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For some reason - probably because I like AUs - I'm fascinated by the "Five Things" stories that were making the round a little while back. This one's set in the Buffyverse and is mostly, I guess, PG except for Part 3, which, though short, is R-rated and slashy.
Five Things that Never Happened to Rupert Giles
Five Things that Never Happened to Rupert Giles
-1-
Reverend Rupert Giles loved his vicarage, his village, the small flock of worshippers to whom he ministered. Becoming a vicar in the Church of England was a family tradition going back at least as far as the days of Jane Austen. Reverend Giles lived in a small, quiet village near Bath. The biggest problems he ever dealt with were a few unwed pregnancies (and most people didn't get too fussed about those these days) and the biggest evil he'd ever faced was his own desire to skip Sunday services when the weather was very fine. It was an idyllic, almost anachronistic, existence. So that evening in early April when he came face to face with a vampire, he was completely unprepared.
"Hello, Mary," Giles said absent-mindedly to the young girl who stepped into his path as he walked to the pub to get a bite of supper. He was contemplating an essay he'd read that day from an up and coming American theologian and in the early darkness didn't notice the wicked glint in her eye and the cruel curve of her smile. He did notice, however, and was quite shocked by the foul language she used when greeting him in return. "Mary! What if the children should hear you speak like that?"
"The children," Mary laughed coldly, "can all go to hell." This certainly didn't seem like the sweet girl who minded the toddlers during Sunday morning service.
"Are you quite all right?" He shifted his weight to lean more heavily on the walking stick he'd been using for the past week since turning his ankle while walking in the countryside. He peered at her more closely; he wasn't in the village proper yet and there weren't any streetlights here.
"Better than ever, Rupert." The sneer in her voice made his given name sound like an insult.
"I don't think you are, Mary. I'm just going to the pub for some supper. Why don't you come with me and tell me what's wrong? Have you eaten?"
"Not today. Don't mind if I do." When her face - wrinkled, warped, changed - her nose shifting up, her forehead forming bulges, her eyes turning yellow and her teeth lengthening into fangs - Giles was paralyzed with shock. It was sheer luck that, when she lunged at him, he swung his walking stick up defensively and Mary impaled herself on it. Giles found himself sprawled on the path, covered with dust, stunned and not wanting to believe what he'd just seen. He stumbled to his feet and went home where he spent the rest of the night drinking whisky, reading anything he could find in his library that had anything to do with demons, and trying - mostly successfully - to keep from breaking into hysterical laughter.
The next day, a Wednesday, Giles woke with what he thought at first must be a stroke or aneurysm - certainly nothing else could make his head hurt that badly. Slowly he sat, gasping as his back protested having spent the night slumped over a pile of books at the large desk in the study. The headache, Giles realized, had nothing to do with bursting blood vessels, rather it was caused by a bright shaft of sun shining right into his eyes and exacerbating what he now recognized as a nasty hangover. He groaned, clapping his hand over his eyes and stumbling to the window to draw the curtain. As he walked back to the desk, he noticed his overcoat which he'd dropped to the floor the night before in his haste to get at the whisky and his books. The sleeves were still covered with a light coating of ash-colored dust. It had all been real. He began to tremble and sank into his chair, putting his head in his hands.
The shrill ringing of the phone made Giles start and wince. He wanted to ignore it but conscience wouldn’t allow it - he'd always felt it his duty to be available to his parishioners 24 hours a day. "Vicar, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm so worried." The woman on the other end of the phone didn't identify herself but he recognized the voice of Vivian Archer, Mary's mother. Dear Lord, what was he going to say to her?
"What's the matter, Vivian? How can I help?"
"You know Mary went to London last week to visit her cousins. She was supposed to be home on the 6:00 train last night but she never showed up and she never called. I was hoping perhaps she came in this morning and stopped at the church first."
"I'm sorry, I haven't seen her today. In fact, I'm unwell and haven't been out at all today." It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. "Have you tried her friends?" It was a useless suggestion, he knew, but Giles was feeling useless, helpless, completely out of his league, and didn't know what to do or say.
"Yes and she's not with any of them. But if you're ill, I don't want to keep you - "
"No, it's quite all right. Have you phoned her cousins?"
"I called last night when she didn't come home but no one answered."
"And the police?"
"She turned 18 last month - they can't make her come home if she's decided she doesn't want to."
"No, of course not, but - "
"Yes, I know. If it's something . . . something bad. . . ." Her voice trailed off uncertainly, then she said briskly, "Well. I'll call them, and I'll call Tracy and Liz again today. Meanwhile, perhaps I should call Mrs Mayhew and have her come round to check in on you."
"Oh no, that won't be necessary - " Giles took off his glasses and wiped them assiduously with his handkerchief.
"No, no, it'll just take me a minute. If you see Mary or hear from her, please call me."
"Of course," Giles said and hung up. Blast! He knew Vivian would call Mrs. Mayhew and the older woman, who prided herself on taking special care of all the village vicars for the past 40 years, would be here within an hour with soup and advice and some probably vile herbal tea. He hurried to hang up his overcoat and put the various volumes away. He was sitting in an easy chair about to doze off when he remembered the empty whisky bottle which had fallen on the floor and rolled under the table. Hurriedly, he got up, retrieved the bottles - oh dear, there were two - yes, he recalled, the first had been nearly empty - and disposed of them. No sense in starting rumors that the vicar had taken to heavy drinking. Anything else? He looked around. Ah, the walking stick, which was lying on the floor next to the umbrella stand where he usually kept it. Funny, since the events of last night, he'd completely forgotten about his ankle.
Several hours later, Giles had to admit that Mrs. Mayhew made excellent soup which sat well in his stomach and her tea (which was as vile as he'd feared) had eliminated his headache. Now he was alone again and once again found himself sitting at his desk, head in hands. What was he going to do? He knew what had happened to Mary. No, he suddenly realized, he actually had no idea. He knew that something that looked like Mary had approached him in the street and tried to attack him and that he had, quite accidentally, killed it. His rather drunken research the night before led him to believe she had been turned into a vampire. The hysterical laughter threatened to return.
