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hobgoblinn) wrote2006-11-04 02:10 pm
hobgoblinn) wrote2006-11-04 02:10 pm
Summer 9/9 - Night Visitors
Ok, I sang way more than 200 notes this morning, some of them even correctly, and then came home to the joy of LJ network problems. So I worked on polishing this last section. I would REALLY like feeback on it,particularly in the second half, as there's some stuff I'm not satisfied with, especially a long speech I immediately identify as "unlike" the character. You'll recognize it when you get there, trust me. And I'll forgo the word count for today, unless I get very inspired later on tonight.
Previous Parts Here.
Dawn's nightmares that night were much worse than usual. Tara and Willow had expected it, of course; she had been unusually quiet and subdued all day after her early morning shock-- seeing the thing with her dead sister's face sitting up and talking to Willow in the basement. Willow sat at the counter in the middle of the kitchen and stared into a tepid cup of mostly untasted tea, having been banished from Dawn's room by the hysterical teen weeping inconsolably in Tara's arms. She glanced up as Tara reappeared in the doorway from the dining room and leaned heavily against the door frame.
“How is she?” Willow murmured, her eyes returning to her mug, which she continued to stir listlessly.
Tara read her expression at once and sighed, as she repeated yet another variation of the reassurances she’d been using all day. “Willow, this wasn't your fault. We all knew you were working on the robot, that you had to get it running soon. It was just bad timing, that Dawn came down to get you....” She trailed off as Willow shook her head, bitterness turning down the corner of her mouth.
“I should have gone up and locked the door, or, or not lost track of time in the first place. And oh, God, Tara,” Willow's face began to crumple at the memory, “you should have seen Giles today. He was so....” She sniffed and accepted a box of tissues from her lover gratefully. Tara sat down beside her and tried again.
“You did what you had to do,” Tara insisted, trying to catch Willow's downcast gaze. Failing, she took her hands and continued, “And now, you need to get some sleep. Don't think I haven't been noticing how little of that you're getting these days.” She said it sternly, as she looked deep into Willow's bloodshot eyes, but there was an unmistakable warmth and love as well.
Willow couldn't summon the energy to protest. “Yeah,” she agreed finally, her eyes starting to glaze over a bit. “Seems like there's so many things to do, and every time I try to lie down, it's like my head turns into one big old honkin' aquarium, or something, with all the little fishy thoughts just swimming around....” Tara frowned as she pulled Willow into a gentle embrace, resting her cheek on the witch's shoulder. Her lover didn't usually babble quite like this unless she was really, really exhausted.
“C'mon,” Tara urged, pulling Willow to her feet. “I'll tuck you in....” Willow answered only with that goofy grin Tara found so adorable, even though they both knew neither of them was in any shape for anything more strenuous than heavy snoring.
Tara came back downstairs after first watching Willow doze off clutching a stuffed bear she had not slept with since childhood, then checking on the still unconscious Dawn. She knew there was little point in her trying to sleep as well; one or the other of them would be screaming themselves awake from the nightmares for the rest of the night. So would she, if she dozed off.
Which is why she finished washing up the dishes, then stepped out onto the back porch for a breath of cool, reviving night air. She froze as she noticed Spike, already occupying his accustomed place-- third step down, left side.
“ 'Lo, Tara,” he greeted her quietly, without turning. He continued to stare off at the stars. “I take it Red's finally collapsed, then?”
Tara never knew quite how to take their vampire protector. On the one hand, she had always appreciated his tendency to speak his mind, even when perhaps he shouldn't. He had punched her in the nose once, proving she was not, as she had always been told, some kind of demon, even though he knew it would set off the behavior modification chip inside his brain. She had seen Spike's feelings for Buffy before anyone else, and had read just how sincerely he had loved their friend. All that counted in his favor.
But the way he was always hanging around, in some ways as needy as those who now slept within the house, sometimes got to her a little. Especially now, when she had just spent far too many hours that day in the company of the eerie and entirely too cheerful and outspoken robot he had caused to be built in the first place. Not to mention the time she had spent doing emotional damage control all evening as a result of its reactivation. She could not keep the irritation out of her voice as she answered curtly, “Yes, she's asleep,” with the slightly accusatory emphasis on the “she.”
Spike just nodded. “Yeah. I got old Rupert home too, all safe and sound, not to mention a little drunk.” He grinned without amusement. “Too bad that doesn't work so well for me.”
Tara looked at him in some confusion-- she had seen Spike inebriated more than once, and she had heard stories about other times as well, especially a memorable one involving Xander, Willow, and a demanded love spell to help him win back Drusilla. Spike caught the look and sighed.
“Yeah. You know how alcohol works, right?” At her blank look, he continued with as much patience as he could muster. “Come on, you're a college girl an' all that. You know. Takes up space in the bloodstream that oxygen might otherwise be occupyin'--?” He broke off as Tara thought a moment, then nodded hesitantly.
“Well,” he continued slowly, “Vampire here. No bloodstream... no circulation.... No oxygen due to the whole no breathing thing....” He waited until comprehension finally dawned, then grinned again, sourly. He turned his eyes back towards the night.
But then Tara frowned. “So, it's all an act, then?” she asked slowly. “When you've been drinking, I mean?”
Spike shook his head, frowning as he tried to put it into words. “Not exactly. The alcohol does soak into the dead tissue and create a little of the old burn going down, and it sometimes simulates the effect of 'demon rum' in the system. A little. But for really serious pain? It's not nearly enough.” He took a long pull from the bottle of Guinness in his right hand, then repeated, more quietly, “Not nearly.” He gazed off into the shadows for a time, before recollecting himself and offering Tara a swig from his bottle like the gallant gentleman he might once have been.
“Um...no. Thanks,” she replied, with an apologetic smile.
Spike shrugged, downed the remainder in another couple of long swallows, then rose to toss the empty bottle into the trash can outside the back door. “So, what time did the Niblet conk out on you?”
Tara consulted her watch. “About an hour ago,” she guessed. “And Willow at about 12:15.”
