Chapter Twelve

 

----====Giles====----

The three of us threaded our way through the dark, narrow streets. Since it was out of term time, few people lingered out of doors. When we turned down Holywell our footsteps echoed, ringing on the empty pavement as if we were the only people making noise in Oxford.

The great thing about the Turf Tavern is that you have to know where it is: wind through a passageway and turn a corner, only then to discover the ancient walls, to catch the scents of ale and smoke stealing through an open door. For all his protestations about a century passing since his last visit, Spike was the first into the alley. He clearly knew the way. Once inside, Wes pushed forward to the bar and ordered us each a pint of Old Speckled Hen.

Of course he then had to ask me for the money to pay for it. The Brilliant Two had managed to escape DH pursuit across England to find me, yet had failed to ‘change their dollars for pounds along the way.

The pub wasn’t crowded at all. But because I was in danger of hitting my head on the low beams inside, I led the way out to the small garden. The air was just properly cool – might rain later, but now we were fine as we were. We had the garden to ourselves, too. Chose a table, sat down with our exceptionally good beer. And we sat there like lumps.

I had no buggering idea what to talk about, other than demons and crisis-resolution. It wasn’t as if I’d ever socialised with either one of them, aside from the horrible days of Spike as unwilling roommate.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one at a loss. Wesley began to worry his beer mat, scraping along its sides with his nails. Spike fidgeted, then pulled the omnipresent pack of cigarettes out of his jacket –which wasn’t the duster, I suddenly realized. I wondered if the weight of that leather was too much for his newly souled self. And then I realized it was still bloody August, and the duster would look ridiculous in Oxford.

I was losing it, I thought. And I put my hand out. "Spike, may I have a smoke?"

"Giles!" They synchronised that as if they’d been practising for days. Couldn’t have sounded more horrified if I’d suddenly called up a chaos-demon before their very eyes.

"Just give me one." It was wrong to use the Alpha-Watcher voice in such a situation, I knew, but damn it, I wanted a smoke. Beer, pub – a cig was the natural end to that list.

Wesley said pensively, "It’s so very bad for you."

Spike hesitated before handing me the pack. "You all right, old man? ‘s not like you."

I shook out a cigarette and lit up before saying, "You call me ‘old’ again, Spike, I’ll rip off your head and paint my face with your dust." I blew out a cloud of smoke, savouring the tobacco on my tongue.

Wes’s jaw dropped, but an appreciative smirk spread over Spike’s face. "Said it before, say it again. Rupes, you have a real way with words."

Well. I hadn’t actually meant to say that. Yet I didn’t feel sorry, precisely, nor did I feel like explaining my Ripper outbreaks to them.

Not on the first pint, anyway.

So I took another drag and another drink before saying, "Never mind. When did you two come here? Was it your student local?"

Spike laughed. "Didn’t come that often. Clean-living lad, you see." I bit my lip to keep back my own chuckle. "Occasionally, though. After punting on the Isis. We – the blokes on my staircase, I mean – would leave the river and then plunge into beer, glorious beer."

He raised his glass and rotated it, watching the light come through amber-brown. And he took a drink.

"You liked to punt?" Wes asked.

"Couldn’t keep me away from either river, old son." I noticed a change creeping into Spike’s accent, a change in rhythm and tone; he sounded like someone who’d gone to Oxford. "When I wasn’t working in my rooms, I was in a boat. I liked nothing better than to go up the Cherwell, find a quiet spot to moor, and, er, read. Or jot down thoughts." He took another drink.

"‘There is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats,’" Wes quoted.

And I finished, "‘Simply messing... messing about in boats.’" We all drank. Then I said, "Wes, I didn’t know you liked to punt too."

"Oh I don’t. Didn’t," he said matter-of-factly. "I’ve just read 'The Wind in the Willows'. I was always working when everyone else went out on the river."

"That’s – well, that’s bloody sad," Spike said.

"Certain expectations came with who I am," Wes said. "I did manage to make it here to the Turf, though, once or twice."

"What about you, Rupes?"

"I was here all the time. First-year, much of second." Until I left to worship chaos, I didn’t add. "I did spend some afternoons on the river, though. Like you, Spike, I’d take a punt out and then do my reading in the shade. Usually had a bottle chilling in the water, though."

