf? It wasn't as though he'd gone to any great lengths to hide his accent ... "Yes, I am," he said.
"That's all right," said the security guard. "I've known some good Brits."
"Really," Giles said flatly, as the rain poured through the open window into his rented Jeep.
The security man seemed to figure out that Giles was in no mood for small talk. "Okay, Mr. Hammer," he said, "you go on in." He touched a few keys on the control pad in his booth and the metal gates swung open with a loud C-R-E-A-K.
"Thank you," Giles answered. He rolled up the window of the Jeep and drove into the broad expanse of soggy asphalt that passed for the building's parking lot.
He parked as close to the front doors of the building as he could get. Too bad he didn't have an umbrella, but he hadn't thought to bring one with him to the airport.
He hurried across the parking lot and opened the thankfully unlocked doors of the building. Once inside the glossed grey lobby, soaking wet through his heavy black trench coat and respectable tweed suit, he glanced around, getting his bearings. He hadn't had time to change out of the suit into something more suitable; the intervening moments between receiving his call from Peters, his contact down here, and getting in his car for the trip to the airport, had been negligible.
"Have clearance?" asked the gruff security man behind the front desk.
"Awfully foolish to come through the front door otherwise," Giles said, his tone amiable but laced with mild sarcasm. He handed over the laminated card.
"Just have to check," said the man behind the desk, with a smile. He handed back the card, having barely glanced at it.
"Of course," said Giles, sliding the card back into his wallet.
It was amazing how lax security had become. Giles could hardly believe it could be this easy. True, the timing couldn't be better - 7 PM on a Thursday, a little more than halfway through the shift for these security men - but he had had no idea how accurate the information his contact had been able to provide was. Now he knew. There were efficient-looking men with wicked-looking weapons all over the bloody place and all he had to do was waltz in like he actually belonged here and there was absolutely no trouble ...
"All right, Hammer," said the man, "what can I help you with?"
"I've got a release for one of the inmates here," Giles answered crisply. "Transferring him to another facility."
"Really? I wasn't informed," said the security man, frowning.
"Those are my orders," Giles said with a shrug. "I didn't write them." Which was actually quite true, he reflected. He hadn't written them. He'd just made them up. Now it was time to see if his man Peters had been able to come through ...
"Yeah, I hear you," said the man. "Hang on, just let me check with my --"
Suddenly, a light lit up on the board on the security man's desk. The man frowned at it and flipped a switch by it; a corresponding red light appeared on the headset he wore.
"Front desk," he said. "Walters speaking. Oh, hi Peters. Orders from Gomez? Shoot." The man listened for a moment, surprise reflecting on his badly-shaven face. "Absolutely," he said finally. "Yeah, Hammer's here. He's right on time." Pause. "No, he hasn't ... just about to give it to me, though. What? Why? ... Adams, you say? Adams is the clearance man on this guy? Yeah. Okay, good. I'll see if he's got it. See ya, Peters." He flipped off his headset and glanced up at Giles. "Right on time," he repeated, dryly. "Care to show me those papers?"
Giles handed him the paperwork. It was slightly damp from traveling in the inside pocket of his trenchcoat, but the envelope had managed to protect it from the elements fairly well. Walters scanned the paperwork quickly, checking for signatures.
"What's the name of the place he's being transferred to?" asked the man, squinting at the sheaf of papers.
"The R. Giles Witchcraft Observation Center," Giles answered promptly. "In Sunnydale." All true. Well, in a way ...
"California?" Walters asked.
"Yes," Giles said, trying not to let his sudden worry show. Why would Sunnydale ring a bell? ... apart from the obvious. Well, maybe Sunnydale didn't need an apart from the obvious.
"I was in California once," Walters said wistfully. "Visiting my sister, in L.A. Lots of sun up there. You from California?"
Giles stared. What was this, idiot night? "I'm English," he managed finally.
"Oh, right," said Walters, scratching his neck. "I should've guessed from the accent. Well, everything seems to be in order. You've got Dr. Adams's signature. That's what Peters said you needed, so ... I'll have Renhada escort you back there."
"Thank you," said Giles.