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‘Awakenings’ is Part Two of a multi-part series, ‘Journeys’ and follows ‘Promise to a Lady’. If you’ve not yet read that, you probably should, or parts of this as well as future parts may well confuse you. Some plot points from early Season 6, even some scenes, and an occasional direct line of dialogue, have been downright stolen by me and incorporated into ‘Awakenings’. I hope I’ve kept this to a minimum, but I’m sure there will be occasional eyebrow raising among readers, especially during Chapter One. A longer note from me following that chapter explains my reasoning in a little more depth, if anyone is remotely interested.
‘Journeys’ has angst, sex, blood play, and the occasional very bad word. Most of all, it has, I hope, love. However, the adult nature of this story does give it an overall rating of NC-17.
Feedback will not necessarily make the chapters appear any faster, but I’ve found it does inspire me to keep plugging away, and it is lovely to receive. In other words, please send. My e-mail address is: MKStatz@aol.com.
I’m going to try to continue to post at a sedate pace until I’ve completely finished the story. Then – watch out – because I promise I’ll be sending out chapters much more quickly.
Joss Whedon, ME, UPN, WB, blah, blah, blah...The television programs, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel and all of the characters appearing in them belong to someone other than me. If they belonged to me, I’d – well, read and find out.
BY starlight and candle-light and dreamlight
She comes to me.
He hadn’t discovered a bloody thing.
He’d
spent nearly a week arsing about in the world of leaded glass
windows, green shaded desk lamps, and endless acres of oak and
mahogany polished to a glossy finish that was the Council
Headquarters in London. Nothing tangible. Only one somewhat
promising lead that had taken him out of his hotel and up to the
Lake District for an additional ten days. And, in the end, that
hadn’t panned out either.
The Council itself had had nothing
to contribute. Either they honestly didn’t know anything, or they
were once again hiding their knowledge. This time, Giles was
relatively sure it was the former. He’d been careful to keep many of
his real questions to himself, and he’d certainly avoided mentioning
Spike. Instead, he’d concentrated on the words themselves, trying to
find them, or anything approximating them, in any written form;
legends, prophecies, myths, the recorded dreams of former Slayers,
notes in the diaries of their Watchers, obscure writings of known or
unknown origin, someone’s jottings on a napkin. Anything.
And
he’d found nothing.
He’d made some other contacts, selected
sources and friends from his less reputable youth, but they hadn’t
been a great deal of help either. One or two had agreed to look into
‘things’ more deeply, and one other, perhaps the most promising, had
frowned and told him the words seemed to ring a bell. Could she get
back to him? Giles had given her his number in the States.
He
hated going home empty-handed, but he’d been gone nearly three
weeks, and felt he really needed to get back to Sunnydale. He would
just have to keep in touch with these old acquaintances, and hope
they discovered, or remembered, something. At the same time, he’d
need to keep up his own research.
One of his old friends had
directed him to several web sites that specialized in just the sort
of obscure information he was seeking. Giles almost cringed.
Computers continued to terrify him. Would he now have to force
himself to adjust to them in order to access these sources of
information? He tried to see a bright side to this idea. Oh! Perhaps
the computer would actually reveal information to him, rather
than concealing it as the Council seemed to enjoy doing. Of
course that would probably only happen if he learned how to turn one
of the dreadful things on.
By the time he let himself
into his apartment, Giles was feeling tired, and frustrated, and
quite out of sorts. The flight had been long, and rough, the
in-flight food deplorable. It had taken him nearly an hour to get a
shuttle to the remote parking to retrieve his car at L.A.X. He
should’ve paid the extra fare and gotten a connecting flight to
Sunnydale. Next time, he promised himself.
He hadn’t been out
of touch with Sunnydale for this length of time since he’d first
come to the States. To be honest, he was a bit nervous about what
Anya might have done with the shop in his absence. He tried to
assure himself that whatever it was, it would, if initiated by Anya,
probably be good for business.
There were several messages on
his machine. Only a few interested him. Three from Willow, two from
Dawn, and one, rather to his surprise, from Spike. They all said
basically the same thing.
Call me as soon as possible.
Followed by a complete lack of any remotely helpful details.
Really! You’d have thought they could be a bit more informative
than that.
The last time he’d been gone for any length of
time, there had been that somewhat distressing troll incident. Had
something similar happened? Or, had the store burned
down?
Dear Lord, please don’t let it be the foretelling of
yet another apocalypse! It hadn’t been anywhere near a year since
the last one. Surely they were entitled to some time to
regroup? Especially now, without… Or – oh, perhaps the others had
already averted it while he was blessedly oblivious on the other
side of the world? He much preferred that scenario.
He called
the Summers’ house, and when he got no answer there, he tried
Xander’s. No luck. He couldn’t remember Spike’s cell phone number
offhand, and wasn’t sure where he had it written down. New-fangled
contraptions. They just had to be ex-directory, didn’t they?
Don’t I pay the bill on the blasted thing? he thought. I
should know the number. It was late, and the Magic Box would be
closed, but perhaps he should drive by, assure himself it was still
standing, and see if any of the young people were there.
Or
he could just go to bed, and deal with whatever needed to be dealt
with in the morning. Tempting as that sounded, he decided he’d
better make the effort, regardless of his state of
exhaustion.
He was, after all, a soundly reliable
fellow.
Sod it all.
There were several lights on in
the Magic Box. Giles parked his car in front of the shop, and
climbed out. The door wasn’t locked, which either meant that someone
was still here, or that someone was going to receive a stern lecture
on carelessness tomorrow.
