Bookworms - Giles and Spike fic
Written in response to the prompt at still_grrr. This is a bit of inconsequential chat, to do with books and feelings, set after the end of S5. Enjoy
Title: Bookworms
Author: GillO
Rating: G
Word Count:1,307 words
Prompt: 152: 800BC - 1660AD ANCIENT GREECE - RENAISSANCE
Characters/Pairing (if any)Giles, Dawn and Spike
A/N: Giles gets a shipment of books during the summer after
The Gift.
Within minutes of the sun setting the door of The Magic Box would open and Spike would sidle in. Giles was used to this by now, to the point that he no longer objected or even, sometimes, noticed the arrival. Somehow, relationships had changed over the last few weeks.
Spike’s gaze always switched instantly to the round table at the back of the shop. Today, as usual, a young girl, her shiny brown hair curtaining her face, bent over a book. Contrary to her habit, though, this time she sat alone, the polished wood reflecting no other faces.
He swung round to Giles. “What, no witches today?”
Giles looked up from the sheets of paper in his hands. “Neither Willow nor Tara were able to come till later, Spike. Something about summer school and examinations, I believe.” He returned his attention to his lists, scanning them rapidly, then returning to pore over one particular page. He sighed deeply.
“What’s up, Watcher? Your lottery ticket failed to come up again?”
Giles sighed again, this time a sharper huff of irritation. The corners of Spike’s mouth tilted upwards just a little. The Watcher was so easy to get going - like taking sweeties from kids it was. Not so much satisfaction in it these days, mind you. “Seriously, Rupes. What’s the problem?”
“Little though it concerns you, Spike, and less that you care, I seem to have a problem. My latest consignment of books from England has an extra box, one not accounted for in the delivery notes as far as I can find.”
“Is that all? Don’t get your knickers in a twist then. You got some bonus books. Where’s the bad in that?”
“I did not order or pay for them. First, that means they are not mine. It’s a subtle moral issue that may well mean nothing to you.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Get off your high horse, man. Is that really such a problem? You’ve not always been so fussy about details.” He recalled, if no-one else did, Ben’s still body not so far from - “Why not send them back?”
“There’s no return address. It was a mixed batch - FedEx delivered more than one load at once. “
“So open the box.” Spike jeered, “Or take the money.” This last was quieter, but Giles gave him a swift, marginally amused look before shaking his head.
“The rest of the consignment contained magical texts, Spike. Do I really need to explain to you the dangers of opening an unknown box in such circumstances?” He tutted, then, jerking his head towards the table and Dawn, lowered his voice, “While Dawn’s in here I am loath to do anything risky.”
Spike’s grin became broader. “Well. I never thought I’d see the day. Captain Tweed, Super-Librarian himself, afraid of a box of books! This box by any chance?” Before Giles could respond, Spike pounced on the cardboard package next to the till, and ripped off the top layer of parcel tape. Giles flinched.
Nothing happened. Spike tore away the remaining layers of card, pulling out a small collection of books, mostly leather-bound and musty with age. A shower of peanut-shaped packing foam cascaded to the floor. Giles tutted once more, but Spike, turning over the books in his hands, was oblivious. His expression froze for a moment, then became oddly reverent.
“Dunno how they got here, mate, but the only magic in these books is the poetic sort. Look!” He turned the backs towards his companion. The gold foil titles had almost worn away, but it was still just possible to read them. Inevitably, Giles cleaned his glasses before peering closely.
“Chaucer? Henryson? Dunbar? Gower? What on earth?”
“Never heard of them? And you the great intellectual too.”
“There is no need to sneer, Spike. Of course I’ve heard of them. Chaucer was compulsory at A Level, after all.”
“So that’s what they are? Old exam books? Not to me they’re not.” Spike opened one volume, with infinite care finding a particular page. “Just listen to this, mate.” His voice deepened and, astonishingly, a different language emerged - perfect, regular, rhythmic, barely comprehensible.
“Al is y-liche good to me -
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be -
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.”
1
As his voice resonated through the shop, Dawn looked up. “Whatever is that?” She asked. “One of Willow’s spells?”
“No, Bit, nothing to do with Willow. Not this time.” Spike spoke absently, poring over the text hungrily. “It’s just an old poem. This bloke, he can’t sleep, you see. His head’s full of ideas. What he could have done, what he should have done. He’s lost this bird, y’see, and he just can’t get over it.” His voice faltered to a stop. Giles removed the text from his grasp, glanced at the title and nodded.
“Yes. Ah, indeed. I see what you mean. It’s early Chaucer, of course. It lacks something of the verve of his later works, but it can be very touching.” In response to Dawn’s confused stare he continued, “Chaucer, Dawn.
The Boke of the Duchesse. He wrote it after the death of his patron’s first wife, who was beautiful and strong and gentle…” His voice, too, fell silent.
