Chapter Eight

 

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

Late afternoon, and I felt as if a dozen little Mretoz demons were drilling to their own little dimension behind my eyes, each drill-bit a knife, each path curving to hit every possible nerve ending. Or, to put it less dramatically, I had a sodding headache.

The fact that I was trapped in John Wyndam-Pryce’s study might have had something to do with it.

According to Dorothy, the only room in the manor with Internet access was the office of the deceased man of the house. When Anya and I had asked her for other alternatives, she’d gone cold – "if you must work, that is the proper place." The relish on the word "proper" had made me think that she wanted to stick the knife in. Couldn’t quite figure out why.

The moment Anya and I had entered the study, we’d felt the presence of the daemon. Wasn’t the heavy velvet drapes or the leather couch, or the inhumanly tidy desk, or the walls of arcane texts and references: these unnervingly looked just like our study in Primrose Hill (well, except without my guitars, acoustic and electric. And my stonking amp).

No, the haunt of our mutual nightmares lingered unbodied, hissing evil in the corners. My wife had caught my hand in hers, whispering, "This is completely unacceptable."

As soon as Dorothy left, we had begun to cleanse. Resourceful as always, Anya had brought sage with her in her briefcase; a couple of circles with that, and the miasma lifted a bit. I did a touch of fire-magic to light up the dark corners, then we set the rest of the sage to burning in a tray we’d scavenged. Just for myself, I turned the gallery of pictures ( John with dogs, with the late Travers, with a tight-lipped Dorothy throughout the decades, but never with Wes) to face the wall.

Wasn’t nearly enough, though. And, as I said, my head hurt.

Still had to carry on, of course: work called. I sat at the desk, staring at my e-mail, while Anya reclined on the couch. She was on her mobile, arguing. "No, Perry, if we’re going to launch the line properly, you have to tell them that the site has to go live by June first to catch the fly-by summer-solstice trade..."

Right, my wife was expanding our shop into online sales -- just before she was due to give birth. Insanity. However, I knew better than to question her decision, and after all, if anyone could pull it off Anya would be the one.

Besides, I had problems of my own, flashing at me from the screen. The e-mail from Willow, saying that she and Xander had encountered no patrol difficulties so far, was the only bright spot. Several messages from the Council operatives in Germany told me that Quarls had been fleeing in numbers far greater than had ever been seen before, far greater than the actual population count. And then there was the cryptic e-mail from Syal, one of our Local people in London. Two people had gone missing from Gravesend; all signs pointed to – "Quarls," I muttered.

"Perry, wait. Rupert, did you say ‘Fyarls’?"

"No. Quarls. Seen east of London." She considered that, then went back to negotiating with Perry. I went to my next message. George – who’d sent it an hour earlier, just before he must have left for the long drive to Shropshire – wondered if I wanted to pencil in a Quarl-hunt for Monday night. He reminded me, with a deferential cough I could read through the computer, that someone would need to cast a spell to protect the searchers’ hearing, and since I’d done it before... "Damn it."

As I reached for my planner, Anya clicked off her phone and turned to me. "I’ve heard that tone before. I don’t like that tone."

"I don’t like using it." Once my book flipped open, I confirmed what I’d dreaded. Monday night was a birthing class – already a point of some contention, since Buffy, Spike and Dawn would be staying with us in the coming week and I felt guilty about leaving them to their own devices. Put a work commitment on top of that, and all I could repeat was "Damn it."

"Go ahead, tell me," she said. After I did, she just stared at me. Hard. "So what is your solution to this scheduling mess, Rupert?"

"I don’t have one." God, I felt like hell. I took off my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose. Did sod all to ease the pain.

Anya pushed herself to her feet before I could get over to help her. "That’s a headache pinch. It looks different from the ‘I’m annoyed enough to burn this place down, I must repress’ one. I’ve got some ibuprofen in my bag; I’ll go get it."

"But darling, I can –"

"Don’t argue with me, I’m getting it. In the meantime, you figure out how you’re going to learn what you need for the birth, amuse our house-guests, and risk yourself all in the same evening."

"I’m not going to risk –"

"Of course Spike and Buffy would probably like to go and keep you safe at the same time. And let me just say right now that if you’re going to be facing magic-using demon types, I’ll be going along as a healer."

"You will not –"

"I said, don’t argue. Use that enormous brain of yours." She had made it to the doorway by then, and she smiled. "You don’t want to make me angry, do you?"

"Not until I’m fighting fit, certainly." I fell back into the desk chair when she disappeared through the still-open door. Somehow, as if mixed far down in the ambient-noise track, I could hear hisses and screams, cold winter howls. However, I ignored them, and looked back at my laptop.

