Chapter Two - Dinner
----====Giles====----
"Henry."
"No."
"Hugh."
"No."
"Jeremy."
"‘Jeremy,’ as in the annoying git who lived above us in Chelsea? You’re not even trying now." I adjusted the knot in my tie, and then turned to Anya. Ensconced in the overstuffed armchair that our guest bedroom at the Manor boasted, she looked far too pretty and comfortable flipping through that damned baby-names book. If I’d had my choice, I’d have crawled into the chair with her, but needs must: "I’m ready, darling. Time to go down for dinner."
"Yes, I bet Lilah and Wes need our support right about now, ‘cause that Dorothy is D’Hoffryn material," she said, putting aside the book. "Got a spell to get me up from this chair, Rupert?"
"Actually, the old-fashioned method is much more enjoyable." I put my arm around her back and helped her to her feet. Being this close, of course, gave me the opportunity to drop a kiss on the nape of her neck. She pleasure-shivered and curled a hand around my arm, which might have encouraged me to go a bit further, except up the stairs rolled the sudden thunder of footsteps and –
"Rupes, Anya!" Spike burst through the open door, closely followed by Buffy and Dawn.
"Strange, I’m fairly sure that dinner is not being held in our room," I said. "What brings you three up here?"
"We wanted to walk in with you guys." Buffy’s eyes had gone huge, a trick I’d figured out somewhere in the second month of our association: it was half feigned distress (in order to get her own way), and half genuine unease. "Strength in numbers, you know?"
"We’re kinda terrified," Dawn added.
"All of you?" Anya asked, her eyes on Spike.
"Oh, not me. I’m not one to worry about etiquette and polite chitchat and what sodding piece of silver goes with what overdone bit of food," he said. "But my girls are." And then he adjusted his own tie; before the trip he’d of course sworn to me that he’d never wear one, despite my e-mailed protests.
I looked at the three of them, and then exchanged a glance with Anya. On the long drive from London we’d speculated that not only was the company likely to intimidate Buffy and Dawn, but Spike wouldn’t be as at ease as he’d pretend to be.
Had to laugh when Dawn said, "Yeah, you’re fine, Spike, that’s why you’ve just gone all chanty and herb-breathing for like thirty minutes."
"My spiritual balance is bloody important, Bit," he said. He still looked edgy, though. I knew that the reminders of a past life couldn’t be comfortable for him. The question was, of course, which past life was more disturbing. During tea I’d seen him gazing up at the Gainsborough in the drawing room, a sad expression dimming those ordinarily bright eyes. I’d also seen him cast wary side-glances at Angel throughout the gathering. New soul, old scars.
I rather thought Buffy was feeling the tear of scar-tissue as well. Even in the safety of the attic, she was pacing as if it was moments before an apocalypse, battle-ready yet caught without a weapon.
Of course I empathised. Here I was, staying in the home which once had belonged to a man I’d in effect killed and who’d tried to murder Anya and devastate the world. I had to be pleasant to this man’s unsuspecting widow, while at odd moments I still could hear the echoes of dragon-hisses and screams in my head, feel again the weight of Anya in my arms as I carried her out of the ritual room. And I owed my loyalty and friendship to the man’s son.
Chanting and pacing seemed like eminently sensible responses to the situation, actually.
"Wes and Lilah?" Anya said in my ear.
I realised that I was grasping her hand rather tightly, so I lifted it to my mouth, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Right. For Wes and Lilah! Let’s dash into the fray."
"Fray? Could we have an actual fray, with kicking and punching and maybe a little sword-work, instead of a dinner party? I’d be much happier," Buffy said.
Spike looked at her for a long minute, nerves humming between them, and then said, "Yeah. Me too."
"You’re both being ridiculous," Anya announced. "And we’re going. Now."
The Sunnydale contingent followed us with some reluctance, and in grand procession we descended the Manor staircase, down to the drawing room. Somewhere around the first floor, we heard Dawn say in a stage-whisper, "It is so miles beyond weird to see them holding hands when not, you know, under some Willow-spell."
My wife had to hide her face against my shoulder so that she wouldn’t laugh too loud. I knew what she was thinking: if our holding hands disturbed Dawn, what would she have said if the three of them had come upstairs while I was waking Anyanka from her post-travel nap?
Not that I hadn’t locked the door first, of course. I am not a fool -- most of the time.
Buffy crowded up beside me as we approached the drawing room. The sound of a softly played piano drifted out the door, before Buffy said, "So I just watch you, right, and I’ll know what to do?"
