Second (and last) post for Drunken Gilesathon
This isn't my main Drunken Giles fic, but I did claim a second prompt because it's such a lovely combination of melancholy and cheerful. Which, funnily enough, is how this turned out.
Title Skål
Author Brutti ma buoni
Character Giles and ensemble (hint of Giles/Jenny)
Prompt For Drunken Gilesathon: The afterlife has a free bar - and it's bloody brilliant!
Rating PG13
Warning Pretty evidently from the prompt, references to character death prior to this story
Words ~750
On the one hand, he was dead.
On the other, the whisky was awfully good.
Giles considered, broadly, that the afterlife was likely to prove tolerable. He had been here for (roughly) a week, insofar as it was possible to calculate, and the bar had never closed in that time. Nor had there ever been any question of payment.
This wasn’t how he had expected heaven to be. Indeed, he rather thought that this place stretched the definition of ‘heaven’ beyond what theologians would accept. Conversely, if hell had been described as a place with plenty to eat, endless drink and good company, Giles felt that it would have lacked cautionary powers. The mouth of hell would have been decidedly enticing. So here probably wasn't there, wherever it might prove to be.
He prodded thoughtfully at the sore spot on his chest. Heaven-or-analogous-pleasant-afterlife did not appear to heal all wounds immediately. Or at least not all heart conditions. He assumed it had been a heart attack that killed him. (Unexpected, that, though at eighty-seven he’d been in no position to complain. It had been a couple of years since any demon had been in a position to slay him, and apparently none of them ever would now.) But he was more than functional in this body, and a little non-fatal aching was the only cloud in this particular heavenly-type sky.
He had been worried, when he first arrived. He’d researched not a few types of afterlife, and none of them had really attracted. The Valhalla style of heroic excess; the fluffy angels and harps tedium; the plains of asphodel... none of it had ever sounded Giles-friendly. Here, he had been painfully tense until the moment when a passing person (angel? Fellow afterlifer?) had pointed him towards the library. A proper library. No computers (apart from a very discreet one for the catalogue), just clear, well-labelled shelves and a selection of reference works which outdid the Council.
That had taken care of the first few days, and would absorb many more (the sections on demonology were excellent, but required indexing. Perfect). But even the most dedicated librarian has other needs. This bar had turned out to be immediately adjacent. The music was low, when it wasn’t live and rather good. The patrons were talkative, in an interesting way. The whisky, as mentioned, was glorious.
It was only now that he was starting to feel the need for more. Giles stared into his Laphroaig, grateful for the fuzzy edge it was gradually imparting to what would otherwise have been a rather bleak realisation. Heaven-substitute was all very well, but man did not live by whisky and bar-chat alone. Even whisky, bar-chat and librarianship wouldn't last him indefinitely.
But this was his afterlife. Quite possibly his heaven. And so at that point, Giles's friends came to join him.
It had been so long, he almost didn't recognise some of them. They looked oddly young, tender, unfamiliar - till they became suddenly so familiar he didn't know how he could ever have forgotten the details of their appearance. Randall, drinking that bloody awful lager they'd thought was hugely sophisticated in 1978. Joyce, with a nice glass of merlot. Ethan (so he was dead? Hard to be surprised), drinking something green and suspicious-looking. Anya, with something short and strong. Sweet Tara seemed to have some kind of tea, which should have surprised and shocked him (surely in heaven everyone drank alcohol?), but he was distracted by-
Jenny. With a glass of that champagne he'd never poured for her, and a smile in her eyes that said she still had plans for him.
Rupert Giles hadn't given much thought to theology when he lived. Mythology had been more absorbing. He didn't, couldn't, know whether this was The Afterlife. Or just an afterlife. Or his afterlife, and these mere shadows for him to play with, while the originals lived out their own particular afterlife fates elsewhere.
He also, very deeply, didn't care.
There was little to say, as yet. They had the rest of the afterlife to talk, frivolous or profound as they pleased. Now was the moment of meeting, in goodwill and old comradeship. And love.