From the corridor outside, there came the razor-voice of the head of Wolfram and Hart, Los Angeles. "You will *not* arrange the flowers that way! It looks ridiculous. I’ve given my own orders, and I expect them to be in place when I get back."

There was a mumble, perhaps from a temporary minion, and then Anya said, "Lilah, calm down. Do you want me to help you?"

"No. I want you to tell me how best to wreak vengeance on this moron." She sounded dead serious.

"Surely you don’t want to call in professionals for this small job," my wife said --

Oh God. I tuned out the frightening female bonding and turned my attention to my scheduling hell. The birthing class was at seven – perhaps we could do the Quarl-hunt early in the afternoon, I could take Buffy as a Slaying treat if she was missing it – but then Spike would be left out and there would be whinging. That didn’t even begin to consider Dawn’s whereabouts, either. Sighing, I started to jot down possible solutions.

"Giles. Working away even on a holiday, I see." The aforementioned angry Wolfram and Hart executive stood in the doorway. The smirk on her face was worthy of Spike at his most Big Bad.

I got to my feet as was only polite, resolutely setting aside all visual memories of her and Wesley’s, er, embarrassing behaviour. "Hello, Lilah. What can I do for you?"

"Already done," she said somewhat cryptically. She strolled into the room. Her eyes went to the furnishings, the books, the small touches which hinted of the previous occupant. One hand went to the first picture I’d turned to the wall, and she flipped it over for inspection.

I fancied I could hear the screams intensify, so I closed my eyes and shook them off. When I opened them again, Lilah was staring at me. Even before meeting her I’d characterised her as "beautiful and ferocious," and two days of acquaintance had not altered my opinion. Seeing that I was focussed on her, she smiled, tapped a sharp manicured nail on the glass of the photo frame. "He was a son of a bitch, wasn’t he. John Wyndam-Pryce."

I leaned back against the desk, arms folded. "Yes. Yes, he was."

She turned the photo back around to face the wall, absently straightening it before she turned back to face me. Odd, she seemed slightly less aggressive than when she’d walked in. And then she said, "Of course, I thought you were a son of a bitch for a while."

"Did you now?"

"Oh, yes. The way you seemed to know instinctively when Wes and I had found a hint of peace, and then, the goddamn phone would ring. Say hello to Rupert Giles, with news guaranteed to destroy all calm. Always about Wesley’s son of a bitch of a father, too. Almost broke him more than once."

Her words reached right in and tore at the thin covering over my guilt. Felt that familiar gut-punch. I knew I’d hurt Wes, knew I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t – "I’m sorry. Sorrier than you know."

"But that’s the thing, Giles." She moved forward to face me. And the rather incredible woman smiled. "You’re sorry, but you shouldn’t be. Because you killed the bastard."

"Keep your voice down, please."

She glanced back at the open doorway, then shrugged. "Okay, I understand that you’re not exactly ready to shout it to the rooftops. I get that you upright hero types don’t want the old bag to know exactly who she was married to. But Wesley told me what you did." She paused. "I knew all this before. It’s just now that he’s shown me where that abusive bastard locked him up – well, you understand."

There was pain in those eyes, and I instinctively reached out my hand, grasping her shoulder in support. "Yes, I understand."

"Had Wes told you before?" A note of jealousy seemed to strike under the surface of the smooth question.

"Not as such. I’d had a vague idea. But John told me, er, during. The, um, battle."

She raised her eyebrows at that. "That why you killed him?"

"I wish you’d stop saying that. With Anya’s help, I extracted the daemonic evil spirit which he had called up – and I did it because he was threatening to unloose evil on the world, because he was trying to murder my wife and me. And yes, because he’d hurt Wesley so very badly."

"And the ‘extraction’ killed the bastard."

"Yes."

She smiled, a rather unnerving triumph replacing the pain. Then she reached up and kissed my cheek. "Thank you, Giles. Now I won’t have to do it."

"Lilah, you can count on me to take care of threats to Wesley." Her smile widened, and I added, "No matter from where, or whom, they come."

She would have pulled away, but my hand was still on her shoulder. "Oh, my. You wouldn’t be threatening *me*, would you?"

"No, my dear. Informing you." I mirrored her action of a moment ago, leaning forward and brushing my lips against her cheek. She tensed a little, just as she had when I’d greeted her at the door, and I let go of her. "Now Wes tells me that you didn’t want to hear this the first time I said it, so I’ll say it again. Welcome to the circle, Lilah."

She took a breath, a step back: more shaken by the welcome than the threat, although I wasn’t quite sure why. I could see her gather up her armour, snap it into place. "You’re really getting into the paternal thing, aren’t you, Giles?"

