Outsider Observations
Chapter 2: Watching the Watcher
With the television off and 'Passions' over for another day, Spike had nothing to do but lay back in the cold bathtub, watch and listen to Giles putter about his huge apartment. 'Passions' was infinitely more entertaining.
He could eat but that damnable Slayer and her even more damnable Watcher only fed him once a day; lukewarm pig's blood from that stupid yellow mug. 'Kiss the Librarian' indeed. Spike would like to do something other than kiss Giles. He'd like to rip his head from his shoulders and drink the fountain of blood that sprayed from the stump.
He licked his parched looking lips and rattled his manacles in frustration.
"Hungry in here," he shouted. One could always try. "Don't want me getting too bloody weak or I won't remember anything about those soldier boys."
Giles sauntered into his bathroom and peered at the chipped vampire. He really did look sickly; paler than usual and quite thin. But the Watcher didn't care. He gave Spike a smug look.
"Did you just say something, make a demand perhaps?" The watcher leaned casually against the doorframe. "I think you're forgetting something about the captive/captor relationship, Spike. You can yell and whine and behave like a childish brat all you like. But you'll still be chained and stuck in that bathtub, while I can walk away and ignore you."
"Aww, come on, mate. Show us a little mercy, will you? Just half a mug full? A sip?" Spike stared pleadingly at Giles. He stopped short of batting his thick eyelashes. There was a limit after all, and even he had some pride left.
The Watcher took off his glasses, put one end in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Um, no. Nice try, though." Chuckling to himself, he wandered off to the kitchen to make a good, strong cup of tea.
"Bloody hell," the hungry vampire grumbled. He rattled his chains again, hoping that the noise would disturb the middle aged man.
In the bathroom mirror he caught glimpses of Giles as he wandered about his living room, straightening a book here, adjusting a chair there, while waiting for the kettle to boil. He hummed to himself, something archaic by the sounds of it and Spike rolled his eyes.
"Hey, how about some decent music?" he called. "You know something from this century."
Though he would never admit it, the melody Giles hummed reminded him far too much of his times as a human. He shuddered. Those were sad, pathetic days, twenty six wasted years. Shuddering again, he recalled dull days spent in the parlor with his mother, writing his poetry and pining for Cecily. He had spent most of his childhood and youth in that parlor too, at his mother's feet or by the fire, his nose in a book, friendless, mocked by his peers.
Of course, he was friendless now too, but what self respecting vampire needed friends?
He stared balefully through the doorway and watched as Giles moved toward his record player.
"Oh, crap, he's going to play one of those God awful records now."
Looking very pleased indeed, Giles selected a particularly stuffy classical piece, foregoing his collection of rock from the 1960's and 1970's. The music filled the apartment, the strains of violin and cello making Spike grit his teeth together.
"Come on, Watcher; give a man a break, will you? How about some Ramones or the Clash? Hey do you have any New York Dolls?"
Giles poked his head in through the bathroom door once more and grinned. "As it happens I have many albums that you might like, but I won't play them for you. I feel like classical today." He grew serious looking then and Spike frowned in response. "You're not a man. You're a soulless demon making the most of this chip in your brain. None of us have forgotten that. So this poor, helpless Spike routine won't help you. And as soon as I can bloody well get rid of you, I will. I want my apartment back and I want my bloody shower back too."
The watcher turned on his heel and returned to his stereo. He put the volume up and prepared his tea.
"Yeah, well, you stink." Spike raised his voice, making certain that Giles could hear every word. "Is that why you never have any ladies coming 'round? When's the last time you had a good shag, Watcher, or any kind of shag for that matter? Ponces not popular these days? It's certainly not like you're too busy or anything. All you do is read and drink tea." He snickered and leaned back a bit, his head resting on the hard edge of the tub.
Spike knew that he had hit a nerve. The Watcher's breathing changed and his heart rate increased. Book man was angry. He listened intently as Giles stomped up the staircase and entered the sanctuary of his bedroom.
"Watcher, you left the record on! That could be classed as torture you know. I'll, I'll tell Buffy." That was a useless threat and Spike knew it. Buffy would only roll her eyes and give him a smack.
The Watcher made no response. With nothing better to do, Spike closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He recalled those glory days in New York City, the 1970's, the decade of punk and the decade in which he had bagged his second Slayer. Those, those were good times. His memories, a strange mix of soothing and invigorating, were disturbed some minutes later by Giles gliding down the stairs and starting the record again.
Spike was certain he could hear the bastard laughing.