As Giles thought, he remembered a conversation he'd had the year before with a minister he'd met in an inter-denominational conference in London. The man had asked Giles if he'd ever encountered non-human evil beings - that is, demons. Giles had replied that, thank God, he had not and in fact had been fortunate not to have had to deal much with normal, human evil. He'd gone on to say (how pompous and naive he'd sounded, in hindsight) that he wasn't entirely sure that demons, evil beings, weren't simply made up to explain why humans can do the horrible things they do and that even if they had existed at one time, he doubted they did so now. In fact, he'd said, sometimes he wished he did have something more substantial to deal with than the little problems his parishioners brought him, something to really test his faith. Now - now he was forced to admit that things he'd thought of as simply fairy tales, boogey men to keep people on the straight and narrow, were altogether real. The prospect of fighting them wasn't invigorating in the least and he wasn't at all sure he wanted his faith to be tested. He was afraid.
When Giles had expressed his doubts about the idea of demons, the other minister had finished his drink and risen to take his leave. "If you ever find that you've been mistaken, please give me a call," he'd said, handing Giles his card. "I might be able to help. And if not - well, be glad you've nothing more than unhappy couples and unwed mothers to deal with." Where had he put the card? Giles arose and went into his bedroom. There, in the box where he kept his one pair of cuff links, his good watch, and his grandmother's wedding band. Funny that he'd kept it. He'd never have thought he'd ever need it. Yes, good, there it was. "Quentin Travers," the card read, and listed several phone numbers.
Giles went to the living room and sat on the sofa. He held the card, staring at it, for a long time. Finally he reached for the phone and dialed.
-2-
"You want a what?" Giles asked, a bit taken aback.
"A handfasting," Jenny said, only a bit impatiently. "It's a ceremony - "
"Yes, I know what it is," Giles replied, apparently not even realizing he'd interrupted his fiancee. "It's just - I guess I'd assumed you'd want a wedding, with the flowers and the attendants and the - " he waved his hand in the air as if to indicate all the things that went along with weddings, wondering even as he said it why he'd ever thought so.
"What would make you think that? Come on, Rupert, do I seem like the cathedral veil and lace train type?"
Giles grinned at the thought. "No indeed. It wouldn't go with your, er, earring."
And so, on midsummer's eve as the sun sank into the ocean, Rupert Giles waited on the beach for Jenny Calendar. A friend of Jenny's stood at hand to officiate. The gathering of guests was small - of course the Scoobies were all there, even Buffy, who'd finally forgiven Giles for dusting Angelus that night he'd tried to kill Jenny. A harp, a guitar, and the waves washing along the beach provided the music. When the guitarist began Pachelbel's Canon in G ("A little tradition is a good thing," Jenny had said when she chose the song), Giles turned to face the beach.
At the back of the small audience stood a dark green tent garlanded with flowers. The tent flap was pushed open and Jenny emerged. For a moment she stood there,looking solemn in the dusk. Then she smiled at Giles - his heart leaped in his chest and he felt tears in his eyes - and with her head high, began to walk down the beach, between two rows of luminarias, toward him.
She was beautiful, moreso than ever before. Her hair was loose, dark waves framing her face, and her eyes shone. She didn't carry flowers but she wore a wreath of ivory-colored blossoms in her hair. Her dress was long, simple, with a low-cut fitted bodice and a flowing skirt. It was a deep red that set off Jenny's hair, and was embroidered along the collar and hem with gold thread. She seemed to glide as she walked.
The wards Jenny and Willow had set in place held and nothing disturbed the ceremony. Lit by the moon and witnessed by stars, Giles pledged his lifelong love and devotion to Jenny and she pledged hers in returned. The priestess tied the embroidered cloth around their joined hands and pronounced them bound for as long as their love held them together. Giles cried and Jenny laughed and the guests did both.
Later that night, after the party and the toasts and the dancing, Giles kissed Jenny before unlocking the door to his - their - apartment and carrying her across the threshhold ("A little tradition is a good thing," he laughed). Rose petals the color of Jenny's dress led the way from the doorway up the stairs to the bedroom, where he laid her down. The wards held and nothing disturbed them, nothing even tried, as they began their life together.
-3-
The small room stunk of sweat and sex, the stale scent of bodies gone unwashed for too long. The occupants of the bed didn't notice. They were far too busy discovering all the different things two men and a woman could do to each other when all their inhibitions had been removed. Giles groaned as he was penetrated none too gently from behind - that was Ethan Rayne - he himself was still buried deep in Dierdre Page who was shrieking in the throes of yet another orgasm. She began to writhe frenetically, pushing him over the edge once again. He twined his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back fiercely, biting her shoulder. Behind him, Ethan growled and pounded into him unmercifully. They'd been going at this for three days now and Giles would've thought that they'd have had to stop from sheer exhaustion long before. This stamina, apparently, was a gift from Eyghon, a thank you, one might say, for summoning him into the world. Giles grinned. Too bad the others had been too weak to enjoy the benefits of the spell they'd all cast together. Philip Henry had gone all cowardly and run away. Who knew where Sutcliffe was - Giles certainly didn’t care. And Randall - well it wasn't their fault he was just a weakling. Not their fault at all he was dead. If he'd have been stronger, Eyghon would have let him live. Though it had only been a few minutes since his last orgasm, Giles was ready to go again. He pulled away from Ethan, shoving the other man roughly onto his stomach, ready to show him that he could give as well as he got. As his thrusts got faster, more punishing, he threw his head back and laughed. He was Ripper, filled with power, following his own path rather than the one that had been laid out for him so neatly. He was Ripper and he was going to bring the Council of
Wankers to its knees - and one day, he'd rule the world.
-4-
Rupert Giles lifted the cup of tea and inhaled the bracing aroma - it was a good, strong Irish breakfast tea - then closed his eyes and savored the first sip. When he opened them again, he was shocked to see the older man who stood next to him at the sideboard, pouring a cup of tea for himself.
"Merrick! This is a surprise." He sipped again. "I thought you were in the States finding your Slayer. Miss . . . Summers, is it?"