‘The paternal thing’: God, I’d hated it, denied it for so long. Despite headaches and regular guilt attacks, it felt rather freeing to be able to say, "Yes. Yes, I am."

"I expect you’ll be better than Wesley’s original father. Couldn’t be worse," she said dryly, and then spun on her heel. She was to the door almost before I could process it. With a wave of her hand, she’d disappeared through the opening – and a few heartbeats later, I could hear her berating one of the temporary workers passing down the hall.

Now that the moment with Lilah had passed, my concentration eased. With it, every nerve-ending behind my eyes began to throb. Hurt like hell. I sank back into the desk chair, dug the palms of my hands into my eyes – which didn’t help one sodding bit.

"Hey, Giles, have you seen Sp-- what’s wrong?" It was Buffy.

I opened my eyes. Frowning, she stood in the doorway. "Hello, Buffy. Come in. Nothing’s wrong, really."

She smiled, edged in, but stayed well away from me. Pattern of our interaction for the past year, of course: the warm greeting, then the bad memories. "I was looking for Spike. We’d been – well, I was just looking for him."

"Haven’t seen him for a while. Actually, could you spare a moment? I have a small, er, dilemma, I’d like your thoughts."

"Thinking isn’t my number-one trait on the Slayer Strength list, but sure." She perched on the arm of the sofa, looking as uncomfortable as I felt.

"Don’t put yourself down," I said automatically. Picking up the planner, I moved to her side of the desk. "Right. I’ve just learned that I have a demon-hunting task on Monday, probably Monday night, and Anya and I also have a birthing class that evening. What would you, Spike, and Dawn like to do during those appointments? If you’d like, I can arrange –"

And I stopped. Dear Lord, the look in her eyes – it was as if I’d slapped her. Yet with that false brightness I so loathed, she said, "Oh, don’t worry about us! We can handle being left alone."

"It’s not about leaving you alone, Buffy." She crossed her arms, but kept smiling. Guard was up, virtual stake in hand. I didn’t quite know how to explain again, how to make her see: "I’ve got to go to the birthing class with Anya at seven, but I can organise the patrol a couple of different ways, even take you with me if you’d like to go. Fighting these demons requires a spell cast, or I wouldn’t have to work during your visit."

"Well, it’d be nice to see you all good-magic guy. Spike says you’re very impressive, what with the ability to blow up forests and stuff." She hesitated. "On the other hand, I’d kinda like a jolly holiday from Slaying, but ... oh, I don’t know. Do you need to know now?"

"Soon. I need to prepare the patrol, although if it’s just me and George we can take our time in deciding. Yes, er, let’s just do that, decide later." My head was pounding again. After I penciled in a note, I set the planner aside. "But I’ll want you to figure out how you want to spend Monday night, in case you don’t want to come. I can arrange –"

"You don’t have to arrange anything, Giles. I’m used to having you leave."

"Would you give that a damn rest?" Anya stood at the door, with one clenched fist and a bottle of water. She seemed to grow taller, stronger, when she snapped out the question. Moving with relative speed, she came to me. "Here. Take these," she said, dropping two pills into my hand and giving me the water. Then she turned to Buffy. "What’s your problem?"

"Don’t have one." There spoke the Slayer, eyes narrowed and mouth compressed.

I was half-afraid that Buffy would punch Anya – well, not really, but I wasn’t thinking. Couldn’t think. I moved in between the two of them, then downed the pills. I needed more than that.

"Rupert, did you make a decision about how we’ll manage the scheduling?"

"Not exactly. You and I will do our class, but –"

Buffy interrupted. "Here, I’ll make it easy. If it’s going to inconvenience you two, just forget about us, ‘kay?"

"I can’t do that. You know I can’t," I said.

"Did a convincing job of it before, didn’t you?" Buffy swallowed hard on the words, and then said, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it."

"Oh yes, you did." And shoving aside a file or two from Anya’s work, I sat down rather heavily on the couch, on the other side from Buffy. Laid my head against the back and closed my eyes.

A rustle of fabric, and then I could feel Anya awkwardly sit on the arm of the sofa next to me. She put her hand on my temple and massaged. It was just right; I could feel some of the pain ebb with every circle of her fingers.

Balanced on the other armrest, Buffy grew still. We sat like that for a moment before Anya said, "Rupert, you know that she’s not going to forget. And really, it makes all kinds of sense. Her biological dad ran off to where-the-hell-ever with some young thing, leaving her and Dawn to fend for themselves. Of course you came back when it mattered, and now you call all the time, blah blah. But hey, you left again. With me."

