Fic: Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth, Chapter 5 (PG-13)
Hello! I'm contributing to Seasonal-Spuffy for the first time this year, and very excited to be posting today. Thank you, mods and fellow participants, for making this happen!
First up, Chapters 5 and 6 of my Season ~6 rewrite, Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth. These two chapters, set in the summer before Buffy is resurrected, are canon-compliant and self-contained. No prior knowledge required.
Summary: Giles makes a surprising discovery about Spike in his crypt and ends up rather the worse for wear, and Willow takes on extracurricular activities.
One notable departure from canon so far: In this verse Buffy and Spike have embarked on a budding relationship in Season 5 (in a trilogy of one-shots), culminating in my first NC-17 story where they consummate said relationship. Spike is also (more) accepted by the Scoobies. Edge of Sorrow will depart further from canon later on, but I think for now that's all that's different.
Chapter 5. What Doth Strengthen and What Maim
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
-- From “Bards of Passion and of Mirth” by John Keats
“I’m hooome!” Dawn shouted from the entrance, performing her usual circus act of shedding her backpack and jacket in one smooth move while shutting the door with a kick. A wave to dismiss Janice’s mother, who had dropped her off and was waiting outside in her idling car, concluded today’s impromptu addition. The car drove off.
“Tara! Willow!” Her volume increased to the top of her lungs. Without waiting for a response, she made a beeline for the refrigerator in the kitchen. The fridge light snapped on as she rattled the door open to consider her options: a third of a carton of milk, a roasted chicken under clear wrap, a Chinese takeout box with congealed leftovers that had become all but unidentifiable, two bottles of soda rolling sideways on the door, and a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
Through the dripping condensation of the plastic wrap, she tried to engage the chicken in a staring match, but the chicken only played dead. Meh. She reached for the milk instead, and gulped down most of what was left in the carton before tossing the not-exactly-empty container back in the fridge.
Kicking the fridge door shut behind her, she continued her call. “Tara! Willow! Anybody home?” After a few seconds of silence, she added tentatively, “Spike?” Getting no response, she muttered, “Where is everyone?” as she ran up the stairs two at a time and looked in all the rooms, even Buffy’s.
Empty.
Nobody was there to witness her deflate like a flat tire onto Buffy’s bed and try very hard not to cry.
After a long time, she sat up to face the still-empty house. Her efforts to hold back tears had not been entirely successful. “Fine! I can be not-here too! Watch me!” she announced to the silent walls, storming down the stairs and out the door.
It slammed behind her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The door creaked inward, apparently unfastened.
“Spike? Are you around?”
Giles’ words, as well as his knocking, went unanswered. Deciding that it would look quite silly to be seen addressing an open crypt door in a cemetery, he stepped in and secured the door behind him.
“Spike?”
His voice echoed in the vaulted crypt and he briefly considered backing out to return at a more opportune time, but the truth of the matter was, a visit with Spike was bound to be awkward anytime--well, ghastly might be the better word. And once there, he’d rather just get it over with. He wouldn’t be in Sunnydale long.
He’d timed his visit an hour before sunset to catch the vampire in his lair, suppressing that itch from years of Council indoctrination to pull out a stake and drive it home, past a satisfying crunch of ribs and through an unbeating heart.
He had a good aim, unlikely to miss. And that itch...was so like an instinct now, it almost short-circuited the logical part of his brain, overriding his understanding that Spike was an exceptional vampire.
Thank God for almost. What a relief that he hadn’t quite fossilized into the over-zealous rigidity of Quentin Travers, who held fast outdated notions in polarizing black and white against evidence of a nuanced reality staring him in the face.
The earth moved, shoving a Persian rug into an arch.
“Rupert!” Spike’s head and the top of his bare shoulders poked out from under the rug-concealed trapdoor. He sounded taken aback by the identity of his visitor. “Give us a mo’--jus’ need to get decent for company.”
He disappeared without waiting for a response. As Giles waited, curiosity got the better of him, and--strictly for academic interest only, he insisted to himself--he examined Spike’s worldly possessions.
There really wasn’t much, just what Giles imagined as the bare necessities of modern unliving: TV, armchair, sofa, mini-fridge, and a couple of end tables, all tattered or jury-rigged to suggest they’d been salvaged from the dump. The pillars of candles and Persian rugs provided a hint of warmth, but interior decoration held no specific interest for Giles.
That left the bookcase, which literally made him take a step back. Spike...reads? Giles had no doubt that he could, just...the mental image of the Big Bad, curling up with a book by candlelight after a spot of violence at Willy’s seemed…rather incongruent. Was his punk rocker, devil-may-care attitude all just a cultivated act? Giles surveyed the shelves: epic poetry by the likes of Homer and Dante, works of the three canonical Latin poets Virgil, Ovid, and Horace, and a collection of annotated Greek mythology took up the top shelf. Impressive.
Various works of Shakespeare, in mismatched sizes and formats and showing different degrees of wear-and-tear, cobbling together a surprisingly complete collection, pretty much filled out the second shelf. On the bottom shelf and tightly packed were volumes bearing venerable names such as Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, and Pablo Neruda. And in one end, offset by a heavy skull bookend, arranged chronologically as only a scholar would, instead of alphabetically, were poetry from the “Big Five” of the Romanticism movement: Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lord Byron, Shelley, and Keats.
Giles didn’t know what to make of it.