Merrick carefully dropped two lumps of sugar into his milky tea and stirred as he answered. "Was Miss Summers. I'm sorry to report that she was killed the day before I got there in an automobile accident. The driver of the other car was drunk."
Giles was stunned. As Watchers, they were used to the idea that the girls they trained and guided would die young, but the idea of one of them dying from something so mundane, so stupid, as a drunk driving accident - it was almost unheard of. "I'm so sorry," he managed. "I'm sure it was quite a shock."
"Indeed it was," Merrick replied. "I confess I'm at a bit of a loss right now. I quite expected to be in California for at least the next year, if not longer." They continued to drink their tea in silence.
After a minute Giles said, "So it's the Jamaican girl, then? Who's her Watcher?"
"I'm afraid I don't recall at the moment. I wonder if they'll move her to California - there seems to be more activity there than in the Caribbean."
Giles finished his tea and poured himself another cup to take to the office he shared with several other field Watchers. They weren't often there, as their jobs required them to work in various undercover positions around the world, keeping an eye out for new demonic activity and previously unnoticed potential Slayers. Giles himself worked as a curator at the British Museum where he was able to make sure that any unknown artifacts were carefully examined and, if necessary, exorcised before being put on display. Today he was at the Council Headquarters for the quarterly business meeting. They were generally dull affairs.
When Giles had first begun working for the Council of Watchers, after that unfortunate detour in his University years, he had hoped he might one day be assigned a Slayer. Generally a Slayer was assigned a Watcher from birth but it wasn't unheard of for one to slip through unnoticed till she was called - the late Buffy Summrs had been one such. Sometimes a Watcher died or quit or retired - or on the rare occasion, was asked to leave - while still on active duty and then a field Watcher would take his or her place. Giles knew that if such an occasion arose, he would eventually get his turn. However, he'd been with the Council for nearly two decades now and such an opportunity seemed farther away than ever. The years seemed to blend together in an unending blur of days at the Museum, quarterly business meetings, and in a good year, kayaking expeditions. He was bored.
Several years passed. The Jamaican girl had indeed been called but had died while battling a lunatic vampire named Drusilla. She'd managed to stake the vampire but had bled to death before help could arrive. The next Slayer was a young woman from Boston, Massachusetts. She was a handful by all accounts, but she did an excellent job and had managed to stay alive for three years now - not bad by any means. The only personal excitement Giles had had was when Eyghon - a demon he'd helped to summon during that unfortunate detour all those years ago - had sought him out to possess and kill him. Fortunately, Quentin Travers knew of Giles's youthful indiscretion and Giles was able to go straight to him. Travers called in a few favors from a local coven and Eyghon was destroyed.
One Friday evening, Giles stopped in at a coffee house. It was a chain, imported from the States, and he felt vaguely uneasy when he entered, as if he were committing some blasphemy. The coffee itself was dreadful and the scones - were those really scones? - not entirely recognizable, but he rather liked the "open mike night" concept. It seemed that anyone who thought he had a smidgen of talent could get up and perform. The would-be beatnik reading his own poetry and accompanying himself on bongos was just embarrassing but the trio of female madrigal singers was charming and quite good, actually. On the third Friday, Giles brought his guitar and took to the stage himself. The applause was gratifying. It didn't take many weeks for the regulars to begin asking him to sing and eventually he never stopped in on a Friday without his guitar.
One of the people he met there was an older woman who owned a curio shop. She wanted to sell it and move to the West Indies ("This cold, damp weather is hell on my bones, Rupert," she said) but was cautious about who she would sell it to. "People just aren't careful enough these days," she explained. "Heaven only knows what would happen if I sold the shop to some of the fools who've made offers." Finally Giles surprised them both and bought it himself. Mrs. Fairweather looked him over carefully for an uncomfortable length of time when he made his offer, then said, "Yes. You'll do fine. I won't worry a bit with the shop in your hands." After the paperwork was taken care of, Giles took her to the airport where he watched until he couldn't see her any longer, then drove straight to Headquarters and gave his notice. It was only a little depressing when no one tried to talk him out of leaving.
Running the curio shop during the day (it was more like his job at the British Museum had been than he'd have thought it would be but the customers were more interesting) and singing at the coffee shop on weekends seemed to take years off Giles. Perhaps it was just his outlook on life that had changed. He wasn't bored any longer, he enjoyed his life, he was making friends.
One Friday evening, an attractive woman he hadn't seen before was sitting at a table in the coffee shop. She was probably around his age with mousy, curly hair and a very pleasant smile. He could see mischief in her eyes but also quite a bit of sadness. She had a stack of art books with her but when he sang, she stopped leafing through them and watched him. She caught his eye several times, smiling at him, and when he was done, he stopped at her table. "May I join you?"
"Yes, please," she said in an American accent. "You sing beautifully."
"Thank you - I do enjoy it. You're from the States, aren't you?"
"Yes." She blushed a little. "I know it seems silly to come all the way to England and then spend Friday evening in a Starbucks. I swore when I first got here I'd do no such thing, but I guess I got a little homesick."
"That's understandable. How long have you been in London?"
"Six months. I'm Joyce, by the way," she said, holding out her hand. "Joyce Anderson."
"Rupert Giles," he said, shaking her hand. "It's a pleasure meeting you."
"Likewise."
When the manager kicked them out half an hour after closing ("Best get the lady's number now, mate, 'cause you can't keep sitting here till morning,") they made arrangements to meet at noon the next day, at the small art gallery Joyce managed. Gile and Joyce spent almost every weekend, as well as many evenings, together over the next several weeks.
One evening, after walking Joyce to her door, Giles kissed her. She pulled back quickly and looked at him, eyes searching his face. Then she leaned up and kissed him in return.
The next day they were on an outing - she wanted to see Cambridge - and took time for a picnic. After they had eaten, Joyce said, "You should probably know I've been married."
Giles smiled. "An attractive woman like you, I'd be surprised if you haven't been."
Joyce laughed, then said, "We've been divorced for over four years now."