He heard a murmur of sound from the
direction of the training room. He started in that direction, but
then paused, debating the wisdom of continuing. At this rather late
hour, it was most likely Xander and Anya, creating new and ever more
unlikely sexual uses for the gymnastics equipment. He sincerely
hoped the two of them always wiped the equipment down thoroughly
after, er, using it. He shuddered lightly at the thought. He
would never grow accustomed to the former demon’s penchance for
sharing intimate details of her life with him. He had asked her
quite bluntly to cease and desist, but he still had to glare at her
with his piercing eyes at least once per week in order to avert
further unwelcome knowledge and the accompanying visuals.
As
for the time he had inadvertently walked in on the young couple?
Well, he preferred to pretend that had never happened. He
wasn’t always successful. Further, he remained disturbed by the
pleasure he sometimes took in remembering how really beautiful
Anya’s breasts were.
Poor Watcher. Did your life pass
before your eyes? Cuppa tea, cuppa tea, almost got shagged, cuppa
tea. How very amusing, Spike, he thought sarcastically, and not
for the first time, as he remembered the words the vampire had
spoken after a nasty fight on patrol one night near the end of the
summer. Unfortunately, they were also true. He needed to start
socializing again. Soon. With women. A woman. There must be
someone suitable in the area. Someone the right age, with
intelligence, and who wouldn’t think he was completely barmy because
of his interest in the, er, – occult – for lack of a better word.
Unfortunately, experience had taught him that that last bit often
provided a major stumbling block in building a
relationship.
He listened for a moment, trying to decide
whether or not to continue into the other room, or to leave. But
then he heard a distinctly British voice, and a lighter, answering
grumble. Dawn. He remembered Spike’s stated intention of starting
Dawn on some basic self-defense training, and glanced at the clock.
10:30. It did seem a bit late for Spike to be working with the young
girl tonight, but at least he felt safe entering the
room.
“Chill,” Dawn said with exasperation. “I’ll get
it.”
“I don’t need to chill, pet. ‘m there. And I know you’ll
get it, because we’ll be working on it ‘til you
do.”
Apparently, Dawn was more successful in the next
attempt, because she laughed lightly as Giles moved far enough into
the room to see them, and Spike made a sound of approval. The bot
stood nearby, watching with quiet attentiveness.
He had to
admit, Spike’s protectiveness of Dawn, his seeming absolute loyalty
to her, had taken a great deal of stress off his own shoulders. He’d
had a lot of trouble forgiving Dawn for being alive when Buffy was –
not. He knew that attitude made no sense, and he’d often felt it
made him much less of a man to even be thinking such a thing. But
even that self-disgust hadn’t prevented him from continuing to feel
that way.
As the summer had moved into fall, and a good deal
of his depression had lessened, Giles felt he had been able to rid
himself of such thoughts, and start to accept that Dawn had had
nothing to do with anything that had happened with Glory. To be
truthful, she’d had no control whatsoever over anything that had
happened around her or what had been done to her – by the
monks, or Glory, or Doc. To continue to somehow hold her responsible
was ridiculous and petty. Of course he’d known that from the outset,
but he was glad he’d finally been able to really feel it –
emotionally as well as intellectually.
By the time school had
gone back into session, his long held love for Dawn had experienced
a rebirth of sorts, and he remembered the intense joy he’d felt at
being able to freely admit to it again. The joy had been mixed with
a great deal of relief as well. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the
unfeeling monster he’d sometimes thought himself during the early
months of the summer when he’d barely been able to look at the
girl.
He’d just been – human – and hurting.
Depression
could do such odd things to people – affect them in so many ways,
many of which were completely unreasonable. Now that he seemed to be
recovering from his depression, he needed to learn to forgive
himself for some of the less than generous feelings it had led him
to experience.
Giles watched the three of them now, his lips
curling upward. They looked like such a – well, almost like a
family.
Then his eyes narrowed. This wasn’t right. Unless he
was forced to patrol with it, Spike avoided the bot like the plague,
and he couldn’t imagine the blond willingly allowing the robot to
intrude on his time with Dawn. Just as these thoughts were
registering, Spike seemed to sense his presence, and he whirled
toward him. That, in itself, was almost shockingly unusual. Normally
Spike would have sensed him before he even entered the room. He
watched the curious expression that came over the vampire’s
face.
“Rupert...”
At the single word, a stillness fell
over the room, and Giles felt something run through him, something
strange. A – an anticipation of some sort. He tried to read
Spike’s expression, then he shifted his eyes to Dawn. The teenager’s
eyes were wide, and he could see that she was practically bursting
at the seams, longing to blurt out an excited stream of words, and
was restraining herself with the greatest effort.
“Rupert...”
Spike began again. Then he continued very softly, his tone decorous.
“We have news, my friend. You may wish to sit down.”
But
Giles’ eyes had already gone past the vampire and settled instead on
the being behind him. The one he had initially thought was the
robot. And which he now knew was not.
He stared, his face raw
with wonder.
“Buffy,” he said softly. “My beloved
girl.”
Shock held him immobile for a long silent moment
before he crossed the room, sliding his arms around her when he
reached her side. She was here, a warm and living miracle. He bent
his head over hers.
“My darling girl. You’ve come back to
us.”
“Yes,” she whispered, and he began to
cry.
