Summer, Part 7/9 - Poetic License

[hobgoblinn]

398 / 50,000 (0.8%)

Well, not a bad writing day. I got out 398 words at lunch of this-- a re-re-write of a scene I punted on a long while back. That'll be what I claim as an official count for the day, even though I probably doubled it adding and editing the rest of this to fit that piece in. I'd really like some feedback from anyone who has the time or inclination. It's much improved over the original, which can unfortunately be found a couple of places out there, under my own name. But it's also still a little uneven, with the darker tone of the new material .

I was kind of shocked, that almost 400 words was only about 4 paragraphs. Not really that much, for me.


And now-- the next part of Summer.
Previous parts can be found here.






The night was, to put it mildly, surreal. Giles had gotten the semi-conscious vampire to the couch with some difficulty, then gone off to the kitchen to set a kettle on and prepare a mug of the blood they had all of them started keeping on hand, never knowing when it might be needed. He grimaced as he pulled the mug from the microwave and tried not to breathe through his nose as he returned to the living room. Once there, of course, the aroma of Vauxalla and Verrush demon quite overshadowed anything so mundane as pig’s blood. He swallowed convulsively.




“Here, drink this,” he said, helping the vampire to sit up and pushing the mug into his unsteady hands. He pursed his lips before adding, “Careful, it’s hot.” He turned away. But a very different voice than that he usually associated with Spike followed him back toward the kitchen.




“E-excuse me, Sir. What is this?”




Giles turned back with a sarcastic reply, but the words died on his lips. Something in the tone was off. An accent he’d not heard on this side of the Atlantic, even from Wesley: cultured, shy, obviously well bred. A tentativeness, a vulnerability he’d never heard from the cocky vampire, not even earlier this night.




He saw Spike’s blond mop of hair over the back of the sofa, drying in spiky clumps where the greenish ichor still clung where it had splattered earlier. He seemed to be looking around curiously, as if seeing everything for the first time. Giles came back and sat down in the chair in the corner and studied the vampire for a long moment, frowning.




The features had changed, too -- they were softer somehow. The eyes had a myopic squint, but a lively, almost cheerful, curiosity to them. The only time Giles had seen that kind of joy in those eyes was prior to Buffy’s death, when the vampire was dueling with any of the many demons his chip allowed him to harm at will. He shook himself out of his musings to answer the questioning look in the shy, gentle eyes.




“Um, think of it as a kind of, um, American Bovril. You’ve been rather injured, I’m afraid. This will help.”




The vampire nodded slowly and took a sip. Giles was surprised to note that the features did not change as the blood passed his lips. They remained completely human as he drained the mug, then leaned back, shivering uncontrollably. Giles leaned forward and rescued the mug before it could tumble to the floor. The kettle whistling in the kitchen gave him an excuse to leave the disconcerting thing that both was and was not Spike.




He had not been absolutely sure his guess about Spike’s chip had been correct. But the thing in his living room could not be there otherwise. He finished assembling the tea tray mechanically and returned to the living room. The young man had leaned back and closed his eyes. Giles had seen Spike asleep far too often during the months they had lived in this flat together, and he had never seen his face look thus. So innocent, like a little boy. The mocking, sardonic grin was gone, as was the guarded, preternatural, predatory air of the monster Giles knew he was. Something twisted deep in his gut. Was this the man, or the thing that had killed him, over a century ago? It chilled him, that he couldn’t say for certain.




Spike’s eyes flickered open. “I beg your pardon,” he said, in the same soft, polite tones. “That wouldn’t happen to be tea, would it?”




Giles blinked. “Um, yes, as a matter of fact. Milk, or sugar?”




The young man struggled to sit back up, and Giles steadied him with a strong hand on his shoulder. “Both, please,” he replied. Giles poured the tea and added the requested ingredients without a word, then poured black for himself, though he almost never took it that way.




Giles sipped his bitter tea and tried to get his Watcher’s soul excited about the opportunity he had here. He could learn things that had puzzled the Council for over a century, things that Spike had always kept carefully guarded. But it was with reluctance that he cleared his throat and asked tentatively, “Um, you were a bit disoriented earlier. Do you know your name now?”




Spike sipped his tea, then gave a rueful smile. “Of course. William Congrieve, at your service,” he replied. “Distant descendant of the playwright, but, sadly, lacking his talent.” He shrugged philosophically and took another sip of his tea.




Giles cleared his throat again. Well. There was one mystery solved. None of the Council’s records had captured William the Bloody’s surname for posterity. He felt a slight twinge of sympathy for the monster. He, too, knew what it was like to have to live up to a famous name, or worse, a famous familial line.