"I know." Her fingers weren’t as soothing as they had been. I opened my eyes to see her smiling down at me.

Then she turned to Buffy, who’d been staring at us both. "And as for you? Grow the hell up."

"What the –" Buffy began.

"No, seriously, Buffy. Okay, he’s not at your beck and call any more, sitting around in the library or his apartment or the Magic Box for your Slayerly convenience and ten minutes of your time. It doesn’t mean that he’s not there for you or that he doesn’t love you. He’s not a slot machine where you either hit or you don’t, for Pete’s sake."

Buffy just looked at her.

From just down the hall came once again the razor-voice of the head of Wolfram and Hart. "No. You’re *not* thinking of using that as my arrangement. Not if you value your life."

Anya sighed. "Sounds like Lilah needs an intervention. Back in a bit."

The groan when she got up worried me, and I caught at her hand. "Are you all right, dear? Do you need to rest? I’m sure Lilah can manage alone."

"‘Manage,’ sure. Without bloodshed? I doubt it."

I touched a finger to her pulse, sent a spark racing up and received a bright smile in return, before I said, "All right then. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming to fetch you."

"I’ll be back. But have some spells ready just in case." Ignoring Buffy, she left the room. As soon as she made it to the hall, she said loudly, "Hang on, Lilah, I’m coming!" There followed a murmur of voices, moving away.

Buffy slid down from the armrest onto the couch. Still miles away from me, of course. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared straight ahead at nothing. "You didn’t stop Anya from saying any of that."

"No. I don’t stop Anya from saying anything."

"Huh. So that must mean that you agree with her. Think I should ‘grow the hell up.’" The mimicry was tinged with bitterness.

"I didn’t say that. But she’s quite right that I don’t have a place in Sunnydale any more. You don’t need me as a Watcher, Buffy."

"So you get to just choose that? You can just choose when to go, without asking me?" She looked at me for that shot. The words sounded weighted – as if she were saying them not just to me, but to all the other men who had chosen for her.

"I have other responsibilities, other duties. You understand how that is; it isn’t a choice at all. The Slayer has to understand that." Her shoulders eased a bit, and she nodded. I leaned forward, ignoring the stabbing pain in my head, and touched her arm. This was so important, and I couldn’t muck it up: "Buffy, I’m not your Watcher any more. You’re no longer my duty." I didn’t let her tense away this time, so she was looking at me when I said, "You’re my very great joy. I love you very much, you know."

Suddenly there was a lunge which pinned me against the couch, and I had an armful of sobbing Buffy. Now my ribs hurt as much as my head – but I wouldn’t say anything. Not when she was back. "Love you too, Giles," she sniffled into my jumper.

We sat like that for a minute, and then she pulled away, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief I gave her. "Well, that was long overdue. The crying and the hug, I mean. But, really, you do think I should grow up, don’t you?"

"Oh, I think you have." I smiled at her.

"No, I haven’t. But I’ll do better." She shook back her hair and smiled. Such a sweet smile, one I’d missed. "And to begin the Better-Buffy-Now Campaign, I’ll admit that really I’d like to go with you on your demon-hunt Monday. That is, if you can find something to do with Dawn and Spike."

"I’ll find something indeed. In fact, Spike can come along. And, er, speaking of – weren’t you looking for him when you came in?"

She leapt off the couch. "Eek. Completely forgetting the boyfriend in all the drama! Please don’t tell him, he’d be all pouty."

"I know how sensitive he is, yes. He shan’t hear it from me." And then I hesitated. "I’ve already given him the speech, and it’s only right, er, as turn about is fair play ... you’ll take care with him, Buffy?"

"Oh, Giles." She smiled again. "I can trust him now."

"No, that’s not exactly what I meant."

I could see the recognition pass across her face; after a momentary tightening of the lips, she laughed. "You mean that *I* should remember how sensitive he is."

"Well. Yes."

Her laugh this time was high and delighted. "Oh my God, he’s been taken under your wing! Oh, this is funnier than the funny of all time! Titanically funny!"

"Yes, hilarious. But all the same –"

"I get it, Giles. And you’ve given me a grin that will last all day. William the Bloody, being protected by Watcher Supreme Rupert Giles." True to her words, a smile bright enough to provide illumination for Shropshire and points west flashed across her face. "I can’t wait to tell him!"

"Now, Buffy...." But she was gone. A bit of light lingered after she passed.

I stretched cautiously; I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to have heard ribs crack when I moved. No, everything seemed to be intact. I rather wanted to lie down, put a pillow over my head, wait for Anya – but I knew I probably should send an e-mail to my new secretary Tracey, telling her that George and I would be out of the office on Monday afternoon. After only a moment to hold my splitting head, I stood.