"I'm sorry." They were silent for a moment. "Well, not for me, of course." She smiled at him. "Was he - " Giles broke off. "I'm sorry," he said again, "I don't mean to pry."
"No, it's all right. I think you have the right to know a little history. Hank and I were married right out of college and we had a daughter two years later."
Giles was surprised - Joyce had never hinted at children. "A daughter?"
"Yes. She was a lovely girl, our only child. She was killed when she was 15, by a drunk driver."
"Dear God, Joyce, I'm so sorry." Giles had no idea what to say. The words were completely inadequate. Any words were inadequate. He reached across the cloth laid out on the ground and took her hands in his. She squeezed his hands, giving him a pained smile, and he got up, came around the cloth, and sat next to her, putting his arm around her.
Joyce rested her head on Giles's shoulder and kept talking in a low, controlled voice. "After she died, we tried to keep going, but it was too painful. I never realized how much she was the center of our family and when she was gone. . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Actually, a lot of bereaved parents end up divorcing," she added. She was quiet for awhile and Giles also kept quiet, giving her a chance to continue talking if she wanted to. "Last year," Joyce finally said, "I decided I was tired of my life in California and tired of seeing everyone I knew feel sorry for me every time they looked at me - that's why I never mentioned my family to anyone here - and I took my maiden name back again and moved to London." She laughed a little. "I was Joyce Summers for so long that it took awhile to get used to being Joyce Anderson again. The first few times someone called me that, I looked around to see who that other Joyce was. Well," she said brightly, "should we get back on the road?"
Joyce didn't talk about her daughter again and Giles didn't ask. They kept growing closer and at Christmas, Giles decided he would ask Joyce to marry him. He was apprehensive - maybe she wouldn't want to give marriage another try since her previous one had ended badly. Still, faint heart and all that. He thought of all kinds of romantic schemes - engagement ring in the glass of champagne, baked into the creme brulee - but in the end decided that perhaps he should just be straightforward and in the end, straightforwardness worked just fine. Joyce happily said yes over their Christmas dinner and then he did bring out the champagne he'd had waiting, and both agreed there was no real reason for a long engagement. At the end of the evening, though, Joyce was subdued.
"Is everything all right, dear?" Giles asked. "You seem - "
"Sad," Joyce supplied. "I'm so happy but I'm a little sad. I wish Buffy were here to celebrate with us."
Giles was dumbfounded. Buffy. Summers. Dead at 15 in California. Joyce's daughter had been the Slayer. The Slayer had a name and a family and - shame overcame him as he thought of all the conversations he'd had with other Watchers about the Slayers and how they'd never once thought of them as anything but tools to be used. He was glad to be out of that business.
Joyce saw the look on Giles's face and grinned. She thought he was speechless at the unusual name she'd given her daughter. "I know - 'Buffy'. It's different, isn't it? I named her after a tv character I used to like when I was a girl. She was spunky and sassy, smart and fun, and I wanted my daughter to be like that. Buffy, my Buffy, was special." Tears filled Joyce's eyes but she was still smiling. "Then again, I guess all mothers think that, don't they?"
Giles took Joyce in his arms. "No doubt all mothers do, but I'm sure you're right. I've no doubt your Buffy was very special."
They stood at the window overlooking the small park at the back of the house, then, "Look!" Joyce cried. "It's snowing! I haven't seen snow on Christmas in a long time. It never snows in southern California."
Giles grinned. "Never rains, either, I hear. Are you sure it's not entirely desert?" Joyce laughed and kissed him. "Actually, I haven't seen snow often at Christmas either," he added. "It's not common here."
"Guess it's an omen, then," Joyce said. "What do you suppose it means?"
Giles took off his glasses, setting them aside, and kissed her. When they came up for air, he said, "It means we were meant to find each other and that we're going to live happily ever after."
Joyce laughed. "I haven't believed in happily ever after for a long time. But I think it's time to start."
-5-
The young blonde girl in the short plaid skirt was unfamiliar to Giles. Of course, the library wasn't the most popular place for students to congregate, so a lot of them were unfamiliar to Giles - that wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that any student would be in the library on a Friday, two hours after classes were done for the day. (Why was Giles still there? Well, frankly, until his Slayer arrived, he had no other life.) She approached him tentatively, asking almost shyly, "Um, can you - can you help me over here? I'm trying to find something and . . . ." Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
Giles was delighted to be useful. "Certainly." He followed her toward the farther stacks. "How may I help you?" he asked.
She smiled sweetly at him. "Like this," she said, and the last thought he had as her face changed and she tackled him to the ground - her slightness was deceptive, she was stronger than a human - was to curse himself for being so sloppy and stupid.
***
He skulked around graveyards for several weeks before realizing that the Slayer wasn't patrolling. It might have been easier, faster, to simply keep posing as the librarian but he knew that Slayers developed a sixth sense toward vampires and he couldn't take that chance. He'd overheard enough teenage conversations in his few weeks at Sunnydale High to know where the students were likely to gather in the evenings and he took to frequenting the Bronze, careful to keep to the shadows of the upper level where he could observe unnoticed. Eventually his patience paid off.
Because she'd been an active Slayer for a year and thus had experience fighting vampires, he wasn't sure he could get to her, but luck was with him - she was out of practice and not looking for a fight. He took her easily, approaching her from behind and knocking her out with a blow to the head. It was cheating, really, but he wasn't taking any chances. He drank enough to make her weak then waited till she roused enough to swallow, forcing her to drink from him and completing her metamorphosis.
When she woke the second time, she was his, to mold and make into whatever he chose. There had been Slayers turned before and there had been Watchers turned before, but never before had both a Watcher and his Slayer been turned together - or one by the other. The Council didn't know what had happened and he didn't mean for them to find out. The Master kept a close eye on him right now, but the Slayer was a prize, the first step toward gaining the Master's trust. He had his own reasons for siring his Slayer, though, and eventually the day would come when the Master would realize what a grave error he'd made, allowing Watcher and Slayer to be together. That day would be his last, and the terror the Watcher and Slayer would bring to the world would be unsurpassed.