The young man was shivering again, uncontrollably. “Sir, what …?” he gasped out, his eyes wide, terrified. “I see things… monsters. Blood on my hands. So much blood....” The features twisted, first in uncontrollable sobs, a second later replaced by fangs, yellow eyes, demonic visage. Even then, though, the face no longer seemed evil-- just consumed by guilt, sorrow, an intimate knowledge of sins too heavy for forgiveness. Giles was rooted to the spot, revolted by what he was seeing, yet unable to look away.




The mug tumbled to the floor and broke, spattering dregs of white tea over the floor between the two men. Giles shook himself from his stupor and helped the vampire, now once again wearing his human face, eyes closed as if in death, to lie back on the couch. A surprisingly firm grip bruised his forearm as he tried to retreat once again.




“Watcher,” a more familiar voice rasped. The eyes flickered open. A slight grin. “What’s the matter, eh Rupert? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”




Giles felt as if he had. He’d seen a similar spectacle only once in his life-- himself, in a mirror, the night he’d helped raise Eyghon in young Randall, and then killed him. He looked away from the now keen, preternaturally observant eyes, unable to control the trembling in his hands.




Spike was suddenly acutely aware that he was looking over the edge of a volcano, and he froze for a moment, than instinctively sought to defuse the situation. A trick he’d learned, all those years with Angelus, and before that, his old headmaster. “Ah, listen Rupert,” he said, a shade too casually, struggling once more to sit up, “maybe a shower would help. Least for the smell. Give me a hand, would you?”




Between the two of them, they managed to get the vampire stripped and settled into the water before Spike was gone again, replaced by the very confused young man, eyes wide as he examined his injuries and the unnaturally colored blood crusted over his body. Giles found himself taking refuge in a mindless recitation of irregular Sumerian verb conjugations. Seeing Spike so vulnerable was having a decidedly unpleasant effect on him, and he was not very gentle in his application of soap. Giles tried to block out the increasingly incoherent mutterings of his patient, sometimes in the familiar East London, filth laden drawl, sometimes in the gentle, tentative tones of someone from a time long, long past.




Unbidden, the lines from Shakespeare suddenly flashed through his mind. “In his nakedness he appears but a man....” He clamped down hard on the thought, and on the arm he was using to draw a now reasonably clean Spike up out of the grey green water. He felt the vampire wince, then lock his hand on Giles’ own upper arm to steady himself. Giles avoided the questioning blue eyes as he ruined three towels helping dry the last of the water and blood from the unsteady vampire, then re-dressed the abdominal wounds with clean gauze and bandages and tape. Without a word, he handed Spike an old pair of pajamas, then returned to the living room, to dispose of the disgusting blanket and replace it with a clean one from the linen cupboard.




Spike came up to stand in the darkened hallway, looking out into the living room. His eyesight wasn’t so good, but he could feel the tension in the room, smell the rage coming off the Watcher in waves. He hesitated for a few moments, then shrugged. If Rupert was going to take whatever it was out on him, Spike on the whole would prefer he did it while he himself was sitting down, or within easy range to collapse on the couch. But Giles got him settled before taking himself, an empty mug, and a half empty bottle of single malt upstairs to his loft.




Giles sat at the small writing desk upstairs and gazed out the window for a long time, swirling and sipping at the generous splash of amber liquid he had poured into it. He wasn’t sure why the night’s events had so rattled him. A few hours ago, he had been comforted that Spike’s demon seemed to be more than just hamstrung by the chip in his brain-- that the vampire seemed to be turning ever more human. But now.... he took another gulp and felt the scotch burn its trail down his raw throat. What did it mean, if Spike, as a demon, could be good? At least, all the evil Spike had done, had been done by the demon. What did it mean, if a demon could be more blameless than a man? Giles drained the mug and stared at it, feeling the darkness closing in on him.




***




When Spike awoke the next morning, Giles had already left for the day. A note on the kitchen counter curtly informed him that he could ring the shop if he needed anything. Spike heated a mug of blood with a certain amount of relief, that he would not have to face the Watcher just yet. He had no clear memories of the previous night, but there were lingering smells in the still air of the flat which had nothing whatsoever to do with demon blood—rage, loathing, fear—Giles’ as well as his own. And not his own, as well—there was a tinge of a third man’s emotions, a man who was eerily familiar in ways Spike did not want to think about. He returned to the couch, drained the mug as quickly as he was able, and returned to the welcome oblivion of sleep.




Spike dozed for much of the day, but by late afternoon he felt strong enough to drag himself to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and imagine what kind of bloodshot, haggard eyes might look back at him from the washbasin mirror, if he had been able to cast a reflection in it.