~*~
Later, when he thought about it, Giles
realized that they’d really said very little of any
consequence. Mostly he’d gazed into her eyes, trying to assure
himself that he wasn’t hallucinating.
Dawn and Spike had
decided to go to the Summers house, giving them some time alone.
Spike had stood nearby as Buffy hugged Dawn goodbye, and there had
been a moment, somewhat tense, and almost suggesting indecision – on
the part of Buffy or Spike? – but then Spike had touched a hand
briefly to the small of Buffy’s back, and left the shop with her
sister. Giles, standing in stunned amazement across the room, had
only vaguely registered the exchange.
His beloved girl,
his child, restored to him.
That phrase was playing over
and over in his mind.
His beloved girl, his child,
restored to him.
They talked, and gazed at each other,
and he shed a few more tears. Giles was sure he appeared quite dazed
with a mixture of pleasure and shock, but if he did, Buffy’s
expression did not mirror the emotions of his own. Her eyes were
intent on him, interested. But they were somewhat guarded as well.
He could almost feel the fine tension that was running through
her.
“How long?” he finally asked, after a prolonged
silence.
“Only a few, um, not very long, really…”
“And
you’re okay? All your fingers and toes?”
That brought out a
smile. She held up her hands and wriggled her fingers. “Would you
like me to take off my shoes?”
“That shan’t be necessary,” he
assured her. His eyes ran over her face. “You’re the most beautiful
sight I’ve ever seen…”
She actually blushed lightly, ducking
her head, and another smile appeared.
“How did this happen?
How? Were you brought back? Sent back? Do you know?”
Her
smile faded. “The others – they brought me back,” she told him. “But
I don’t know very much about it. I’m sorry. You should probably ask
one of them.”
He leaned toward her. “Where were you, my dear?
What was it like? Were you aware? What happened?” Tell me what
its like to be dead.
As soon as the words were out of
his mouth he could have kicked himself. Apparently, his shock had
also made him, temporarily, he hoped, extremely stupid. She’d
finally relaxed enough to smile, and now he could see her
withdrawing back into herself.
“I – I can’t talk about it.
Not yet. I don’t know… Maybe later… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” he
stopped her stumbling apologies. “I should never have asked.
Certainly not now. It was unbelievably clumsy of me, and I should be
apologizing to you. Which I am. I’m sorry.”
She
couldn’t talk about it. So, she had been aware on some
level. And had memories. Memories too horrific to be talked about?
Too terrible to share? Had she been in a hell dimension then, he
wondered? Had the portal opened by Dawn’s blood thrown Buffy into
one of the dimensions they’d read of when they were researching
Glory? They’d hoped that if they were able to discover which hell
dimension Glory came from, they could, perhaps, find some weakness,
something, anything… Glory kryptonite, Xander had called it. They’d
been spectacularly unsuccessful. Giles felt the remembered
hopelessness fill him for a moment, and he had to forcibly push it
away. Glory was gone, dead. Their helplessness against her was
something he no longer had to worry about.
And, in the end,
they’d defeated her, hadn’t they? Just moments too late, though, to
avoid the terrible, terrible cost…
Or were her memories too
painful in some other way; or simply too personal to share, not
terrible at all?
He wouldn’t push Buffy now. He thought of
the past; thought of the other times she had been faced with
traumatic situations, and how she would eventually share with him
what he needed to know. That had been the case with Angel, at any
rate, when she’d had to send him to hell, even though his soul had
been restored. It had taken time, but she had finally shared. Maybe
she would this time, too. When she was ready. He had dozens of
questions, but he could wait to ask them.
“You know I’m here
for you,” he told her. He was unbelievably happy to see her,
couldn’t quite grasp that she was here and alive. He tried to put
those feelings into his voice, into his expression. He wanted her to
know what he was feeling, how much he loved her.
He reached
for her hands, taking them in his, and received his second great
shock of the night.
She tugged her hands away quickly,
jerking them close to her chest as she cringed away from him, and he
felt a terrible jolt of pain at the rejection. Almost just as
quickly, she reversed her action. Even before he could drop his
hands into his lap, her mouth curved itself into a smile, and she
offered him her hands again, her eyes apologizing.
“I’m
sorry,” she said. Again. “I’m, um, a little nervy sometimes.
I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything.”
She didn’t sound too
sure, though, and he thought her phrasing a bit odd. Shouldn’t she
know if it meant anything? He took in the rigidity of her shoulders
and the strained nature of her smile, and he knew without doubt that
she was forcing herself to allow his touch, to entrust him with her
hands. It pained him deeply, hurt in a way he couldn’t have
imagined, to know she didn’t want his hands to touch hers.
Belatedly, he realized that she hadn’t really returned his embrace
when he’d first recognized her, either.
He squeezed those
small hands gently, and released them. He might appreciate the
gesture, but he wasn’t going to make her any more uncomfortable. His
track record through this miraculous encounter was rapidly
worsening, and he felt disgusted at his own awkwardness. He hadn’t
always been good at conveying his feelings for Buffy to her, but in
the months just before her death, he’d thought the two of them were
improving in that area, finally able to tell each other how much
they cared for each other.
Giles let his eyes drink her in
again. She’s really here, he thought. Alive. He chose his
next words with care, hoping to keep his foot well clear of his
mouth. His excitement at her return was being tempered now with
concern about her well-being. She looked to be physically fine; too
thin, but otherwise healthy, and more beautiful than he’d ever seen
her. But it was becoming increasingly clear that in other ways, she
was perhaps, not quite herself.