Spike took up the account, “It’s right complicated, bu there’s a bit where a queen goes to beg the god of sleep to give her husband back to her, but he won’t, because the husband’s dead…” He gulped and looked pleadingly at Giles.
“It’s elegiac in tone. It deals with loss and dreams and hope.” He cleared his throat. “How did you learn to read it like that, Spike? It’s a very accurate Middle English accent from what I understand.”
“Oh, I met a bloke, a vamp, must have been around the turn of the century. He said his name was Gower - was getting on a bit, too. He was around when Chaucer was writing. Bit of a wanker he was, really, but he told a tale well and he taught me how to read this stuff. Not bad for six centuries, is it?”
“”Gower? But he’s buried in…”
“Most vamps have graves, Watcherboy. Doesn’t mean they’re still in them though, does it? Anyway, he’s long dust now. Pissed Angelus off by writing all this poetry to Darla. She couldn’t stick it either - so Angelus stuck him. Puff of dust and gone!”
Giles opened his eyes even wider and choked down what he had been about to say. Not in front of Dawn at least.
Spike’s face softened once more as he flipped through the book. “Mind if I hang on to this for a bit, Rupes? Old Geoff knew a thing or two about consolation.” Without waiting for an answer he strolled away to the table. As he walked, he could just be heard reading softly,
“But seyde, "Farewel, swete, y-wis,
And farwel al that ever ther is!"
2
“Farewell all that ever is,” Giles repeated. “Yes. Yes indeed. Dawn, have you finished your homework yet? You can help me shelve the rest of these books.”
Quietly, they moved around the shop, placing merchandise, as the vampire, stiller than death, read on in the book that told of love and loss and longing.
ETA:
1A crude translation of the Chaucer might go:
“Everything is much the same to me -
Joy or sorrow, whatever it is -
For nothing can make me feel,
But I am, as it were, something dizzy and confused,
Always on the point of collapsing;
For the thought of my sorrows
Is always wholly on my mind.
And you know very well it's against human nature
To live on in this manner;
For nature would not permit
To any earthly creature
Survival for any length of time
Without sleep, and constantly miserable;
And I just cannot, neither night or day,
Sleep; and this melancholy
And and the fear I have of dying of it,
Lack of sleep and depression
Have slayed my spirit of quickness,
That I have lost all energy.
Such fantasies are in my head
So I do not know what is best to do.”
2 "Farewell, my sweet, indeed
And farewell all that ever was."
Title: Bookworms
Author: GillO
Rating: G
Word Count:1,307 words
Prompt: 152: 800BC - 1660AD ANCIENT GREECE - RENAISSANCE
Characters/Pairing (if any)Giles, Dawn and Spike
A/N: Giles gets a shipment of books during the summer after
The Gift.
Within minutes of the sun setting the door of The Magic Box would open and Spike would sidle in. Giles was used to this by now, to the point that he no longer objected or even, sometimes, noticed the arrival. Somehow, relationships had changed over the last few weeks.
Spike’s gaze always switched instantly to the round table at the back of the shop. Today, as usual, a young girl, her shiny brown hair curtaining her face, bent over a book. Contrary to her habit, though, this time she sat alone, the polished wood reflecting no other faces.
He swung round to Giles. “What, no witches today?”
Giles looked up from the sheets of paper in his hands. “Neither Willow nor Tara were able to come till later, Spike. Something about summer school and examinations, I believe.” He returned his attention to his lists, scanning them rapidly, then returning to pore over one particular page. He sighed deeply.
“What’s up, Watcher? Your lottery ticket failed to come up again?”
Giles sighed again, this time a sharper huff of irritation. The corners of Spike’s mouth tilted upwards just a little. The Watcher was so easy to get going - like taking sweeties from kids it was. Not so much satisfaction in it these days, mind you. “Seriously, Rupes. What’s the problem?”
“Little though it concerns you, Spike, and less that you care, I seem to have a problem. My latest consignment of books from England has an extra box, one not accounted for in the delivery notes as far as I can find.”
“Is that all? Don’t get your knickers in a twist then. You got some bonus books. Where’s the bad in that?”
“I did not order or pay for them. First, that means they are not mine. It’s a subtle moral issue that may well mean nothing to you.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Get off your high horse, man. Is that really such a problem? You’ve not always been so fussy about details.” He recalled, if no-one else did, Ben’s still body not so far from - “Why not send them back?”
“There’s no return address. It was a mixed batch - FedEx delivered more than one load at once. “
“So open the box.” Spike jeered, “Or take the money.” This last was quieter, but Giles gave him a swift, marginally amused look before shaking his head.
“The rest of the consignment contained magical texts, Spike. Do I really need to explain to you the dangers of opening an unknown box in such circumstances?” He tutted, then, jerking his head towards the table and Dawn, lowered his voice, “While Dawn’s in here I am loath to do anything risky.”
