Mirror in the Bathroom
DISCLAIMER: The title belongs to a song by the [English] Beat, referenced within the fic. Also quoted is the 1997 George Armitage film Grosse Pointe Blank, starring John Cusack.
THANKS: To Lesley, for a last-minute beta.
NOTES: Set in summer 2002; an evening with Giles in Bath as he takes care of Willow. A character piece.
Giles wouldn’t, couldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Right?
The litany repeated in his head, as he drove through the summer twilight. He didn’t voice it, of course. He wasn’t the priority here; there was someone else to worry about.
Willow was silent, curled up in the passenger seat, her fingers folded together. Those hands had done so much damage. Even today: when Regan the healer’s intercession had brought the dark magicks welling up from a still poisoned spring, Willow had stabbed those hands at the other witch. "Pain I give you–" she had begun.
And without thought he had stepped in front of the dark blast she’d flung, deflecting it with his palm so that it fell harmlessly into the next field.
Sobbing, "Oh God, I’m so sorry," Willow had crumpled into green grass. And Giles had stared at his hand as if it belonged to another. It tingled, a wave of sensation cresting throughout his body.
As Regan went to tend the fallen one, she’d said quietly in passing, "How did you do that? I lent you no power."
Giles wouldn’t, couldn’t have done that.
A breath, close to a cry, from Willow broke into his circling thoughts. When he glanced over, she sheepishly wiped away tears with the edges of her hands. "Sorry, Giles. Just couldn’t help, um, crying. I’m so–"
"‘s fine, Willow." Which was a lie, but a justified one, he thought. He realized that they were only a few streets from his home – time to look for a parking place. And like magic, there one was.
He pulled the Range Rover forward –a perfectly serviceable vehicle, and why did he suddenly hear a mocking North London echo? The wheel spun under his fingers as he maneuvered. Back, forward, around. Always back around.
"Are you hungry, Giles?"
He wasn’t, actually. Yet it was clear that she needed sustenance, and he couldn’t remember what he had in the flat. Not as much as she required, he guessed. "Well. Shall we stop at the curry house, then? Get a take-away?"
"Okay." She took a deep breath, then opened her door. As she moved, he heard her say, "So, you want to watch a video or something tonight?"
"Sounds lovely." Which was another lie.
Stopping in at the restaurant, they picked up their usuals: her vegetable korma, his chicken vindaloo (extra hot). The first time they’d done this – right after he’d brought her to England, away from the scene of her crimes and her loss of self – she’d laughed as he ordered. "Who’d have figured you like spicy stuff, Giles? You’re all Tweed and Tea Guy."
Yes, 'Giles' was that way, he thought. For over a decade, and certainly during those first years in Sunnydale, he’d played the epitome of a Watcher: never hide behind two layers when three would do; choke oneself with one’s tie; choke oneself with others’ rules. No wonder that Buffy and Willow and Xander had failed to notice that he hadn’t worn that suit for years.
He shepherded Willow into the video shop next door to the curry place. Of course he actually didn’t care what they watched. He wandered idly through the harshly lit aisles, take-away bag in one hand, the scent of chilies and pepper in his nose. Perhaps he was hungry after all.
On his third circuit of the shop he found Willow clutching a video case. "What’s that?"
"Grosse Pointe Blank. A movie with John Cusack." She lifted drowned eyes to his. "And I just remembered. In high school once, Buffy and I were playing Elsewhere to Be? And I wanted to be in Italy with John Cusack. Eating ziti."
"Is this film set in Italy?" he asked.
He hardly could hear her mirthless chuckle. "No. No, Giles. It’s about a hit-man who gives up his life of crime for his great love."
They looked at each other, and he took the box. "I wouldn’t mind seeing it," he said. She swallowed hard, then smiled.
The streets on their way back to the flat were quiet. He could hear their footsteps ringing the pavement, echoing up the street and returning back. He rather enjoyed the rhythm of the steps, and he pressed down harder. The echo ran louder. He smiled –until he saw Willow looking at him strangely.
So he walked like 'Giles' again. Didn’t want to disturb her recovery, tenuous as it was.
His flat was even quieter than the streets. Willow got out plates; he fetched her one of her endless bottles of water, then pulled out a beer for himself. Couldn’t have Indian food without a lager or two, he thought. And they settled themselves and their supper in front of the telly.
The vindaloo was perfect: it seared his tongue in just the right way, sent waves of pleasure-pain through his system. And he was surprised to find that the film wasn’t bad either. Soundtrack was excellent –there was nothing wrong with wall-to-wall Clash and the Specials and a taste of the Jam, he thought. Whenever he heard that music, he remembered another time, another self.
Willow seemed happy enough. She’d finished her korma and taken the plate into the kitchen, then snuggled back under a woollen throw. She leant forward a bit, though, as Cusack’s character took the advice given by his therapist. It was all bollocks, of course, but Giles could swear that she repeated along under her breath, "‘I am at home with the me. I am rooted in the me who is having this adventure.’"
God, he was so bloody glad to be out of California. He took a deep, deep pull at his lager in celebration. As the golden-brown goodness slipped down his throat, he could hear Cusack repeat words the character had been told earlier: "‘You’re a handsome devil. What’s your name?’"