Slightly refreshed, he padded to the kitchen in search of more blood, and perhaps the makings for a cup of tea. The effort tired him, and after he’d finished another mug of blood and brought his tea out to the living room, he collapsed heavily on the couch. But after a few minutes, he grew restless again and pulled himself up to pace to the door he could not open for another few hours, depending on how late sunset was tonight. He glanced down, noticing for the first time the pajamas which were obviously not his, and he grinned a little as he made his way upstairs in search of some clothing equally not his, but more suitable for going out as soon as night did fall in earnest.




After he had dressed in a jumper he was sure Giles would miss, and sweats and a t-shirt he probably wouldn’t, Spike returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets in search of – he wasn’t really sure what. He felt – unsettled. Jumpy. Like his nerve endings were ablaze. Like he was on the edge of learning something he was sure he did not want to know. He glanced out through the pass through and his eyes lit on a legal pad and a pen. Without knowing quite how he came to be there, he suddenly found himself holding them in his hands, and images, phrases, ideas kindling in his mind. Almost as if in a trance, he sat down at the nearby table and began to write.




***




If Giles had thought his nocturnal adventures might pass unnoticed, his associate Anya soon disabused him of the notion. When he came through the front door of the shop, only a half an hour later than usual, but carrying a box of donuts he hoped might obscure that fact, Anya’s first question was not the expected “Where the hell have you been?” but rather, “What in the name of all the gods did you do in here last night?” In response to Giles’ withering glare, she added, more quietly, but still somewhat sullenly, “It reeks worse than Xander’s basement.”




Giles caught a whiff then himself and wondered if bringing in any kind of food might not constitute a health hazard. He was sure Anya could tell him. He cleared his throat and assumed his blandest, most innocent expression. “Oh, there was a slight, erm, incident last night; got a bit messy, I’m afraid. I’ll take care of it now.” He placed the donut box on the table and his satchel on his desk chair.




Anya glowered a bit, but the “You’d better” was muttered as much under her breath as Anya was capable of speaking, and Giles pretended to take no notice. He went to the back room, stripped to his shirtsleeves, and began putting the ruined clothing and towels he’d used the previous night into a trash bag. Then he opened a window and the back alley door to let the place air out a bit. The sealed bag went into a dumpster down the alley–not his, just in case demonic fluids and the like turned out to be on the list of hazardous materials it was illegal to dispose of in such a manner.




A half hour later, and the place was almost bearable. He discarded the mop and rags he had used to clean up the floor and sink, and turned up the fans he’d placed in the doorway and window to finish venting the place out. A brief twinge of worry–what would Buffy say when she saw this mess?–was just as quickly replaced with the searing pain as he remembered why that was no longer a concern. He made for the back door into the shop before the regrets overwhelmed him, that his last conversation with his Slayer, right here, had been so strained. She had been so distant, so angry with him. But he couldn’t escape the echo as he shut the door behind him–“I imagine you hate me right now….” God knew, he hated himself.




Giles glanced up as he reentered the shop to watch Anya completing a sale. She was spinning a surprisingly convincing lie to explain the lingering odor the customer had noticed. Something about a sewer line backup, from what he could gather. As the bell over the door announced said customer’s departure, Giles gave Anya a faint grin.




“Better?” he asked.




Anya looked slightly mollified. “Yes. I have decided not to call the health inspector or OSHA after all.” She turned and busied herself with an inventory of the items on the shelves behind the cash register, leaving Giles to hope that had been a joke, and the calls had never been a serious plan. Just in case, though, he did come to pat her on the shoulder.




“Thank you,” he said warmly, and was rewarded with the first real smile he’d seen from her in days.




“I’m glad you’re okay, whatever happened,” she replied, a little awkwardly, glancing down at the floor. “And don’t worry,” she added. “I’m not breathing a word of this to Willow.” She turned back to her shelves. “I think I’ve done enough breathing for one day,” she muttered quietly, but with a trace of a grin on her lips. Giles chuckled and gave her shoulder a final squeeze before making his way to his desk and the mountain of financial records he had set himself to reconcile that day.




When he arrived back at his flat, it was after dark, and Spike was nowhere to be seen. There was, however, a very thick envelope bearing his own name, lying on the counter of the pass through to the kitchen. Giles’ brow wrinkled as he picked it up to study the unfamiliar script–far too neat and old fashioned to be from one of his young friends. Opening the envelope, he removed a large number of legal pad pages, most covered front and back with the same neat script in the blue-black ink from his only working fountain pen. The first page bore the simple title, “On the Deaths of Two Slayers.” Giles forced himself to read every word. And he tried very hard not to see in his mind’s eye the gentle blue eyes of a young man, filled with regret and horror at the tale.