2.
Daniel blinked at the brightness of the small airport that was mostly glass and metal, feeling very modern and open to the bright, sunlit sky. He slung his carry on bag over his shoulder, shifting with the weight, centering it over his back. He'd moved the texts in their protective covering to his carry-on, not wanting to chance them being lost in the shuffle of changing baggage.
He needed to buy sunglasses. Daniel supposed he spent too much time in the mountain, or off world, as he found his hand reaching for where his sunglasses might be if he were geared up on mission. Right now, Sam, Teal'c and Jack would all be scanning the area, Jack making some irritating, juvenile remark about the local flora to which Daniel would obligingly retort.
Daniel looked above, squinting in the light, finding the signs directing passengers to the baggage claim. Daniel nodded to the passengers moving around him, making his way down the hall, stopping at a bank of public phones. It would take a few moments to get the passengers' bags off the plane and to the baggage area. He dug in his pocket for change, letting his bag fall to his feet as he tucked himself into the first phone booth.
He dropped in the change, lifting the phone to his shoulder, punching in a set of numbers. The line rang, rang, rang, and rang. A machine answered, "Rupert Giles. Do leave your name and number and I will return your call when able. Thank you."
"Hi. This is Daniel. I'll try your other number."
Daniel hung up, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, unfolding it to gather a piece of paper he'd torn off of a report on which he'd written a second number for Giles above Giles' home address. He pressed enough change into the phone for a new call, dialed the second number, and put the phone back to his ear, listening to it ring, ring, ri-
"Sunnydale High Library" a chippy, female voice answered.
Daniel took a moment to stare at the phone in his hand, then at the number he'd scribbled, finally replacing the phone at his ear, "I'm calling for Rupert Giles?"
"Are you one of Giles' friends?" the voice asked, a girl, considerably less cheery than a second ago, "From England?" and in the back ground he heard, Cordelia, do give me the phone… that was Rupert, at least he had the right number…
"I suppose" Daniel replied.
"Oh" the voice replied shortly, then off the line, "Giles, it's for you. He doesn't sound British, but I'm not sticking around to find out" -
"Cordelia, really" - "Giles, here" was spoken into the line.
Daniel smiled, "Hi. It's Daniel."
"Oh, Daniel, you're here" his old friend said pleasantly, and hearing the calming tones of his friend speaking it occurred to Daniel how long it had been since they had seen each other… he heard off line "Cordelia, you may leave if you don't wish to help. I believe you're supposed to be in History right now?"
"You are here, yes?" Giles spoke again down the line.
Daniel pushed up his own glasses, "I am. I'm at the airport. I've just arrived."
"Good, good - I'll write you a pass - Sorry Daniel," there was a pause, and Daniel tried to put the man he knew curating the British Museum, glad handing patrons, organizing exhibits, to a high school library in a small town in California. "Daniel, do you mind taking a cab to my address? The door isn't locked; just let yourself in, make yourself at home. We'll go out for dinner. Seven sound good?"
Daniel glanced at the clock. It was just after one. He was rather eager to meet with Giles now that he was finally in the same state, same town, but he wasn't going to be an impolite guest. "Seven sounds fine."
Does he like Mexican? What will Miss Calendar say?
Do you mind? Giles retorted to the voices heckling on the far side of the line; then, to Daniel "I'll come by and pick you up?"
Daniel nodded, glancing at the paper in his hand, "524 Oak Park. #5?"
"Yes. Have the driver leave you off on the beginning of the block. It's the lower left corner of the complex. There's a small court yard in the center with a fountain. Like I said, help your self. The guest bed is rather small, on the first floor behind the kitchen, but its ready."
"Is the complex gated?" Daniel asked, now digging out his luggage claim tickets.
"Hm?"
"You said your door is unlocked, is the complex gated? Do I need a code to get in?" Daniel elaborated.
"No. Nothing like that." A bell going off sounded and background noise picked up, Giles suffering a sigh over the line, "I do hate to do this but I'll collect you shortly and then we can make a meal and catch up properly, yes? Just call this number if you have any problems."
"I'll be fine," Daniel assured.
"Right. 'Ta for now" really Xander, must you - and the line was dead. Daniel replaced the phone in its cradle, and briefly considered calling Sam, seeing what she'd come up with on who she found Rupert Giles to be and what he might be doing in California. He was rather curious for her take on the matter, but instead, slung the poundage of his bag back across his shoulders and rejoined the people moving away.
Rupert sounded different. Daniel wasn't sure if it was years or place, but Rupert sounded better than he had ever sounded to Daniel before in a way Daniel wouldn't be able to put his finger on… Daniel took his time, pulling his bag off the partially emptied, spinning carousel, moving out of doors, breathing in the air full of palm, hibiscus and ocean, so different from the dry, mountain pine of Colorado Springs, waiving over a cab. The driver nodded at the address and Daniel supposed in a town this size every road and alley way were easily memorable.
The town they drove into was lined by palms and parkways, and Daniel again was wishing he had sun glasses. It was a brief ride, and soon Daniel was standing on broad bladed grass beside a Yucca, paying the driver, turning around as the car pulled back onto the street.
The collection of apartments built over each other was stuccoed cream with bright terra-cotta tiled roof and spanish colonial arches. Palms and bushes created a privacy barrier, and Daniel walked up the sidewalk until he found the stuccoed arch that marked with a 5, 6, 7, 8 and ducked under it. Beyond was a brick walk way that lead to four units, the lower left, up and down a set of stairs, unit 5.
