Rating: Gen

Spoilers: through 'Chosen' for Buffy; say mid-s3 for Doctor Who.

Disclaimer: none of the pieces belong to me, alas and alack. This story is all I can claim for my own.

Notes: Ms MaryKate said, "Okay. Giles and The Doctor (any incarnation you wish). The same as the ratio of unicorns to leprechauns."

CAVEMEN AND ASTRONAUTS by Jayne Leitch
2007

"How did you know?"

Giles shelved the book in his hands, stood, and reached for the next one from the pile currently occupying his armchair. He cast a sideways glance at his guest as he turned: the Doctor leaned against the wall, cup of tea steaming gently in his hand, eyes sharp as diamonds behind his glasses. He'd been flipping through Giles's books since he first laid eyes on them yesterday; for a man who scoffed--fervently and at great volume--at the notion of magic and demons, his interest in the remains of the Watchers' library was pronounced. "About the Cawthra?" Giles asked mildly, scanning the shelves for the correct empty space.

"Mmm." There was a pause, followed by the slight scrape of china cup on saucer. "I expected to land in the middle of a full-scale invasion, and instead I found you lot already bashing away, turning back the tide. And doing it properly, too." Giles turned again, and caught a glimpse of the Doctor's deep frown and furrowed brow. "That almost never happens."

Giving up on the books for the moment, Giles reached for his own cup, shooting the Doctor a skeptical look. "Humans almost never fight back?"

The Doctor blinked, then grinned. "Oh, no, you always do that. Fighting the dark's what makes you human, always has." Just as suddenly, the grin faded back into a scowl, and he added archly, "You rarely go about it *properly*. Never really seem to understand how, 'til someone--usually me--comes along with a big-print galactic instruction manual." He raised his cup again, but stopped it just before it reached his mouth. His gaze never wavered. "So you see, I can't help but wonder."

Giles nodded at the walls of the room, covered floor to ceiling in shelves crammed with books. "There's a trend towards Earth-centrism--and the writing can be abominably small--but they suffice."

It earned him another smile; then the Doctor looked away, glancing around the library as if trying to determine the exact quality of information it contained. "But how do they suffice?" he mused, a distant tone in his voice making Giles suspect the question was directed partially inward. "The Cawthra weren't supposed to make an incursion on Earth for another millennium. And after that first contact, it was supposed to take human mathematics another two thousand years to sort out the dynamic geophysicality of Cawthrian quasi-dimensions. Yet you and your Slayers," the Doctor's gaze fastened speculatively again on Giles, "were ready for them now. Knew just what to do, barely needed my help at all--little humbling, that."

"For you, Doctor, the Cawthra are creatures of science." Giles settled himself comfortably on the arm of the chair. They'd had brief variations on this conversation twice since yesterday afternoon, when the Doctor had appeared at Giles's door with a twittering jumble of wired-together scrap metal and an air of much-put-upon perplexity. "We know them as demons from a hell dimension, one that--should even the smallest portal be opened between it and this one--disrupts the earth currents to such a degree that even the most harmless spell becomes horribly perverted. Any witch can sense the impending arrival of the Cawthra--and they have, many times before now, despite what your future history books might say." He offered a smile of his own. "To date, our dusty old tomes have been correct enough to help us stop them."

"Oh, *magic*. It's the werewolf all over again." The Doctor heaved an exasperated sigh and set his cup and saucer on the desk with a decided clink. "Humans. You see something incredible, something beyond your understanding, and because you can't think what else to do, you dress it up in fancy clothes and mythologize it. Gods, demons--I've met things that claimed to be both, and in the end, they've always put their trousers on one leg at a time just like everyone else." Catching himself, he amended, "Well, except for the ones with three or more legs; they tend to have better balance. Well, and the ones without legs. Well--" His eyes took on a faraway look. "--and the ones that don't wear trousers."

"All right, then." Feeling slightly testy at the challenge to his efforts, Giles held up one of the books from the pile. "My library is full of superstition and folklore; I don't deny it. I certainly don't deny their validity: superstition and folklore can be very--dangerously--real. And if old wives' tales and the secret writings of prophets denounced as raving lunatics are all we have to guide us, you'll forgive me if I prefer our *sufficient* magic books, however unscientific they may be."

The Doctor's eyes widened; he reached up, pulled off his glasses, and nodded enthusiastically. "Of course I will! Or I would, if there were anything to forgive. You're ingenious, you lot, the way you handled the Cawthra, the way you seem to have handled plenty of other things, besides. I'm not criticising--well, maybe I am, just a little bit, but not your methods. Just your *thinking*."