***
A little rusty, I think, which isn't a surprise since I let myself get out of practice. I've been feeling the urge to write more, recently. I hope that doesn't mean I've just set myself up for a monolith-sized writers block!
Five Things that Never Happened to Rupert Giles
Five Things that Never Happened to Rupert Giles
Reverend Rupert Giles loved his vicarage, his village, the small flock of worshippers to whom he ministered. Becoming a vicar in the Church of England was a family tradition going back at least as far as the days of Jane Austen. Reverend Giles lived in a small, quiet village near Bath. The biggest problems he ever dealt with were a few unwed pregnancies (and most people didn't get too fussed about those these days) and the biggest evil he'd ever faced was his own desire to skip Sunday services when the weather was very fine. It was an idyllic, almost anachronistic, existence. So that evening in early April when he came face to face with a vampire, he was completely unprepared.
"Hello, Mary," Giles said absent-mindedly to the young girl who stepped into his path as he walked to the pub to get a bite of supper. He was contemplating an essay he'd read that day from an up and coming American theologian and in the early darkness didn't notice the wicked glint in her eye and the cruel curve of her smile. He did notice, however, and was quite shocked by the foul language she used when greeting him in return. "Mary! What if the children should hear you speak like that?"
"The children," Mary laughed coldly, "can all go to hell." This certainly didn't seem like the sweet girl who minded the toddlers during Sunday morning service.
"Are you quite all right?" He shifted his weight to lean more heavily on the walking stick he'd been using for the past week since turning his ankle while walking in the countryside. He peered at her more closely; he wasn't in the village proper yet and there weren't any streetlights here.
"Better than ever, Rupert." The sneer in her voice made his given name sound like an insult.
"I don't think you are, Mary. I'm just going to the pub for some supper. Why don't you come with me and tell me what's wrong? Have you eaten?"
"Not today. Don't mind if I do." When her face - wrinkled, warped, changed - her nose shifting up, her forehead forming bulges, her eyes turning yellow and her teeth lengthening into fangs - Giles was paralyzed with shock. It was sheer luck that, when she lunged at him, he swung his walking stick up defensively and Mary impaled herself on it. Giles found himself sprawled on the path, covered with dust, stunned and not wanting to believe what he'd just seen. He stumbled to his feet and went home where he spent the rest of the night drinking whisky, reading anything he could find in his library that had anything to do with demons, and trying - mostly successfully - to keep from breaking into hysterical laughter.
The next day, a Wednesday, Giles woke with what he thought at first must be a stroke or aneurysm - certainly nothing else could make his head hurt that badly. Slowly he sat, gasping as his back protested having spent the night slumped over a pile of books at the large desk in the study. The headache, Giles realized, had nothing to do with bursting blood vessels, rather it was caused by a bright shaft of sun shining right into his eyes and exacerbating what he now recognized as a nasty hangover. He groaned, clapping his hand over his eyes and stumbling to the window to draw the curtain. As he walked back to the desk, he noticed his overcoat which he'd dropped to the floor the night before in his haste to get at the whisky and his books. The sleeves were still covered with a light coating of ash-colored dust. It had all been real. He began to tremble and sank into his chair, putting his head in his hands.
The shrill ringing of the phone made Giles start and wince. He wanted to ignore it but conscience wouldn’t allow it - he'd always felt it his duty to be available to his parishioners 24 hours a day. "Vicar, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm so worried." The woman on the other end of the phone didn't identify herself but he recognized the voice of Vivian Archer, Mary's mother. Dear Lord, what was he going to say to her?
"What's the matter, Vivian? How can I help?"
"You know Mary went to London last week to visit her cousins. She was supposed to be home on the 6:00 train last night but she never showed up and she never called. I was hoping perhaps she came in this morning and stopped at the church first."
"I'm sorry, I haven't seen her today. In fact, I'm unwell and haven't been out at all today." It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. "Have you tried her friends?" It was a useless suggestion, he knew, but Giles was feeling useless, helpless, completely out of his league, and didn't know what to do or say.
"Yes and she's not with any of them. But if you're ill, I don't want to keep you - "
"No, it's quite all right. Have you phoned her cousins?"
"I called last night when she didn't come home but no one answered."
"And the police?"
"She turned 18 last month - they can't make her come home if she's decided she doesn't want to."
"No, of course not, but - "
"Yes, I know. If it's something . . . something bad. . . ." Her voice trailed off uncertainly, then she said briskly, "Well. I'll call them, and I'll call Tracy and Liz again today. Meanwhile, perhaps I should call Mrs Mayhew and have her come round to check in on you."
"Oh no, that won't be necessary - " Giles took off his glasses and wiped them assiduously with his handkerchief.
"No, no, it'll just take me a minute. If you see Mary or hear from her, please call me."
"Of course," Giles said and hung up. Blast! He knew Vivian would call Mrs. Mayhew and the older woman, who prided herself on taking special care of all the village vicars for the past 40 years, would be here within an hour with soup and advice and some probably vile herbal tea. He hurried to hang up his overcoat and put the various volumes away. He was sitting in an easy chair about to doze off when he remembered the empty whisky bottle which had fallen on the floor and rolled under the table. Hurriedly, he got up, retrieved the bottles - oh dear, there were two - yes, he recalled, the first had been nearly empty - and disposed of them. No sense in starting rumors that the vicar had taken to heavy drinking. Anything else? He looked around. Ah, the walking stick, which was lying on the floor next to the umbrella stand where he usually kept it. Funny, since the events of last night, he'd completely forgotten about his ankle.
Several hours later, Giles had to admit that Mrs. Mayhew made excellent soup which sat well in his stomach and her tea (which was as vile as he'd feared) had eliminated his headache. Now he was alone again and once again found himself sitting at his desk, head in hands. What was he going to do? He knew what had happened to Mary. No, he suddenly realized, he actually had no idea. He knew that something that looked like Mary had approached him in the street and tried to attack him and that he had, quite accidentally, killed it. His rather drunken research the night before led him to believe she had been turned into a vampire. The hysterical laughter threatened to return.
