Friends, You Won't Believe It!

Ya know, there are a couple of good Giles-y moments in Season 7 -- all sad, like after Anya assumes he blew up the Council and he wheedles out "I didn't!", and before he takes the SITs out to the desert for whatever and he's sitting on the coffee table needling Buffy about "the Hokey-Pokey" -- I just love the little squint as he's saying that, like "I cannot BELIEVE I'm saying that".

In general, though, I hate the way S7 neglects our Giles, Willow, Xander, and even Dawn, and does several other things I won't go into. (It's all been said before, by cleverer folk than I.) The end, though? it kinda leaves a lot of room open, and lots of post-Chosen fics have made this clear.

This story, for instance, was meant to sort of set the scene for a tremendous and heart-wrenching crisis that Tested Our Heroes Love For Each Other. I couldn't make them do it, though, so instead, it's just sort of grim and turgid and what it is. Like, you were going to travel from Santa Barbara to San Francisco but somehow decided you could make your own fun in Paso Robles.

Many thanks to headrush100 and ljs for quick betas, for encouragement, and for service above and beyond; any errors or ickiness are my own fault, of course.



Days in Goodness Spent
(Apologies to Lord Byron)

Summer is always welcome, at least in the early days of the season. While spring sees the stirrings of new life, summer sees us stretch out, and fully relax into dependable warmth. Summer allows for lingering evenings and warm nights out. These nights are short, yes, but welcoming; we drag our feet, hang our hammocks, and spread our blankets beneath the stars. We swim in moonlit lakes and lounge ourselves dry on still-warm beaches. Summer (would you believe it? could the world be that cruel?) is a good time for vampires.

The call came when Giles was quite busy with finding, training, and generally dealing with new slayers. It seemed, at the time, a bit of karmic justice; he’d been quite gratified at the lengthening days and warmer nights, as it meant more and better training hours. Clumsy fledgling vampires, fresh from the grave, or morgue, or what-have-you, created perfect opportunities to train fledgling slayers, newly aware of their extraordinary abilities. If only extraordinary abilities had come with extraordinary skills, he’d have had far less work to do, far more time to reflect on their mission regarding vampires, but the world never can give us all we ask at one time. Some things fit together nicely, but then a jagged edge erupts where we least expect it, as if the world were designed by a very bright, exceedingly clever child, gifted with piecing together the edges of the immediate, but having no long-range strategies or imagination for the larger picture. A child very like a fledgling vampire, or a fledgling slayer.

The news was relayed to him as if he were only one of many to whom the information would be unwelcome – tragic, even – but of no particular import. Olivia’s auntie Jean, no-nonsense as ever, had had to leave the key data on his message machine, since he’d been out, of course, abroad, in fact, when the terrible thing had happened. And so Olivia was one more tragic story; a young . . . well, nearing middle-age . . . woman, enjoying a warm evening in early summer, when she’d been killed in a vicious attack and had the life ripped from her by some unimaginably cruel monster. Her husband, Martin, was wounded in the attack, and now faced a life alone, raising their two daughters (children which might have been yours, Rupert, Jean’s message very carefully did not say). Information about services would follow.

He had little time for what one thinks of as the natural reaction to such news: sadness, regret, worry for the survivors. Family and friends would rally ‘round, take up a collection for the little girls (Eva, 3 1/2, and Zadie, 2), shower Martin with food and hours of babysitting time, especially during his convalescence. But not Rupert Giles, whose obligation tended toward the universal, rather than the particular. He would take measures that, in a certain light, might resemble vengeance, but which he could only see as overdue prophylaxis; these measures required that he make off-the-record inquiries into the unseemly details of Olivia’s death. Necessity took him into back alleys in dark hours, retracing the couple’s footsteps – an observer might think that he did this out of some felt need to have what they had had, to literally to walk in their footsteps, to share, vicariously, their happiness. He only wished that he could let himself fall into such self-indulgence, such simple perversions. His expertise resulted in the unreported destruction of a nest of fledgling vampires and their sire.