Giles opened his mouth to retort, but as he looked at the Doctor bursting simultaneously with pride and pique--like a parent who'd just found his toddler doing sums on a freshly-painted wall, Giles thought--he realised that the Doctor wasn't trying to argue; in fact, Giles was prepared to wager that the man wasn't even aware of being contentious. Which meant, most likely, that Giles's own poor temper was less a result of the conversation than of the rather trying events of the past two days, and the notable lack of sleep those forty-eight hours had contained.

Giles put down the book and picked up his tea again, wrapping his hand around the cup to feel its warmth. "Then we'll work on improving our thinking." Pausing to take a sip, he thought for a moment; then, having swallowed, he asked, "I am curious, though, Doctor: how did *you* know about the Cawthra?"

The Doctor folded the arms of his glasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket, then crossed his arms and resettled himself against the wall. "What you said earlier, about a rift between our dimension and the Cawthra's mucking about with earth currents. That sort of thing's not supposed to happen on this planet--I mean *really* not--so when my equipment detects that it *is* happening...bits of my spaceship go ding."

Giles blinked. "Right. Of course. What a scientific explanation."

Ever-so-companionably, the Doctor said, "Well, I'm still not convinced you're not about to turn into a big, angry bat-thing, so I'm hardly going to go into details, am I."

Before Giles could figure out what to say to that, the door to the study opened, admitting Willow and Martha. Grateful for the interruption, Giles turned his attention to them. "Any problems?"

Martha, heading directly for the desk and the tea service, shook her head. "Some of the cuts were pretty deep, but the girls are all patched up now. Linny had some of that weird blue dust on her, though."

The Doctor pushed himself off the wall, startled. "You didn't touch it, did you?"

"Didn't have to." Stirring sugar into her tea, Martha grinned at Willow, who had perched herself in the desk chair. "Willow--who is brilliant, by the way--took care of it."

Willow, looking pleased, explained, "Sterilized it, then made it go poof. I used Cavralan's Third Transmutation," she added, turning to Giles. "Which, by the way, works *loads* better now than it did when the portal was open."

"Good." Giles let out a quiet breath; from the look of her when she'd been brought in, Linny had had a rough time of it that night; it was a relief knowing that she would make a full recovery. He smiled at Willow and Martha. "Well done."

"So," Martha said, tea in hand as she wandered over to claim a space on the wall next to the Doctor, "what have you boys been up to while the women've been working?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Oh, just debating the highly subjective nature of any one person's understanding of reality."

"Really. Kept yourselves busy, then."

Giles held up another book, indignant. "I've been tidying up, as well!"

Willow and Martha exchanged a look, and Willow said, "Who won the debate?"

"I think..." The Doctor paused, ducking his head and running one hand contemplatively through his hair. "...it was a draw," he finished, looking up again, and Giles thought he detected a hint of pleasure in his tone.

They sat and chatted, winding down from the battle and its aftermath, until Martha finished her tea. The second her empty cup touched its saucer, the Doctor sprang to his feet and reached for his coat, slung over the back of the sofa. "Well, Martha Jones, if you don't have any more patients to see to, I think it's time we were off."

"You're leaving?" Willow stood as well, entreating. "But we've hardly had any time to get to know you outside of life-threatening situations!"

Following the Doctor, Martha reached up and touched Willow's arm as she passed. "I'm not sure he actually exists outside of life-threatening situations."

The sky was just beginning to lighten when Giles opened the back door. The Doctor strode past him, took two more steps into the outdoors, then turned back; slanting Giles and Willow a look and a curvy smile, he said, "Care to have a look?"

The four of them made their way across the back garden to the old shed, now in use as an armoury, near the edge of the property. Wondering what to expect, Giles rounded the corner--and stopped so abruptly that Willow bumped into him. They stared at the thing occupying the space between the back wall of the shed and the hedgerows; Giles wasn't sure what to say as Martha took a key from her pocket, unlocked the door and pushed her way inside as if it were the most natural thing in the universe. She sent a grin and a little wave over her shoulder as she went.

When Willow finally spoke, she sounded as if she expected the other shoe to fall directly on her head. "That's...your spaceship?"

The Doctor, leaning as casually against it as he had the wall of Giles's study, patted the worn wooden door with affection. "Yup."

Giles shook his head, his brow furrowed. "But it's a police box."

"Oh, it's much more than that, Mr Giles. Much more than that!" With a theatrical whirl of his long coat, the Doctor pushed the door open and followed Martha across the threshold.

Giles caught a glimpse of impossible light and open space as the Doctor entered the box; he called out hurriedly, "Then what is it?"

After a moment, the Doctor's head appeared around the doorjamb, grinning. "Magic," he said.

End.

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