As Giles thought, he remembered a conversation he'd had the year before with a minister he'd met in an inter-denominational conference in London. The man had asked Giles if he'd ever encountered non-human evil beings - that is, demons. Giles had replied that, thank God, he had not and in fact had been fortunate not to have had to deal much with normal, human evil. He'd gone on to say (how pompous and naive he'd sounded, in hindsight) that he wasn't entirely sure that demons, evil beings, weren't simply made up to explain why humans can do the horrible things they do and that even if they had existed at one time, he doubted they did so now. In fact, he'd said, sometimes he wished he did have something more substantial to deal with than the little problems his parishioners brought him, something to really test his faith. Now - now he was forced to admit that things he'd thought of as simply fairy tales, boogey men to keep people on the straight and narrow, were altogether real. The prospect of fighting them wasn't invigorating in the least and he wasn't at all sure he wanted his faith to be tested. He was afraid.
When Giles had expressed his doubts about the idea of demons, the other minister had finished his drink and risen to take his leave. "If you ever find that you've been mistaken, please give me a call," he'd said, handing Giles his card. "I might be able to help. And if not - well, be glad you've nothing more than unhappy couples and unwed mothers to deal with." Where had he put the card? Giles arose and went into his bedroom. There, in the box where he kept his one pair of cuff links, his good watch, and his grandmother's wedding band. Funny that he'd kept it. He'd never have thought he'd ever need it. Yes, good, there it was. "Quentin Travers," the card read, and listed several phone numbers.
Giles went to the living room and sat on the sofa. He held the card, staring at it, for a long time. Finally he reached for the phone and dialed.
"You want a what?" Giles asked, a bit taken aback.
"A handfasting," Jenny said, only a bit impatiently. "It's a ceremony - "
"Yes, I know what it is," Giles replied, apparently not even realizing he'd interrupted his fiancee. "It's just - I guess I'd assumed you'd want a wedding, with the flowers and the attendants and the - " he waved his hand in the air as if to indicate all the things that went along with weddings, wondering even as he said it why he'd ever thought so.
"What would make you think that? Come on, Rupert, do I seem like the cathedral veil and lace train type?"
Giles grinned at the thought. "No indeed. It wouldn't go with your, er, earring."
And so, on midsummer's eve as the sun sank into the ocean, Rupert Giles waited on the beach for Jenny Calendar. A friend of Jenny's stood at hand to officiate. The gathering of guests was small - of course the Scoobies were all there, even Buffy, who'd finally forgiven Giles for dusting Angelus that night he'd tried to kill Jenny. A harp, a guitar, and the waves washing along the beach provided the music. When the guitarist began Pachelbel's Canon in G ("A little tradition is a good thing," Jenny had said when she chose the song), Giles turned to face the beach.
At the back of the small audience stood a dark green tent garlanded with flowers. The tent flap was pushed open and Jenny emerged. For a moment she stood there,looking solemn in the dusk. Then she smiled at Giles - his heart leaped in his chest and he felt tears in his eyes - and with her head high, began to walk down the beach, between two rows of luminarias, toward him.
She was beautiful, moreso than ever before. Her hair was loose, dark waves framing her face, and her eyes shone. She didn't carry flowers but she wore a wreath of ivory-colored blossoms in her hair. Her dress was long, simple, with a low-cut fitted bodice and a flowing skirt. It was a deep red that set off Jenny's hair, and was embroidered along the collar and hem with gold thread. She seemed to glide as she walked.
The wards Jenny and Willow had set in place held and nothing disturbed the ceremony. Lit by the moon and witnessed by stars, Giles pledged his lifelong love and devotion to Jenny and she pledged hers in returned. The priestess tied the embroidered cloth around their joined hands and pronounced them bound for as long as their love held them together. Giles cried and Jenny laughed and the guests did both.
Later that night, after the party and the toasts and the dancing, Giles kissed Jenny before unlocking the door to his - their - apartment and carrying her across the threshhold ("A little tradition is a good thing," he laughed). Rose petals the color of Jenny's dress led the way from the doorway up the stairs to the bedroom, where he laid her down. The wards held and nothing disturbed them, nothing even tried, as they began their life together.
The small room stunk of sweat and sex, the stale scent of bodies gone unwashed for too long. The occupants of the bed didn't notice. They were far too busy discovering all the different things two men and a woman could do to each other when all their inhibitions had been removed. Giles groaned as he was penetrated none too gently from behind - that was Ethan Rayne - he himself was still buried deep in Dierdre Page who was shrieking in the throes of yet another orgasm. She began to writhe frenetically, pushing him over the edge once again. He twined his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back fiercely, biting her shoulder. Behind him, Ethan growled and pounded into him unmercifully. They'd been going at this for three days now and Giles would've thought that they'd have had to stop from sheer exhaustion long before. This stamina, apparently, was a gift from Eyghon, a thank you, one might say, for summoning him into the world. Giles grinned. Too bad the others had been too weak to enjoy the benefits of the spell they'd all cast together. Philip Henry had gone all cowardly and run away. Who knew where Sutcliffe was - Giles certainly didn’t care. And Randall - well it wasn't their fault he was just a weakling. Not their fault at all he was dead. If he'd have been stronger, Eyghon would have let him live. Though it had only been a few minutes since his last orgasm, Giles was ready to go again. He pulled away from Ethan, shoving the other man roughly onto his stomach, ready to show him that he could give as well as he got. As his thrusts got faster, more punishing, he threw his head back and laughed. He was Ripper, filled with power, following his own path rather than the one that had been laid out for him so neatly. He was Ripper and he was going to bring the Council of
Wankers to its knees - and one day, he'd rule the world.
Rupert Giles lifted the cup of tea and inhaled the bracing aroma - it was a good, strong Irish breakfast tea - then closed his eyes and savored the first sip. When he opened them again, he was shocked to see the older man who stood next to him at the sideboard, pouring a cup of tea for himself.
"Merrick! This is a surprise." He sipped again. "I thought you were in the States finding your Slayer. Miss . . . Summers, is it?"
Merrick carefully dropped two lumps of sugar into his milky tea and stirred as he answered. "Was Miss Summers. I'm sorry to report that she was killed the day before I got there in an automobile accident. The driver of the other car was drunk."