Which was only to be
expected, he assured himself. She’d been dead for several months,
after all.
“I don’t know how you’re adjusting. I get the
impression you were aware, to some degree, on some other plane, and
I hope that, when you’re ready, you’ll share that with me if you
feel you can. I shan’t press you. But even if I’ve misread that, and
you weren’t aware, just being brought back to life must be an
enormous trauma. If you’re having trouble getting on, please
remember that I love you, and that I’m here for you. Anything you
need to share, to talk about… When you’re ready, I’ll be here.
Promise me you’ll keep that in mind.”
“I promise.”
“In
the meantime, take life slowly. Don’t try to rush back into things.
You’ve always had so many responsibilities, and I don’t want you
trying to take them all on again immediately. Your friends and I are
here for you. Dawn and Spike, too, I’m certain. Let us help
you.”
He smiled at her gently, and resisted the urge to reach
for her hands again, even though he longed to squeeze them in
reassurance – for her and for himself.
“Will you do
that?”
“I’ll try,” she said quietly, and he could see his
words had warmed her. He felt a bit better. She stood up and reached
for her coat. When she faced him again, much of the softness had
left her eyes, revealing some determination, a glimpse of the girl
he had known. “I don’t want you to worry about me. Things have been
a little odd, but… I’m going to be okay. Soon. I promise.”
It
was the first time all evening she’d even sounded familiar to
him.
His eyes studied her carefully. “I’ve always worried
about you, my dear,” he reminded her. He longed to put her at ease.
“But if I become too exuberant, you have my permission to tell me
quite firmly to bugger off.”
The offer raised another smile,
brief but genuine.
“I want your word that you’ll remember
that I’m here for you; that I love you,” he repeated.
“I’ll
remember,” she promised him.
“Good.” He smiled at her, and
continued in a light vein. “Now, it’s late, and I’ve had a very long
day. I’m quite sure I shall be suffering intense jet lag tomorrow.”
He stood. “I have my car. May I give you a lift home?”
“All
right,” she replied readily, but he could hear that uncertainty in
her voice again. “Thank you, Rupert.”
~*~
Giles rarely
smoked. It was a habit he had painstakingly broken long ago, one
small detail among many in expunging his past, and he almost never
allowed himself to indulge any more. But some circumstances just
seemed to call for the inhalation of large amounts of carcinogens,
and this, apparently, was one of them.
He was saving the
alcohol for later.
How many nights had he sat like this, here
in the quiet darkness of his apartment, in those first weeks after
her death? Too many, perhaps; brooding, mourning, waves of guilt and
sorrow and pain lapping steadily at the edges of his mind. He was
sorry that Spike had suffered, but he had to admit that the
discovery of the vampire, wasting away in his crypt, had jump
started his life again, shocking him into having to take action, to
move, to make decisions, to go on.
He wasn’t brooding
in the same way tonight, he assured himself, and to prove it, he’d
lit a fire in the grate. It had died down rather quickly, though, as
fires tend to do when they’re not provided with fuel. He’d hardly
noticed that little was left but glowing embers.
His
beloved girl, his child, restored to him.
He honestly
could not remember a single instance in his life that even
approached the depth of joy and wonder he was currently
feeling.
And the terrible underlying
fear.
Rupert…
“Do you need a spot of bourbon to
go with that smoke?”
The low voice reached him just before
the flare of a cigarette lighter sent an artful pattern of light and
shadow across the sharp features of the only vampire to currently
have an invitation to his home. Spike touched the flame to his own
cigarette, and snapped the lighter shut. Giles hadn’t heard him come
in, and he was reminded that the other man could move very quietly
when he was of a mind.
“I promised myself I’d hold off on the
alcohol until later,” Giles responded evenly.
“You mind if I
start without you?” Spike inhaled deeply on his cigarette, blowing
the smoke into a room already thick with the stuff.
“Be my
guest,” Giles offered. “Am I going to regret my decision to
wait?”
“You might,” Spike cautioned, crossing to the small
table that held Giles’ limited supply of spirits. He glanced back at
the Watcher. “Care to change your mind? Might ease the shock a
bit.”
Giles shook his head. Even in the near dark, he noted
that the vampire reached unerringly for the decanter that held his
best stock. Of course, Spike had excellent night vision, and
apparently his memory for good alcohol was equally good.
When
the blond had been living with him, the alcohol levels in the
apartment had gone down in dramatic fashion each week, due not only
to his reluctant guest’s consumption, but to his own. That had not
been a particularly happy time of his life. He’d felt so useless for
several months, struggling with Buffy’s growing independence, and
his fears that she would no longer need him, that he had little to
offer. It had been a perfectly dreadful feeling, and it had been
such a wonderful relief when she’d strongly disabused him of
such notions after Dracula’s visit.
Feeling needed, he
thought, was very important to the human psyche.
Spike
splashed about an inch of the amber liquid into a short, squat
tumbler. Cigarette and glass in one hand, he hefted a chair from the
dining room and swung it over near the chair Giles occupied,
straddling it. He rested his arms on the chair back, and settled in,
taking a swallow of bourbon, and another hit off his
fag.
“Got your mind all worked around things?” the vampire
broke the silence.
“Hardly,” Giles admitted. “I feel
incredibly happy, yet at the same time, almost paralyzed with
fear.”
“Yeah, that sums it up nicely, doesn’t
it?”
“Were you a part of this? Did you help to bring her
back?”
