Part 4: Giles
Aeroplanes rarely take off or land on time in Sunnydale.
This is a fact with which I am becoming increasingly familiar with these days. Erratic scheduling, sudden and bizarre rearrangement of departure times. I would make some kind of formal complaint of course, but I'm fairly sure that most of the major problems are the direct result of demonic intervention. That or the increasingly insane level of paranoia that seems to have infected every aspect of the aviation industry in the last two years. Either way, it's bloody inconvenient because, yet again, my flight has quietly touched down on the Hellmouth in the middle of the night and no one is here to meet me. So, after several more attempts to get through to the house or Xander's mobile phone, I call a cab firm instead - one of the last few that I'm fairly certain still employs 100% human drivers - and go outside to wait.
Over seven years now in this godforsaken place, and I can honestly say I've never cultivated even an ounce of sentimental feeling for it. It is, to me, exactly what it is. A Hellmouth. The cosmic concentration of every conceivable evil and sorrow to ever be visited on the human race, neatly contained within thirty square miles of prime Californian real estate. The fact that it also contains the four most important people in my life only serves to fuel my hatred of it. It isn't safe here and neither are they and, despite the fact that I have every confidence in both their abilities as fighters and their good sense as adults, I fear for them every single second that I'm away.
When my taxi finally draws up I am relieved to discover that the driver appears to be merely extremely irritating and talkative, character traits that, Anya aside, are still largely considered good indicators of humanity. The majority of demons rarely indulge in small talk. His manner however is far from civilised, and I am left to stow away my own luggage as well as clear the back seat of the ruin of tacos and beer cans that covers it.
"Had a whole lot of college kids just back there. Horsing around and such. On their way out of town like everyone else I guess. Ok for some. Some of us got to earn a living still."
Looking up at him, I notice that his mouth houses rows of perfect gleaming white teeth that form a startling counterpoint to the rest of his appearance.
"Where you headed?"
"Revello Drive please."
And I open my newspaper in the hope that it will curtail any further attempts at conversation.
I'm a little surprised to see a recent edition if truth be told. The situation being what it is, I find it nothing short of miraculous that the residents of this town are still finding a way to go on with their everyday lives.
The headline is of course, in the great tradition of the Sunnydale Star, complete bunkum:
::MORE DEATHS AS COSTUMED GANGS CONTINUE REIGN OF TERROR::
Unable to read on I fold the thing up again and look out the window instead.
A car is on fire on the corner of John. F. Kennedy and third, and although I barely glance at it I can't help but notice that it's very similar in model and colour to Xander's. It does no good to worry of course but now my heart is lurching along a little faster than before, wondering if perhaps the reason there was no answer to his cell is right back there on that darkened street. If maybe he's there too, blackened beyond recognition, Willow beside him still strapped into the passenger seat.
"Good God, man. Pull yourself together."
"What? You say something? You want me to pull over?"
I spoke without thinking where I was and now I seem to have roused him again, opened the conversational flood gates. I sigh and flatten out the paper again in the hope that he will take the hint.
"No. Thank you. Just...thinking out loud."
God, I need a drink.
And I know deep down that the desire isn't just psychological any more. Lord knows I've downed enough alcohol of late to warrant more than just a raised eyebrow or two amongst my Council colleagues, if I had any left that is. It's becoming more than just a bad habit, these days I think of it as medicinal - for the shock - and the dawning realisation that all they're likely to have back at the house is warm American beer is suddenly to much. Reaching forward I rap sharply on the glass partition.
"Can we make a stop at the convenience store on Elm? I need to pick up a few things."
Of course now I come to think of it Spike would most probably have something approximating spirits down in his cellar, but the idea of interacting with him more than is absolutely necessary on this visit makes me feel faintly nauseous. Besides, Buffy made her feelings about his place in the team only too clear to me, and any further conversations between us on the same subject would be little more than pointless. He does only what she tells him to do after all. Whilst he is himself at least.
As I step out of the cab I notice that my driver's name is Bela and wonder how long his family has lived here.
"I'll just be five minutes."