Spike’s library, excepting modern poetry, was an exact subset of Giles’ own collection, which, in his case, was a reflection of his Classics background. Some of the same books had followed Giles since his rebellious days at Oxford. He’d had to wrestle with the plausibility of Spike the white hat, a redemptive, soulless vampire. He was not quite ready for the notion of Spike the poet.
The memory of Spike quoting Romeo and Juliet at Buffy’s funeral took on a new light. Giles had assumed at the time that Spike had looked up an appropriate stanza, perhaps with the help of one of the Scoobies, and drilled it into his head just for the occasion. He had similarly written off Spike’s demonstrated familiarity with the St. Crispin’s Day Speech before the battle with Glory as something that all Brits knew. Staring at the bookcase, he suddenly came to the conclusion that in both cases, Spike had pulled the excerpts out of his repertoire on the spot and recited them from memory.
Giles felt slightly better upon his discovery of the Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. From one macabre romantic to another, that was Spike through and through.
There was a sudden dull sliding sound--from dragging the rug over the trap door, Giles deduced. He turned on the spot, and came face to face with Spike, light-footed as a cat and swift as only a vampire could be. In the warm flicker of candlelight, the sharp angles of Spike’s face might have been softened by his upturned mouth, but the stirring shadows rendered his expression unreadable. Were those specs of gold flashing in his eyes? Giles couldn’t be sure. His lips parted to let escape a faint, involuntary gasp, for although he had no fear, he was not foolish enough to repudiate the threat of a master vampire in the familiar ground of his own lair.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The compact book collection held a number of occult classics and rarities: De Lamiis et Pythonicis Mulieribus, a 15th century German treatise on witchcraft and feminine power; De praestigiis daemonum, the 16th century demonology bible in its original Dutch, with a volume of modern French translation next to it; the Cambridge translation of the 9th century fengshui classic, Esoteric Pronouncements of the Green Satchel, with a companion volume of interpretation; the medieval Oracula Sibyllina, a book of prophecies ascribed to the Sibyls, oracular women of ancient Greece.
Some of the books were worn down to the binding, yellow with age, preserved in acid-free, archival cellophane sleeves. Some were leafed with notes in neat, tight handwriting, almost doubling in girth from the meticulous additions. A couple of relics that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations of antiquity might fetch a handsome sum at reputable auction houses, and significantly more on the black market. Others had been perused with enough frequency that the leather covers had darkened with oil from contact, and softened and polished to an attractive sheen.
Willow closed her eyes and ran a hand over an entire row of mixed-material book spines, listening for the soft hiss of depressed paper dust jackets and the crisp crinkles of ruffled cellophane. So much knowledge bound within, so much power hidden in the text, as a riddle, a verse, a ludibrium, or an acrostic, wanting to be freed, waiting to be wielded. By someone capable and fearless and worthy.
Someone, Willow thought with absolute clarity and total certitude, like her.
She arched her back for a deep inhale, wanting nothing more than to imbibe all the power the books could offer, assimilate it, lock it within her. Either by misplaced trust or negligence, Giles had foregone protection spells on the collection, relying instead on a simple lock and key to restrict access. Which was hilarious considering anyone with half an interest in it would have to be an accomplished witch or warlock. The magicks Willow had accumulated in her repertoire would make Spike’s breaking-and-entering bag o’ tricks look like child’s play. No twisted bobby pin or tell-tale marks of forced entry; she had dismissed the physical barrier with a trivial incantation and a mere wave of her hands.
She banished a stray self-deprecating thought about the situation: she was such a bookworm, sneaking into the Magic Box like a thief only to covet thy neighbor’s library. When Giles left, he would no doubt strip the Magic Box of his personal collection and Council property, thus depriving the rest of them of the valuable research material. What a shame. Willow affected a pout on that thought. Never mind that the struggle between good and evil on the Hellmouth would simmer on, flaring now and again. It must have lasted millennia before them, and would go on to outlast them all.
Unless, of course, the recently intensified evil forces had all been held in check by the Slayer, and her sudden absence would quickly tip the scale in the wrong way. That would be of the major bad. Willow felt her resolve harden, her motivation renew. Challenges had that effect on her. She had a calling too--she sensed it then. She had already outgrown her shy, wallflower phase, but the world had yet to witness just how much it had underestimated little Willow. Nobody else in her circle was going to die, not even in a hell dimension, not if she could help it.
She refocused on the work at hand. Her locator spell had led her to the Magic Box. A quick glance revealed the books to be organized first by subject matter, then in alphabetical order, as Giles was wont to do, given any collection of books numbering more than three. Must be an occupational hazard for an ex-librarian. There was a brief moment of confusion and panic as a volume-by-volume scan of the “A” portion of the magic books section failed to yield the Aldaraia, as Willow had hoped. She wouldn’t screw up a simple locator spell. That was the magical equivalent of the freshman intro class.
She took out her loyal notebook--this one color-coded purple for magic--and double-checked the title: Aldaraia sive Soyga vocor. Translating that on the fly from Latin to English, Willow muttered, “Aldaraia, also called Soyga.”
The satisfaction of the aha moment was further bolstered by the sweet discovery itself. There it was, the Book of Soyga, a plain hardback, sans dust jacket, right after Songs and Incantations of Ancient Maya. Go me! Willow smiled to herself as she pulled out the reproduction of the 16th century tome of rituals and enchantments, self-proclaimed to hold the truth of life and rules of nature.
