(no subject)
TitleWaiting for Morning
Author Brutti ma Buoni
Rating PG13
Characters Giles, OC Watcher and OC Watcher candidates
Word Count 1300
Prompt 186 (Test). Originally from aaronlisa at genfic_minis, who wanted Giles before Sunnydale, a vinyl album and tea
A/N: this forms part of a loose series of ‘Giles becomes a Watcher’ fics. This fic fits after Facing the Future, and catches Giles halfway between ‘Ripper’ and Watcher-Giles.
The night before, the Watchers-to-be gathered for one last student bash. All Mod Cons was playing in the background. Not exactly mellow, but then, they weren’t exactly relaxed.
It wasn’t the brightest of ideas. They knew they’d be facing the biggest challenges of their careers to date in the following 36 hours. Sleep, or possibly mad last-minute cramming, were surely the only rational ways to spend the evening.
But Rupert, Gilly and Archie had quite enjoyed each others’ company in training, in an incurious and comradely way. And this was the last day they would all be together. The one thing they weren’t going to talk about was, of course, the Tripartite Ordeal itself. They’d been over and over it in theory, in preparation and in class. But the knowledge that tomorrow one of the three would fail, must fail, as part of the test - that was tough to face. This was the last night when they were equals.
It was too late to protest against the system. Had been for over five centuries, since the ossifying Watchers’ Council first decreed that for some to excel, others must be seen to fail. And they knew that one failure was not a guarantee of success for the other two. Plenty of Ordeals had finished with all three candidates being rejected. Others had led superficially ‘successful’ candidates into a career of subordination and backroom work, their weaknesses demonstrated for all to see. The only certainty was that one or more of them would be cast out, and the Council would feel the stronger for it.
None of them wanted to think too much about that. So they were clustering, late night and firmly student-like, with mugs of oversweet builders’ tea, The Jam in the background; still completely failing to talk about something other than the Council.
They’d come, perhaps inevitably, to talk about why they were putting themselves through this ridiculous long-winded training by a bunch of tweedy fusspots who claimed to understand the forces of darkness. It was at such times of confiding tales that Rupert occasionally realised how much more intimately he knew this world than the others could. What on earth could he tell them about his story?
Didn’t matter, initially. Gilly was old Council, superficially of Rupert’s ilk. She dreamed of researching the South American history of demon coalitions; had done so from the time she’d learned of them at her Great Aunt Ethel’s knee. She had no real ambitions to fieldwork. Would make a marvellous librarian, thought Rupert. Was that dismissive? Maybe, but it was also entirely fitting to her character and hopes for the future. She talked breathlessly of the power of knowledge in the great fight to save the world from darkness. Straight out of the textbooks, but animated by her deep belief in what she repeated. Sweet girl. She might fail.
Archie was new blood. He’d been headhunted straight from St Andrews, spotted by a don connected to the Pryce family. Rupert rather suspected that they’d liked his naivety and willingness to take orders. Archie thought the Council marvellous; tended to blush when Rupert talked of its fogeyish tendencies. He idolised the Slayers - had a photo of Sylvie on his wall and these days laid flowers in her memory. She’d lasted almost a year. After Nikki, and before Esi. After Esi, who knew? Rupert wondered whether Archie had the guts for that ever-growing list of the lost.
Rupert needed at minimum to see one or other fail. Either easily could, but was that security enough? Would he put a spanner in the works on purpose? Drop one of them in it to succeed himself? Perhaps. But late on, and only if he felt unsure of getting through - or so he told himself. Neither Gilly nor Archie would be looking to trip him up, so it was pretty safe. Both were good people. Rupert... not entirely so. It was handy, in the Council, to have that up one’s sleeve. Ethan’s company had taught him that much.
So when Gilly’s brown eyes, and Archie’s faded blue (with ginger lashes, poor sod) turned towards Rupert, expectant of hearing his story, he told them this: that his father was a Watcher, and always wanted his son to follow him. That his mother had been a seer, and destroyed by demons when he was a boy. And finally, that when he was in doubt of his vocation, he had been convinced to go on by another tragic death: of his young friend, demon-possessed and devoured.
All this was true. As were those facts he did not share: that the Council had stood back while Amaranth was shattered by the spirit world, because she was a mere enchantress, and female to boot. They thought her death unfortunate, but insignificant. That Rupert hadn’t spoken to his father from the time he left home at eighteen until he returned to the Council five years later. That they still never had contact outside the formalities of the Council’s meetings. And, of course, that Rupert had spent those five years in excess - exploring sex, death and magic with ever increasing recklessness, part of a band of young fools following a Chaos-worshipping pied piper. Who led them deeper into darkness and thrill, till they raised the demon who killed Randall. And who, in turn, was killed by Rupert. Which was why he’d run all the way home to the people who knew how to keep out the dark, and how to destroy its creatures.