And suddenly Willow teared up again. Silently he gave her his handkerchief. It was the third one he’d lost this week. Better than when she’d first arrived, weeping constantly as she understood what she had done. What had been taken from her, what she had taken from others.
Maybe the film wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
She calmed, though, as the movie continued. He fetched another beer for himself, coming back just as the soundtrack started one of his favourite songs – 'Mirror in the Bathroom', by the Beat. He sat down fast so he could restrain his instinctive desire to dance, to slam.
What a stonking night that had been. Sometime in 1980, in Birmingham? Yes. He’d been on some course – Permutations of the Wish Hounds and Modern Manifestations, he rather thought – but at nightfall had fled the sherry and gamesmanship of the other junior Watchers. This band had been playing at a nearby club, so he’d escaped into noise, colour, smoke, alcohol. Dave and Ranking Roger had been on top form that night, he recalled. And he’d been, too. Quite early, as the band crashed into this song, he’d found a sweet bird named Tracey. The two of them had danced for hours, bodies slamming close.
Then she’d taken him home, and they’d danced closer. He took another drink and smiled. He’d barely gotten in before daybreak, with her whispered "Cheers, Ripper" still echoing in his hung-over brain. Couldn’t remember a sodding thing about the rest of the day, naturally enough.
"Stonking," he murmured, then caught Willow’s gaze. "Oh. Sorry. Good fight scene."
"Whatever, Giles," she said sweetly, and drank from her own bottle.
He didn’t pay too much attention to the rest of the film: guns, love, redemption, the usual. Willow seemed to enjoy it, however, regaining a shadow of the smile she’d once constantly beamed. A successful evening, he reckoned. They needed it before they returned to her troubles tomorrow.
The flat seemed overly quiet when he clicked off the television and video. She stretched a bit, then said, "I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Dad."
"Don’t call me that," he said, and she grinned. She thought it was their little game; she’d begun the name the first time he’d brought her soup and tea, during one of her nightmares. He’d never told her how it replayed his memory of her nasty "Oh look, Daddy’s home," how it still filled him with rage as well as concern.
He loathed it when any of them called him that, to be honest. He sodding well wasn’t anyone’s father.
Yet he smiled back at her, merely saying, "Good sleep, Willow. See you at breakfast."
She padded down the hall to the guest room, and he sat alone for a moment. Blessedly quiet. Then he glanced at his watch – damn, he was almost late.
After tossing the last dish into the sink, he carried his beer into his bedroom. He pushed off his boots before crawling onto the bed. He wanted to be comfortable. And then he picked up the phone and pressed the first number in its memory-bank.
"Good afternoon, Magic Box." There was a lilt in her voice he could discern even through a transatlantic line. Retail clearly must not be as hard-hit as the stock markets.
"Hello, Anyanka. How are you today?" he said, settling back into his pillows.
"Hi! You’re three minutes late," she said. He looked at his watch again; he’d need to set it to her time. "We’re having a wonderful day so far. Sold three very expensive potions, two Balinese statues, and the entire stock of beetle candles. A Vargo demon has to do some exterminating."
"That’s – a lot of information," he said, grinning. "And how are you, specifically?"
She began to chatter about her day, and he let her bright voice wash over him. Dawn was still helping in the stockroom; Buffy was distracted, Spike nowhere to be seen; she herself had sold short on some energy shares and made a tidy profit; she’d coloured her hair again, Dark Copper Brown this time. As always, the small vengeance-free details soothed him.
He needed this so much.
Then she said abruptly, "Is this costing you too much money? You’ve been calling every day, and I’m so glad, but I know how expensive long-distance phone service is."
"It’d cost more not to hear from you, you silly girl." And then he caught his breath as he realized what he’d said. What wasn’t being said on the other end of the line. Where in bloody hell had that come from? He’d gotten too comfortable, perhaps – God, he hoped he hadn’t annoyed her.
"Thank you. Thank you, Rupert." Her voice was soft, oddly sweet. It reminded him of when Willow had wiped all their memories, when he had felt as if Anya was his. By right.
The pleasure of the recollection terrified him as always, and he said hastily, "I meant it, Anyanka. But you’re right, I probably should ring off now. Bedtime in Bath, you know."
"Yes, Rupert," she said, whispering through the line. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise: more terror, more deep pleasure. And pain – he shifted, adjusting his suddenly uncomfortable jeans. "Tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow." He hung up the phone, then jumped off his bed. Couldn’t stay there at the moment, no. He grabbed his beer and finished it off.
Right, then. Tooth cleaning, face washing. Right.
He checked first; Willow was out of the bathroom. Her room was quiet, no light shining from under the closed door. He went down the hallway. As he shut the bathroom door behind him, he flipped on the switch.
The mirror over the sink flashed white, and he jumped – but it was just his reflection, pale in the harsh light. He stared at himself for a minute. Those lines around his mouth didn’t look familiar. He hadn’t known there would be sparks of desire left in his eyes.
He didn’t look like the man he’d been.
Slowly, as if compelled from outside, he raised one finger and traced around his reflection. Blue sparks met silver surface, traveling as his hand traveled. Back, forward, around. The tingle was the same as it had been earlier, the wave of power the same. It was his.
And he said quietly to his reflection, "You’re a handsome devil. What’s your name?"