I wanted to answer her with more than a reassuring smile, but Anya swept me into the room before I could. Once we were in, the reason for her haste was clear.
Wes and Lilah stood beside the piano, where Lorne was playing a medley of standards. Lilah’s back was straighter than any human woman’s should be; it was as if rage had been melted, poured into a frame, and substituted for her spine. Next to her, equally rigid, Wes was sipping sherry. The only point of relaxation between them was in their linked hands.
Angel and Connor, both brooding in their jackets and ties, lurked in identical postures against the wall. Looked as if the effort of speaking would break them apart. Looked as if they’d spring forth and annihilate anyone who came near them.
Dorothy sat in a chair, feet together, hands folded, coolly surveying the waxworks.
And some people found the idea of weekends in the country pleasant? I had to shudder. However, Anya as always was proactive: "Lilah, Wes, hello, are we late? We didn’t mean to be late."
Lilah said, "Apparently you had to collect everyone before coming down, which takes a great deal of coordination."
"Not my and Rupert’s idea, sweetie," my beloved said in what she no doubt believed was a lowered voice. More normally: "Oh, that dress is lovely. Is it Ralph Lauren, or Michael Kors? Part of your trousseau? Actually, do people still have those?" She grabbed at Buffy, dragging her up to join in a clothes-related conversation.
I shot Spike an alpha-Watcher look, at which his eyebrows went into the bleach zone. He knew what I meant, though; he threw an arm around Dawn’s shoulder, considered his admittedly limited options, and steered toward Dorothy. "Evening, Dorothy. Our rooms are brilliant, aren’t they, Dawn? We were wondering, just casually you know, how old the house is."
"‘Cause it’s exactly as I imagined a country house would be, only better," Dawn said sweetly.
"Trefonen Manor is Georgian," Dorothy said, unbending enough to half-smile. "It was built by my late husband’s... "
God, I didn’t want to hear anything more about that. I moved to Wes. "This is quite nice, mate," I said, one hand going to his tense shoulder.
"Certainly," he said, tossing back the rest of the alcohol in his glass.
"You’re getting a wonderful sound out of that piano. Gershwin, am I right?" I said to Lorne.
"Yes indeed, handsome. But I’m thinking of switching to some gangsta rap any second, as more appropriate mood music," he replied, with an accompanying arpeggio.
"Oh please don’t," Wes said. Lorne sent him a twinkling grin, then returned his attention to the keys.
"Er, everything all right?" I said in Wes’s ear.
"Mother and Lilah had a rather free and frank exchange of views while discussing the seating arrangement for dinner," he said. "Hello, I seem to be out of my drink."
"Never mind. Let’s go talk to Angel and his son." Who both really did have ludicrous hair, I thought, and then chastised myself for listening to Spike. Ever.
Angel stood up straighter when we approached. He managed to smile, too. "Wes. Giles."
"Angel. Connor." Now that we’d done roll-call, I feared we’d exhausted most of our conversational topics.
Lorne began crooning, "There’s a somebody I’m longing to see; I hope that he’ll turn out to be, Someone to Watch Over Me...."
"That was one of my late husband’s favourite songs," Dorothy said into the sudden lull in conversation. Lorne stopped singing, green hands stilling on the keys.
I felt my stomach twist, heard the scream of a daemon in my memory. Wes stiffened beside me, though, and I realised I had to stop obsessing about it. I stepped closer to him in what I hoped was reassurance.
"Yeah, well, stands to reason – Watcher, eh? Far too many Watchers in this room," Spike said casually, trying to be helpful.
"I can imagine you’d think so," Dorothy said. Her eyes scanned him, and then Angel. "I did my time in the Council as well; you might not know that. I still retain much of the knowledge I gained therein, as it happens. About the careers of famous vampires and what not."
Angel and Spike sent each other significant looks, and Spike took a cat-like step back.
And at that moment the dinner gong sounded. "Oh God, this has to get better" was all I could think.
All right, sometimes I’m a fool.
Dorothy extended her hand to Spike, who somewhat reluctantly helped her up. "Let me see. Who shall escort whom into the dining room...."
"I don’t think we need to be quite that, um, ‘formal,’" Lilah said acidly.
"Good manners are not formality, my dear girl." Dorothy didn’t even bother to look at her. "William, if you’ll take in my son’s girlfriend? Giles, you may take in Miss Summers; Wesley, you take Mrs. Giles. Er, Connor, if you’ll escort Miss Dawn. Lorne, I’m afraid that we don’t have even numbers –"
"Not to worry, Dorothy, I’m fine as I am," he said.