"Wasn’t Spike who did that. That was dead-and-gone William," he said quietly. He threw the rest of his beer down his throat, clearly trying to drown unpleasant memories.

"If you could – barring sun issues, of course -- would you do it now?"

So softly that Wes and I had to lean in to hear: "Yes. Yes, I would. God, I would."

"There you are," I said comfortably. It was comfortable now, the initial unease forgotten. I looked around the table. "We appear to be empty. Ready for another round?"

Of course I (the man with the dosh) was the one who had to fetch it, and I decided to switch to halfs. When I walked up to the bar, I saw a shadow move in the corner: someone was watching me. It wasn’t clear who it might be, and then someone rang the bar bell. At the ping of the bell, the shadow disappeared. Odd.

Juggling the three full glasses, I made my way back to the garden. Spike was in the middle of a long, involved tale: "– so it became a regular event, see? The diving into the Cherwell. Sort of a baptism for each new stage of the academic year."

"Right. That sort of ritual is familiar to many cultures – " Wes began.

"Mate. Do you have the bloody cheek to try to footnote my story?"

Surprisingly, Wes smiled. "Call it a bad habit." Then he turned to get his glass. "Never mind, carry on."

With a quick thanks, Spike accepted his half from me, then said, "So my staircase would go out under cover of darkness at the beginning of every term. No joke in Trinity Term, mind you – bloody hell, I’ve never been so cold. Right, so we’d go down to Magdalen Bridge, take off the shoes and coats, and then plunge in." He imitated the dive into the river by dipping his finger in his Old Speckled Hen, then he quickly licked the beer off. And then he paused. Mumbling, he said, "Friends ‘til the end, supposedly. ‘Course, that wasn’t so long in my case. The end, I mean."

A heavy silence fell at that. Spike’s hands started to shake again, and he got out a smoke. I decided I’d have one too, and so we both lit up.

While we did, Wes said, "I didn’t have anything half so interesting during my time here. My idea of fun was to go with Jefferson and Richards – they were studying to be Watchers, too – and have a swift half at the Eagle and Child." When Spike and I both spluttered, he added, "I only said I didn’t come to the Turf. I said nothing about never going down the pub."

"But the Eagle and Child?" I asked. "That wasn’t because of –"

"Oh yes, it was. Absolutely a homage to Tolkien, Lewis and the Inklings," he finished. He took a drink, then laughed. "What idiots we were. Completely enamoured of the whole idea of the epic hero, the way that everyone from Homer to Tolkien had written about him. I fear we thought that we would be heroes for the Council, going off to fight the world’s evil."

"Jefferson and Richards – didn’t they die on assignment?"

"Yes. They were shadowing werewolves in the Caucasus, and got themselves killed. It was sheer stupidity – they were rushing to record a particularly nasty fellow’s exploits, and left the silver bullets at home." Wes looked down, blinked hard.

"Death or glory, and sod all else. Achilles, Odysseus," Spike said slowly. "Wankers."

"Pillocks," I said, and raised my glass. Spike followed suit.

"Idiots," Wes finished. The three of us drank deep to the folly of epic heroes.

And it was time for another round.

I sent Spike for this one; gave him the money for the beer, of course, and for another pack of cigarettes. When he disappeared inside, Wes looked at me. "Does this seem strange to you?" I raised my eyebrows, and he said, "William the Bloody, vampire with a soul. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, former Watcher, former demon hunter, current failure. Rupert Giles, Senior Watcher in semi-retirement. All just chatting, in a pub garden in Oxford."

I considered it for a moment. Then, after I sent a perfect smoke-ring into the night: "The strangest thing is that now it doesn’t seem strange at all."

"That’s what I mean." And then he waved his hand impatiently in front of his face. "Would you mind not blowing smoke on me? Honestly, Giles."

I was still laughing helplessly when Spike came back with the drinks. "Don’t tell me," he said. "Wesley made a sodding philological joke, and you’re choking yourself at the humour of the Great Vowel Shift."

"No," we both said. Wes added, "But that could be amusing," and I coughed into my beer. Wesley grinned and took a sip of his own.

"Right. I’m leaving," Spike said, as he sat down.

"No, you’re not." I pulled my half toward me, then took a drink. Still exceptional. "Are we drunk enough to talk about what we did this summer vac?"