Giles was stunned. As Watchers, they were used to the idea that the girls they trained and guided would die young, but the idea of one of them dying from something so mundane, so stupid, as a drunk driving accident - it was almost unheard of. "I'm so sorry," he managed. "I'm sure it was quite a shock."
"Indeed it was," Merrick replied. "I confess I'm at a bit of a loss right now. I quite expected to be in California for at least the next year, if not longer." They continued to drink their tea in silence.
After a minute Giles said, "So it's the Jamaican girl, then? Who's her Watcher?"
"I'm afraid I don't recall at the moment. I wonder if they'll move her to California - there seems to be more activity there than in the Caribbean."
Giles finished his tea and poured himself another cup to take to the office he shared with several other field Watchers. They weren't often there, as their jobs required them to work in various undercover positions around the world, keeping an eye out for new demonic activity and previously unnoticed potential Slayers. Giles himself worked as a curator at the British Museum where he was able to make sure that any unknown artifacts were carefully examined and, if necessary, exorcised before being put on display. Today he was at the Council Headquarters for the quarterly business meeting. They were generally dull affairs.
When Giles had first begun working for the Council of Watchers, after that unfortunate detour in his University years, he had hoped he might one day be assigned a Slayer. Generally a Slayer was assigned a Watcher from birth but it wasn't unheard of for one to slip through unnoticed till she was called - the late Buffy Summrs had been one such. Sometimes a Watcher died or quit or retired - or on the rare occasion, was asked to leave - while still on active duty and then a field Watcher would take his or her place. Giles knew that if such an occasion arose, he would eventually get his turn. However, he'd been with the Council for nearly two decades now and such an opportunity seemed farther away than ever. The years seemed to blend together in an unending blur of days at the Museum, quarterly business meetings, and in a good year, kayaking expeditions. He was bored.
Several years passed. The Jamaican girl had indeed been called but had died while battling a lunatic vampire named Drusilla. She'd managed to stake the vampire but had bled to death before help could arrive. The next Slayer was a young woman from Boston, Massachusetts. She was a handful by all accounts, but she did an excellent job and had managed to stay alive for three years now - not bad by any means. The only personal excitement Giles had had was when Eyghon - a demon he'd helped to summon during that unfortunate detour all those years ago - had sought him out to possess and kill him. Fortunately, Quentin Travers knew of Giles's youthful indiscretion and Giles was able to go straight to him. Travers called in a few favors from a local coven and Eyghon was destroyed.
One Friday evening, Giles stopped in at a coffee house. It was a chain, imported from the States, and he felt vaguely uneasy when he entered, as if he were committing some blasphemy. The coffee itself was dreadful and the scones - were those really scones? - not entirely recognizable, but he rather liked the "open mike night" concept. It seemed that anyone who thought he had a smidgen of talent could get up and perform. The would-be beatnik reading his own poetry and accompanying himself on bongos was just embarrassing but the trio of female madrigal singers was charming and quite good, actually. On the third Friday, Giles brought his guitar and took to the stage himself. The applause was gratifying. It didn't take many weeks for the regulars to begin asking him to sing and eventually he never stopped in on a Friday without his guitar.
One of the people he met there was an older woman who owned a curio shop. She wanted to sell it and move to the West Indies ("This cold, damp weather is hell on my bones, Rupert," she said) but was cautious about who she would sell it to. "People just aren't careful enough these days," she explained. "Heaven only knows what would happen if I sold the shop to some of the fools who've made offers." Finally Giles surprised them both and bought it himself. Mrs. Fairweather looked him over carefully for an uncomfortable length of time when he made his offer, then said, "Yes. You'll do fine. I won't worry a bit with the shop in your hands." After the paperwork was taken care of, Giles took her to the airport where he watched until he couldn't see her any longer, then drove straight to Headquarters and gave his notice. It was only a little depressing when no one tried to talk him out of leaving.
Running the curio shop during the day (it was more like his job at the British Museum had been than he'd have thought it would be but the customers were more interesting) and singing at the coffee shop on weekends seemed to take years off Giles. Perhaps it was just his outlook on life that had changed. He wasn't bored any longer, he enjoyed his life, he was making friends.
One Friday evening, an attractive woman he hadn't seen before was sitting at a table in the coffee shop. She was probably around his age with mousy, curly hair and a very pleasant smile. He could see mischief in her eyes but also quite a bit of sadness. She had a stack of art books with her but when he sang, she stopped leafing through them and watched him. She caught his eye several times, smiling at him, and when he was done, he stopped at her table. "May I join you?"
"Yes, please," she said in an American accent. "You sing beautifully."
"Thank you - I do enjoy it. You're from the States, aren't you?"
"Yes." She blushed a little. "I know it seems silly to come all the way to England and then spend Friday evening in a Starbucks. I swore when I first got here I'd do no such thing, but I guess I got a little homesick."
"That's understandable. How long have you been in London?"
"Six months. I'm Joyce, by the way," she said, holding out her hand. "Joyce Anderson."
"Rupert Giles," he said, shaking her hand. "It's a pleasure meeting you."
"Likewise."
When the manager kicked them out half an hour after closing ("Best get the lady's number now, mate, 'cause you can't keep sitting here till morning,") they made arrangements to meet at noon the next day, at the small art gallery Joyce managed. Gile and Joyce spent almost every weekend, as well as many evenings, together over the next several weeks.
One evening, after walking Joyce to her door, Giles kissed her. She pulled back quickly and looked at him, eyes searching his face. Then she leaned up and kissed him in return.
The next day they were on an outing - she wanted to see Cambridge - and took time for a picnic. After they had eaten, Joyce said, "You should probably know I've been married."
Giles smiled. "An attractive woman like you, I'd be surprised if you haven't been."
Joyce laughed, then said, "We've been divorced for over four years now."
"I'm sorry." They were silent for a moment. "Well, not for me, of course." She smiled at him. "Was he - " Giles broke off. "I'm sorry," he said again, "I don't mean to pry."