The last book she had acquired, the Voynich Manuscript, had been a terrible disappointment. A historian with a lifelong interest in mysticism, and a crackpot, Willow thought bitterly, had declared it the greatest transcendental grimoire of all time. That superlative had prompted Willow to dutifully track down a turn-of-the-century facsimile on eBay, outbidding book collectors and art historians alike with a pretty penny, only to end up with a useless and unsightful paperweight. The content had been written in a language she didn’t recognize on sight and failed to crack with her brilliant hacker mind, backed by the greater wisdom of the Internet.
It had been an auction rookie mistake. She should’ve had the foresight to request content pictures from the seller. But her unbound enthusiasm over the accidental discovery of the fortuitously-timed auction had overruled any caution. And instead of boring, time-consuming research in order to boost her confidence in the utility of the book, she had so cleverly used the time to develop a reusable computer program that altered the auction site software to permit a final bid from herself only, thus guaranteeing her victory.
Too soon, however, still high from the thrill of testing out her computer program and bubbling with pride over turning a nail-biting bidding war into a sure thing, she was forced to admit her oversight. Instead of being the Holy Grail, this manuscript of grandiloquent claims had turned out to be nothing more than a mirage, a diversion on the road to true solutions. Willow hadn’t let that temporary setback corrode her resolve.
It looked as if now she was back in business.
Opening to a random page to inspect, she eagerly studied a figure drawing of a cluster of dots, and frowned at its caption. The alphabet was of Latin construct, as it should be, but the words were utter gibberish.
She sank down to the floor, sitting cross-legged and leaning against the bookcase. She recognized none of the words, which was saying a lot. Not to brag about her self-taught Latin, but after all the Scooby research parties and her diligent and systematic devouring of every spell book she could get her hands on over the years, she wouldn’t blink to go up against a Classics professor in an Archaic Latin slam, had such things existed.
Willow tried a revealing spell to see if the text would reorganize itself into simple, straightforward Latin. No such luck. Intrigued, she unclipped a pen from the front pocket of her backpack without taking her eyes off of the book, and set to work.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“I’d gladly lend you that book”--Spike indicated the one in Giles’ hands with his chin, then tilted his head to read the title--“except I’d wager you already have it in your library. Don’t you, Rupert?”
Spike had taken care to make himself presentable, double-checking that his all-black ensemble was clean and undamaged by self-destructive bar brawls, and his voice ungarbled by alcohol. His self-image barely bore the embarrassment of repeat rescues by the Watcher. His reputation could not survive tales of William the Bloody’s inability to handle his liquor or fight his own battles. That he was anxious to make a good impression on the Watcher for reasons unrelated to his Big Bad image, he dismissed like a spent cigarette.
“Indeed.” Giles waved Dante’s Purgatorio at the bookcase, the source of his current bewilderment. “I must say I’m impressed by your book collection. You have quite a…sophisticated taste.”
Despite Giles’ calm demeanor, Spike could hear the quickened thumping of his heart and scent the intoxicating albeit faint perfume of his fear in the air, which made his fangs itch to drop. Chip or no chip, white hat or demon core, Spike could not override a hundred and twenty years of conditioning as a vampire. The Pavlovian triggering of appetite by proximity to human, though far from overwhelming since his days as a fledgeling, was automatic.
He reached for Virgil’s the Aeneid to call forth his humanity. Would Virgil, who spoke prophetically of gods and men, bestow upon him, by all accounts a lowly creature of the underworld, an act of benevolent divine intervention? Would Virgil, who seemed to regard fate above free will and one’s own desires, deny him a fighting chance for redemption? Would those around him? He wondered.
He opened the Aeneid to a dog-eared page and let his eyes glide over the familiar Latin, and watched with smug satisfaction as Giles’ jaw dropped further. He’d been able to fool everyone into underestimating him. Time for William the Bloody Reformed Vampire to show off.
“What, you ‘spect to find stashes of Playboy and Guns&Ammo?”
Giles parted his lips for a reply, then seemed to think better of it. Spike cocked one eyebrow. “Got those too. Well, not the ones about guns. Never could abide them. Bit like cheating. Seeing as I’m never without my weapons.” He flashed his fangs to elaborate, gleeful when Giles frowned.
Except that with the chip forcibly implanted in his head, his good ol’ days of intimidating humans had come to an end. His bumpies had been reduced to a show of empty posturing only, similar to putting on a suit of armor...made of paper. There was cold comfort in hanging around oldies, those who still recalled visions of his demon unleashed in all of its glory.
“And push comes to shove, I much prefer the assurance of a well-crafted axe in my hand: resilient hardwood haft, reinforced single-bit steel head. It’s all about the sensation when you hit target.” He swung his hand through air with confidence, stopping just short of the bookcase. “Can see how you’d make that mistake about my preferred reading material, though. A soulless demon like myself couldn’t possibly harbor a secret interest in Homer and Shakespeare or books at all when, in fact, it’s Slayer who--”
The sudden thought of Buffy attacked his defenses like a landslide. No longer able to muster the mental capacity to prop up the façade of casualness he had so meticulously put on for Giles’ sake, he instead let it crumble down like a house of cards, falling where they might. Impressing Giles had suddenly lost its appeal. He didn’t feel like showing off; he wanted to hide. Aware of the Watcher’s eyes on him, he returned the volume of Virgil to the shelf to stop the trembling of his hands, and finished softly, “--it’s Slayer who...didn’t read.”
