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CHAPTER THREE

She was lead up one of the two staircases that wound to the front double doors. Pillars on both sides of her held up a terrace above them. At her philandering sight, and sudden inability to focus with all that now surrounded her, Angel rung the doorbell.

“You don’t have your own key?” she vaguely wondered.

“There’s always someone here,” he replied.

The door was quickly responded to by a thin, average sized man wearing delicate spectacles and a simple black tux. Wasn’t he a little over dressed?

“Master Liam, so nice to find you home,” the precise English accent was almost comical. Buffy glanced around for the hidden cameras. This was too much. “And you must be Ms. Summers. So glad to know you will be staying with us here in the Giles estate.”

Estate? “Thank you,” Buffy replied, hoping she sounded polite next to his to-the-book greeting. They were ushered over the threshold into the foyer.

“Wes, is my father here?”

“Why of course, I believe he resides in his study.”

“Thank you. Might as well get this over with,” he smiled at Buffy. “Come on.”

Buffy’s stomach lurched, but she followed him up the stairs, passing a elaborate chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The door, the only one of many that stood ajar, was at the end of a five minute hallway.

Angel knocked lightly and received a muffled answer from the other side. They entered to find Angel’s father hunched over a dark mahogany desk. The room was vast with high ceilings. Bookshelves stood where the walls would have been with the exception of the wall on the left which was floor to ceiling glass with heavy, musty maroon curtains framing it. Everything about the room was heavy. An odor of cigar smoke drifted through the air. Where the room was made cluttered by the unholy amount of books, its lack of furniture made it bare.

“Mr. Travers, please take a seat,” the older man spoke, gesturing at the plush chair in front of him, without raising his eyes from his paperwork.

“Hello, father,” Angel greeted.

“Oh, Angel, I’m sorry. I was expecting Quentin.” Angel left Buffy at the door to shake his father’s hand. The idea of “How impersonal” fluttered through her head. He wore a little too much tweed, but Mr. Giles seemed nice enough -- well-mannered, and relatively even, but good, natured.

“Father, I’d like you to meet Buffy Summers.”

Buffy stood stoic in the doorway. “Oh, hi,” she held out her hand in realization, making her way across the room. She watched as he shook her hand, then quickly proceeded to whip off his glasses and make a show of cleaning them with a handkerchief from his pocket. Buffy wished she had smudged glasses right now -- or something to keep her hands busy. She settled on tugging at her finger nervously.

From what Buffy had come to understand, Rupert Giles had come to acquire the law firm of Wolfram and Hart through pure dedication and hard work. He had moved to the states with his wife Jenny, who was now deceased, and son, Liam, when he was twenty-five. Starting slow and working his way to the top, he was handed the company by the original owners when he turned thirty-five. Now, he prepared to hand the company down to the next generation.

“I understand you will be staying with us from now on?” The elder Giles looked to Buffy. He had an ambience of importance around him which brought Buffy to respect him, but at the same time she felt an overwhelming desire to push his buttons, see how far she could go. She had a feeling Angel never had.

Buffy hoped his question was sincere, “Yes . . . That is if you’ll have me.” Buffy felt the beginnings of a headache approaching -- all this over-politeness made her head hurt as she continuously ransacked her brain for every manner her mother had ever made the attempt to instill in her.

“Of course, I’m delighted. I am afraid you might find our home lacking in the female sense. In that case, you might also find our company lacking within the next few days.” He glanced at Angel, then at the amount of paper work piled in front of him.

“That’s okay, I’ll make do. I was even thinking about having my friends visit one day . . . If that’s okay of course.”

“Buffy, this is your home too. Please, feel free to treat it as such.”

Buffy smiled at that. Cordelia will have a fit when she sees this place.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Wesley or any other of our employees will be happy to help.” He reaffixed his glasses in place. “Though, I must part ways with you now. I have much more of this nonsense to go over with Mr. Travers.”

“Nonsense? You weren’t calling it nonsense twenty year ago,” They turned to see a stoic man in the doorway. It was Quentin Travers. Something told Buffy this Travers man had never smiled or had an inkling of fun in his life -- well, maybe in other people’s misfortune. He had been standing in the doorway for who knew how long. Next to him was Wesley. “I hope the Senior Partners don’t hear you use such terms. They’re just at the bottom of the staircase.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You said to show Mr. Travers up when he arrived.”

“I know, that’s quite all right Wesley.” Mr. Travers took this as his invitation to enter the room.

“Liam, so nice to see you have found the time to stop by your birthright,” Travers insinuated to the firm, glaring at Buffy as if it was her fault Angel was being handed a company he was born to inherit without spending much time in it.

“Mr. Travers,” he grimly replied. “Actually, we were just leaving,” he gently began to lead Buffy towards the door.

Remembering her manners, she turned back, “Thank you, Mr. Giles, it was nice meeting you.”

“Oh, please, call me Giles, everybody else does.” He glanced slightly annoyed at his son, who must have been one of the culprits.

Travers watched the scene curiously before interrupting, “Oh, there’s no use leaving on my behalf. Liam should stick around, I think he should learn the ropes before being handed them, don’t you think Rupert?”

Giles faulted under his superior, “Well, I suppose that would be a good idea, do you mind Liam?” He silently apologized to his son with is eyes.

Angel sighed, “No problem at all.”

“Well, I would imagine it wouldn’t be, it’s only you’re job!” Travers balked at the idea of this being an inconvenience.

Wesley stood silent until Giles acknowledged his presence, “Would anyone like for Wesley to get then a drink? Lord knows I’m in dire need of one,” he added under his breath. A list of responses were noted, and Wesley exited. “Let’s take this to the parlor, shall we?”

For the first time Buffy realized how exactly she was not going to fit into this world.

They walked as a swarm -- Giles, Angel, Buffy, and Travers. Descending the stairs, they were met by a bevy of maids, cooks, and a few other male and female associates of the company -- the Senior Partners as Travers had called them. All made quick and curt introductions. Buffy’s hand was thrust into those unaware of her reason to be in the Giles home. Overwhelmed and over stimulated, Buffy was drowned in the commotion. Giles and Angel quickly succumbed into business talk that Buffy couldn’t follow, so her attention was easily diverted by the doorbell -- the rest of the group remained unfazed as they were handed their drinks by Wesley and made to move into the front parlor. An older, plumped maid moved to answer the door. Behind it stood an average sized man with a shock of unnaturally blonde hair.

The man stepped forward and sighed. Taking a long drag from his Marlboro, he glanced around the vast living space and exhaled, cigarette still slung from his lips, “Home sweet home.”

TBC





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