Daniel carried his luggage up and down the small stairs, enjoying the shadows and curves of the mission revival architecture as it wrapped him away from the sun, arriving at the solid wooden door with its iron hardware in its niche. He tried the latch, feeling the bolt shift and swung the door open.
His friend really hadn't locked the door.
He stepped inside, swinging the door shut at his back, hearing the latch settle itself into the jamb. Inside, the walls were a shadow of cool green, the sun shining in at an abrupt slant to the floor from southern facing windows. A desk immediately to his left, a small sitting area beyond, and to his immediate right were a set of tiled stairs that lead upwards to a spacious loft. Daniel noted a bed and a dresser above, open to the room, and stepping further in, he let his carry on rest on the chair just inside the door in front of the coat rack.
Daniel continued in, looking over the pass-thru to a small kitchen. Rupert had said his guest room was behind the kitchen, and Daniel walked forward into Rupert's home. He'd never seen the man's home in London, but had spent many hours in Rupert's office in the Museum, and this condominium felt at once strange and familiar to Daniel.
Passing by the kitchen to a small, arched hall, Daniel discovered the bathroom and beyond it, a small room just big enough to fit a full bed and a dresser, and, of course, more books on another set of shelves. Daniel had already noted cases of books along the wall in the sitting room, texts covering the desk at the door, and books stacked on the table backing the couch.
Daniel let his suitcase rest on the bed. He considered himself. It was an hour behind here, and he had dressed rather lightly in denim and a long sleeved shirt; he decided he was still comfortable after hours in transit and a good ambient ten degrees warmer in California than Colorado. He turned to considered the books on the shelves at the foot of the bed, the shelves shoved into a corner next to a short dresser with just enough clearance so one might stand straight against the bed and pull open a drawer.
Maybe it made a kind of sense that Giles was working in a high school library, although how exactly Daniel couldn't say beyond being surrounded by books.
The books in front of him were Latin mainly, and if he was right, Latin dictionaries for translations of Hellenic, Armenian and Albanian language families, and, lower, a few old books in those language families. Daniel crouched low, peering on the lowest shelf, letting his finger brush over spines, pulling out a text of gently. It look like it was bound in the seventeen hundreds, and looked to be written in Illyrian with Albanian transcription beside it if he was correct, and he rather thought he was.
Eager to further explore his friend's collection, Daniel took to his feet and headed for his own texts. The apartment was silent, no noise from neighbors filtering thru windows or the street beyond, and Daniel was rather glad his friend had not seen fit to lock tight his space and condition the air, but Daniel supposed the rest of the neighbors had. As he moved, he opened windows wider, feeling a cross breeze move thru, stirring the air agreeably.
He opened his sack on the pass thru, unwrapping two booklets of carefully copied texts from walls off world and an agrarian bound book that might contain nothing more than planting wisdom, a farmer's almanac from P1X-113 but Daniel wanted it translated no matter what it held curious about the people who made it, adding three of his own texts he'd collected here on Earth and had been referencing himself for these particular translations.
His stomach rumbled at him, calling his attention elsewhere then the riches of languages at his fingertips. It was nearly two, Daniel saw, glancing at a wall clock perched atop the chair by the door, a whimsical thing. Dinner would be some six hours in the future, by the time they were sitting and eating, and breakfast had been too early, coffee and a bagel as he was packing his toiletries.
Daniel walked around the counter into the kitchen-nook. On the other side, it was more open feeling than he imagined, rather comfortable and well laid out, and, feeling self conscious, he pulled open the refrigerator. The refrigerator lit up obligingly, its motor humming as cool air spilled down and out. Inside was also well organized. He pulled out bread and deli wrapped cold cuts, unwrapping the paper to find roast beef. Setting both on the counter, Daniel collected mustard, a head of lettuce, and cheese, and set about making himself a sandwich, plating it up with a thought to go grocery shopping.
He took his plate back to the other side of the counter, pausing before deciding to eat in the sitting area. He looked around, seeing no t.v., but a rather extensive record collection and a record player. He slid his plate onto the coffee table, moving over to the cases of records, thumbing thru cover after cover, finding a mix of classical, opera, and original releases from the best of the London's Rock scene thru the seventies…
Thumbing back to the classical, Daniel pulled out a recording of Schubert he remembered listening to as a child with his mother. He let the record settle on the turn table carefully, feeling nostalgic the moment he lifted the arm and let the needle lay on the outer ring of the vinyl.
Music moving thru the space of the room, Daniel returned to the couch, lifting up a Sunnydale paper and laying it out over the coffee table. It was folding open to the back pages, police reports and obituaries, and Daniel noticed red pen asterisking over a couple of memorials, glancing over the brief tribute to a stylist and a banker and he wondered if Rupert had gotten to know these two, like perhaps one tends to in a town this size …
Daniel reshuffled the pages so he was open to the front page, reading the headline "Mayor of Sunnydale and Boy Scout Troop #594 clean up the Bay Shore" and a black and white picture of smiling boys and a congenial, middle aged man. Daniel couldn't help smiling looking at the photo, the ocean at their backs, a clean beach at their feet, and feel sentimental for small town life…