Spike did some quick mental calculations. The nightmares were nothing at this point if not predictable, and he'd had plenty of practice by now. “Then we've got maybe another hour before the next wave hits,” he estimated aloud. “You should try to get a bit of rest in the meantime, yourself,” he added.
Tara pulled herself to her weary feet as Spike opened the back door for her. “Maybe later,” she said as she reentered the kitchen. He closed the door and locked it behind them. They looked at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Spike finally cleared his throat.
“Um...so. Fancy a cuppa, then? Tea, or hot cocoa?” He turned away without waiting for an answer, opening up the corner cabinet above the stove and rummaging through it.
Tara smiled kindly. “That's okay.” But she filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove just the same. “Can't hurt to have some water ready to go, though,” she explained.
“Good thinkin',” the vampire replied absently. He was staring at the unopened bag of marshmallows he'd just pulled from the back of the shelf, where it had been hidden behind a dozen or more spice jars and other containers. The sense of loss crashed over him like a wave, as he remembered the last time he had shared hot cocoa with Joyce, in this very kitchen, at about this time of night. No deep conversation that night, just light, easy companionship. He couldn't now for the unlife of him recall what they'd talked about. He glanced up and saw Tara's gentle concern, then turned away, the warm sympathy too much for him. He checked on the hot water, then measured out the cocoa mix just as he had seen Joyce do it so many times.
He added the hot water from the now whistling kettle, then replaced the kettle and turned off the burner underneath. He stirred his mug as the witch continued to gaze at him with her sad, wise eyes. Taking a taste, he made a face and admitted ruefully, “I've never gotten the hang of making this stuff.” He replaced his mug on the counter with a slight growl.
Tara took the hot cocoa mix and a spoon and added a couple more spoonfuls to the mug. “Here, try this,” she instructed, stirring it up, then stepping back as he blew into it and took another careful taste. This time he grinned faintly.
“Thanks.” He added a handful of marshmallows, then replaced the bag in the cupboard exactly where he'd found it, a serious expression on his face. Almost, Tara found herself thinking, like a man might place flowers on the grave of someone he had loved. Before she had time to process this strange idea, Spike was headed towards the living room, calling briskly over his shoulder, “So...what'll it be, then? Rummy or chess?”
Tara pushed the cupboard the rest of the way shut and followed him. “I don't think I could concentrate enough for chess just now.” Spike shrugged and pulled open the desk drawer for the pack of cards he'd placed there weeks ago.
As he shuffled, Tara asked him, “Does Giles know you play chess?”
Spike snorted rudely. “No, and you'd better not tell him, neither. Think I'd sooner bathe in holy water than suffer through a game of chess with our Watcher boy.” He continued to shuffle smoothly.
Tara stifled a grin. “Oh? Why is that?” Spike just rolled his eyes and set the pack down for her to cut.
“Better not be tellin' your lady witch, either, as far as that goes. I got me a reputation to consider, after all.” He picked up the deck she'd just cut and began dealing the cards out, too quickly for her to follow, his eyes on hers, as if waiting for something.
“Oh, don't worry,” she assured him. “Your secret dies with me.” She winced a little at the choice of words, but Spike appeared to take no notice as he picked up his hand and began sorting through it.
They played two games in near silence, without even the normal under one's breath observations you often hear during such games; no “Ah, collecting Kings, I see,” or “Knew I shouldn't have thrown down that seven.” Tara was in fact dozing off as Spike shuffled the third hand. He was on his feet instantly when the first shriek pierced the darkness upstairs.
“You stay; I'll take care of her,” Spike said, and he was halfway up the stairs before Tara could drag herself to her feet to follow. He was sitting on the edge of Dawn's bed when she reached the upstairs landing, holding her close and murmuring comforting nonsense in her ear. Tara peeked in quickly at Willow, who had somehow managed to sleep through Dawn's cries. She came back to lean on the wall outside Dawn's room in time to see the vampire kiss a tear-stained cheek and settle the girl back on her pillows, asleep once more.
“Wish I had your touch,” Tara whispered as he joined her in the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. They headed for the stairs, Tara trying not to stumble in her exhaustion.
“It's that thrall thing. Comes in handy sometimes,” the vampire replied offhandedly, in a tone that should have been a joke, but somehow wasn't. He lent the blond witch an unobtrusive steadying arm as they made their way back down, and soon had her settled back on the couch.
“I'll just go heat up Red's tea,” he said, both of them knowing they'd need it soon enough. When he returned, Tara had finally drifted off. In sleep, the worries she kept so well masked by day were apparent in the lines and creases around her eyes and mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, the slight drooping at the corner of her mouth. Spike covered her carefully with a blanket, then returned to his chair and started a game of one of the dozens of varieties of solitaire he'd picked up over the years, steadfastly refusing to think about the thing he'd seen through the doorway of the Slayer's bedroom, plugged in to the softly humming power unit, red and gold lights flickering on and off, eyes wide and staring into the darkness like a dead thing. Shame about the alcohol. It really was.
*****
Giles wasn't nearly drunk enough.
Most assuredly, Spike had made valiant efforts in that direction. But Rupert Giles knew something the vampire couldn't even begin to guess. The human William had never faced, drunk or sober, any pain or loss more serious than the deserved ridicule over his poetic endeavors, and a single, if crushing, rejection by a lady love. A lady, moreover, whom he had not even known well enough to see for herself beyond the bright veil of poetic conceit and metaphor. The Watcher, on the other hand, was coming at this lesson after a lifetime's experience, and he knew beyond doubt-- for some kinds of pain, no amount of alcohol is enough.
Not that Giles had protested the attempt at the time; he'd only protested the company briefly. The first few swallows had dulled the fierce ache just enough to lull him into the hope that This time, things would be different. Instead, it had left him in a state between waking and sleeping, completely unable to move into either realm, and even more helpless to escape the thoughts and feelings he kept at bay in his waking hours by constant activity. He had to face the full impact of the fact that she was gone. And that wasn't the half of it. He also had to come to grips with the fact that there was a huge part of himself missing as well, one that left him unstable in ways he'd sworn he would never allow himself to be again.