It is possible that, had he told them all this, Gilly and Archie would have been more wary of the day they were to face. Though that hardly mattered, it turned out. Rupert left them at midnight, and went back to his study, to a night of self-loathing and anaesthetising whisky.
*
The next day was the first day of the rest of their lives. Rah, rah, rah. Rupert woke exhausted and clearly unfit to face deep examination of his abilities. Sod. That had been careless.
“Good morning, candidates.” Gilbert Chalmers, currently Chief Officer of the Council was just as smooth and unimpressive as ever. But his words were sufficiently daunting to compensate. “Your Ordeal will comprise three elements which will test your mastery of the supernatural, the pedagogical and the physical arts. They will be: the taming of an unquiet spirit; the development of a training schedule to prepare a new Slayer for stopping a cataclysm; and the killing of a fresh-fledged vampire.”
So the rumours about the Ordeal were true. It was as dangerous as they said. Slayer training schedule, no problems, but unquiet sprits were filthy things to control. And an actual vampire... what did the Council think they were, Slayers?
Rupert felt genuinely indignant. Which was better than scared, of course. Archie was scared. You could see it in his nervous blinking. Rupert felt better - there was one down, mentally, even before they’d begun. It would help when the reckoning came at the end.
*
In the event, Rupert realised it wasn’t going to be hard to say who had failed the Ordeal. Their spirit had been quelled pretty effectively. Training plans for Slayers were meat and drink to Watchers fresh out of college; all had probably scored well there. But the vampire had sorted out the pass/fail mark with great directness. No need for dirty tricks on this occasion.
Archie was lying dead and drained on the floor of the testing room. Gilly was crushed into a corner, vomit-stained and in shock, endlessly sobbing, “No, no, oh Archie, oh no.” And Rupert was standing, clutching the stake, covered in vampire dust and filled with the rush of having slayed the undead.
Chalmers entered the chamber at the agreed time. He tutted a little, and ordered the necessary cleanup. Before leaving, he gave Rupert a discreet, but not subtle, nod of approval. “I shall see you tomorrow at nine thirty, if you please, Mr Giles.”
And just like that, the future opened its arms to Rupert, and dragged him in.
***
Author Brutti ma Buoni
Rating PG13
Characters Giles, OC Watcher and OC Watcher candidates
Word Count 1300
Prompt 186 (Test). Originally from aaronlisa at genfic_minis, who wanted Giles before Sunnydale, a vinyl album and tea
A/N: this forms part of a loose series of ‘Giles becomes a Watcher’ fics. This fic fits after Facing the Future, and catches Giles halfway between ‘Ripper’ and Watcher-Giles.
The night before, the Watchers-to-be gathered for one last student bash. All Mod Cons was playing in the background. Not exactly mellow, but then, they weren’t exactly relaxed.
It wasn’t the brightest of ideas. They knew they’d be facing the biggest challenges of their careers to date in the following 36 hours. Sleep, or possibly mad last-minute cramming, were surely the only rational ways to spend the evening.
But Rupert, Gilly and Archie had quite enjoyed each others’ company in training, in an incurious and comradely way. And this was the last day they would all be together. The one thing they weren’t going to talk about was, of course, the Tripartite Ordeal itself. They’d been over and over it in theory, in preparation and in class. But the knowledge that tomorrow one of the three would fail, must fail, as part of the test - that was tough to face. This was the last night when they were equals.
It was too late to protest against the system. Had been for over five centuries, since the ossifying Watchers’ Council first decreed that for some to excel, others must be seen to fail. And they knew that one failure was not a guarantee of success for the other two. Plenty of Ordeals had finished with all three candidates being rejected. Others had led superficially ‘successful’ candidates into a career of subordination and backroom work, their weaknesses demonstrated for all to see. The only certainty was that one or more of them would be cast out, and the Council would feel the stronger for it.
None of them wanted to think too much about that. So they were clustering, late night and firmly student-like, with mugs of oversweet builders’ tea, The Jam in the background; still completely failing to talk about something other than the Council.
They’d come, perhaps inevitably, to talk about why they were putting themselves through this ridiculous long-winded training by a bunch of tweedy fusspots who claimed to understand the forces of darkness. It was at such times of confiding tales that Rupert occasionally realised how much more intimately he knew this world than the others could. What on earth could he tell them about his story?