I smile a little tightly and he flashes the teeth back at me,
"Meter's running on you buddy."
before reaching in the back for my paper. Briefly I spare a thought for my precious bags piled in his trunk, before deciding that I might as well risk his honesty as his indignation at my mentioning them. If nothing else life on the Hellmouth has taught me to be fatalistic and, turning away with a grimace, I walk inside.
As well as the whisky I find I need a new toothbrush and, after pondering the competitive merits of ones with flexible heads and ones with cross-ply bristles, I settle instead for a plain white rigid one; nondescript and with no function other than the one is was intended for. Test it furtively against the back of my hand before committing it to the basket.
As I pass the jelly donuts I'm moved to add of carton of them as well, unable to prevent a smile when I remember their mandatory inclusion during research nights at the library. More often than not Xander's only really useful contribution. Back when times were simpler, when the apocalypses were ten-a-penny. When Buffy was still young and full of hope, and when we all knew for certain which side everyone was fighting on. Frowning, I take the carton out and place it back on the shelf. Probably best not to encourage them to dwell on the past when our futures were all still so uncertain. Focus is what they need; focus and strong leadership, and right now it seems unlikely they're getting either. At her best Buffy has always shown herself to be an exceptional strategist, clear-headed and completely single-minded - some might say stubborn - but at this time, and it pains me to even think it, her judgement is fundamentally flawed.
Once, many years ago, I asked her if she would be willing to give up Dawn to save the world, knowing exactly what her answer would be. The fact that she could not, that she would not even conceive of sacrificing one life to save any number of others, remains one of the many aspects of her character that I deeply admire. However, admirable as they are, I now fear that those same virtues will see her fail now as a leader.
The market is virtually deserted but over by the door I see a young man standing, half in shadow, looking across at me. I can't see his face but I'm fairly sure now that he's an ex-student, one of the few members of Miss...of Jenny's cursed computer club that obviously didn't kill himself or go insane. Against my better judgement I acknowledge him with a smile and see him half-smile back, lifting one hand a little. I turn my attention back to the shelves and am absently comparing the prices of single malts when somebody says my name.
"Rupert."
Nobody here calls me that of course, none of them consider themselves old enough yet. Giles has become both my first name and my last, so when I hear myself addressed as 'Rupert' anywhere within Sunnydale limits I am instantly on my guard. Because only two people ever call me 'Rupert' while I'm here, and at any one time I would happily drive a stake through the heart of either one of them.
"Spike."
I turn and he's standing just half a foot or so away, so close that if he'd wanted to he could have reached forward and snapped my neck without my ever knowing. He isn't smiling exactly but I'm sure he's thinking something along the exact same lines.
"Getting a bit lax aren't we? Letting me sneak right up on you like that?"
One of his eyebrows raises a little, and this time he does smile. Predatory and cool.
"Maybe been out of the thick of it little too long. Too many warm Mai Tais and not enough cold steel."
He can smell it of course; the alcohol level in my blood, as well as the day old sweat on my palms and probably even the panini I had for my breakfast this morning before leaving Rome. I remember a tutor at the academy once postulating that a healthy mature vampire should be able to differentiate between anything up to eighty-five separate scents whilst hunting down his or her prey. Quite how he came up with the number is quite beyond me. Perhaps he went down to Highgate cemetery with a clipboard and a crucifix every night.
"What are you doing here?"
The smile fades a little and he takes a step back, opening the distance and thus lessening the threat between us.
"Just getting in a few things."
He sniffs, and his gaze slips past me, lingers on the young man by the exit for a moment.
"We ran out of the pink Pop Tarts."
I roll my eyes. Pop Tarts. Of course. Another well-documented vampyric practice Professor Simpson failed to mention in any of his many papers.
"Do you have a car with you?"
He frowns slightly before realising that I, obviously, do not. Shrugs and waves a hand vaguely towards the parking lot,
"Nicked the jerkmobile for half an hour. Harris'll never notice. Out cold on ribs and special sauce."
and squints through the glass,
"You come in a cab?"
"No one answered when I called the house."
"Yeah, well, "
He closes one eye, and I think I may see the merest trace of disapproval.