“Yes,” Giles replied in matching tone, hands gliding over familiar titles as if to recall memories behind each--memories, Spike suspected, of happier times, of a resilient youth. Instead of meeting Spike’s eyes, he appeared to be fascinated with his hand, now draped over King Lear. “Buffy’s idea of enlightenment was tips from this month’s Cosmo.”
They both chuckled at that.
Spike pulled out his cherished half bottle of Macallan 18 from behind the tome by Edgar Allan Poe--who, he spared a random thought, had known something about drinking. Oh, Buffy! Would he ever get to the point where thinking about her wouldn’t feel like being gored by a Kungai demon's Tak horn? Eternity might be deep and wide, but he feared that even as dust, he’d mourn her loss and feel the pain ingrained in his demon essence, whatever that was. He resisted the urge to chug the bottle straight up--must appear civilized before our guest here--and instead retrieved two chilled glasses from the mini-fridge.
“And the words she used sometimes”--Spike reminisced, collapsing heavily into his armchair, bottle firmly in hand--“you’d think she’d never cracked open a dictionary in her life.” He tipped the bottle over a glass for an extended pour, then downed the content in one gulp. He’d fought plenty of demons before and since, but no amount of physical violence would diminish his longing. He missed her quips and taunts that suited their dances together like music. Under his breath, he murmured, “Bloody adorable.”
Giles sent him a look and sank down to the nearby sofa. “You’re one to talk! A significant portion of your vocabulary is taken up by swear words.”
“Why, thank you, Rupert. Didn’t think you cared enough to notice. By the by”--he shifted uncomfortably--“‘preciate your coming to my aid at Willy’s. Din’t seem right to bring up at the funeral, but--much obliged.” He inclined his head at Giles, proffering a glass with a generous pour of whisky.
“Yes, quite,” said Giles ungraciously. Grabbing the glass, he took a long sip. “You pull that rot again, I’ll personally kick your pale vamp arse six ways from Sunday!”
Threats from Giles were nothing new, but the heat behind his words struck Spike as particularly heart-felt. He swallowed an automatic “Would like to see you try!” challenge, no doubt expected of him, a typical short-circuited retort from ego to mouth, bypassing his brain entirely.
Sensitized to the rawness of Buffy’s loss, he didn’t trust his feelings these days, but it almost sounded as if the Watcher actually cared for his welfare. On second thought, it made sense that the Watcher would hold his self-destructive tendencies in contempt. He was a teacher at his core, and a self-reliant warrior against darkness. To him, the waste of unrealized potential, by giving in to one’s inner demons, must be the worst offense.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Spike chuckled. He had thought that nothing mattered anymore, but he was wrong. He still had more to lose. “Anyway, got the Bit to take care of, yeah? Cleaned up my act.” It felt liberating to come clean to Giles. He’d done it for Dawn, hadn’t he? Now all they’d got left was each other. No more, no less. And for Spike it would remain so, as he’d promised, ‘til the end of the world.
“So I’ve heard. Reports from Willow noted your presence at Revello Drive every night since the funeral, looking after Dawn.” Giles’ tone was neutral as he watched Spike.
“Ah, got your eyes and ears on me, have you, Watcher?” He let escape a dejected exhale of air. So he was still not to be trusted, after all. He swirled the amber liquid in his hand, then downed a long swig. His day had started out with so much promise.
“On the contrary,” said Giles. “Willow seems to be under the impression that I expect regular updates on everyone from her. It’d be flattering if not for the way she quietly ignores my express counsel, while putting on a show about yielding to my authority. As is, I find it…” Giles paused to sip from his glass. “Unnerving.”
“Hmm.” Spike took in this new information. He’d always pegged Willow as a dangerous witch with a latent thirst for power, unlikely to settle for the position of second fiddle for long. He didn’t know if he believed in auras or psychic readings, but there was something about Willow, a humming dark power attuned to the vibrations of the Hellmouth, that always set his demon on edge. In the presence of the boisterous Buffy, the Chosen One, she had been overshadowed and dangerously overlooked. Now, in the power vacuum of the aftermath… Spike thought it was high time someone else had picked up on it as well.
“You couldn’t possibly be confiding in me now, could you, Rupert?” He regarded Giles with suspicion. “Clearly ‘member being told my opinion would never be wanted.”
"‘In the course of my life I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.’"
Spike laughed heartily, head rolling from side to side on the back of his chair. “Winston Churchill. Well, he’d know a thing or two ‘bout eating his words.” He raised his glass to Giles, then brought it to his lips and drained it dry.
Giles smiled warmly and returned the gesture, before taking a hearty mouthful from his own glass. Was he testing Spike’s knowledge? Either way, he seemed satisfied. “Good to have someone finally get the references I make! Talking to these children in California, I’m afraid to lower my IQ through osmosis.”
“Yeah, we Brits gotta stick together in this land of the colonials.” Spike poured himself another, and topped off Giles’ glass. “No decent cuppa to be had, that’s for sure. Except at yours, Rupert.”
Giles downed half the glass in one swig. “I’d trade Earl Grey for your beverage of choice here any day. Speaking of Merry Ol’, I won’t be long for the land of the, uhm, colonials, as you put it.”