And then every head turned to Angel, whose impassive countenance didn’t actually register the horror I could sense. "May I?" he said, extending his arm.
"Yes, thank you, Angelus," she said.
Buffy leapt across the room to me. "Does that mean we’re sitting together, Giles?"
"It might," I said. I put her hand on my arm, patted it gently.
"I’m finding this just a little more bizarre than, oh, fighting an evil Mayor," she confided in a whisper, as we all went into the corridor. "I’m afraid I’m going to make a mistake."
"Any mistakes will have significantly less consequence here than if you were fighting an evil Mayor," I said. "You’ll do fine. Just remember to work from the outside in."
Ahead of us and arm in arm, Spike and Lilah burst into slightly ominous laughter. In front of them, Wes guided Anya with the utmost gentleness. Dawn and Connor, on the other hand, apparently didn’t take to each other; they practically scraped opposite sides of the hallway as they walked. Still, so far, so good --
When we made the turn into the dining room, I almost fell back a step. The focal point of the crimson-and-gold room was an enormous portrait of John Wyndam-Pryce, cold painted eyes staring down at the table. I had to beat down a flash of rage, a memory:"I wanted my name to live on."
Evil bastard was still all too present.
The long table gleamed, candle-flames reflecting off dishes and crystal. From behind me, Dorothy said, "Please find your places."
Buffy pulled me forward. "Hey, we are sitting together,"she said, and pointed to two seats on one side of the table. I was next to the foot – next to Dorothy. Oh, lovely.
Spike escorted Lilah to the other side of the table. "You are the guest of honour. Next to the head of the household, but more importantly, next to me," he said, bowing.
Wesley pulled out the chair opposite Lilah’s, on our side: "This is for you, Anya." She smiled at him, and managed to sit with only a slight bit of help. I repressed a frown; I’d always hated the practice of separating husbands and wives at dinner. However, I could trust Wes to take care of her.
Lorne sauntered forward and found his seat next to Buffy.
Angel gazed down at his place opposite me, dear God, and then at the empty seat next to him. "I’m sorry, but I’d like my son to be sitting beside me," he said to Dorothy.
"Yes, I want to be next to Dad," Connor said. "Dawn won’t mind if we change."
"I sure won’t," she said, glaring impartially at Angel and Connor, and then came around to sit between Anya and Lorne.
Dorothy glowered equally impartially at all of us before Angel helped her into her chair. "I suppose this will do, although I don’t know what John would have said." She gazed up at the portrait, which loomed just over Wesley’s head.
"Is that bastard’s name ever off your mother’s lips?" Lilah asked him, not bothering to lower her voice. His hand went out reflexively to his wine glass, which a servant had just filled.
As I shook out my napkin, I prayed to all benevolent gods even remotely concerned with our dimension that this not be the disaster I was anticipating. Apparently I missed out the right god.
First, the soup course dragged on forever. I was trapped talking to Dorothy, who quizzed me in detail about Watcher policies and practices. What did the Slayer-in-training programme look like, now that a woman was in charge? What did I do as Head of Operations? What did I think about this modern practice of paying Slayers, making a sacred calling into a mere job? Her standard comment after any of my answers was "Oh, yes, we did things differently in my husband’s day." And then her eyes would raise to the sodding portrait.
Lorne kept Buffy and Dawn in gales of laughter, for which I was thankful. In the occasional lull in the jollity, however, Buffy would look across the table, where Angel and Connor were exchanging monosyllables. With each glance, her shoulders would sag a little more. Whenever Spike turned to look at her and saw her drooping, a furrow would etch itself deeper on his brow.
Old scars, I was very much afraid.
The other end of the table seemed to be having a merry old time, however. Anya and Lilah were deep in conversation about the difficulties of building an adequate portfolio in uncertain economic climes, as best I could tell, and Wesley merely sat and smiled on both of them.
When our main course was presented, I was able to fix Angel (that pillock) with a glare to remind him of his manners. A light went on in his thick head; he turned to Dorothy and said, "So I hear that you ride?"
"Why, yes," she said. "Do you?"
"I enjoyed it once, but no. Not for a while."
She made a polite noise. "I should imagine it would be difficult to find places to ride at night. And horses to bear you, perhaps?"
The look they exchanged was enough to chill my blood, but it wasn’t my problem. At last I was free to speak to Buffy, who was pushing a piece of duck around the plate with her fork. "Doesn’t it tempt you? It’s very good," I said, taking a bite of my own.