When Jenny had died, he had come close, perhaps even crossed that line he'd set for himself, so many years before as he had stood over the body of the friend he had led to his death. In his grief fueled rage and thirst for vengeance, he had set off to introduce one monster to another. He had distanced himself from the pain as he often had, busying his hands and mind with solitary, decisive action. But even then, methodically choosing the weapons and going out to confront Angelus alone, he had known he was not alone. He had lashed out at the girl, told her it was not her fight, but all the time he had known the truth. There was an anchor out there for him now.
And through the intervening years, as they had grown estranged, then reconnected as comrades in arms and friends, the bond between them had evolved into something deeper and more profound than love itself. They had never spoken of it-- it simply Was, in the same way that Buffy's Slayer powers Were, or Giles' facility with languages Was. An inextricable part of who they were. And now, trapped in an alcohol-induced stupor, where his usual coping mechanisms could not be of the slightest help to him, he had to face going on without that anchor. With being more profoundly alone than he had ever been, even before he had been called as her Watcher. With missing the best, the truest part of his soul.
He continued to hang there, between consciousness and blissful oblivion, his thoughts vague and clouded as if his brain were wrapped in cotton wool, but the pain was as sharp and clear as ever. Then, quite suddenly, he found himself transported to an afternoon he would carry with him as long as he lived-- a perfect day, all his loved ones safe, and happy, and at peace.
He was blushing as he took the wine bottle from Joyce, having just been teased by his Slayer. Seeing Buffy again, he felt a sudden relief, even as he knew on one level it was only a dream. He felt the same rueful amusement he had on that day as his eyes met Joyce's, and Buffy bounced back into the dining room, to the cheerful banter of their friends. He turned his full attention back to the bottle and corkscrew, but he glanced up when Joyce laid her hand lightly on his.
“I'm not sorry about anything that happened that night, Rupert,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Are you?”
He returned a small grin of his own, in equal measures shy and wolfish. “Only that my younger alter ego behaved like a perfect cad to so beautiful a woman,” he replied gallantly. “I am so glad you are better,” he added, flushing slightly as he changed the subject. Joyce shook her head, refusing to be diverted by the sentiment, however sincere.
“You were not responsible for your actions that night, any more than I was. I see that, especially now. Life's too short to carry all that guilt around.” She pressed his hand harder, then released it. “Your calling is burden enough. Don't blame yourself.” He remembered another day, when Joyce had very much blamed him, for the disappearance of her daughter, and he felt very grateful for the absolution she conferred now with her touch.
“All right,” he agreed, meeting her gaze. He read there no hint of a desire to renew a romantic relationship, but the awkwardness was gone, too, replaced by a kind of acceptance, and the hint of wry amusement he knew so well from her daughter. He smiled again, more at peace than he had felt for a very long time, then completed his task while Joyce turned to slice one of the pies cooling on the stove top.
Without warning, the peaceful scene shifted, and he was standing over Joyce's wide-eyed, staring body, a victim not of his mistakes or inaction, but of the frailty of all human life. He relived the numbing shock, the grief, the leaping forward to do something, anything, and finally, the redoubling of his grief as he held his Slayer weeping in his arms. It was almost worse this way, he reflected, as he relived it in his dream. There had been no one to blame then, either, no one to wreak vengeance upon. But he had been able back then to convert the sickening pain into some kind of action, to channel it into some productive avenue. He had been able, at least, to bury his feelings in service to his Slayer, to Dawn, to the young people who looked to him for guidance and strength. Just as he had done every day since Buffy had died.
The scene shifted again, and he caught his breath in astonishment, as he took in the old Sunnydale High School Library, sunlight streaming through the skylight and windows overlooking the gallery. He stood behind the counter, just outside his office, watching in bemused silence as an attractive, dark haired woman ran one finger over the books piled on the long table, awaiting his efforts to convert the filing system from whatever random system they had been employing when he'd arrived, to the standard Dewy Decimal System, or at the very least, an alphabetic one. He cleared his throat self consciously, heard himself stutter slightly, “M-May I help you, Miss....?”
She turned toward him, and where on that first day of school he had trailed off politely, waiting for her to supply her name, he found his throat suddenly tight with emotion as he recognized the dark, expressive eyes and slightly upturned, amused mouth.
“Calendar,” she replied. “And I was thinking more that I might help you, Mr....” She grinned a little mockingly as she trailed off, awaiting his reply.
Before, the conversation had quickly devolved into a debate about books and technology, one that had eventually mellowed into a friendship, then into something deeper. But at the point where Jenny was about to make the radical suggestion that they work together to convert the library's collection into a digital, searchable database, she suddenly froze, and it seemed to him that he saw a pale image of Jenny step forth from her body. The library faded a bit, but the softly glowing apparition did not.
“Jenny,” he breathed, pain and wonder mingled in his voice.
“Yeah.” She smiled sadly. “I'm here.” She glanced around the room, which took on the almost sepia tones of an old photograph, an insubstantial memory.
“You weren't all wrong, when you guessed my spirit was hovering nearby, back then. I was. I watched over you for a long time.” She gazed at him, sympathy and loved etched deeply in her eyes. “Being a Watcher-- hard work, huh? But I guess you know all about that, don't you, England?”
He nodded wordlessly, as she moved closer to him. “Do you remember when, as time began to pass, you sometimes found yourself remembering something without pain, like this....” She opened her arms and stepped into Giles' answering embrace, then slipped past it and into his space, filling him with a sense of her loving presence. He drank in the sense of love, of peace.
The scene shifted, and he found himself standing outside, one cool November afternoon, wearing his dark blue suit, rising from placing the flowers against the headstone, Jenny standing with him as Buffy had on the day he remembered all those years ago.
“It's hard, Watching,” she said again. She took his hand, cool, but comforting. He clasped it tightly for a moment, then released it as he felt the tears welling up, as he read a different name on the headstone before them. Jenny threaded her arm through his and leaned closer to whisper in his ear.
