Annoying phone call #3 (Paul)

When Sam Carter arrived at the room to meet him for lunch, Rupert seemed tense and distressed. She frowned and entered. “Is something wrong?” Rupert handed her a piece of paper. Sam glanced at it, but didn't actually read it. “What is this?”

“Do you have any memory of this?”

Sam examined the paper and realized it was a marriage certificate. She choked a bit and giggled nervously. “I'm afraid not.” She looked to Rupert and pasted on a smile, which faltered when she saw Rupert's deepening frown. “What's the matter? We're not the first people to get a bit drunk and marry in Vegas. I'm sure there's a relatively simple process to obtain an annulment.” Rupert looked, if anything, more agitated and disturbed. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas? Right? It's not that I don't like you, but I don't even know you.” Sam looked at her would-be husband and saw him cleaning his glasses with a cloth handkerchief in what was obviously and nervous habit. “I don't want your money, Rupert.”

“I'd gladly give you every cent I have to my name if an annulment was possible.” Rupert said gently, almost as if talking to a child. “And to be honest, that's a quite sizable sum.” At Sam's puzzlement, Giles continued. “As the wife of a Watcher, you will get a very comfortable allowance – in fact, if you want to shop at Oxford and High Street every day, you will have difficulty spending it all. You could fly to Paris first class once a week and shop there as well.”

“And if I say that has no appeal to me whatsoever? I'm a fighter pilot, an Air Force colonel, not a New York socialite.” Sam narrowed her eyes at Rupert. “Why would you say an annulment is impossible?”

“I am a Watcher – it's hard to explain – but we're bound to the British crown by vows that date back to Roman occupation. I assure you, you will learn all of it in time. But suffice it to say, the moment we consummated our marriage, you became a British subject, with all the rights and responsibilities that entails. And you, too, are now bound to the crown by the same unbreakable bonds that bind me. And our children and grandchildren – all our descendants as well.” Rupert sat on the bed, his face desolate. “I would never have trapped a woman unknowingly into this life. I promise I will make it as pleasant as I possible can for you.”

Sam watched Rupert as a flurry of emotions raged through her mind. “What about my career? I can't simply walk away from my military commission. And I won't. Not for a wedding that I don't even remember.”

Giles shrugged. “I had a call from a young colleague earlier. He says the R.A.F. is all over our headquarters in London – I suspect some sort of arrangement is being made for your military service. Perhaps you will be allowed to serve in the R.A.F. if you have sufficient useful information to provide them. Did you have access to classified information?”

Sam felt her heart race with panic. “You married me to force classified information out of me?”

“No. No! Absolutely not. I am simply curious as to why high ranking R.A.F. officials are so excited about having you transferred to the British air force. It was pure speculation – that you might have some knowledge that they were curious about. We've been ordered to appear before Her Majesty next Tuesday. It's very fast. And unusual. They usually give Watchers four weeks for a honeymoon. The crown is interested in seeing that the watchers replenish their numbers quickly.” Giles looked down at his glasses, seemingly puzzled that he was still wiping them, and looked up at Sam. “We lost most of our number about three – almost four years ago now. Our responsibilities have increased, and the number in our service has decreased. As for your memory of last night's event, I believe I can help restore those easily enough.”

Giles walked to a leather case – almost like an old-fashioned doctor's bag and ruffled through it, first putting on silk gloves and then pulling out a crystal almost three inches long. “Overkill, but barring a head injury or something truly arcane, this should restore your memory.”

“A crystal?” Sam couldn't hide the skepticism in her voice. “A magic crystal or some such?”

“Magic? Hardly.” Giles scoffed a bit. “This is simply a focusing stone, it will make it somewhat easier to force you into a hypnotic trance. I assure you that you will remember everything that we converse about when I awake you.” Giles handled the crystal gingerly. “If this fails, then I'll pull out the chalk and candles and stinky herbs and you can watch your new husband chant in Sumerian.”

Giles quirked a brow at her and smirked. Samantha chuckled. “You're not serious?”

**** ***

“This is Brad.” Brad Mitchell was on his way out the door as his desk phone rang. The shift was over at two in three minutes, just enough time to weave through the building down to the front door.

“It's Paul, Paul Davies.”

Brad smiled to himself. “Hello, cousin mine. How can I be of service?” He looked up at the clock as the time ticked by, wondering why Paul hadn't called his cell phone.

“I need you to do a check on someone for me.” Brad rolled his eyes. He hated it when someone tried to use their familiar relationship or friendship to check up on someone else. “Sorry to do this, orders from my C.O.”

“Sure thing. What's the name?”

“Rupert Giles.” Paul was silent as he listened to the clicking of the keys that indicated that Brad was searching the police database.

“Uh oh.” Brad grumbled. “He's wanted for questioning in thirty-eight – nope, forty-three murders throughout the west and Midwest. Nasty ones – no survivors, the M.O. is bludgeoning, no witnesses.” Brad heard Paul gasp. “Rupert Giles, aka Xander Harris, aka Robin Wood, aka Andrew Wells, aka Wesley Burkle. All claiming to be employed by W.C.I. Ltd. No phone calls to the number get through. Guy has a lot of weird aliases. Not a nice fellow. You got any information on his whereabouts? ”

“Yeah, he's in Las Vegas.” Paul cleared his throat. “Apparently taking Colonel Samantha Carter out for lunch.”

“You have a cell phone number for her? We may be able to locate her before she comes to harm.”

“555-1245.”

Brad looked to the clock, two-fifteen, and it was going to be a long afternoon. He needed to call Becky and tell her to pick up the kids at school.

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Note to my readers -- though I read CSI xover fic, I don't watch the show, so I'm not even going to pretend to know the characters, thus the O.C. 'Brad Mitchell.'