The Dead Tree Gives No Shelter (1/1)
Title: The Dead Tree Gives No Shelter
Fandom: BtVS / AtS
Rating: PG13
Characters: Giles and Angel
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Length: ~1400
Icon: xmaidelx
Warning: Discussions of Wesley's relationship with his father, which was canonically emotionally abusive.
Summary: After Wesley thinks that he's shot his father, Angel calls Giles for advice. Episode tag for 5.07 "Lineage".
A/N: Written for a prompt at still_grrr .
The Dead Tree Gives No Shelter
The telephone in Giles’s study had a curiously flat, whirring ring, as though something inside it lacked the requisite verve to make a louder noise.
On that particular day it hadn’t really interrupted him, but he felt the familiar pinprick of irritation nonetheless. He had been gazing out of the window, and mentally agreeing with T.S. Eliot that April was a cruel month. It was barely five o’clock and, although sunset wasn’t due for some two and half hours, a bank of chilly clouds had darkened the sky, filling his study with gloom. It had seemed excessive, somehow, to be laying a fire of an April morning, but he was just about to go and sit in front of the glowing coals and take tea when the ‘phone rang.
He picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Giles?” A familiar voice, sounding as thought its owner was in the next room, rather than thousands of miles away.
“Angel?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you,” Giles said, fingering the cord of the ‘phone, “well?”
“I’m fine.” There was a pause, and Giles could almost hear Angel’s brow crease with the effort of conversational preamble. “You? The Academy of Watching and Slayage?”
“We are all quite well, thank you.”
“Giles,” Angel’s voice was soft. “How well do you know Roger Wyndam-Price?”
“Personally? Hardly at all,” Giles said. He felt the hard plastic of the receiver warm slightly, under his fingers.
“He was a full member of Council by the time I joined the Watchers’ Academy, so he played no active role in the life of the school. Beyond, I suppose, being there at prizegiving and Founders’ Day.”
“Did you speak to him at Council meetings?”
“I was only at full Council meetings when I had put up a paper, and was needed there to speak to it. Wyndam-Price was a member of the Executive.” Giles snorted, softly. “He wasn’t its chair but he ruled the Council, using its constitution as a weapon to humiliate, and chastise those who disagreed with him. I saw him reduce experienced watchers to tears, and the bathroom that those who reported to him used always smelt of vomit.”
He’d been in that bathroom once when he’d heard another watcher come in and sob like his heart was breaking in the next stall. He’d bitterly regretted that he hadn’t even so much as pushed a paper hanky under the wooden divider, or attempted a consolatory epithet about Wyndam-Price. Calling the man an old bastard might at least have made his colleague smile.
“He sounds great.” Angel’s tone was dry.
Giles shifted in his chair. “Is there any particular reason that you’re asking?”
“Something happened here the other night.”
“What kind of something?” Giles was folding and unfolding his glasses, one-handed, in a bid to dissipate his creeping sense of unease.
Angel’s voice lost some of its flippancy. “We had a visit from Roger Wyndam-Price. Actually, a robot that we thought was Roger Wyndam-
Price. The details aren’t really important, but -“
“Yes?”
“It pulled a gun on Fred and Wesley shot it. Shot him. Nine times in the chest and head.”
“Ah.” Giles’s hand stilled on his glasses.
“Wesley thought it was his father, and he shot him like he was putting down a rabid dog making a run at his baby’s crib.”
“I see.”
“He’s taken some time off.”
“I hope it is restorative.” Giles could hear his own voice stiffening with discomfort.
“Giles, there was a lot going on the night it happened. I may have screwed up the part where I was any help at all to Wesley.”
Giles looked at the door of his study. It had been at least an hour since someone had broken his concentration. He would have given twenty pounds for this ‘phone call to be interrupted.
“What did you say to him?”
“That it was heroic of him to save Fred. That I killed my father, too. Stupid things, mostly.”
“I see.” Giles repeated.
“I assumed that it was typical father and son stuff.” Angel sounded tentative. “I think maybe it was more than that.”
Giles looked at his door again, as though staring at it would make someone appear with an urgent matter that required his immediate attention. Perhaps Willow could develop a spell for that.
“Angel, you were evil. It can’t be a surprise to learn that sometimes people aren’t terribly nice to their children.”
“I didn’t think that things were so bad for Wesley. He never said-” Angel trailed off, lamely, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air.
“Having met them both, I have no doubt that Roger Wyndam-Price humiliated, belittled and scorned his son. Wesley probably spent most of his childhood feeling anxious, miserable and terribly alone.” Giles sighed. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Roger beat him, and it would only surprise me slightly if he buggered him.”