Didn’t matter, initially. Gilly was old Council, superficially of Rupert’s ilk. She dreamed of researching the South American history of demon coalitions; had done so from the time she’d learned of them at her Great Aunt Ethel’s knee. She had no real ambitions to fieldwork. Would make a marvellous librarian, thought Rupert. Was that dismissive? Maybe, but it was also entirely fitting to her character and hopes for the future. She talked breathlessly of the power of knowledge in the great fight to save the world from darkness. Straight out of the textbooks, but animated by her deep belief in what she repeated. Sweet girl. She might fail.
Archie was new blood. He’d been headhunted straight from St Andrews, spotted by a don connected to the Pryce family. Rupert rather suspected that they’d liked his naivety and willingness to take orders. Archie thought the Council marvellous; tended to blush when Rupert talked of its fogeyish tendencies. He idolised the Slayers - had a photo of Sylvie on his wall and these days laid flowers in her memory. She’d lasted almost a year. After Nikki, and before Esi. After Esi, who knew? Rupert wondered whether Archie had the guts for that ever-growing list of the lost.
Rupert needed at minimum to see one or other fail. Either easily could, but was that security enough? Would he put a spanner in the works on purpose? Drop one of them in it to succeed himself? Perhaps. But late on, and only if he felt unsure of getting through - or so he told himself. Neither Gilly nor Archie would be looking to trip him up, so it was pretty safe. Both were good people. Rupert... not entirely so. It was handy, in the Council, to have that up one’s sleeve. Ethan’s company had taught him that much.
So when Gilly’s brown eyes, and Archie’s faded blue (with ginger lashes, poor sod) turned towards Rupert, expectant of hearing his story, he told them this: that his father was a Watcher, and always wanted his son to follow him. That his mother had been a seer, and destroyed by demons when he was a boy. And finally, that when he was in doubt of his vocation, he had been convinced to go on by another tragic death: of his young friend, demon-possessed and devoured.
All this was true. As were those facts he did not share: that the Council had stood back while Amaranth was shattered by the spirit world, because she was a mere enchantress, and female to boot. They thought her death unfortunate, but insignificant. That Rupert hadn’t spoken to his father from the time he left home at eighteen until he returned to the Council five years later. That they still never had contact outside the formalities of the Council’s meetings. And, of course, that Rupert had spent those five years in excess - exploring sex, death and magic with ever increasing recklessness, part of a band of young fools following a Chaos-worshipping pied piper. Who led them deeper into darkness and thrill, till they raised the demon who killed Randall. And who, in turn, was killed by Rupert. Which was why he’d run all the way home to the people who knew how to keep out the dark, and how to destroy its creatures.
It is possible that, had he told them all this, Gilly and Archie would have been more wary of the day they were to face. Though that hardly mattered, it turned out. Rupert left them at midnight, and went back to his study, to a night of self-loathing and anaesthetising whisky.
*
The next day was the first day of the rest of their lives. Rah, rah, rah. Rupert woke exhausted and clearly unfit to face deep examination of his abilities. Sod. That had been careless.
“Good morning, candidates.” Gilbert Chalmers, currently Chief Officer of the Council was just as smooth and unimpressive as ever. But his words were sufficiently daunting to compensate. “Your Ordeal will comprise three elements which will test your mastery of the supernatural, the pedagogical and the physical arts. They will be: the taming of an unquiet spirit; the development of a training schedule to prepare a new Slayer for stopping a cataclysm; and the killing of a fresh-fledged vampire.”
So the rumours about the Ordeal were true. It was as dangerous as they said. Slayer training schedule, no problems, but unquiet sprits were filthy things to control. And an actual vampire... what did the Council think they were, Slayers?
Rupert felt genuinely indignant. Which was better than scared, of course. Archie was scared. You could see it in his nervous blinking. Rupert felt better - there was one down, mentally, even before they’d begun. It would help when the reckoning came at the end.
*
In the event, Rupert realised it wasn’t going to be hard to say who had failed the Ordeal. Their spirit had been quelled pretty effectively. Training plans for Slayers were meat and drink to Watchers fresh out of college; all had probably scored well there. But the vampire had sorted out the pass/fail mark with great directness. No need for dirty tricks on this occasion.
Archie was lying dead and drained on the floor of the testing room. Gilly was crushed into a corner, vomit-stained and in shock, endlessly sobbing, “No, no, oh Archie, oh no.” And Rupert was standing, clutching the stake, covered in vampire dust and filled with the rush of having slayed the undead.
Chalmers entered the chamber at the agreed time. He tutted a little, and ordered the necessary cleanup. Before leaving, he gave Rupert a discreet, but not subtle, nod of approval. “I shall see you tomorrow at nine thirty, if you please, Mr Giles.”
And just like that, the future opened its arms to Rupert, and dragged him in.
***