“No. Didn’t know a bloody thing about it.” Spike’s
tone was hard. “I’m not trusted, mate. And I’m pretty torn about the
whole thing. Happiness and fear, like you said.” He looked into his
glass. “Not quite sure ‘m over the shock yet, myself. Been an
interesting few weeks, I’ll say that.”
Giles was aware that
Spike’s actions over the summer had not earned him a position of
trust, at least not with everyone. Dawn, clearly, was completely in
Spike’s camp. The two seemed to grow closer on an almost daily
basis. And, if he possessed any ability whatsoever to read facial
expressions, Giles would guess that Tara had developed something of
a soft spot for the vampire as well. The others remained at best,
neutral, and at worst, hostile. Even this much more silent and
remote incarnation of Spike didn’t seem to leave many people feeling
ambivalent.
He’d already admitted to himself, well, furtively
at least, that he rather liked Spike, and enjoyed spending time with
him. The vampire, against all logic, and everything he’d ever been
taught, had become a friend.
Occasionally, Giles still
gasped in shock when he admitted that to himself.
He had come
to trust Spike in a good many ways. That didn’t mean he didn’t
remain somewhat wary. He could never allow himself to forget or
ignore that Spike was a vampire, that, at the very least, a demon
resided in him. And that he had no soul. The specter of
Angel/Angelus hung over him – over all of them. The difference in
the souled and unsouled versions of Spike’s grandsire had made a
lasting impression on them, and had given them to very much fear the
lack of a soul. Although Giles knew intellectually that it was
unfair to judge all of a species on a single specimen – and
didn’t that sound coldly scientific? – emotionally he still had
some trouble getting past that. And past all those years of study
with the Watcher’s Council… Unsouled Spike was proving vastly
different from unsouled Angelus, yes, but it still seemed wise to
remain – alert.
Over the summer, however, he had made the
decision to start putting some faith in Spike. A little trust. Just
a bit at a time. He could then stand back and see how Spike handled
it. He was cautious, but he had every intention of continuing on
that course unless Spike proved himself unworthy of the
consideration.
Giles pushed aside the knowledge that Buffy’s
return might cause that tentative trust to be stretched in ways he
hadn’t thought would be possible ever again. Time enough to think of
what to do in those circumstances if any of them arose, he told
himself now.
“So this happened right after I
left?”
“Yeah. A night or two later.”
“How
interesting,” Giles intoned with some sarcasm.
“Gotta admit,
that crossed my mind once or twice. The timing.” Spike paused. “Not
for a week or so, though. Think it took that long for my brain to
start functioning again.”
“I can completely sympathize with
that feeling,” Giles assured him. They mused on that briefly. “Buffy
mentioned that ‘the others’ brought her back. I assume by that she
meant Willow and Xander, Tara and Anya. Were they all involved?” he
asked. “Dawn, too?”
“No. Little sis was on the Do Not Consult
list along with you and me, but the others – yeah.”
“Do you
know anything about the spells they used – the powers they summoned?
Any specifics?”
“’Spect you’d need to talk to Willow about
that,” Spike confirmed what Giles had instinctively
known.
“Yes, I rather thought that might be the case.
I had hoped… Oh, bugger. I think I will have that drink.” He rose.
“Can I get you another?”
“No, I’m good.” Spike refused. He
drained his glass, and set it on the floor.
Giles brows rose,
but he didn’t comment.
“Tell me about Buffy.”
The
words seemed to be absorbed into the darkness of the room. Spike
didn’t respond. Instead he stood as well, and moved to the fire. He
grabbed the poker and hunkered down; nudging the remains of the wood
Giles had fed into the flames before he’d called Spike. (The cell
phone number, it turned out, was revealed in the current
month’s bill.) The vampire had sounded reluctant to abandon his
vigil on the Summers’ roof, but he’d made it pretty clear he
expected the blond to appear shortly at his
apartment.
‘I’ll be waiting, Spike. Ten
minutes.’
Nothing half-arsed about that. It had taken the
vampire nearly twenty minutes to arrive, but Giles had never doubted
for a minute that he would show.
Spike carefully added a few
logs to the glowing embers, mindful, Giles thought, of his own
flammability. The flames began to lick lightly at the dry
timber.
He’s building up the fire because he has things to
talk about, Giles realized. He frowned. He could practically feel
the tension rolling off the vampire, making the tension he’d felt in
Buffy earlier pale in comparison. Curious. He’d spent endless hours
with Spike over the summer, and Giles thought he’d gotten rather
good at gauging his moods, at reading his expressions and body
language. But he wasn’t having much success so far
tonight.
The vampire’s guards were up.
He’d almost
asked Spike to meet him back at the Magic Box, rather than here.
There, in the training room, they could be holding this meeting over
the chessboard. Giles had learned that Spike often relaxed to some
extent over chess, and opened up more. He never opened up a lot –
that didn’t seem to be in his nature, at least regarding anything
personal. He’d unloaded his pain and guilt once or twice over the
summer, but, for the most part, he revealed little, and indeed,
seemed to guard himself almost rigidly.
Playing chess quite
often enabled Giles to draw little pieces of information out of
Spike. Not only did the game seem to open the door to information
and news, it also, and much more importantly in Giles’ mind,
sometimes revealed little flashes of Spike’s intuition. Giles
thought he had rather a gift for that last bit. He didn’t think the
vampire was psychic, exactly, but often Spike would become restless
– edgy, as he himself referred to it – and it often meant something.