"I’m not very hungry."
At the other end of the table, I could hear Lilah saying something about the fattiness of the duck and the inedible quality of the veg. Wes signalled for a refill of his wine.
Spike turned to Connor. "So, you still reading Dickens?"
The boy gave him a wary smile. "Wesley told you that he’d given me a set? Yes, I like the books. Do you?"
"Bloody well do, Boy Wonder," Spike said. "Very fond of Great Expectations."
"I haven’t read that one," Connor said. Apparently he hadn’t registered the nickname Spike had given him. "What’s it about?"
When Spike grinned and started to give a potted – extremely potted – sketch of the novel, Buffy sighed. "He treats this as if it’s normal," she said, scarcely loud enough for me to hear.
"Who, Spike? What? The, er, complicated family structure?" I guessed.
"Yeah. That’s one extremely British way to describe it." And then she looked at me. Those green eyes had gone dark, cold. "So how’s it going for you, Giles? The family thing, I mean. Excited to be a daddy for the first time?"
Her phrasing put me at a loss. The dinner party from hell didn’t seem like the ideal time to remind Buffy how important to me, how very like a daughter, she was; not that she wasn’t likely to respond with a list of my mistakes ending with my desertion, anyway. Her "yay, Giles" attitude apparently had disappeared with the soup course.
I simply said, "Anya and I can’t wait for the Lad to arrive." And I took another bite of duck. Couldn’t taste it any more.
"‘The Lad,’ huh? You guys can’t decide on a name? Spike said it was kind of an issue."
"We’ve been discussing it with some energy for weeks." I stole a glance down the table at my wife, who was glowing at Dawn. I couldn’t help my own smile at the sight.
"So you and Anya are really together. Married. Mr. and Mrs. Giles."
"Of course. You know we are, have been forever." I was baffled. "What’s this about, Buffy?"
"Nothing," she said, the wall going up and ‘No Trespassing’ signs slapping on top. She dumped a spoonful of uneaten vegetables on top of her duck. Then, brightly: "Did Spike tell you about the latest crop of demons we found in the warehouse district?"
"No," I said. "You tell me." And I reached for my wine, while she began a long story about Yertik demons and the slicing and dicing thereof. At least we always could talk about work.
Tales of slaying took us to dessert. As the servants carted away the remainder of the main course, I finally could pay attention to the far end of the table. Left alone by Spike, who was still talking books with Connor, Lilah stared moodily into her wine glass. Wesley was in the midst of a pleasant conversation with my wife, saying, "It’s close, yes, but I don’t think that it’s quite the same thing."
"No, you’re probably right, Wes," Anya said. "I just thought that if you have it, you should use it."
Lilah swallowed down what appeared to be half of the glass’s contents. A distinct alcohol-flush had crept up her cheeks. She gazed down the table at Dorothy, who was intoning something about tradition and manners to Angel, and then back at Wes.
And she said rather loudly, "Well, my firm certainly believes in using what one finds."
Wesley’s eyes locked on hers; he held her stare even as a servant placed a serving of chocolate mousse in front of him. "I don’t think this is the time or place, Lilah."
"Oh, you don’t?" she said. "Why? There are so many instruments of infinite use at this table."
Angel put a hand on Connor’s sleeve, instantly protective. I could feel Buffy tense beside me, and Spike took a rather long swallow of his own wine. Lilah smiled, teeth flashing, at all of us. "Souled vampires, Destroyers, Slayers, mages – my goodness, the power here’s overwhelming, isn’t it? Maybe what we need is something to lock all of this up. Something like –" and she turned that ferocious smile on Dawn – "a Key."
Dawn squeaked, and Lorne interjected, "Nothing’s going to be locked up, love-light. Our Lilah was just speaking metaphorically, wasn’t she?"
"I’m all about the metaphor," she said agreeably. Wesley sat back in his chair, his fingers going to his fork and turning it over and over. The servants, who’d stepped back from the table at the incipient storm, returned to give each of us our plates.
Dorothy cleared her throat, taking back control of the conversation. She looked around the table. "This dessert is a tradition at Trefonen Manor, as it was always the choice of my husband at every happy family gathering. With that in mind, I hope you all enjoy it."
"Indeed. To happy families," Wesley said, raising his glass, before downing the rest of his wine.
I pushed away the chocolate. Couldn’t eat anything else, not with the echoes of John Wyndam-Pryce’s howls of laughter in my head.