Spike had known Giles would be leaving, but hadn’t expected the courtesy of a personal farewell from the Watcher. He felt vindicated, in a way, if an act of desertion could be wrangled to represent fellowship and acceptance. Nah, not the act, per se, he reconsidered, but the forewarning thereof. As if they were equals. As if he mattered. Flustered, he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“And you thought it fitting to crown me the head of the farewell party committee?” He settled on redirection to humor. It’d served him well before.
Giles laughed heartily, reclining and putting his feet up the sofa. “Well, I shudder to think of the refreshments, but the liquor I trust will be top shelf?”
“Only the best for you, Watcher. Only the best.”
“And come by honestly?” he hastened to add, sitting up with the glass of Macallan 18 safely within his grasp.
“Oh, certain sure! An’ to be enjoyed responsibly.” Spike nodded, wearing his best innocent expression. Giles narrowed his eyes.
“But before I lose my train of thought, I’ve rather a proposition for you...”
Spike sent the Watcher a quick glance: serious Giles was back. Quietly, he put down his drink, but covertly topped off the Watcher’s. The latter had recently witnessed him sloshed four-on-the-floor at Willy’s, which made it imperative he stayed reasonably sober throughout this conversation. And just to asseverate he was still evil, Spike relished the thought of turning the tables on the Watcher. By the look of it, he was already half way there.
(TBC in Chapter 6)
End Note: With the exception of Songs and Incantations of Ancient Maya, which I made up for the alphabetical order, all the book titles mentioned in this chapter belonged to actual books. The Voynich Manuscript, in particular, is a real mystery, in that the unknown alphabet used to write the medieval book has never been successfully decoded.
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Feedback will be most appreciated. :)
Previous chapters on LJ:
First up, Chapters 5 and 6 of my Season ~6 rewrite, Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth. These two chapters, set in the summer before Buffy is resurrected, are canon-compliant and self-contained. No prior knowledge required.
Summary: Giles makes a surprising discovery about Spike in his crypt and ends up rather the worse for wear, and Willow takes on extracurricular activities.
One notable departure from canon so far: In this verse Buffy and Spike have embarked on a budding relationship in Season 5 (in a trilogy of one-shots), culminating in my first NC-17 story where they consummate said relationship. Spike is also (more) accepted by the Scoobies. Edge of Sorrow will depart further from canon later on, but I think for now that's all that's different.
Chapter 5. What Doth Strengthen and What Maim
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim.
-- From “Bards of Passion and of Mirth” by John Keats
“I’m hooome!” Dawn shouted from the entrance, performing her usual circus act of shedding her backpack and jacket in one smooth move while shutting the door with a kick. A wave to dismiss Janice’s mother, who had dropped her off and was waiting outside in her idling car, concluded today’s impromptu addition. The car drove off.
“Tara! Willow!” Her volume increased to the top of her lungs. Without waiting for a response, she made a beeline for the refrigerator in the kitchen. The fridge light snapped on as she rattled the door open to consider her options: a third of a carton of milk, a roasted chicken under clear wrap, a Chinese takeout box with congealed leftovers that had become all but unidentifiable, two bottles of soda rolling sideways on the door, and a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
Through the dripping condensation of the plastic wrap, she tried to engage the chicken in a staring match, but the chicken only played dead. Meh. She reached for the milk instead, and gulped down most of what was left in the carton before tossing the not-exactly-empty container back in the fridge.
Kicking the fridge door shut behind her, she continued her call. “Tara! Willow! Anybody home?” After a few seconds of silence, she added tentatively, “Spike?” Getting no response, she muttered, “Where is everyone?” as she ran up the stairs two at a time and looked in all the rooms, even Buffy’s.
Empty.
Nobody was there to witness her deflate like a flat tire onto Buffy’s bed and try very hard not to cry.
After a long time, she sat up to face the still-empty house. Her efforts to hold back tears had not been entirely successful. “Fine! I can be not-here too! Watch me!” she announced to the silent walls, storming down the stairs and out the door.
It slammed behind her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The door creaked inward, apparently unfastened.
“Spike? Are you around?”
Giles’ words, as well as his knocking, went unanswered. Deciding that it would look quite silly to be seen addressing an open crypt door in a cemetery, he stepped in and secured the door behind him.
“Spike?”
His voice echoed in the vaulted crypt and he briefly considered backing out to return at a more opportune time, but the truth of the matter was, a visit with Spike was bound to be awkward anytime--well, ghastly might be the better word. And once there, he’d rather just get it over with. He wouldn’t be in Sunnydale long.
He’d timed his visit an hour before sunset to catch the vampire in his lair, suppressing that itch from years of Council indoctrination to pull out a stake and drive it home, past a satisfying crunch of ribs and through an unbeating heart.
He had a good aim, unlikely to miss. And that itch...was so like an instinct now, it almost short-circuited the logical part of his brain, overriding his understanding that Spike was an exceptional vampire.
Thank God for almost. What a relief that he hadn’t quite fossilized into the over-zealous rigidity of Quentin Travers, who held fast outdated notions in polarizing black and white against evidence of a nuanced reality staring him in the face.
The earth moved, shoving a Persian rug into an arch.
“Rupert!” Spike’s head and the top of his bare shoulders poked out from under the rug-concealed trapdoor. He sounded taken aback by the identity of his visitor. “Give us a mo’--jus’ need to get decent for company.”
He disappeared without waiting for a response. As Giles waited, curiosity got the better of him, and--strictly for academic interest only, he insisted to himself--he examined Spike’s worldly possessions.