“Hey,” she said gently. “You don't have to go all stoic, you know. Not with me, not with them. They're not children anymore. You don't have to protect them.”
He looked into her eyes. “Don't I?” he rasped. He turned away, unable to face her. “There’s more darkness in me than…” he trailed off brokenly. “You can’t possibly imagine--the things I’ve done….” He saw the funeral pyre which had consumed what little had remained of poor Randall's body, then turned his eyes back to Jenny's, which shone with unshed tears, and understanding. The flames of his memory flickered in her dark pupils.
“I know that you do what you have to—you always have,” she replied evenly. “That you never stop fighting the good fight. And that, sometimes, you regret what you do, to protect those you love.”
He remembered Ben's still form, in the moments after he had taken the young man's life, and he shook his head. He thought of how his friends would react, if they truly knew what he was, what he had done. If they knew that he really would have killed Dawn, would have killed any of them, without hesitation. All but one. He felt Jenny touch his chin and turn his face back towards hers.
“Trust them, Rupert,” she urged him. “Even with your darkness. None of you should have to go through this alone.” Her dark eyes saddened, as they read the pain in his, the reminder that he was alone now in ways the others would never be, and could not possibly understand. Then she kissed his cheek and faded from his sight.
He turned back to the grave, as now the first tendrils of dawning light streamed across the grass covering it. The stone read, “Buffy Anne Summers. 1981-2001. She saved the world a lot.” The epitaph had been Xander's suggestion, and in the end they had all gone with it, unable to come up with anything better. He knew that the stone itself had not yet been completed, but he could see it here, in his dream. As he gazed down upon his Slayer's grave, a hand suddenly burst forth from the earth, clutching desperately at the air as the rest of the body strove to follow. He stepped forward as if in a trance to take hold of the hand and pull her up into the open air.
Her hand was warm in his, before she released it and began brushing the loose dirt from her dress. She turned back to favor him with her equally warm smile. “Thanks, Giles.” She glanced around, then wrinkled her nose with an expression of distaste. She looked so young, as she had when they had first met—cheerful, carefree, but already marked by the sorrow of her calling.
“What are you doing here?” she asked lightly. “I mean, it's pretty and all, but....” She shook her head. “You So need to get a life,” she pronounced, taking his hand again and giving it a slight tug. “C'mon. Let's take a walk.”
With the transport only possible in dreams, Giles found himself in the back room of the Magic Box-- not as it was now, nor even as it had been on that terrible night almost two months ago, when Buffy's casket had rested in state here, before their makeshift service. Now, it was bare, as it had been on the day he'd bought the place, and brought Buffy back here for the first time, eager to show her the space, to point out its possibilities as a training room, to bicker playfully with her about how to decorate and equip it. He turned back as he had done that day, but this time she was not grinning teasingly at him, but frowning as she continued to brush grave dust from her dress.
“It's empty in here,” she noted sadly, straightening up to focus her intense gaze on him. Giles realized she was talking about more than the room. She had aptly described his life, the sum of his existence. His expression shifted ever so slightly in recognition, and she caught it, as she always had, when she was paying attention. She nodded.
“You see it, don't you, Giles? This Room is you, now. What are you going to fill it with?”
For a moment, the scene shifted to the night of the funeral, and he took in the scene at the grave, lit by innumerable candles, a couple of electric torches, and a couple more of the old fashioned kind, reeking of kerosene, the long wooden poles thrust into the earth on either side of the grave itself. He saw again the worn but resolute faces of these brave young people, dearer to him than any words could express.
He remembered Dawn's small hand in his, Xander's gripping his shoulder, his arm around Anya, Willow on his other side, Tara also shyly touching his arm from her place at Willow's side. Spike stood apart from the group, but within the circle of light, and though his eyes streamed with tears, he'd met Giles’ gaze unflinchingly. Then, they all faded from his sight, and he was again alone. Except for the hand that caught his and turned him to face her.
“You have to make a choice, now, Giles,” she told him. “You have to choose to let them in, to trust them. You don't have to go through this alone.”
She paused to let her words sink in, then continued, a little more harshly, “And if you can't do that-- if you can't let them in, you need to let them go. Let them get on with it. This living business. You've heard of it, right?”
She was deliberately baiting him now, and the worst of it was, she was succeeding. “You're not real,” he rasped angrily.
She gave an unladylike snort in reply. “Yeah? Well, neither is this.” She swept her hand to indicate the emptiness of the room around them. “This was a beginning that day, Giles, and it can be again. But this emptiness-- nobody but you is making you stay like this. Your friends out there-- they've grown up. They're not kids anymore. They love you and understand you in ways nobody else ever will. But you have to give something back. You have to be here-- really Be Here for them. If you can't do that, you need to ask yourself-- why are you still here? And if you can't come up with an answer, then you need to get the hell out of their lives, and out of their way.”
It was the longest serious speech he had ever heard Buffy make, and despite its being so unlike her, the emotion behind it was all Buffy, and evident in the way she paused, breathing hard, her eyes bright and visibly close to brimming over with tears. Giles wanted to take her in his arms, to promise her anything to take that look away. But instead he disengaged his hand from hers and stepped back.
“I can't do this, Buffy,” he said quietly. “I feel like-- like I've lost the only part of myself that was… worth anything. The man who's left isn't... isn't anyone you, or they, would want to know.” He drew a long, shuddering breath as he admitted the truth to himself, finally. “I'll stay long enough to teach them, to fight for them, to keep them safe,” he continued. “But anything else.... I can't.”
Buffy studied him for a long moment, then stepped forward and pulled him into her embrace. “I know,” she whispered. “But you will. In time.”
He began to weep then, finally releasing the grief he had been bottling up for weeks, for decades, now. He awoke to find himself alone in his bed, soaked with tears and sweat, exhausted. It would be years before he recalled the contents of that night’s dreams, but they affected him profoundly, even so.