"She took all the birds out on the rampage didn't she? Even the little one, one you bought back last week. Said they need to go out, 'clock some field time', mix it up a bit."
I can almost hear Buffy saying the words and I don't doubt he's telling me the truth. What I don't understand is why he's standing here telling me.
"Trouble is with things they way they are round here at the moment, simple patrol's a bit more complicated than it used to be, you know?"
He shrugs again and seems to be looking around on the floor for something. Good God, don't tell me he's taken to smoking cigarette buts.
"And you are here now because?"
His eyes slide back to my face and there's just a prickle of annoyance there, because he knows what I mean even though he pretends he doesn't for a second.
"Told you didn't I?"
and he rattles the box in my face with a touch of venom,
"Pop Tarts!"
Gritting my teeth I suppress the intense desire to twat him, and try sarcasm instead.
"I mean Spike, that if things are so very dangerous out there, don't you think you'd be better employed as back-up rather than pastry cook?"
A long silence, and his expression is completely unreadable to me. A muscle is twitching violently at the side of his jaw though, and I seem to remember that that phenomenon usually signals an outburst of some kind. Distracted suddenly, I notice for the first time that he is wearing his trademark murderous black leather coat again. It's the first time I've seen it on him since he took up residence in the basement of the Summer's house, and it's absence - knowing what it symbolised for him - had been quite noteworthy. With it, all his former swagger and posturing seems to have returned, and if I didn't know better I'd swear this was the exact same despicable creature that slunk out of the shadows five years ago to assassinate my Slayer.
Stepping in a little closer to me, his lip curls back to reveal the trace of a lengthening fang, a flash of golden eye.
"If you're trying to say what I think you're saying Rupert, you better think twice before you throw that stone."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that that's one fuck of a big glass house you're standing in right there."
A step back and we're face to face again and, soul or no soul, he's still just what he is to me. So I speak very softly, just so he knows that he's the only one this is meant for. No one else.
"If I suspect for one second that you're a danger to her, you know what I'll do don't you?"
His gaze glints, sapphire to gold and back again. A sharp terse nod.
"I do. Same thing goes for you too."
I must betray a little of my surprise because he rolls his head to one side. Regards me with blank humourless eyes.
"You get any more of your fancy ideas about sacrificing the Slayer or any of her immediate for the greater good? You're going to have to go through me first. Get it?"
and his expression turns fiercely possessive, zealous.
"World goes to hell, it's not taking her with it. Not this time. She's staying put, along with the kid and the witch and the dimwit and anyone else she feels like she needs to make her happy. Don't care if I have to take the whole bloody Hellmouth on all by myself, she's going to get what she deserves. She gets to live."
He's breathing hard now, and silently adding that one to Simpson's ever lengthening list of oversights, I find myself suddenly feeling something that isn't exactly 'like', isn't quite 'admiration', but is ever so slightly like empathy. A little like understanding.
"And how are you going to do that? Protect her I mean," I say.
He flinches and glowers at me.
"Like I say. Don't care what I have to do."
"But we have no idea what the First has planned for you, why it's left you alone till now."
I narrow in and he sees the truth of what I'm saying.
"Has it ever occurred to you that it might be just biding it's time? Waiting for just the right moment to turn you, use you against her?"
He chokes back a snarl, and I see that it has. Twists away, mashing his fist around the cardboard pack in his hand,
"What else can I do? If I leave her, he wins. If I stay, he wins. If he's going to use me - he's going to. If he isn't then maybe I can still do some good here."
"And run the risk of hurting her? Where she's most vulnerable? She trusts you completely!"
His eyes widen, gape-mouthed and he stares back at me.
"She cares too much about you to ask you to leave herself. She's not strong like that."
The emotions in his face shimmer like tears and for a second I think that, impossibly, he's going to cry. Like he did the day she died, arms wrapped tightly around his own body, rocking and keening silently like a child. Stubbornly refusing to move even as the sun rose up, resisting until I finally picked her up and carried her away.
"Can you help me?"
His voice is steady, but I know what is in his heart now and I fear for her. I fear for my Buffy.
"Yes." I say, quietly, "I think perhaps I can."