Angel cleared his throat. “So what should I do?”
“Do?” Giles looked at the phone as if that would mean that Angel could see his puzzled expression. “Do nothing! Wesley would find it the most unimaginable humiliation to be questioned about his relationship with his father by you.”
“I should let sleeping dogs lie?” There was a slight hint of archness in Angel’s voice.
Giles raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t sound, from what you’ve said, like they’re asleep any longer. However, I think the best thing you can do is to let Wesley deal with things in his own way.” He paused, uncomfortable. “Your own father. Was he kind?”
“No.” Angel’s response was flat and unemotional.
“And do you wish to discuss it?”
“I see your point.”
“I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic.“ Giles drew one hand over his forehead. “People’s childhoods can, and do, have devastating impacts on their lives. You told me about that telekinetic woman you came across several years ago.”
“Bethany? Yeah.”
“If I thought for a moment that it would help Wesley, then I would advise you to talk to him. From what little I know of him and his upbringing, I think that would be the worst possible course of action. I think that letting him resolve it himself would be the kindest thing.”
“I kinda thought so, but I’m glad you’ve confirmed that for me.” Angel suddenly sounded all of his hundreds of years, and Giles wondered, fleetingly, whether working at Wolfram and Hart was too much like staring into a howling abyss for even the undead to cope with. “Thanks, Giles. I appreciate your time.”
“Goodbye, Angel.”
Giles opened his fingers and let the receiver drop down onto the phone with a click. There was an immediate rap on the door and it opened to reveal Willow, standing with a tea tray.
“Andrew asked me to bring up some tea.” She hefted the tray into the room and put it on the table that lay between two upholstered chairs. “Should I stay? I have some notes on the first draft of the watcher textbook.”
Giles smiled at her. “Please do, Willow. I just have to make a quick call.”
Willow started to pour out the tea as Giles lifted the phone and, consulting his desk diary, dialed an international number.”
He cleared his throat. “This is Rupert Giles leaving a message for Wesley Wyndam-Price. I’m having some problems with the Bodleian Codex and wondered if you would be able to give me some assistance with some of the trickier bits of Sumerian.”
At Willow’s startled glance he shook his head slightly, and then lifted his teacup to his mouth.
Fandom: BtVS / AtS
Rating: PG13
Characters: Giles and Angel
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Length: ~1400
Icon: xmaidelx
Warning: Discussions of Wesley's relationship with his father, which was canonically emotionally abusive.
Summary: After Wesley thinks that he's shot his father, Angel calls Giles for advice. Episode tag for 5.07 "Lineage".
A/N: Written for a prompt at still_grrr .
The Dead Tree Gives No Shelter
The telephone in Giles’s study had a curiously flat, whirring ring, as though something inside it lacked the requisite verve to make a louder noise.
On that particular day it hadn’t really interrupted him, but he felt the familiar pinprick of irritation nonetheless. He had been gazing out of the window, and mentally agreeing with T.S. Eliot that April was a cruel month. It was barely five o’clock and, although sunset wasn’t due for some two and half hours, a bank of chilly clouds had darkened the sky, filling his study with gloom. It had seemed excessive, somehow, to be laying a fire of an April morning, but he was just about to go and sit in front of the glowing coals and take tea when the ‘phone rang.
He picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Giles?” A familiar voice, sounding as thought its owner was in the next room, rather than thousands of miles away.
“Angel?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you,” Giles said, fingering the cord of the ‘phone, “well?”
“I’m fine.” There was a pause, and Giles could almost hear Angel’s brow crease with the effort of conversational preamble. “You? The Academy of Watching and Slayage?”
“We are all quite well, thank you.”
“Giles,” Angel’s voice was soft. “How well do you know Roger Wyndam-Price?”
“Personally? Hardly at all,” Giles said. He felt the hard plastic of the receiver warm slightly, under his fingers.
“He was a full member of Council by the time I joined the Watchers’ Academy, so he played no active role in the life of the school. Beyond, I suppose, being there at prizegiving and Founders’ Day.”
“Did you speak to him at Council meetings?”
“I was only at full Council meetings when I had put up a paper, and was needed there to speak to it. Wyndam-Price was a member of the Executive.” Giles snorted, softly. “He wasn’t its chair but he ruled the Council, using its constitution as a weapon to humiliate, and chastise those who disagreed with him. I saw him reduce experienced watchers to tears, and the bathroom that those who reported to him used always smelt of vomit.”
