Comment fic game!

Give me <= 100 words of anything in the comments. I'll attempt to continue with <= 100 words. Then you may, if you wish, continue some more. Let's go!

(ETA: I fell asleep last night instead of doing anything useful, but I'm on 'em! This morning! Keep 'em coming.)
Tags: ,
The day dawned gloomy and grey, despite the high hopes many had held for it. At windows all around the city, sad faces of children looked out on the first day of summer holidays with sadness and disappointment for the rain that was beginning to sluice down from the overhanging clouds.

At one window, however, there was a face marked with glee. "It's raining!" an ecstatic voice called out. "You promised we could do it on the next rainy day! That's today!"
"Rupert, get down from there! No shoes on the furniture."

"Sorry, mum."

Rupert climbed down, but he didn't see the point. His shoes were clean. He'd cleaned them himself, hadn't he, when he'd been made to polish every pair in the house. He hadn't seen the point of that, either. It had been only a little spell, and Simon's dog had been fine once somebody'd undone it. Rupert would have undone it himself, if he'd been allowed.

But today, today would be good. It was raining, and that meant they could finally test his invention.
He was incredibly proud of his invention. He didn't have a name for it yet, but Rupert was sure that, given enough time, he would be able to come up with something suitably impressive. Of course, right now, the name wasn't important. Right now, what was important was that it was finally raining.

With all the clatter to be expected of an eight-year-old, Rupert barrelled upstairs to his bedroom. Dropping to the floor, he wriggled under his bed, grabbed the precious wooden box by its rope handle, and wriggled back out again, dragging the box behind him.
"There's something going on with the girls," Xander pronounced one morning.

"What on Earth makes you say that?" Giles replied over a up of tea.

"They're all squirrly and secretive."
Giles didn't reply right away, but busied himself with the raspberry preserves and the remaining half of his scone. What on earth would Xander describe as "squirrely"? He seemed never to notice anything going on around him. They'd been counting on this trait, in fact, when Buffy had suggested the surprise birthday party.

"An example, please?" Giles said, when his mouth was no longer full of scone.

"They stop talking when I walk into the common room. They *never* stop talking around me. I'm, like, honorary chick."


"What does that mean? 'Ah.' As if you've just figured it all out."

"No, no, I've figured out nothing. Women are as mysterious to me as they are to you."
"But you're the older, wiser man. You're supposed to know everything."

"I could live a thousand years, Xander, and still never understand women completely." He took a bit of his scone. "It's not your birthday soon is it?"

"Nah, three months to go yet. You?"

"No, mine was earlier in the year."
He always felt this moment of respect, a catch in the breath, a twist in the heart at that first touch. In the still chamber of his center he bowed low toward the past, toward those whose hands, wise in the ways of fire and steel, had made this blade. A sleek treasure from an iron-poor land, he knew at least part of this blade had fallen from heaven, bits of meteor painstakingly collected for the sword masters to transform into this deadly elegance. It was alive, its core flexible to take the brunt of impact, its surface harder, to hold an edge that would cleave silk without snagging a single thread.
And in the next breath, all was violent motion: impact and blood and the cries of the dying. Glory's minions fell before him.

For however beautiful this blade was, however masterful its creator, it existed for one purpose. It lived to kill. And Giles, in this moment, was its servant. Its willing, snarling servant, focused on one task, and one task only: killing the hellgod before it killed his Slayer.
Cool idea! Here ya go... :)

He stayed crouched low, shifting his weight to the right and the left as he pushed the motorcycle through the tight turns.  All his concentration was on the apex of the upcoming curve, then powering out toward the next.  No thought of prophesy, Slayers, vampires, or demons, only how much he needed to brake and when he could accelerate again. 
The Bonnie had shit for brakes, nothing near what the engine wanted, but that was part of the thrill, wasn't it? The thought that if he guessed wrong and there was something past his sightline, he'd be fucked. T. E. Lawrence had died that way. One of Ripper's heroes, was T. E.

Destination: Stonehenge, and the room Ethan said he'd taken for the two of them for a week of holiday. A week of magical investigations and researches. Ethan had a theory. It was going to turn out to be nonsense: the Watcher education was reliable about the magical history of Britain, if useless in most other ways. Ripper wanted the holiday, so he kept his mouth shut. Let Ethan find out for himself.

The coward had gone down by train. Refused to ride down on the bike. Nerves. That's what Ripper had. And this proved it, didn't it?
Giles clutched the bag tighter to his chest. Why must they write the name of the store on their little black bag? A package from Toys of Eros was not something he wished to be caught holding. In a town as small as Sunnydale, one was always in danger of running into someone one knew.
But Buffy had been quite specific about what she wanted him to acquire. The feather and the flavored lubricant. And a salve that was supposed to heat on the skin. The shop clerk had been a friendly and helpful young woman. Giles' ears were still hot from their conversation, during the course of which she'd shared her personal experiences with the brand he'd selected. How one could share such intimate information with a complete stranger was beyond him. But he'd learned a great deal from her, which he supposed was the point.

He had an idea where Buffy intended to apply the salve, and the thought made him grateful he'd chosen to wear baggy trousers.
It was not dark, he realized - dim. Dim, cool like shadow after sun, and faint chanting? No, not melodic enough to fit his definition of music. The words tickled his consciousness; if he could just hear them clearly, he was sure he would understand them.
"Mr. Giles?!" now that he understood. Middle-eastern accent, slightly misted over with Oxbridge precision. Youngish male, approximately 25, approaching with his hand outstretched in friendly greeting. "I'm extremely grateful you could make...".
The hands they reached out in friendly greeting went through each other.
His tea had long turned cold, and the book lay forgotten in front of him on the desk. Giles just couldn't connect tonight. Research, which had always been a comfort for him, and could always bring him right back on track, seemed to be as cold a memory as his tea.

His eyes were unfocused, although they appeared to be gazing fixedly out the window at the rain falling against the glass.

Rain. He wasn't in Sunnydale anymore.
“Have you telephoned to see how they’re all managing, at least?”

“No.” Staring straight ahead, Giles raised his almost-empty glass,
finishing his Scotch in one gulp. After a moment, he risked glancing at Madison’s face, not really surprised at the impatient frown he saw there.

“As I told Buffy, she - they *all*, for that matter - need to stand on their own two feet...”

“Bollocks, Rupert, your place is at her side, Council and firing be
damned. Truth: why did you *really* leave Sunnydale so soon after
Buffy’s ‘resurrection’?”

Giles inhaled sharply. “All right. The truth.”
"I saw her with, with another bloody vampire. With Spike."

Madison poured him another whisky. "The creature with the chip in his brain."

"That's the one. Difficult to think of him as a 'creature', as a demon, when one has been fighting alongside him for months. But however one thinks of him, one doesn't want to stand by and watch while the Slayer takes yet another vampire to her bed."

Madison's expression was of a man who'd just heard what he'd been listening for. He said, "One? Don't you mean you?"

Giles braced himself for the lecture. It wasn't done. If loving the Slayer as a father might wasn't done, this was even more unthinkable. But it had happened, and here he was. Though if anyone would understand, Madison would.
Did I make mine too tough? LOL. :)

Just teasing, take your time. Did I tell you how neat this idea is?
I've been starting and re-starting a response to that one all day. It's a great start. ALL of them have been great starts.

Love this game! Everybody should do it, that's what I think :)
It's totally cool!

I want to finish my Ethan fic first, and then I might give it a whirl. I'd definitely credit you with the idea in the post! :)