***

The service was brief and very tasteful, and the graveside observance even more so. The casket was closed; Giles wished he could plausibly and tactfully suggest that the body be cremated, but it was simply inconceivable that he’d urge that on the grieving family. Olivia’s mother was so beautiful and self-contained in her grief; he’d never seen Liv at a funeral, but he thought he could imagine, now, how she would’ve been. Jean was a rock, dry-eyed and elegant, sitting upright, but not stiffly, in her ludicrous folding chair. Each of her hands held the tiny hand of a granddaughter; the girls appeared bewildered, each dwarfed in her own chair, as saddened by their father’s silent weeping as by the ritual. Martin Davies stood, rocking back and forth before the grave, his arms wrapped around himself and eyes closed, streaming tears. Giles, standing across the grave from the little family, and behind a clot of Olivia’s friends from work, could hardly hear the words of the ceremony, so preoccupied was he by the tableau before him.

When the first clump of dirt hit the coffin, people began to move away from the grave, and he could finally see the box from where he stood, a tasteful distance away. His eyes were riveted to the sight: the box holding the beautiful presence was being covered over, slowly, as if six feet of earth could contain what she was, what she had been. It seemed the final victory of Evil, in some way, that she could end up being destroyed by the very forces she’d fled him to escape. He couldn’t bring himself to cry, not even as his right hand played over the swollen knuckles of his left – the only visible evidence of what he’d been up to the night before last – or was it the night before that? He hadn’t kept banker’s hours for so long, the days and nights simply melted together into one awful expanse.

He didn’t realize he was being addressed until he felt the shove on his right shoulder. He stumbled slightly, the defensive block he’d thrown up dissolving as he recognized the tear-stained, ruined face of Martin Davies.

“What are you doing here? Have you no decency? Don’t you think I know what happened, what killed her?”

In point of fact, Giles had no idea that Martin would make any connection between Olivia’s death and himself; he wouldn’t have wagered that the man even recognized him. Yet clearly he had.

“What? I don’t – Martin, I’m so very sorry for what’s happened, but –“

“Oh, please! I know you – Olivia used to see you. She stopped seeing you because she was afraid. She said you were a good man in a bad business. A bad business! Now, tell me, what’s been going on? I know you called her – what have you done?”

Tears and perspiration coated the man’s face, and his eyes blazed in rage and terrible grief. Giles felt completely at sea, as if he’d been rocked back by a real blow, a fist to the chin. He stood there gutted, holding his breath while his mouth gaped open, trying to sort through what Martin had said. He had emailed Olivia, it was true, in the flush of trying out his new computer system; they’d met up for drinks, she’d shown him snaps of the children, told him about Martin, and sounded deliriously happy. This was months ago – probably only a few weeks after his return from California. If she regretted her life – any of it -- she hadn’t shown it. His bewilderment must have shown clearly on his face; the other man seemed stymied, confused, perhaps, by his failure to launch into defensiveness and denials.

As Davies seemed to deflate before him, Giles became aware of the sound of a young child, crying. He started, and turned to see Jean striding toward them as quickly as she could, given that she was holding Zadie in her arms and gently leading Eva along by the hand.

“Martin! That’s enough! You leave Rupert alone – he had nothing to do with what happened.”

The little girls were clearly destroyed to see their father so distraught, and to have their grandmother speaking sternly to him. Eva called out to him, her free hand outstretched, “Daddy! Please! Carry me?”

For a moment, Giles thought that Martin might continue his tirade; instead, he lowered his eyes, and then stepped past Giles without making further eye contact and swung his older daughter up into his arms. He reached out for Zadie, as well, but the younger child cowered back against her grandmother, and buried her face in the scarf around Jean’s neck. Martin let his arms tighten around Eva, and moved off toward the waiting limousine.

“Jean, I’m so sorry –“ Giles ground out miserably, but she stopped him.

“I know, Rupert. Don’t mind it. He’s feeling so guilty right now, as if he could have saved her. It’s just too much for him to take in, and he needs to put his rage somewhere. I’m sorry. I know you were her friend, and she cared a good deal about you.”

He thrust his hands into his pockets and studied the tops of his shoes.

“It’s all right. About Martin. I understand completely.” He pulled out his handkerchief and began polishing his glasses, slowly and deliberately, while her silence spoke volumes of doubt. “I do, really.” Then he met the older woman’s eyes directly. “And thank you. I am -- so sorry -- for what’s happened. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

She shook her head, smiling slightly. “No, but thank you. I just don’t know . . . what kind of people would do such a thing? It’s – it’s just awful.” She glanced meaningfully at the toddler in her arms. “At least, well, the children are safe. That’s a blessing.”