Something they should be taking note of, something they should be
paying attention to. Had he inherited that from his Sire,
Drusilla?
On the other hand, the edginess could also mean he
was refusing to reveal something, lying, or was just in the mood to
kill something. Giles sighed. It was so difficult to tell sometimes
with Spike.
Perhaps the chessboard wouldn’t be missed – even
thought his guards appeared to be up in force, Spike seemed to be
settling in for a lengthy natter.
Giles poured his drink, and
returned to his chair. Spike remained in front of the hearth, poking
desultorily at the fire.
“What did the Slayer say?” he
hedged, and Giles’ eyes narrowed. He certainly recognized
that tone and the accompanying little shift of his shoulders. He
might have things to share, but as well as having his personal
guards up, he also had information he intended to keep to himself.
What, Giles wondered, feeling a touch of anger mixed with
resentment, and why did he feel it necessary to withhold
it?
“She said very little to me,” Giles’ voice was clipped.
“She apologized to me more times than she has in all the time I’ve
known her, told me ‘the others’ had brought her back, cringed away
when I touched her hands, and called me Rupert.” Giles let his words
sink in. “You’re an observant fellow, Spike.” There was a dangerous
undertone to the Watcher’s voice. “Why don’t you fill me
in?”
“It was a couple of nights after your flight out, like I
said,” Spike began. “Big gang of hard ass demons rode into town on
motorbikes and had themselves a real good time terrorizing the
locals. The bit and I were at a movie – Friday night, you know – and
when we came out of the theater, there was a good size group of the
rotters hanging about just a block or so down the road. I think they
were L’ubakm-Etyk demons, but I didn’t get a good look. I hid Dawn
in an alley, rustled up some transportation for us, and when I went
back for her she was gone.” He jabbed viciously at the wood, sending
sparks flying in every direction. He took a minute to collect
himself.
“Seems the Slayer wandered into the alley, Dawn saw
her, somehow managed to keep her head, and towed Buffy home. I met
up with them there. Not long after, the Scoobies arrived, made it
clear they’d done some spell to resurrect her. They didn’t think
they’d succeeded.”
Very slowly, Spike stood and, with
careful, controlled movements, he replaced the poker in its stand.
“They left her,” he grated out. “In. The. Ground.” His right hand
was fisted tightly, but his left was clenching rhythmically.
“Alone.”
“Dear Lord,” Giles breathed,
horrified.
“Clawed her way out.” Spike’s head came up. “She
had to fucking claw her way out of her coffin. She’s having
nightmares about that – all the time. Panic attacks during the day,
too. Can’t breathe, can’t…”
Spike moved back to the dining
room chair, and swung his leg over it. His movements were sharp,
angry. Giles could see he was still calming himself.
“Does
she talk to you about these coffin dreams, then?” Giles was
curious.
“Yeah. ‘Cause I’ve been there myself, I guess.”
Spike lit a cigarette. “And they’re not dreams. They’re nightmares.
There’s nothing dreamlike about them at all,” Spike
clarified.
“Aside from these nightmares and panic attacks,
how does she seem to be adjusting?”
“She’s confused a lot.
Says things are ‘fuzzy’. It seems she’s having a lot of trouble
remembering people, and her old life here. I don’t know what would
cause that – shock, maybe? She told me she remembered you, but if
she called you Rupert… Bloody…” Spike broke off. “I called
you Rupert – in the training room, when you came in. Should’ve known
better… If I’d’ve clued her in a little…”
“So she doesn’t
know who I am?” A feeling of hurt curled through him, similar to
that he’d felt when she’d pulled her hands away from him. The hurt
joined a fairly large number of other emotions roiling through
him.
“No. She does. Least that’s my guess. She called you her
Watcher the other night when I asked her. She’s just having some
trouble making all the connections, has to think things through a
bit longer than normal.” Spike tipped his head. “Few days,
sometimes. She says it’s getting better,” he added off Giles’
shocked expression. “And a lot of it sort of comes and
goes.”
Giles’ kept his eyes firmly trained on Spike. “Go on.
I’m sensing there’s more.”
“She drifted off the other night.
In the middle of a sentence. It spooked me. She was talking; then
she was just gone. Lasted a few minutes. I’m not sure she was aware
it happened.”
“Some kind of seizure, perhaps?”
“She
wasn’t shaking.”
“There are silent seizures, too. They can
appear quite like you just described.”
“Yeah, petit mal
seizures,” Spike acknowledged. “Don’t they usually involve blinking,
or chewing motions, or twitching facial muscles,
though?”
Giles took a moment to gather himself. For some
reason, Spike’s ability to sometimes come up with these rather
obscure pieces of information never failed to surprise
him.
“This was more like she just went somewhere else for a
bit. A little side trip to Neverland. Like when Glory snatched Dawn,
except much shorter. And she came back on her own, didn’t need the
witch traipsing through her mind. I told her I didn’t think she
should patrol alone ‘til she’s feelin’ more her old
self.”
“Has she patrolled?”
Spike sat up a bit
straighter. “Just started the other night. Had a bit of trouble the
first time out, but she’s doin’ a lot better already, gettin’ her
form back. She joined me tonight at the Magic Box for a bit of a
work out while the bit was finishing up with Anya.” He took a drag
off his cigarette. “Nowhere near the top of her form, like I said,
but if you’d seen her last week, you’d be right proud of her
progress.”
Giles was frowning, running the pieces of
information through his mind.
“Perhaps I should run a series
of tests on her…” he began.