There really wasn’t much, just what Giles imagined as the bare necessities of modern unliving: TV, armchair, sofa, mini-fridge, and a couple of end tables, all tattered or jury-rigged to suggest they’d been salvaged from the dump. The pillars of candles and Persian rugs provided a hint of warmth, but interior decoration held no specific interest for Giles.
That left the bookcase, which literally made him take a step back. Spike...reads? Giles had no doubt that he could, just...the mental image of the Big Bad, curling up with a book by candlelight after a spot of violence at Willy’s seemed…rather incongruent. Was his punk rocker, devil-may-care attitude all just a cultivated act? Giles surveyed the shelves: epic poetry by the likes of Homer and Dante, works of the three canonical Latin poets Virgil, Ovid, and Horace, and a collection of annotated Greek mythology took up the top shelf. Impressive.
Various works of Shakespeare, in mismatched sizes and formats and showing different degrees of wear-and-tear, cobbling together a surprisingly complete collection, pretty much filled out the second shelf. On the bottom shelf and tightly packed were volumes bearing venerable names such as Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, and Pablo Neruda. And in one end, offset by a heavy skull bookend, arranged chronologically as only a scholar would, instead of alphabetically, were poetry from the “Big Five” of the Romanticism movement: Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lord Byron, Shelley, and Keats.
Giles didn’t know what to make of it.
Spike’s library, excepting modern poetry, was an exact subset of Giles’ own collection, which, in his case, was a reflection of his Classics background. Some of the same books had followed Giles since his rebellious days at Oxford. He’d had to wrestle with the plausibility of Spike the white hat, a redemptive, soulless vampire. He was not quite ready for the notion of Spike the poet.
The memory of Spike quoting Romeo and Juliet at Buffy’s funeral took on a new light. Giles had assumed at the time that Spike had looked up an appropriate stanza, perhaps with the help of one of the Scoobies, and drilled it into his head just for the occasion. He had similarly written off Spike’s demonstrated familiarity with the St. Crispin’s Day Speech before the battle with Glory as something that all Brits knew. Staring at the bookcase, he suddenly came to the conclusion that in both cases, Spike had pulled the excerpts out of his repertoire on the spot and recited them from memory.
Giles felt slightly better upon his discovery of the Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. From one macabre romantic to another, that was Spike through and through.
There was a sudden dull sliding sound--from dragging the rug over the trap door, Giles deduced. He turned on the spot, and came face to face with Spike, light-footed as a cat and swift as only a vampire could be. In the warm flicker of candlelight, the sharp angles of Spike’s face might have been softened by his upturned mouth, but the stirring shadows rendered his expression unreadable. Were those specs of gold flashing in his eyes? Giles couldn’t be sure. His lips parted to let escape a faint, involuntary gasp, for although he had no fear, he was not foolish enough to repudiate the threat of a master vampire in the familiar ground of his own lair.
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The compact book collection held a number of occult classics and rarities: De Lamiis et Pythonicis Mulieribus, a 15th century German treatise on witchcraft and feminine power; De praestigiis daemonum, the 16th century demonology bible in its original Dutch, with a volume of modern French translation next to it; the Cambridge translation of the 9th century fengshui classic, Esoteric Pronouncements of the Green Satchel, with a companion volume of interpretation; the medieval Oracula Sibyllina, a book of prophecies ascribed to the Sibyls, oracular women of ancient Greece.
Some of the books were worn down to the binding, yellow with age, preserved in acid-free, archival cellophane sleeves. Some were leafed with notes in neat, tight handwriting, almost doubling in girth from the meticulous additions. A couple of relics that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations of antiquity might fetch a handsome sum at reputable auction houses, and significantly more on the black market. Others had been perused with enough frequency that the leather covers had darkened with oil from contact, and softened and polished to an attractive sheen.
Willow closed her eyes and ran a hand over an entire row of mixed-material book spines, listening for the soft hiss of depressed paper dust jackets and the crisp crinkles of ruffled cellophane. So much knowledge bound within, so much power hidden in the text, as a riddle, a verse, a ludibrium, or an acrostic, wanting to be freed, waiting to be wielded. By someone capable and fearless and worthy.
Someone, Willow thought with absolute clarity and total certitude, like her.
She arched her back for a deep inhale, wanting nothing more than to imbibe all the power the books could offer, assimilate it, lock it within her. Either by misplaced trust or negligence, Giles had foregone protection spells on the collection, relying instead on a simple lock and key to restrict access. Which was hilarious considering anyone with half an interest in it would have to be an accomplished witch or warlock. The magicks Willow had accumulated in her repertoire would make Spike’s breaking-and-entering bag o’ tricks look like child’s play. No twisted bobby pin or tell-tale marks of forced entry; she had dismissed the physical barrier with a trivial incantation and a mere wave of her hands.
She banished a stray self-deprecating thought about the situation: she was such a bookworm, sneaking into the Magic Box like a thief only to covet thy neighbor’s library. When Giles left, he would no doubt strip the Magic Box of his personal collection and Council property, thus depriving the rest of them of the valuable research material. What a shame. Willow affected a pout on that thought. Never mind that the struggle between good and evil on the Hellmouth would simmer on, flaring now and again. It must have lasted millennia before them, and would go on to outlast them all.