“Indeed. Of course.” He hoped that his lack of enthusiasm might be put down to the solemnity of the occasion. Jean seemed to have moved on, though, no doubt looking ahead to various social duties. She reached her right hand out as far as practicable, given that she had her arms full of her drowsing granddaughter.

“Thanks so much for coming, Rupert. Do come ‘round, when you have time.”

She didn’t mean it, he knew. It was just what one said at such moments. He responded in kind.

“Of course. And please, do let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

He winked at the little girl as Jean turned toward the car; Olivia’s child looked as dazed as Giles himself felt. He watched the two – the older woman, the little, little girl – like bookends for Olivia’s life, he thought – sway slowly over the grounds until they reached the car.

Though his last words to Jean had been ritual, there was in fact something he could do, something he had to do. He wished it were otherwise

***
There was little moon that night, and, of course, an intermittent rain. He tried not to think about why he stood there, beneath the tree, waiting for an old friend. Olivia would have appreciated this macabre twist, he thought, if she’d read it in a story about someone else. She had asked him once, months after the night of The Gentlemen, how he could live there, how he could keep doing what he did. Of course, he’d responded with words about duty and destiny, some small part of his brain perhaps hoping she’d respond to the romance of the words . . . he’d been half-pissed when he wrote the letter, and entirely hung over when he’d posted it. The truth, if there was any, was more mundane, he now supposed. He just knew that running from the monsters, denying that they existed, was far from a guarantee of safety, of freedom from fear. Anyway, he mused, vampires were a relatively uncomplicated sort of evil; with few exceptions, one needn’t bother oneself over the need to do away with them.

That was the rub, though, wasn’t it? All spring and summer he’d been seeing the veritable bumper crop of newly-turned vampires as a kind of opportunity – patrols with the new Slayers, the recently Chosen, never failed to provide textbook opportunities for slaying. He hadn’t given them a second thought, really, any more than he ever had in Sunnydale, or in England before that.

A vampire, you see, is a monster, a demon. It takes the form of a human being – one that it has killed -- but it is, invariably, merely a cunning likeness of that person, a cold corpse animated by a demon spirit, if you will, and possessing many of that person’s memories, yes, but not that person’s soul, and certainly no conscience to speak of. It had been part of his catechism for more than forty years by now. The demon’s resemblance to the recently departed, its use of her or his memories, voice, features, is merely a parlor trick, a distraction utilized to make its prey more vulnerable. He knew this well, and had passed it along to Buffy, her friends, and to these newest Slayers and Watchers still in training. It was the true north of his particular vocation.

And yet . . . and yet . . . as he stood beneath the elm, waiting for the ground to stir, waiting to see those beautiful, well-remembered hands break through the earth, he finally let himself wonder. Knowing Angel, and knowing Spike, with and without their souls – one could make the claim that line-drawing was challenging, even at best. Angel’s demon was, doubtless, one of the most vicious he’d ever heard of. Spike’s, well, that was another sad and sordid story indeed – an impressionable teenager who’d decided to grow up, perhaps, but in any case, no one-dimensional monster. And, while he could barely remember Harmony before or after her turning, he’d heard enough to believe that there was more than a little continuity between schoolgirl Harmony and vampire Harmony.

What of it, Rupert old son? What if they are more than a little of what they used to be? What then? Is slaying “wrong”? Will you start a colony for them? A maximum security prison? Is that what you would want, were you turned? Transformed into a creature that wanted, no -- needed -- human blood to really thrive?

More than once, he had to wonder if all of this thinking was really very healthy. It pained him, but sometimes the old way really was the best way (or the simplest). Slaying vampires had to fall somewhere between euthanasia (of which he approved), and capital punishment (of which he didn’t, in the usual human case), and was clearly the only sane method of controlling the vampire population. Vampires being what they were, such control was not just a wise idea, it was a matter of survival; vampires that survived for any length of time became increasingly territorial and ambitious, and showed skill at organizing other demons into brutally effective armies. The Watchers’ Diaries were full of such cases, and he had no desire to see any more such behavior than he already had, thank you very much.

His current position with the Council made it ludicrous that he should stand in a churchyard, in the dark and damp, waiting for one vampire to rise from the grave. Nevertheless, there were certain things that one has to do for oneself; either out of obligation, or because of one’s desire that they be done properly.