“No,” Spike interrupted harshly.
“Not yet.”
“I assure you, I would never –” He was feeling
somewhat annoyed with Spike and he wasn’t quite sure why. Resentment
that he knew so much more about what was going on? That Buffy had
quite obviously shared with him? That made no sense. Spike had been
here, he had not.
Emotion was often not terribly
logical.
“Just give her some time, Watcher.”
“Look, I
know you care about her, Spike, and I have no intension of getting
into any type of pissing contest with you over who knows better
what’s best for her…”
“Do you?” Spike asked, his own low tone
containing an element of danger now, too.
“Do I what?” Giles
asked in exasperation. He hated being interrupted.
“Know that
I care about her?”
“Spike –”
“Willow and Xander came
to see me yesterday while I was working out at the Magic
Box.”
Giles felt the tension in the room thicken, and he knew
he was about to be told the reason it had been hanging in the air
since Spike’s arrival. With that opening sentence, though, he was
already relatively certain of the cause.
“Did
they?”
“Yeah. I figured it must be important if Harris took
the time off work. They wanted to offer me a bit of advice. Make a
request, I guess.”
“And that was?” Giles kept his tone
carefully even.
“It had come to their attention that the
Slayer was having some problems adjusting to being back. They
thought it might be best to try to make things as ‘normal’ as
possible for her. Backtrack a bit. Try to make everything like it
was before.”
“I see. Less Spike.”
“Lots less.” Spike
confirmed. “They thought the time I spend with the bit, the
patrollin’ and stuff, might be making the Slayer feel
unneeded.”
Giles felt a momentary flash of sympathy,
recalling his earlier thoughts of the emptiness of not feeling
needed. Apparently Spike didn’t like whatever expression moved
across Giles’ face, because his pent up tension exploded into the
room, and he surged to his feet furiously.
“Oh, right!” He
grated. “Don’t tell me you buy that tripe. Or doesn’t it really
matter?” he went on. “One excuse is as good as the next, is that
it?”
Giles hadn’t really comprehended that his own tension
had been building, simmering just under the surface, but quite
suddenly, he was on his feet as well, and the two were arguing
loudly, words flying back and forth, covering and drowning out the
words of the other. Violence permeated the room.
“…needs
me…”
“…best interests…”
“…not gonna abandon her
now…”
“…well-being…”
“…sodding clue…”
“…help
her in any way…”
“…give a rat’s arse…”
“…no
intention…”
“…guard her, protect her…”
“…do my
utmost…”
“…never hurt her…”
“…never hurt
her…”
“…bloody well love her…”
“…bloody well love
her…”
They both stopped. Cold. Their shouted words seemed to
echo in the dark room, as the two men stood frozen, only a couple of
feet apart, their bodies thrumming with aggression.
Giles was
quite sure the pounding of his heart must be nearly deafening to the
vampire.
A log shifted position in the fire, sending up a
shower of sparks. The sound seemed to break some of the
tension.
Giles moved first. His shoulders slumped, and he
took a step back, plopping down into his chair. He removed his
glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. So much for
putting this issue off.
Minutes of silence stretched
out.
At last, Giles spoke. “I know you love her, Spike,” he
said with quiet sincerity.
Spike’s back was to the fire,
casting his face into complete shadow. But even though Giles
couldn’t see his features at all, he knew those blue eyes were
riveted to his own face, and he could feel the blond’s shock. After
a moment, Spike spun away and went to the fireplace. He braced a
hand against the mantle and lowered his head, staring into the
flames. A black booted foot kicked lightly at one of the
logs.
There was another lengthy silence.
“I can’t
believe she’s back,” Spike said, at last, very softly. “Can’t
believe she’s alive.”
“The greatest wonder of my life,”
Giles’ voice was equally soft.
“Yeah,” Spike murmured his
agreement. He turned his head to look at the other man. After a
moment, he inclined his head slightly. Giles echoed the gesture, as
they both acknowledged the love the other held for the Slayer.
Acknowledged it, and agreed to respect it. Spike looked back into
the flames again.
Giles watched the vampire. He’d been
bracing himself for it, Giles realized. To be shown the door.
‘Thanks for all you did, not needed any more, let me show you the
way out – of the house, the town, our lives – don’t really wish to
see your face again, business end of a stake if I do, but it’s been
quite nice, really…’ Though he’d never said it, Spike must have
known that it had been easier for Giles to accept him once Buffy was
gone, and the vampire’s feelings for her no longer seemed to present
any type of a – threat. Easier, safer. Giles guessed he’d
subconsciously been preparing himself for the rejection since
Buffy’s return. Perhaps he’d even considered this meeting a test of
their still new friendship, which could further explain the tension
Giles had felt almost as soon as Spike arrived.
“I know you’d
never do anything to hurt her,” Spike said, carefully reintroducing
the subject. “And there are things I’m concerned about myself. She’s
just – she’s feeling kinda crowded right now. The Scoobies are
worried about her, and that just seems to make her more…” He
shrugged. “It upsets her, I think, and if she feels like you’re
gonna start pokin’ and proddin’ at her…”
“You’ve obviously
been spending time with her.” Giles’ voice was also careful. “And
have had a far better chance than I to take stock of the situation.”
He paused, letting Spike absorb that. “I have a question, though,
and I’d like you to give me an honest answer.”
Spike
straightened, and his hands slipped into the pockets of his duster.
His tension, while not completely gone, had obviously dropped back
to more normal levels. He was waiting.