Spike’s grin became broader. “Well. I never thought I’d see the day. Captain Tweed, Super-Librarian himself, afraid of a box of books! This box by any chance?” Before Giles could respond, Spike pounced on the cardboard package next to the till, and ripped off the top layer of parcel tape. Giles flinched.
Nothing happened. Spike tore away the remaining layers of card, pulling out a small collection of books, mostly leather-bound and musty with age. A shower of peanut-shaped packing foam cascaded to the floor. Giles tutted once more, but Spike, turning over the books in his hands, was oblivious. His expression froze for a moment, then became oddly reverent.
“Dunno how they got here, mate, but the only magic in these books is the poetic sort. Look!” He turned the backs towards his companion. The gold foil titles had almost worn away, but it was still just possible to read them. Inevitably, Giles cleaned his glasses before peering closely.
“Chaucer? Henryson? Dunbar? Gower? What on earth?”
“Never heard of them? And you the great intellectual too.”
“There is no need to sneer, Spike. Of course I’ve heard of them. Chaucer was compulsory at A Level, after all.”
“So that’s what they are? Old exam books? Not to me they’re not.” Spike opened one volume, with infinite care finding a particular page. “Just listen to this, mate.” His voice deepened and, astonishingly, a different language emerged - perfect, regular, rhythmic, barely comprehensible.
“Al is y-liche good to me -
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be -
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.”
1
As his voice resonated through the shop, Dawn looked up. “Whatever is that?” She asked. “One of Willow’s spells?”
“No, Bit, nothing to do with Willow. Not this time.” Spike spoke absently, poring over the text hungrily. “It’s just an old poem. This bloke, he can’t sleep, you see. His head’s full of ideas. What he could have done, what he should have done. He’s lost this bird, y’see, and he just can’t get over it.” His voice faltered to a stop. Giles removed the text from his grasp, glanced at the title and nodded.
“Yes. Ah, indeed. I see what you mean. It’s early Chaucer, of course. It lacks something of the verve of his later works, but it can be very touching.” In response to Dawn’s confused stare he continued, “Chaucer, Dawn.
The Boke of the Duchesse. He wrote it after the death of his patron’s first wife, who was beautiful and strong and gentle…” His voice, too, fell silent.
Spike took up the account, “It’s right complicated, bu there’s a bit where a queen goes to beg the god of sleep to give her husband back to her, but he won’t, because the husband’s dead…” He gulped and looked pleadingly at Giles.
“It’s elegiac in tone. It deals with loss and dreams and hope.” He cleared his throat. “How did you learn to read it like that, Spike? It’s a very accurate Middle English accent from what I understand.”
“Oh, I met a bloke, a vamp, must have been around the turn of the century. He said his name was Gower - was getting on a bit, too. He was around when Chaucer was writing. Bit of a wanker he was, really, but he told a tale well and he taught me how to read this stuff. Not bad for six centuries, is it?”
“”Gower? But he’s buried in…”
“Most vamps have graves, Watcherboy. Doesn’t mean they’re still in them though, does it? Anyway, he’s long dust now. Pissed Angelus off by writing all this poetry to Darla. She couldn’t stick it either - so Angelus stuck him. Puff of dust and gone!”
Giles opened his eyes even wider and choked down what he had been about to say. Not in front of Dawn at least.
Spike’s face softened once more as he flipped through the book. “Mind if I hang on to this for a bit, Rupes? Old Geoff knew a thing or two about consolation.” Without waiting for an answer he strolled away to the table. As he walked, he could just be heard reading softly,
“But seyde, "Farewel, swete, y-wis,
And farwel al that ever ther is!"
2
“Farewell all that ever is,” Giles repeated. “Yes. Yes indeed. Dawn, have you finished your homework yet? You can help me shelve the rest of these books.”
Quietly, they moved around the shop, placing merchandise, as the vampire, stiller than death, read on in the book that told of love and loss and longing.
ETA:
1A crude translation of the Chaucer might go:
“Everything is much the same to me -
Joy or sorrow, whatever it is -
For nothing can make me feel,
But I am, as it were, something dizzy and confused,
Always on the point of collapsing;
For the thought of my sorrows
Is always wholly on my mind.
And you know very well it's against human nature
To live on in this manner;
For nature would not permit
To any earthly creature
Survival for any length of time
Without sleep, and constantly miserable;
And I just cannot, neither night or day,
Sleep; and this melancholy
And and the fear I have of dying of it,
Lack of sleep and depression
Have slayed my spirit of quickness,
That I have lost all energy.
Such fantasies are in my head
So I do not know what is best to do.”
2 "Farewell, my sweet, indeed
And farewell all that ever was."