The two of them fell silent. Then Spike said, with a fair approximation of his old swagger, "Went off, earned a soul. Hated myself afterward. Hated myself on several continents, in various ways; got some interesting new scars to prove it." For the first time, I noticed an angry burn on his palm: dear God, it looked as if he’d been cupping holy water in his hand. He continued: "Thought I’d crack up – the measure of my desperation being, I actually had the fucking bad idea to try to find the only other souled vampire I know of and get his broody advice. Failing that, well – "

And, swagger gone, he buried his head in his folded arms on the table.

"Apparently not quite drunk enough yet," I said. I patted his shoulder, and he shivered.

Wes said, "As I’ve already told Spike, my summer wasn’t any better. Made a horrible mistake, which cost Angel his son and which he perceived as treason –"

"What?"

"Never mind. I’ll tell you later. In any event, Rupert, I lost my job and the people I thought were friends. The only person who engaged me at all was the Wolfram and Hart lawyer whom Spike met, and who is rather interested in my losing my soul. She’s been working very hard to encourage the process, at any rate."

"Oh. Oh, Wesley."

Spike sat back up, and rubbed his eyes hard. "In other words, not the happiest of seasons for him either. So, what about you, Rupes? Tell us everything." After a sip of his beer, he smirked at me. "Including why Anyanka was so bloody cozy with you last night."

"First I need to know what you’ve heard about the events of the spring, after you left."

"My mate Clem told me a bit. About Tara. About Willow going Wicked Witch."

Wesley choked on a mouthful of beer at that. "Willow – what?"

"She tried to end the world after her lover was murdered, Wesley. I found out, went back and managed to dose her with borrowed good magic, and then Xander did the rest. Stopped her."

"Good on Harris, then," Spike muttered. He didn’t seem convinced, and I didn’t wholly blame him; I’d heard about the various encounters they’d had in the past year. I’d had my own difficulties with Xander, hero though he was, this summer. It had been hard for me to interact naturally with him after he’d hurt Anya so, worse, after he failed to understand what he had done to her. Still, had he not, I wouldn’t have let myself grow close to her; it would have been too tempting, too dangerous. She would have been his.

Which now she was not.

I took another drink, then said, "Willow couldn’t stay in Sunnydale. The dark magics had tainted her, and she required cleansing. So I brought her to England. The coven we’ll visit tomorrow has been invaluable in aiding her recovery. She just left a few days ago, as it happens."

Wes said, as if he’d been thinking carefully about it, "Rupert. You said that you dosed her with good magic?"

"Yeah, mate, explain. I’ve rarely seen you try to do magic – that sodding truth spell years ago was one, remember? – and didn’t seem to me then that you were exactly Merlin."

And the two of them looked at me. Waiting for answers, as they’d been doing since they’d arrived last night.

Right, then. It was time, the toll of the clock I hadn’t known I’d been waiting for, resonating with purpose. I finished my beer, and said, "Come with me."

Took us a few minutes to get organized, but we found ourselves out in the street. I oriented myself, and then headed toward Longwall; they dutifully followed. Our footsteps rang even louder, and I let the sound rumble up through the soles of my boots, pounding through me. The clock was striking.

"Where we going, then?" Spike said, catching up to me.

"Magdalen Bridge, of course." I spun around to look at him, then back at Wes. "Each of us is starting a new stage in his life, right?" When they nodded: "Yet to do it properly, we first have to acknowledge the past. Right. There’s something that you two don’t know about me."

Wes joined us. "What do you mean?"

"My university days weren’t as, shall we say, halcyon as Spike’s. For one thing, I hated having to think of myself as a Watcher in training. Hated being at Oxford for that. And so I dropped out, went to London. Named myself Ripper. Played with magic." Stepping under a street lamp, I shoved up my sleeves to display the mark of Eyghon. Both of them stumbled back a step; obviously they knew what the tattoo was. "It was so sodding stupid. No, it was criminal. In one of my little adventures, we summoned a demon, and he came. Killed one of my friends."

"Oh, Rupert," Wes said softly.

"But the death wasn’t the worst part. I was bloody good at magic, even though we only did the small stuff. I loved it."

"So, just guessing here: once you fell, you decided it was pure evil? And it was, ‘Get behind me, nasty power’?" Spike said.