He’d been in that bathroom once when he’d heard another watcher come in and sob like his heart was breaking in the next stall. He’d bitterly regretted that he hadn’t even so much as pushed a paper hanky under the wooden divider, or attempted a consolatory epithet about Wyndam-Price. Calling the man an old bastard might at least have made his colleague smile.
“He sounds great.” Angel’s tone was dry.
Giles shifted in his chair. “Is there any particular reason that you’re asking?”
“Something happened here the other night.”
“What kind of something?” Giles was folding and unfolding his glasses, one-handed, in a bid to dissipate his creeping sense of unease.
Angel’s voice lost some of its flippancy. “We had a visit from Roger Wyndam-Price. Actually, a robot that we thought was Roger Wyndam-
Price. The details aren’t really important, but -“
“Yes?”
“It pulled a gun on Fred and Wesley shot it. Shot him. Nine times in the chest and head.”
“Ah.” Giles’s hand stilled on his glasses.
“Wesley thought it was his father, and he shot him like he was putting down a rabid dog making a run at his baby’s crib.”
“I see.”
“He’s taken some time off.”
“I hope it is restorative.” Giles could hear his own voice stiffening with discomfort.
“Giles, there was a lot going on the night it happened. I may have screwed up the part where I was any help at all to Wesley.”
Giles looked at the door of his study. It had been at least an hour since someone had broken his concentration. He would have given twenty pounds for this ‘phone call to be interrupted.
“What did you say to him?”
“That it was heroic of him to save Fred. That I killed my father, too. Stupid things, mostly.”
“I see.” Giles repeated.
“I assumed that it was typical father and son stuff.” Angel sounded tentative. “I think maybe it was more than that.”
Giles looked at his door again, as though staring at it would make someone appear with an urgent matter that required his immediate attention. Perhaps Willow could develop a spell for that.
“Angel, you were evil. It can’t be a surprise to learn that sometimes people aren’t terribly nice to their children.”
“I didn’t think that things were so bad for Wesley. He never said-” Angel trailed off, lamely, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air.
“Having met them both, I have no doubt that Roger Wyndam-Price humiliated, belittled and scorned his son. Wesley probably spent most of his childhood feeling anxious, miserable and terribly alone.” Giles sighed. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Roger beat him, and it would only surprise me slightly if he buggered him.”
Angel cleared his throat. “So what should I do?”
“Do?” Giles looked at the phone as if that would mean that Angel could see his puzzled expression. “Do nothing! Wesley would find it the most unimaginable humiliation to be questioned about his relationship with his father by you.”
“I should let sleeping dogs lie?” There was a slight hint of archness in Angel’s voice.
Giles raised his eyebrows. “It doesn’t sound, from what you’ve said, like they’re asleep any longer. However, I think the best thing you can do is to let Wesley deal with things in his own way.” He paused, uncomfortable. “Your own father. Was he kind?”
“No.” Angel’s response was flat and unemotional.
“And do you wish to discuss it?”
“I see your point.”
“I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic.“ Giles drew one hand over his forehead. “People’s childhoods can, and do, have devastating impacts on their lives. You told me about that telekinetic woman you came across several years ago.”
“Bethany? Yeah.”
“If I thought for a moment that it would help Wesley, then I would advise you to talk to him. From what little I know of him and his upbringing, I think that would be the worst possible course of action. I think that letting him resolve it himself would be the kindest thing.”
“I kinda thought so, but I’m glad you’ve confirmed that for me.” Angel suddenly sounded all of his hundreds of years, and Giles wondered, fleetingly, whether working at Wolfram and Hart was too much like staring into a howling abyss for even the undead to cope with. “Thanks, Giles. I appreciate your time.”
“Goodbye, Angel.”
Giles opened his fingers and let the receiver drop down onto the phone with a click. There was an immediate rap on the door and it opened to reveal Willow, standing with a tea tray.
“Andrew asked me to bring up some tea.” She hefted the tray into the room and put it on the table that lay between two upholstered chairs. “Should I stay? I have some notes on the first draft of the watcher textbook.”
Giles smiled at her. “Please do, Willow. I just have to make a quick call.”
Willow started to pour out the tea as Giles lifted the phone and, consulting his desk diary, dialed an international number.”
He cleared his throat. “This is Rupert Giles leaving a message for Wesley Wyndam-Price. I’m having some problems with the Bodleian Codex and wondered if you would be able to give me some assistance with some of the trickier bits of Sumerian.”
At Willow’s startled glance he shook his head slightly, and then lifted his teacup to his mouth.