“Do you feel there’s
any possibility whatsoever that it isn’t really Buffy?”
Giles
expected a quick, perhaps even angry, denial, but Spike seemed to be
giving the question careful thought.
“No,” Spike said at
last. “No. It’s her. She’s different, yeah, but inside… It’s like I
can – feel it, feel her. Recognize something inside her.
But…”
“Yes?”
“She’s not quite herself. The bit
has noticed it, too. She feels like some parts of her sis are
missing. But I don’t know if parts are missing or if it’s more that
some pieces haven’t quite clicked into place yet.” Spike paused,
smirking a little. “Dawn compared her to the bot with a short
circuit.”
That drew a reluctant smile from Giles as well, and
the remaining tension in the room dissipated.
“Could just be
the memory problems.” Spike took a moment to light another cigarette
before adding with some humor, “’Course the politeness is ‘freakin’’
Dawn out a bit, too.”
“Yes, it rather threw me, too,” Giles
agreed. “We shall have to make every effort to see that that
characteristic stays firmly in place as her, er – misplaced pieces –
continue to reassert themselves. I fully expect you to back me up in
that endeavor. I found it quite refreshing, I must say.”
Once
again he noted Spike’s surprise, as he made it clear he was willing
to accept, for now, at least, the vampire’s assessment of the
situation.
“Now, why don’t you sit down again, and tell me a
bit about Willow?”
Spike seemed reluctant to get into the
subject of the young witch, but he complied, seating himself once
more.
“It’s not like I spend much time with her, or even
around her,” he began. “And there’s nothin’ I can put my finger
on. She’s had power – we all know it. What she was able to do
with Glory, other things. Goin’ into my mind that night – at the
tower – and a time or two since…
“I think she’s pleased with
herself right now, excited. Should be, I suppose. She brought her
friend back from the dead, didn’t she? Gives her reason to feel
proud.
“But her power…” He paused. “It seems to have altered
a little. Shifted, maybe. ‘m not sure.” He looked up into the
Watcher’s face, and Giles again regretted the darkness of the room.
He would have liked very much to see Spike’s expression right now.
“The Slayer told me that Red makes her a bit
‘twitchy’.”
Giles eyes narrowed. That sounded a lot like
Buffy’s ‘spidey sense’. He told Spike as much. “Willow hasn’t
developed an aversion to sunlight, has she?”
“Not to my
knowledge,” Spike gave a snort of amusement.
“Trouble, do you
think?” Giles asked with more seriousness.
Spike shrugged.
“Dunno. Not necessarily.” He took a final drag off his cigarette and
turned to toss the butt into the fire, which was dying down again.
“Not all power causes problems. That kind, though, enough to bring
our Slayer back? It usually comes at a price. Not the type of thing
to just be handed over. And consequences… Guess it wouldn’t hurt to
keep your eyes open.”
Giles fully intended to. He doubted
he’d be far off the mark if he interpreted Spike’s words to mean;
‘If I had my way, I wouldn’t let her within a country mile
of anyone I care about, and you’d be a bloody fool if you did,
either.’
“Thought I might have a chat with her,” Spike
went on. “Didn’t want to get into anything yesterday with Harris
there.”
“Don’t be daft, Spike. I’ll talk to Willow,” Giles
stated firmly.
Spike drew back, seemingly surprised, but
didn’t say anything.
“I’ve known her for years, and I’ve
never once tried to kill her,” Giles explained. “Those two reasons
alone make me the obvious choice.”
Spike made a sound of
amusement.
It was only a few minutes later that Giles walked
his guest to the door, locking it behind him.
The initial
shock of Buffy’s resurrection was wearing off, and his exhaustion
was coming back. He’d gotten an overview of the situation, and
nothing further could be done tonight, anyway.
It wasn’t
until Giles had banked the fire and was preparing for bed, that he
realized Spike hadn’t asked him a single question about what had
happened in England; if he’d discovered anything. The vampire had
tried to tell him he didn’t care about the possible meaning of words
spoken to him in a vision. Actually, Spike had been rather less
polite in his wording. But his complete lack of curiosity told Giles
that, quite possibly, the blond really didn’t care. Had those
words that had so captured his own attention become, after the first
desire to understand them, only meaningless syllables to the
vampire?
He switched off his bedroom lights and lay back on
his pillow. It was always so good to be back in one’s own
bed.
The next few weeks, and more, the next few days, were
probably going to have more than their share of uncomfortable
situations, and not a little stress. Aside from indulging himself
with the pleasure of gazing on his beloved girl again, he wasn’t
looking forward to one bloody bit of it.
He was worried about
Buffy. Spike seemed to feel that the problems she was facing were,
for the most part, only temporary, and Giles sincerely hoped that
was the case.
Still…
He was more concerned about the
possibility of lingering effects from the unknown spell or spells
Willow had used. Magic could be so unpredictable, so filled with –
consequences. Spike had used the same word, and, in his experience,
it was a very appropriate one.
He didn’t want to go off
half-cocked. He’d known Willow for years, and cared for her deeply.
But this… Had she just not known the chances she was taking? The
forces she was playing with? He was anxious – almost sickeningly so
– to get his hands on the spells she’d used, the sources from which
she’d obtained them, to have the opportunity to study
them.
The coming confrontation with Willow weighed heavily in
his mind. He hated the very idea, and would give almost anything to
not have to carry through with it, but he knew he had little
choice.
He was, after all, a soundly reliable
fellow.
Sod it all.
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