"That’s right. Complete rejection. Lied to myself and to others for years. Rupert wouldn’t do that sort of thing, I kept saying." I walked a few steps ahead of them. Energy unbidden was echoing in my veins, in time with my footsteps on the pavement. I let it surge, up and through.

I lifted my hand -- curled fingers, a spin of the wrist. I breathed a word of power --

And fire shot in a blue stream, up into the night sky. I didn’t look back, but I could hear Spike and Wesley choke out, "Giles!"

"As I said, the magic I used on Willow was borrowed; I would have been nowhere near strong enough to stop her. And yet somehow, the sort of thing I just did has been possible all summer." With that, I turned onto the High. We were almost to the river, to a leap into the future.

Silent now, they both caught up with me; we walked past Magdalen College, onto the bridge itself. There was no traffic, which seemed odd even at that time of night. The stone of the bridge gleamed through a soft mist, in the light from the street lamps. I began to sing, very quietly, "‘Lord knows, I can’t change – Won’t you fly high, free bird...’"

"Oh bugger," Spike said. "Lynyrd Skynyrd. The soundtrack to all Rupert’s identity-crises."

"Not a crisis, old son," I said. "Acceptance." And I clambered up onto the stone railing, managed to stand up.

Well, it was a long way down. Clouded and dark, too. But I could hear the Cherwell gently ripple past.

Spike jumped up beside me, balancing as if he were a cat on a window-sill. "Mate, it’s a bloody stupid idea."

"You saying you don’t want to, Spike? You don’t want to jump, to start afresh?"

"Well, no, I do. But I’m bloody stupid. Got the testimonials to prove it."

"I am quite sure that *I* don’t want to," Wesley said from below.

But Spike reached down and effortlessly hauled him up to stand beside us. "If we go, Wes, you go."

"Seriously, it’s ridiculous." Wesley took off his glasses and stowed them away in his jacket pocket, securing them tightly. A good idea; I followed suit. "The only people who would do this would be idiots."

"Pillocks," I said.

"Wankers," Spike said.

Wes was the first to jump, but we were right behind him.

It was in truth a bloody long way down, and hitting the water was painful in the extreme. The river dragged me down, and I went all the way to the bottom before pushing back up. My boots and jacket were heavy, and I struggled to the surface.

Beside me, Spike and Wes floated, alternately laughing and cursing. "Sodding insane. Bloody hell, we’re sodding insane," Spike said.

"Must be... why I found it so strangely exhilarating," Wes gasped.

"Dear God, why didn’t you two stop me?" I managed to cough.

"We thought you knew what you were doing," Wes said, as he gently stirred the water. "We’ll follow you anywhere."

"Hah," I said. I struck out for the bank, opposite the Magdalen Bridge Boathouse. They in fact did trail after me like extremely large ducklings, and we pulled ourselves out onto the grass.

It was then that we heard the hiss of an inhaler, from the bridge above. And another. Damn it. Spike tensed, then jumped to his feet.

Two DH’s stood on the railing, in the stance we’d taken just a minute earlier. "Remember, no killing," one said to the other. They both crouched as if to fall upon us–

And from behind them came the ring of a bicycle bell. "I wouldn’t," a female voice said.

The DH’s twisted to see who was speaking. The movement caused both of them to teeter, then fall off the bridge into – a flash of light. The air ripped, with a punch of ozone and menthol. And they were gone.

"What the hell?" Spike growled, and he sprinted up the bank and to the bridge. And then he stood there, looking up and down the road. He left our view; I could hear his sodden boots pounding across the road. Then he returned and gazed down at us. "Mates, there’s no one up here."

Right. I suddenly felt very middle-aged, very sober, and rather sore. Wesley helped me stand, his hand on my elbow, and the two of us climbed up to Spike.

A car passed us on the bridge, then another. The mist was gone into the ether, just as the DH’s had disappeared And as Spike had said, there was no sign of any other DH or a mysterious cyclist.

Spike put one hand on my shoulder and the other on Wesley’s. "Strange doings."

"Strange night," Wes said.

"But a good one," Spike said.

"Yes, it has been. But let’s go home. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow." I turned, heading for the path back to Marston. My boots made a loud, horrible squelching sound with each step.

Behind me, those two burst into peals of laughter. "Sod off," I called back, even as I smiled.

 

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