NOTE: This is a very short piece of silliness that ran out from my head quite early in the morning. If you can catch the crossover (not that that's particularly difficult), kudos to you! I don't own Giles, or the unmentioned x-over person either.
Summary: What really happens when Giles struggles to "pull some strings" and get information and explanations from those mysterious contacts in the Watchers...
What REALLY Happens When Giles Wants a Prophecy Secret...
"Jason, hey, this is Giles."
"Yeah, Giles, hey mate! Long time no speak."
"Yes, it has been a while. Are you still working at that rare book store?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm here right now, why?"
"I was wondering if you could help me to find something."
"You don't want to talk? Catch up on old times? Giles, It's been four years, buddy!"
"Yes…I know that… but this is extremely important and…"
"So my friendship isn't important to you, is that it?"
"Uh, no—I didn't say—"
"So after four years of complete silence, not even a friendly email or cheap Christmas card you just call me only to get something, and then to say I don't matter at all as a person, is that it? My feelings can't be hurt or burned like everyone else's?"
"Well that's just gentlemanly of you isn't it? First you want something, then my feelings don't matter, and now you want to deny it! You just want to have your pudding and eat it too, don't you!"
"Actually, I quite like pudd…"
"Well I hope you choke on it! ——CLICK!"
Self-suffering sweatdrop appears on someone's (probably Giles') forehead.
"George— Professor, this is Rupert Giles. I need your help."
"Well ladddy, out with it then! Don't just breathe into the phone like that, Rupert, we don't all have time to waste."
"Sorry sir. Anyway, I've got this prophecy here; it's very obscure…"
"They usually are."
"Yes, believe me I know, anyway, I'm having trouble translating one piece of it. It's written in iambic pentameter, in some strange northern dialect of Latin. What I wanted to know is—"
"Obscure, always obscure little buggers. They run around you in circles like elusive little rats."
"Obscure, my boy, prophecies are obscure. Pay attention."
"Uh...Oh, well, yes, you're certainly right about that Professor...so, like I said, iambic pentameter, Latin. I need to know what keilose means, in the context of—"
"Like rats, all of them damn prophecies. You try to run, but they always worm their way into your skull. Big, acidic gray rats."
"Hulking, salivating rats just following you everywhere. —Are you there, Rupert, my boy?"
"Adam, this is Giles. You got a minute; it's important."
"Maybe. Whaaddya want?"
"I've been researching a very old chronicle, and trying to decipher the word keilose. Any ideas?"
"Mmmm...what dialect is it in?"
"I'm not sure...some kind of northern dialect, and it's in a verse of iambic pentameter."
"I think it might mean a conjuration, or a shade. Personal shadow; you know the type. [shuffling noises] Oh, hell...I'm out of beer...Where's that damned Scot and his fridge when you need it..."
"No, no...that's the northern Saxon dialect... I meant in Latin, northern."
"Latin, why didn't you say Latin? And no, in that case, I don't know what it means."
"But I thought you spoke most Latin dialects."
"There's thirty-seven friggin' variations! I know twenty-three; give me a break here!"
"But—they've always said you could translate anything...At the Watcher Academy you found that reference..."
"Do I look like the Dali Lama to you? Why do you always assume I know everything? Go find a fucking Encyclopedia Britannica. CLICK."
Pointless, I know. But I was bored and it was late—uh… early. Oh, don't assume I know anything whatsoever about the Latin language. I totally made all of that up. Did I spell Dali Lama correct? I don't think so…