And in a dim hotel room, a dark eyed, thin man watched as the scene faded from the heart of the crystal on the table in front of him. The blood smeared on both cheeks was tracked through with tears, but the man gave a slight, enigmatic smile. Then he intoned, in a raspy whisper, “Chaos, I remain, as ever, your faithful, degenerate son.”
Previous Parts Here.
Dawn's nightmares that night were much worse than usual. Tara and Willow had expected it, of course; she had been unusually quiet and subdued all day after her early morning shock-- seeing the thing with her dead sister's face sitting up and talking to Willow in the basement. Willow sat at the counter in the middle of the kitchen and stared into a tepid cup of mostly untasted tea, having been banished from Dawn's room by the hysterical teen weeping inconsolably in Tara's arms. She glanced up as Tara reappeared in the doorway from the dining room and leaned heavily against the door frame.
“How is she?” Willow murmured, her eyes returning to her mug, which she continued to stir listlessly.
Tara read her expression at once and sighed, as she repeated yet another variation of the reassurances she’d been using all day. “Willow, this wasn't your fault. We all knew you were working on the robot, that you had to get it running soon. It was just bad timing, that Dawn came down to get you....” She trailed off as Willow shook her head, bitterness turning down the corner of her mouth.
“I should have gone up and locked the door, or, or not lost track of time in the first place. And oh, God, Tara,” Willow's face began to crumple at the memory, “you should have seen Giles today. He was so....” She sniffed and accepted a box of tissues from her lover gratefully. Tara sat down beside her and tried again.
“You did what you had to do,” Tara insisted, trying to catch Willow's downcast gaze. Failing, she took her hands and continued, “And now, you need to get some sleep. Don't think I haven't been noticing how little of that you're getting these days.” She said it sternly, as she looked deep into Willow's bloodshot eyes, but there was an unmistakable warmth and love as well.
Willow couldn't summon the energy to protest. “Yeah,” she agreed finally, her eyes starting to glaze over a bit. “Seems like there's so many things to do, and every time I try to lie down, it's like my head turns into one big old honkin' aquarium, or something, with all the little fishy thoughts just swimming around....” Tara frowned as she pulled Willow into a gentle embrace, resting her cheek on the witch's shoulder. Her lover didn't usually babble quite like this unless she was really, really exhausted.
“C'mon,” Tara urged, pulling Willow to her feet. “I'll tuck you in....” Willow answered only with that goofy grin Tara found so adorable, even though they both knew neither of them was in any shape for anything more strenuous than heavy snoring.
Tara came back downstairs after first watching Willow doze off clutching a stuffed bear she had not slept with since childhood, then checking on the still unconscious Dawn. She knew there was little point in her trying to sleep as well; one or the other of them would be screaming themselves awake from the nightmares for the rest of the night. So would she, if she dozed off.
Which is why she finished washing up the dishes, then stepped out onto the back porch for a breath of cool, reviving night air. She froze as she noticed Spike, already occupying his accustomed place-- third step down, left side.
“ 'Lo, Tara,” he greeted her quietly, without turning. He continued to stare off at the stars. “I take it Red's finally collapsed, then?”
Tara never knew quite how to take their vampire protector. On the one hand, she had always appreciated his tendency to speak his mind, even when perhaps he shouldn't. He had punched her in the nose once, proving she was not, as she had always been told, some kind of demon, even though he knew it would set off the behavior modification chip inside his brain. She had seen Spike's feelings for Buffy before anyone else, and had read just how sincerely he had loved their friend. All that counted in his favor.
But the way he was always hanging around, in some ways as needy as those who now slept within the house, sometimes got to her a little. Especially now, when she had just spent far too many hours that day in the company of the eerie and entirely too cheerful and outspoken robot he had caused to be built in the first place. Not to mention the time she had spent doing emotional damage control all evening as a result of its reactivation. She could not keep the irritation out of her voice as she answered curtly, “Yes, she's asleep,” with the slightly accusatory emphasis on the “she.”
Spike just nodded. “Yeah. I got old Rupert home too, all safe and sound, not to mention a little drunk.” He grinned without amusement. “Too bad that doesn't work so well for me.”
Tara looked at him in some confusion-- she had seen Spike inebriated more than once, and she had heard stories about other times as well, especially a memorable one involving Xander, Willow, and a demanded love spell to help him win back Drusilla. Spike caught the look and sighed.
“Yeah. You know how alcohol works, right?” At her blank look, he continued with as much patience as he could muster. “Come on, you're a college girl an' all that. You know. Takes up space in the bloodstream that oxygen might otherwise be occupyin'--?” He broke off as Tara thought a moment, then nodded hesitantly.
“Well,” he continued slowly, “Vampire here. No bloodstream... no circulation.... No oxygen due to the whole no breathing thing....” He waited until comprehension finally dawned, then grinned again, sourly. He turned his eyes back towards the night.
But then Tara frowned. “So, it's all an act, then?” she asked slowly. “When you've been drinking, I mean?”
Spike shook his head, frowning as he tried to put it into words. “Not exactly. The alcohol does soak into the dead tissue and create a little of the old burn going down, and it sometimes simulates the effect of 'demon rum' in the system. A little. But for really serious pain? It's not nearly enough.” He took a long pull from the bottle of Guinness in his right hand, then repeated, more quietly, “Not nearly.” He gazed off into the shadows for a time, before recollecting himself and offering Tara a swig from his bottle like the gallant gentleman he might once have been.
“Um...no. Thanks,” she replied, with an apologetic smile.
Spike shrugged, downed the remainder in another couple of long swallows, then rose to toss the empty bottle into the trash can outside the back door. “So, what time did the Niblet conk out on you?”
Tara consulted her watch. “About an hour ago,” she guessed. “And Willow at about 12:15.”
Spike did some quick mental calculations. The nightmares were nothing at this point if not predictable, and he'd had plenty of practice by now. “Then we've got maybe another hour before the next wave hits,” he estimated aloud. “You should try to get a bit of rest in the meantime, yourself,” he added.