And then from the open doorway came a pillock-voice. "Oh. Hi, Giles."

"Jesus. How did Wyndam-Pryce ever find time to plot evil transformations and world domination, as many bloody interruptions as he must have had in this room?" I muttered to myself.

It must have been loud enough for vampire hearing, because Angel half-smiled. "Um, well. That was what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Transformations or world domination?" I pinched the bridge of my nose again, with the same futile result as before. "What can I do for you, Angel?"

"Nothing." He didn’t come in, just lurked in the corridor shadows, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he surveyed the study. "This is a dark room, isn’t it?"

I took a deep breath. The sage had cleared the air somewhat, but the presence had not completely burned away. "Yes, it is."

"But you’re trying to make it better. Trying to clean it up." When I nodded, he said, "Like when you killed the daemon."

"Oh dear God. Why don’t you people just take out a bloody ad?" There was that familiar Angel blankness, gazing at me. I sighed, and said more calmly, "Right. I was trying to make it better."

"For Wes."

I spared a moment to grumble to myself. Had Wes been confessing everything to everybody all sodding day? Shrugging it off, however, I said, "Not just for him. But yes, for Wesley."

"Well, then. Thanks."

I stared at him. Pillock stood there, having the effrontery to thank me, after – I could feel a quick blaze of anger leap, overwhelming my headache for the moment. "Who the hell are you to thank me, Angel? You’ve tried to kill him at least once, hurt him yet again. And it wasn’t Angelus, it was you. What gives you the right to say anything vaguely protective of the man you’ve attacked so often?"

He took a step further back into the hall, but his voice was mild. "I thought Wesley had taken Connor, and then the second time, was going to harm him. I’d do anything to protect my son."

"Yes. I recognise the feeling. It’s the only reason you’re not dust right now." When he nodded, I said, "Do you understand me?" The half-smile returned; yes, he understood. I added, "Not that you need to worry much about me. Lilah is the first line of defense, after all."

"Oh, I can handle her." His tone was confident. And then his smile grew. "You, I’m not so sure about."

"What aren’t you so sure about?" Anya’s voice sounded down the corridor.

He said, "Nothing. See you both at dinner," then did one of his patented disappearing moves. Tosser thought he was bloody Dracula or something.

Anya came into the room. "Boy, Angel is weird."

"That’s one word for him." I clasped her hand, drew her in to me. She turned in my arms, so that I could rest my aching head on hers. Felt like balm. "Did you take care of Lilah’s little problem?"

"I kept her from slaughtering the hired help. Does that count?"

"You’re a queen among women." I took a deep breath of her, the citrus tartness mixed with warmth and honey. Leaning back against the desk, I settled us both more comfortably. And I just held her, my hands warm against her belly.

It was heavenly, silent peace. For a minute, at any rate, until there was the pounding of footsteps outside, heralding the irruption of Spike and Buffy. Spike was yelping, "Hey, Rupes! Can I borrow a tie? Buffy wrecked the only one I brought –"

"Well, I told you to bring more than one. Why didn’t you let me pack for you?" she said hotly. And then they both stopped in their tracks. "Um. Is this a bad time?"

"Right then, tell me that you’ve got an extra tie to lend, and we’ll leave you alone. I can fetch it myself," Spike continued.

More footsteps. "What’s going on here?" It was Wesley, still dressed for the outdoors. "Any problems?"

"No, we’re good," Buffy said.

"As long as I get a tie. You got one, Wes, if the old man doesn’t come through?" Spike said.

"Oh dear, Spike, what happened to your tie?" Wes said --

And my beloved shouted, piercingly, "Would you three be quiet? Your father has a headache!"

Three pairs of eyes went wide. Spike and Buffy whispered in unison, "Whoa."

Wes said, very softly, "Oh. We’re sorry. Come on, you two." He pulled them back into the hallway.

As the door shut behind them, I could hear Buffy say, "Wes, don’t tell me what to do," and Spike heave a melodramatic sigh. But then it was just Anya and I, together.

She entwined her fingers with mine, laid our joined hands over the Lad. "Are you angry that I said you were their father?"

"No. ‘s fine, absolutely fine." I closed my eyes again. And then I said, "Of course, should you ever call me ‘Daddy,’ even in jest, the sky will rain fire."

"Okay, Rupert. Got it." She snuggled her head back against my shoulder.

Ribs still hurt. Head still hurt. Faintly, but still audible, the daemon hisses and screams continued.

I felt incredibly good, considering.

 

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