Case in point: would Andrew have ensured that the stake hit the heart before the first syllable had passed those lips? Giles would not let himself linger on the fact that those lips had once brought him comfort, sanctuary, when he had been greatly in need of reassurance. Would Sheila, or Mary, or Angela have made sure the stake was sharp enough, and true, to kill on the first blow? He particularly did not think about the softness, the pliability, of the skin of her breasts, the beautiful slope of her sternum, the rise and fall of her chest in sleep. Would Xander, or Faith, or even Buffy herself, think to bring a spade, to ensure that the grave showed no sign of disturbance once the deed was done? It did not occur to him that she loved fresh sheets, blankets, a well and beautifully made bed, pillows and bolsters arranged just so. That she arranged fresh cut flowers, and placed them about the room – whatever room – so that available light would hit them for maximum effect. That she set a table with balance, like an artist, braided her hair, with sureness, like a weaver, smoothed the lines of his brow, gently, like a sculptor.

He remembered a visit she’d made during Buffy’s senior year of high school, when he’d tried to impress her by preparing a proper curry, and gorgeous strawberries in cream. All of which she’d made the proper noises about, but in the end he knew she’d have been happier with simple crusty bread, soft, ripe cheese and some crisp, tart apples, as they’d used to picnic on in London. At least he’d done well with the wine – a dry white, chilled to exquisite perfection. He’d stuck with Guinness during the meal, but after dinner he’d broken out a second bottle of the pinot blanc, and she’d made a show of tying bronze ribbons (that she’d produced from somewhere, as was her wont) around the wineglass stems and nattered on about how she appreciated his sense of style. Other single men were so cluttered, or so barren, she’d teased, and they had no sense of color. He’d had no illusions about her travels, and the others she “visited”; if she’d been trying to shock him, the shot went wide, and she could tell, so she said something about how “balanced” his flat was, and what rich colors he surrounded himself with, and for a man recently sacked from an ancient family sinecure, her approval was all the assurance he could want, or need.

Later that night, she’d found the scars. Outraged for a moment over the story of Jenny and the crossbow, she’d wept uncontrollably against his bare shoulder over his abridged account of Angelus’s wrath. It seemed forever that he held himself stiffly, lightly enfolding her in his arms, and terrified that she would be too horrified to stay. He cursed himself repeatedly for his honesty, for not coming up with a lie that she could face. Finally, she seemed to realize how petrified he was, and she’d held him and stroked his skin until he could breathe again, really breathe, and he felt small for not remembering her strength, and generosity. Her ferocious grace that night had been better for his sense of self than anything doctors and psychologists could offer; better, almost, than the return of Buffy herself. Olivia had wakened early the next morning to catch a flight, and in his exhausted, post-cathartic state he couldn’t even stay awake long enough to track her muted progress to the shower, let alone out of the flat. When he’d finally risen, he’d found a wineglass full of the leftover strawberries, tied with two bronze ribbons, standing atop a hastily scrawled note: Rupert, Love, you really are a bit of all right, aren’t you? Please take care – Liv.

Olivia had walked in beauty, if anyone had, and made beauty all around her: nothing ethereal about it, nothing untouchable; just honest, and warm, and true. That was gone from this world, this world that so needs beauty, so needs solace. Her gift was gone forever, he knew it, and, as his eyes were drawn to the first few cracks widening in the loamy earth of her freshly-covered grave, he would not let himself think otherwise.

***
A summer mist rose gently from the fields as he made his way home in the pre-dawn hours. As he walked, he wiped earth from his hands on well-worn blue jeans. He crossed a pasture on a well-trod walking path, and along the way, he stumbled into the field to dig a trench with the sharp wooden stake, dropped the stake into the ground, and covered it over with his boot. He then dug a handkerchief out of his inside coat pocket, and meticulously wiped his hands clean. As he held the jacket open to tuck the linen back in its pocket, his body contracted once, horribly, and he fell to his knees, retching. When it was over, he knelt in the soft, pink light of dawn, weeping. Then he retrieved the grubby handkerchief once more, wiped his face, and took a deep breath.

A chill breeze found the fine layer of perspiration standing on his skin, and he shivered. The day promised to be warm, but hazy; the summer stretched before him, a set of identical days, wrapped in bronze ribbons, tasting of cool white wine and ashes. He hurried home to have a shower. He had work to do.