Tara pulled herself to her weary feet as Spike opened the back door for her. “Maybe later,” she said as she reentered the kitchen. He closed the door and locked it behind them. They looked at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Spike finally cleared his throat.
“Um...so. Fancy a cuppa, then? Tea, or hot cocoa?” He turned away without waiting for an answer, opening up the corner cabinet above the stove and rummaging through it.
Tara smiled kindly. “That's okay.” But she filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove just the same. “Can't hurt to have some water ready to go, though,” she explained.
“Good thinkin',” the vampire replied absently. He was staring at the unopened bag of marshmallows he'd just pulled from the back of the shelf, where it had been hidden behind a dozen or more spice jars and other containers. The sense of loss crashed over him like a wave, as he remembered the last time he had shared hot cocoa with Joyce, in this very kitchen, at about this time of night. No deep conversation that night, just light, easy companionship. He couldn't now for the unlife of him recall what they'd talked about. He glanced up and saw Tara's gentle concern, then turned away, the warm sympathy too much for him. He checked on the hot water, then measured out the cocoa mix just as he had seen Joyce do it so many times.
He added the hot water from the now whistling kettle, then replaced the kettle and turned off the burner underneath. He stirred his mug as the witch continued to gaze at him with her sad, wise eyes. Taking a taste, he made a face and admitted ruefully, “I've never gotten the hang of making this stuff.” He replaced his mug on the counter with a slight growl.
Tara took the hot cocoa mix and a spoon and added a couple more spoonfuls to the mug. “Here, try this,” she instructed, stirring it up, then stepping back as he blew into it and took another careful taste. This time he grinned faintly.
“Thanks.” He added a handful of marshmallows, then replaced the bag in the cupboard exactly where he'd found it, a serious expression on his face. Almost, Tara found herself thinking, like a man might place flowers on the grave of someone he had loved. Before she had time to process this strange idea, Spike was headed towards the living room, calling briskly over his shoulder, “So...what'll it be, then? Rummy or chess?”
Tara pushed the cupboard the rest of the way shut and followed him. “I don't think I could concentrate enough for chess just now.” Spike shrugged and pulled open the desk drawer for the pack of cards he'd placed there weeks ago.
As he shuffled, Tara asked him, “Does Giles know you play chess?”
Spike snorted rudely. “No, and you'd better not tell him, neither. Think I'd sooner bathe in holy water than suffer through a game of chess with our Watcher boy.” He continued to shuffle smoothly.
Tara stifled a grin. “Oh? Why is that?” Spike just rolled his eyes and set the pack down for her to cut.
“Better not be tellin' your lady witch, either, as far as that goes. I got me a reputation to consider, after all.” He picked up the deck she'd just cut and began dealing the cards out, too quickly for her to follow, his eyes on hers, as if waiting for something.
“Oh, don't worry,” she assured him. “Your secret dies with me.” She winced a little at the choice of words, but Spike appeared to take no notice as he picked up his hand and began sorting through it.
They played two games in near silence, without even the normal under one's breath observations you often hear during such games; no “Ah, collecting Kings, I see,” or “Knew I shouldn't have thrown down that seven.” Tara was in fact dozing off as Spike shuffled the third hand. He was on his feet instantly when the first shriek pierced the darkness upstairs.
“You stay; I'll take care of her,” Spike said, and he was halfway up the stairs before Tara could drag herself to her feet to follow. He was sitting on the edge of Dawn's bed when she reached the upstairs landing, holding her close and murmuring comforting nonsense in her ear. Tara peeked in quickly at Willow, who had somehow managed to sleep through Dawn's cries. She came back to lean on the wall outside Dawn's room in time to see the vampire kiss a tear-stained cheek and settle the girl back on her pillows, asleep once more.
“Wish I had your touch,” Tara whispered as he joined her in the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. They headed for the stairs, Tara trying not to stumble in her exhaustion.
“It's that thrall thing. Comes in handy sometimes,” the vampire replied offhandedly, in a tone that should have been a joke, but somehow wasn't. He lent the blond witch an unobtrusive steadying arm as they made their way back down, and soon had her settled back on the couch.
“I'll just go heat up Red's tea,” he said, both of them knowing they'd need it soon enough. When he returned, Tara had finally drifted off. In sleep, the worries she kept so well masked by day were apparent in the lines and creases around her eyes and mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, the slight drooping at the corner of her mouth. Spike covered her carefully with a blanket, then returned to his chair and started a game of one of the dozens of varieties of solitaire he'd picked up over the years, steadfastly refusing to think about the thing he'd seen through the doorway of the Slayer's bedroom, plugged in to the softly humming power unit, red and gold lights flickering on and off, eyes wide and staring into the darkness like a dead thing. Shame about the alcohol. It really was.
*****
Giles wasn't nearly drunk enough.
Most assuredly, Spike had made valiant efforts in that direction. But Rupert Giles knew something the vampire couldn't even begin to guess. The human William had never faced, drunk or sober, any pain or loss more serious than the deserved ridicule over his poetic endeavors, and a single, if crushing, rejection by a lady love. A lady, moreover, whom he had not even known well enough to see for herself beyond the bright veil of poetic conceit and metaphor. The Watcher, on the other hand, was coming at this lesson after a lifetime's experience, and he knew beyond doubt-- for some kinds of pain, no amount of alcohol is enough.
Not that Giles had protested the attempt at the time; he'd only protested the company briefly. The first few swallows had dulled the fierce ache just enough to lull him into the hope that This time, things would be different. Instead, it had left him in a state between waking and sleeping, completely unable to move into either realm, and even more helpless to escape the thoughts and feelings he kept at bay in his waking hours by constant activity. He had to face the full impact of the fact that she was gone. And that wasn't the half of it. He also had to come to grips with the fact that there was a huge part of himself missing as well, one that left him unstable in ways he'd sworn he would never allow himself to be again.