"No, it's all right. I think you have the right to know a little history. Hank and I were married right out of college and we had a daughter two years later."
Giles was surprised - Joyce had never hinted at children. "A daughter?"
"Yes. She was a lovely girl, our only child. She was killed when she was 15, by a drunk driver."
"Dear God, Joyce, I'm so sorry." Giles had no idea what to say. The words were completely inadequate. Any words were inadequate. He reached across the cloth laid out on the ground and took her hands in his. She squeezed his hands, giving him a pained smile, and he got up, came around the cloth, and sat next to her, putting his arm around her.
Joyce rested her head on Giles's shoulder and kept talking in a low, controlled voice. "After she died, we tried to keep going, but it was too painful. I never realized how much she was the center of our family and when she was gone. . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Actually, a lot of bereaved parents end up divorcing," she added. She was quiet for awhile and Giles also kept quiet, giving her a chance to continue talking if she wanted to. "Last year," Joyce finally said, "I decided I was tired of my life in California and tired of seeing everyone I knew feel sorry for me every time they looked at me - that's why I never mentioned my family to anyone here - and I took my maiden name back again and moved to London." She laughed a little. "I was Joyce Summers for so long that it took awhile to get used to being Joyce Anderson again. The first few times someone called me that, I looked around to see who that other Joyce was. Well," she said brightly, "should we get back on the road?"
Joyce didn't talk about her daughter again and Giles didn't ask. They kept growing closer and at Christmas, Giles decided he would ask Joyce to marry him. He was apprehensive - maybe she wouldn't want to give marriage another try since her previous one had ended badly. Still, faint heart and all that. He thought of all kinds of romantic schemes - engagement ring in the glass of champagne, baked into the creme brulee - but in the end decided that perhaps he should just be straightforward and in the end, straightforwardness worked just fine. Joyce happily said yes over their Christmas dinner and then he did bring out the champagne he'd had waiting, and both agreed there was no real reason for a long engagement. At the end of the evening, though, Joyce was subdued.
"Is everything all right, dear?" Giles asked. "You seem - "
"Sad," Joyce supplied. "I'm so happy but I'm a little sad. I wish Buffy were here to celebrate with us."
Giles was dumbfounded. Buffy. Summers. Dead at 15 in California. Joyce's daughter had been the Slayer. The Slayer had a name and a family and - shame overcame him as he thought of all the conversations he'd had with other Watchers about the Slayers and how they'd never once thought of them as anything but tools to be used. He was glad to be out of that business.
Joyce saw the look on Giles's face and grinned. She thought he was speechless at the unusual name she'd given her daughter. "I know - 'Buffy'. It's different, isn't it? I named her after a tv character I used to like when I was a girl. She was spunky and sassy, smart and fun, and I wanted my daughter to be like that. Buffy, my Buffy, was special." Tears filled Joyce's eyes but she was still smiling. "Then again, I guess all mothers think that, don't they?"
Giles took Joyce in his arms. "No doubt all mothers do, but I'm sure you're right. I've no doubt your Buffy was very special."
They stood at the window overlooking the small park at the back of the house, then, "Look!" Joyce cried. "It's snowing! I haven't seen snow on Christmas in a long time. It never snows in southern California."
Giles grinned. "Never rains, either, I hear. Are you sure it's not entirely desert?" Joyce laughed and kissed him. "Actually, I haven't seen snow often at Christmas either," he added. "It's not common here."
"Guess it's an omen, then," Joyce said. "What do you suppose it means?"
Giles took off his glasses, setting them aside, and kissed her. When they came up for air, he said, "It means we were meant to find each other and that we're going to live happily ever after."
Joyce laughed. "I haven't believed in happily ever after for a long time. But I think it's time to start."
-5-
The young blonde girl in the short plaid skirt was unfamiliar to Giles. Of course, the library wasn't the most popular place for students to congregate, so a lot of them were unfamiliar to Giles - that wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that any student would be in the library on a Friday, two hours after classes were done for the day. (Why was Giles still there? Well, frankly, until his Slayer arrived, he had no other life.) She approached him tentatively, asking almost shyly, "Um, can you - can you help me over here? I'm trying to find something and . . . ." Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
Giles was delighted to be useful. "Certainly." He followed her toward the farther stacks. "How may I help you?" he asked.
She smiled sweetly at him. "Like this," she said, and the last thought he had as her face changed and she tackled him to the ground - her slightness was deceptive, she was stronger than a human - was to curse himself for being so sloppy and stupid.
***
He skulked around graveyards for several weeks before realizing that the Slayer wasn't patrolling. It might have been easier, faster, to simply keep posing as the librarian but he knew that Slayers developed a sixth sense toward vampires and he couldn't take that chance. He'd overheard enough teenage conversations in his few weeks at Sunnydale High to know where the students were likely to gather in the evenings and he took to frequenting the Bronze, careful to keep to the shadows of the upper level where he could observe unnoticed. Eventually his patience paid off.
Because she'd been an active Slayer for a year and thus had experience fighting vampires, he wasn't sure he could get to her, but luck was with him - she was out of practice and not looking for a fight. He took her easily, approaching her from behind and knocking her out with a blow to the head. It was cheating, really, but he wasn't taking any chances. He drank enough to make her weak then waited till she roused enough to swallow, forcing her to drink from him and completing her metamorphosis.
When she woke the second time, she was his, to mold and make into whatever he chose. There had been Slayers turned before and there had been Watchers turned before, but never before had both a Watcher and his Slayer been turned together - or one by the other. The Council didn't know what had happened and he didn't mean for them to find out. The Master kept a close eye on him right now, but the Slayer was a prize, the first step toward gaining the Master's trust. He had his own reasons for siring his Slayer, though, and eventually the day would come when the Master would realize what a grave error he'd made, allowing Watcher and Slayer to be together. That day would be his last, and the terror the Watcher and Slayer would bring to the world would be unsurpassed.
***
A little rusty, I think, which isn't a surprise since I let myself get out of practice. I've been feeling the urge to write more, recently. I hope that doesn't mean I've just set myself up for a monolith-sized writers block!
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