So: "Cheers," said Rupert Giles, to the friends who had gone before him. They might be dead, but they were still drinking.
***
Title Skål
Author Brutti ma buoni
Character Giles and ensemble (hint of Giles/Jenny)
Prompt For Drunken Gilesathon: The afterlife has a free bar - and it's bloody brilliant!
Rating PG13
Warning Pretty evidently from the prompt, references to character death prior to this story
Words ~750
On the one hand, he was dead.
On the other, the whisky was awfully good.
Giles considered, broadly, that the afterlife was likely to prove tolerable. He had been here for (roughly) a week, insofar as it was possible to calculate, and the bar had never closed in that time. Nor had there ever been any question of payment.
This wasn’t how he had expected heaven to be. Indeed, he rather thought that this place stretched the definition of ‘heaven’ beyond what theologians would accept. Conversely, if hell had been described as a place with plenty to eat, endless drink and good company, Giles felt that it would have lacked cautionary powers. The mouth of hell would have been decidedly enticing. So here probably wasn't there, wherever it might prove to be.
He prodded thoughtfully at the sore spot on his chest. Heaven-or-analogous-pleasant-afterlife did not appear to heal all wounds immediately. Or at least not all heart conditions. He assumed it had been a heart attack that killed him. (Unexpected, that, though at eighty-seven he’d been in no position to complain. It had been a couple of years since any demon had been in a position to slay him, and apparently none of them ever would now.) But he was more than functional in this body, and a little non-fatal aching was the only cloud in this particular heavenly-type sky.
He had been worried, when he first arrived. He’d researched not a few types of afterlife, and none of them had really attracted. The Valhalla style of heroic excess; the fluffy angels and harps tedium; the plains of asphodel... none of it had ever sounded Giles-friendly. Here, he had been painfully tense until the moment when a passing person (angel? Fellow afterlifer?) had pointed him towards the library. A proper library. No computers (apart from a very discreet one for the catalogue), just clear, well-labelled shelves and a selection of reference works which outdid the Council.
That had taken care of the first few days, and would absorb many more (the sections on demonology were excellent, but required indexing. Perfect). But even the most dedicated librarian has other needs. This bar had turned out to be immediately adjacent. The music was low, when it wasn’t live and rather good. The patrons were talkative, in an interesting way. The whisky, as mentioned, was glorious.
It was only now that he was starting to feel the need for more. Giles stared into his Laphroaig, grateful for the fuzzy edge it was gradually imparting to what would otherwise have been a rather bleak realisation. Heaven-substitute was all very well, but man did not live by whisky and bar-chat alone. Even whisky, bar-chat and librarianship wouldn't last him indefinitely.
But this was his afterlife. Quite possibly his heaven. And so at that point, Giles's friends came to join him.
It had been so long, he almost didn't recognise some of them. They looked oddly young, tender, unfamiliar - till they became suddenly so familiar he didn't know how he could ever have forgotten the details of their appearance. Randall, drinking that bloody awful lager they'd thought was hugely sophisticated in 1978. Joyce, with a nice glass of merlot. Ethan (so he was dead? Hard to be surprised), drinking something green and suspicious-looking. Anya, with something short and strong. Sweet Tara seemed to have some kind of tea, which should have surprised and shocked him (surely in heaven everyone drank alcohol?), but he was distracted by-
Jenny. With a glass of that champagne he'd never poured for her, and a smile in her eyes that said she still had plans for him.
Rupert Giles hadn't given much thought to theology when he lived. Mythology had been more absorbing. He didn't, couldn't, know whether this was The Afterlife. Or just an afterlife. Or his afterlife, and these mere shadows for him to play with, while the originals lived out their own particular afterlife fates elsewhere.
He also, very deeply, didn't care.
There was little to say, as yet. They had the rest of the afterlife to talk, frivolous or profound as they pleased. Now was the moment of meeting, in goodwill and old comradeship. And love.
So: "Cheers," said Rupert Giles, to the friends who had gone before him. They might be dead, but they were still drinking.
***