When Jenny had died, he had come close, perhaps even crossed that line he'd set for himself, so many years before as he had stood over the body of the friend he had led to his death. In his grief fueled rage and thirst for vengeance, he had set off to introduce one monster to another. He had distanced himself from the pain as he often had, busying his hands and mind with solitary, decisive action. But even then, methodically choosing the weapons and going out to confront Angelus alone, he had known he was not alone. He had lashed out at the girl, told her it was not her fight, but all the time he had known the truth. There was an anchor out there for him now.
And through the intervening years, as they had grown estranged, then reconnected as comrades in arms and friends, the bond between them had evolved into something deeper and more profound than love itself. They had never spoken of it-- it simply Was, in the same way that Buffy's Slayer powers Were, or Giles' facility with languages Was. An inextricable part of who they were. And now, trapped in an alcohol-induced stupor, where his usual coping mechanisms could not be of the slightest help to him, he had to face going on without that anchor. With being more profoundly alone than he had ever been, even before he had been called as her Watcher. With missing the best, the truest part of his soul.
He continued to hang there, between consciousness and blissful oblivion, his thoughts vague and clouded as if his brain were wrapped in cotton wool, but the pain was as sharp and clear as ever. Then, quite suddenly, he found himself transported to an afternoon he would carry with him as long as he lived-- a perfect day, all his loved ones safe, and happy, and at peace.
He was blushing as he took the wine bottle from Joyce, having just been teased by his Slayer. Seeing Buffy again, he felt a sudden relief, even as he knew on one level it was only a dream. He felt the same rueful amusement he had on that day as his eyes met Joyce's, and Buffy bounced back into the dining room, to the cheerful banter of their friends. He turned his full attention back to the bottle and corkscrew, but he glanced up when Joyce laid her hand lightly on his.
“I'm not sorry about anything that happened that night, Rupert,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Are you?”
He returned a small grin of his own, in equal measures shy and wolfish. “Only that my younger alter ego behaved like a perfect cad to so beautiful a woman,” he replied gallantly. “I am so glad you are better,” he added, flushing slightly as he changed the subject. Joyce shook her head, refusing to be diverted by the sentiment, however sincere.
“You were not responsible for your actions that night, any more than I was. I see that, especially now. Life's too short to carry all that guilt around.” She pressed his hand harder, then released it. “Your calling is burden enough. Don't blame yourself.” He remembered another day, when Joyce had very much blamed him, for the disappearance of her daughter, and he felt very grateful for the absolution she conferred now with her touch.
“All right,” he agreed, meeting her gaze. He read there no hint of a desire to renew a romantic relationship, but the awkwardness was gone, too, replaced by a kind of acceptance, and the hint of wry amusement he knew so well from her daughter. He smiled again, more at peace than he had felt for a very long time, then completed his task while Joyce turned to slice one of the pies cooling on the stove top.
Without warning, the peaceful scene shifted, and he was standing over Joyce's wide-eyed, staring body, a victim not of his mistakes or inaction, but of the frailty of all human life. He relived the numbing shock, the grief, the leaping forward to do something, anything, and finally, the redoubling of his grief as he held his Slayer weeping in his arms. It was almost worse this way, he reflected, as he relived it in his dream. There had been no one to blame then, either, no one to wreak vengeance upon. But he had been able back then to convert the sickening pain into some kind of action, to channel it into some productive avenue. He had been able, at least, to bury his feelings in service to his Slayer, to Dawn, to the young people who looked to him for guidance and strength. Just as he had done every day since Buffy had died.
The scene shifted again, and he caught his breath in astonishment, as he took in the old Sunnydale High School Library, sunlight streaming through the skylight and windows overlooking the gallery. He stood behind the counter, just outside his office, watching in bemused silence as an attractive, dark haired woman ran one finger over the books piled on the long table, awaiting his efforts to convert the filing system from whatever random system they had been employing when he'd arrived, to the standard Dewy Decimal System, or at the very least, an alphabetic one. He cleared his throat self consciously, heard himself stutter slightly, “M-May I help you, Miss....?”
She turned toward him, and where on that first day of school he had trailed off politely, waiting for her to supply her name, he found his throat suddenly tight with emotion as he recognized the dark, expressive eyes and slightly upturned, amused mouth.
“Calendar,” she replied. “And I was thinking more that I might help you, Mr....” She grinned a little mockingly as she trailed off, awaiting his reply.
Before, the conversation had quickly devolved into a debate about books and technology, one that had eventually mellowed into a friendship, then into something deeper. But at the point where Jenny was about to make the radical suggestion that they work together to convert the library's collection into a digital, searchable database, she suddenly froze, and it seemed to him that he saw a pale image of Jenny step forth from her body. The library faded a bit, but the softly glowing apparition did not.
“Jenny,” he breathed, pain and wonder mingled in his voice.
“Yeah.” She smiled sadly. “I'm here.” She glanced around the room, which took on the almost sepia tones of an old photograph, an insubstantial memory.
“You weren't all wrong, when you guessed my spirit was hovering nearby, back then. I was. I watched over you for a long time.” She gazed at him, sympathy and loved etched deeply in her eyes. “Being a Watcher-- hard work, huh? But I guess you know all about that, don't you, England?”
He nodded wordlessly, as she moved closer to him. “Do you remember when, as time began to pass, you sometimes found yourself remembering something without pain, like this....” She opened her arms and stepped into Giles' answering embrace, then slipped past it and into his space, filling him with a sense of her loving presence. He drank in the sense of love, of peace.
The scene shifted, and he found himself standing outside, one cool November afternoon, wearing his dark blue suit, rising from placing the flowers against the headstone, Jenny standing with him as Buffy had on the day he remembered all those years ago.
“It's hard, Watching,” she said again. She took his hand, cool, but comforting. He clasped it tightly for a moment, then released it as he felt the tears welling up, as he read a different name on the headstone before them. Jenny threaded her arm through his and leaned closer to whisper in his ear.
“Hey,” she said gently. “You don't have to go all stoic, you know. Not with me, not with them. They're not children anymore. You don't have to protect them.”