Unless, of course, the recently intensified evil forces had all been held in check by the Slayer, and her sudden absence would quickly tip the scale in the wrong way. That would be of the major bad. Willow felt her resolve harden, her motivation renew. Challenges had that effect on her. She had a calling too--she sensed it then. She had already outgrown her shy, wallflower phase, but the world had yet to witness just how much it had underestimated little Willow. Nobody else in her circle was going to die, not even in a hell dimension, not if she could help it.
She refocused on the work at hand. Her locator spell had led her to the Magic Box. A quick glance revealed the books to be organized first by subject matter, then in alphabetical order, as Giles was wont to do, given any collection of books numbering more than three. Must be an occupational hazard for an ex-librarian. There was a brief moment of confusion and panic as a volume-by-volume scan of the “A” portion of the magic books section failed to yield the Aldaraia, as Willow had hoped. She wouldn’t screw up a simple locator spell. That was the magical equivalent of the freshman intro class.
She took out her loyal notebook--this one color-coded purple for magic--and double-checked the title: Aldaraia sive Soyga vocor. Translating that on the fly from Latin to English, Willow muttered, “Aldaraia, also called Soyga.”
The satisfaction of the aha moment was further bolstered by the sweet discovery itself. There it was, the Book of Soyga, a plain hardback, sans dust jacket, right after Songs and Incantations of Ancient Maya. Go me! Willow smiled to herself as she pulled out the reproduction of the 16th century tome of rituals and enchantments, self-proclaimed to hold the truth of life and rules of nature.
The last book she had acquired, the Voynich Manuscript, had been a terrible disappointment. A historian with a lifelong interest in mysticism, and a crackpot, Willow thought bitterly, had declared it the greatest transcendental grimoire of all time. That superlative had prompted Willow to dutifully track down a turn-of-the-century facsimile on eBay, outbidding book collectors and art historians alike with a pretty penny, only to end up with a useless and unsightful paperweight. The content had been written in a language she didn’t recognize on sight and failed to crack with her brilliant hacker mind, backed by the greater wisdom of the Internet.
It had been an auction rookie mistake. She should’ve had the foresight to request content pictures from the seller. But her unbound enthusiasm over the accidental discovery of the fortuitously-timed auction had overruled any caution. And instead of boring, time-consuming research in order to boost her confidence in the utility of the book, she had so cleverly used the time to develop a reusable computer program that altered the auction site software to permit a final bid from herself only, thus guaranteeing her victory.
Too soon, however, still high from the thrill of testing out her computer program and bubbling with pride over turning a nail-biting bidding war into a sure thing, she was forced to admit her oversight. Instead of being the Holy Grail, this manuscript of grandiloquent claims had turned out to be nothing more than a mirage, a diversion on the road to true solutions. Willow hadn’t let that temporary setback corrode her resolve.
It looked as if now she was back in business.
Opening to a random page to inspect, she eagerly studied a figure drawing of a cluster of dots, and frowned at its caption. The alphabet was of Latin construct, as it should be, but the words were utter gibberish.
She sank down to the floor, sitting cross-legged and leaning against the bookcase. She recognized none of the words, which was saying a lot. Not to brag about her self-taught Latin, but after all the Scooby research parties and her diligent and systematic devouring of every spell book she could get her hands on over the years, she wouldn’t blink to go up against a Classics professor in an Archaic Latin slam, had such things existed.
Willow tried a revealing spell to see if the text would reorganize itself into simple, straightforward Latin. No such luck. Intrigued, she unclipped a pen from the front pocket of her backpack without taking her eyes off of the book, and set to work.
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“I’d gladly lend you that book”--Spike indicated the one in Giles’ hands with his chin, then tilted his head to read the title--“except I’d wager you already have it in your library. Don’t you, Rupert?”
Spike had taken care to make himself presentable, double-checking that his all-black ensemble was clean and undamaged by self-destructive bar brawls, and his voice ungarbled by alcohol. His self-image barely bore the embarrassment of repeat rescues by the Watcher. His reputation could not survive tales of William the Bloody’s inability to handle his liquor or fight his own battles. That he was anxious to make a good impression on the Watcher for reasons unrelated to his Big Bad image, he dismissed like a spent cigarette.
“Indeed.” Giles waved Dante’s Purgatorio at the bookcase, the source of his current bewilderment. “I must say I’m impressed by your book collection. You have quite a…sophisticated taste.”
Despite Giles’ calm demeanor, Spike could hear the quickened thumping of his heart and scent the intoxicating albeit faint perfume of his fear in the air, which made his fangs itch to drop. Chip or no chip, white hat or demon core, Spike could not override a hundred and twenty years of conditioning as a vampire. The Pavlovian triggering of appetite by proximity to human, though far from overwhelming since his days as a fledgeling, was automatic.
He reached for Virgil’s the Aeneid to call forth his humanity. Would Virgil, who spoke prophetically of gods and men, bestow upon him, by all accounts a lowly creature of the underworld, an act of benevolent divine intervention? Would Virgil, who seemed to regard fate above free will and one’s own desires, deny him a fighting chance for redemption? Would those around him? He wondered.
He opened the Aeneid to a dog-eared page and let his eyes glide over the familiar Latin, and watched with smug satisfaction as Giles’ jaw dropped further. He’d been able to fool everyone into underestimating him. Time for William the Bloody Reformed Vampire to show off.
“What, you ‘spect to find stashes of Playboy and Guns&Ammo?”