He looked into her eyes. “Don't I?” he rasped. He turned away, unable to face her. “There’s more darkness in me than…” he trailed off brokenly. “You can’t possibly imagine--the things I’ve done….” He saw the funeral pyre which had consumed what little had remained of poor Randall's body, then turned his eyes back to Jenny's, which shone with unshed tears, and understanding. The flames of his memory flickered in her dark pupils.
“I know that you do what you have to—you always have,” she replied evenly. “That you never stop fighting the good fight. And that, sometimes, you regret what you do, to protect those you love.”
He remembered Ben's still form, in the moments after he had taken the young man's life, and he shook his head. He thought of how his friends would react, if they truly knew what he was, what he had done. If they knew that he really would have killed Dawn, would have killed any of them, without hesitation. All but one. He felt Jenny touch his chin and turn his face back towards hers.
“Trust them, Rupert,” she urged him. “Even with your darkness. None of you should have to go through this alone.” Her dark eyes saddened, as they read the pain in his, the reminder that he was alone now in ways the others would never be, and could not possibly understand. Then she kissed his cheek and faded from his sight.
He turned back to the grave, as now the first tendrils of dawning light streamed across the grass covering it. The stone read, “Buffy Anne Summers. 1981-2001. She saved the world a lot.” The epitaph had been Xander's suggestion, and in the end they had all gone with it, unable to come up with anything better. He knew that the stone itself had not yet been completed, but he could see it here, in his dream. As he gazed down upon his Slayer's grave, a hand suddenly burst forth from the earth, clutching desperately at the air as the rest of the body strove to follow. He stepped forward as if in a trance to take hold of the hand and pull her up into the open air.
Her hand was warm in his, before she released it and began brushing the loose dirt from her dress. She turned back to favor him with her equally warm smile. “Thanks, Giles.” She glanced around, then wrinkled her nose with an expression of distaste. She looked so young, as she had when they had first met—cheerful, carefree, but already marked by the sorrow of her calling.
“What are you doing here?” she asked lightly. “I mean, it's pretty and all, but....” She shook her head. “You So need to get a life,” she pronounced, taking his hand again and giving it a slight tug. “C'mon. Let's take a walk.”
With the transport only possible in dreams, Giles found himself in the back room of the Magic Box-- not as it was now, nor even as it had been on that terrible night almost two months ago, when Buffy's casket had rested in state here, before their makeshift service. Now, it was bare, as it had been on the day he'd bought the place, and brought Buffy back here for the first time, eager to show her the space, to point out its possibilities as a training room, to bicker playfully with her about how to decorate and equip it. He turned back as he had done that day, but this time she was not grinning teasingly at him, but frowning as she continued to brush grave dust from her dress.
“It's empty in here,” she noted sadly, straightening up to focus her intense gaze on him. Giles realized she was talking about more than the room. She had aptly described his life, the sum of his existence. His expression shifted ever so slightly in recognition, and she caught it, as she always had, when she was paying attention. She nodded.
“You see it, don't you, Giles? This Room is you, now. What are you going to fill it with?”
For a moment, the scene shifted to the night of the funeral, and he took in the scene at the grave, lit by innumerable candles, a couple of electric torches, and a couple more of the old fashioned kind, reeking of kerosene, the long wooden poles thrust into the earth on either side of the grave itself. He saw again the worn but resolute faces of these brave young people, dearer to him than any words could express.
He remembered Dawn's small hand in his, Xander's gripping his shoulder, his arm around Anya, Willow on his other side, Tara also shyly touching his arm from her place at Willow's side. Spike stood apart from the group, but within the circle of light, and though his eyes streamed with tears, he'd met Giles’ gaze unflinchingly. Then, they all faded from his sight, and he was again alone. Except for the hand that caught his and turned him to face her.
“You have to make a choice, now, Giles,” she told him. “You have to choose to let them in, to trust them. You don't have to go through this alone.”
She paused to let her words sink in, then continued, a little more harshly, “And if you can't do that-- if you can't let them in, you need to let them go. Let them get on with it. This living business. You've heard of it, right?”
She was deliberately baiting him now, and the worst of it was, she was succeeding. “You're not real,” he rasped angrily.
She gave an unladylike snort in reply. “Yeah? Well, neither is this.” She swept her hand to indicate the emptiness of the room around them. “This was a beginning that day, Giles, and it can be again. But this emptiness-- nobody but you is making you stay like this. Your friends out there-- they've grown up. They're not kids anymore. They love you and understand you in ways nobody else ever will. But you have to give something back. You have to be here-- really Be Here for them. If you can't do that, you need to ask yourself-- why are you still here? And if you can't come up with an answer, then you need to get the hell out of their lives, and out of their way.”
It was the longest serious speech he had ever heard Buffy make, and despite its being so unlike her, the emotion behind it was all Buffy, and evident in the way she paused, breathing hard, her eyes bright and visibly close to brimming over with tears. Giles wanted to take her in his arms, to promise her anything to take that look away. But instead he disengaged his hand from hers and stepped back.
“I can't do this, Buffy,” he said quietly. “I feel like-- like I've lost the only part of myself that was… worth anything. The man who's left isn't... isn't anyone you, or they, would want to know.” He drew a long, shuddering breath as he admitted the truth to himself, finally. “I'll stay long enough to teach them, to fight for them, to keep them safe,” he continued. “But anything else.... I can't.”
Buffy studied him for a long moment, then stepped forward and pulled him into her embrace. “I know,” she whispered. “But you will. In time.”
He began to weep then, finally releasing the grief he had been bottling up for weeks, for decades, now. He awoke to find himself alone in his bed, soaked with tears and sweat, exhausted. It would be years before he recalled the contents of that night’s dreams, but they affected him profoundly, even so.
And in a dim hotel room, a dark eyed, thin man watched as the scene faded from the heart of the crystal on the table in front of him. The blood smeared on both cheeks was tracked through with tears, but the man gave a slight, enigmatic smile. Then he intoned, in a raspy whisper, “Chaos, I remain, as ever, your faithful, degenerate son.”