Giles parted his lips for a reply, then seemed to think better of it. Spike cocked one eyebrow. “Got those too. Well, not the ones about guns. Never could abide them. Bit like cheating. Seeing as I’m never without my weapons.” He flashed his fangs to elaborate, gleeful when Giles frowned.
Except that with the chip forcibly implanted in his head, his good ol’ days of intimidating humans had come to an end. His bumpies had been reduced to a show of empty posturing only, similar to putting on a suit of armor...made of paper. There was cold comfort in hanging around oldies, those who still recalled visions of his demon unleashed in all of its glory.
“And push comes to shove, I much prefer the assurance of a well-crafted axe in my hand: resilient hardwood haft, reinforced single-bit steel head. It’s all about the sensation when you hit target.” He swung his hand through air with confidence, stopping just short of the bookcase. “Can see how you’d make that mistake about my preferred reading material, though. A soulless demon like myself couldn’t possibly harbor a secret interest in Homer and Shakespeare or books at all when, in fact, it’s Slayer who--”
The sudden thought of Buffy attacked his defenses like a landslide. No longer able to muster the mental capacity to prop up the façade of casualness he had so meticulously put on for Giles’ sake, he instead let it crumble down like a house of cards, falling where they might. Impressing Giles had suddenly lost its appeal. He didn’t feel like showing off; he wanted to hide. Aware of the Watcher’s eyes on him, he returned the volume of Virgil to the shelf to stop the trembling of his hands, and finished softly, “--it’s Slayer who...didn’t read.”
“Yes,” Giles replied in matching tone, hands gliding over familiar titles as if to recall memories behind each--memories, Spike suspected, of happier times, of a resilient youth. Instead of meeting Spike’s eyes, he appeared to be fascinated with his hand, now draped over King Lear. “Buffy’s idea of enlightenment was tips from this month’s Cosmo.”
They both chuckled at that.
Spike pulled out his cherished half bottle of Macallan 18 from behind the tome by Edgar Allan Poe--who, he spared a random thought, had known something about drinking. Oh, Buffy! Would he ever get to the point where thinking about her wouldn’t feel like being gored by a Kungai demon's Tak horn? Eternity might be deep and wide, but he feared that even as dust, he’d mourn her loss and feel the pain ingrained in his demon essence, whatever that was. He resisted the urge to chug the bottle straight up--must appear civilized before our guest here--and instead retrieved two chilled glasses from the mini-fridge.
“And the words she used sometimes”--Spike reminisced, collapsing heavily into his armchair, bottle firmly in hand--“you’d think she’d never cracked open a dictionary in her life.” He tipped the bottle over a glass for an extended pour, then downed the content in one gulp. He’d fought plenty of demons before and since, but no amount of physical violence would diminish his longing. He missed her quips and taunts that suited their dances together like music. Under his breath, he murmured, “Bloody adorable.”
Giles sent him a look and sank down to the nearby sofa. “You’re one to talk! A significant portion of your vocabulary is taken up by swear words.”
“Why, thank you, Rupert. Didn’t think you cared enough to notice. By the by”--he shifted uncomfortably--“‘preciate your coming to my aid at Willy’s. Din’t seem right to bring up at the funeral, but--much obliged.” He inclined his head at Giles, proffering a glass with a generous pour of whisky.
“Yes, quite,” said Giles ungraciously. Grabbing the glass, he took a long sip. “You pull that rot again, I’ll personally kick your pale vamp arse six ways from Sunday!”
Threats from Giles were nothing new, but the heat behind his words struck Spike as particularly heart-felt. He swallowed an automatic “Would like to see you try!” challenge, no doubt expected of him, a typical short-circuited retort from ego to mouth, bypassing his brain entirely.
Sensitized to the rawness of Buffy’s loss, he didn’t trust his feelings these days, but it almost sounded as if the Watcher actually cared for his welfare. On second thought, it made sense that the Watcher would hold his self-destructive tendencies in contempt. He was a teacher at his core, and a self-reliant warrior against darkness. To him, the waste of unrealized potential, by giving in to one’s inner demons, must be the worst offense.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Spike chuckled. He had thought that nothing mattered anymore, but he was wrong. He still had more to lose. “Anyway, got the Bit to take care of, yeah? Cleaned up my act.” It felt liberating to come clean to Giles. He’d done it for Dawn, hadn’t he? Now all they’d got left was each other. No more, no less. And for Spike it would remain so, as he’d promised, ‘til the end of the world.
“So I’ve heard. Reports from Willow noted your presence at Revello Drive every night since the funeral, looking after Dawn.” Giles’ tone was neutral as he watched Spike.
“Ah, got your eyes and ears on me, have you, Watcher?” He let escape a dejected exhale of air. So he was still not to be trusted, after all. He swirled the amber liquid in his hand, then downed a long swig. His day had started out with so much promise.
“On the contrary,” said Giles. “Willow seems to be under the impression that I expect regular updates on everyone from her. It’d be flattering if not for the way she quietly ignores my express counsel, while putting on a show about yielding to my authority. As is, I find it…” Giles paused to sip from his glass. “Unnerving.”
“Hmm.” Spike took in this new information. He’d always pegged Willow as a dangerous witch with a latent thirst for power, unlikely to settle for the position of second fiddle for long. He didn’t know if he believed in auras or psychic readings, but there was something about Willow, a humming dark power attuned to the vibrations of the Hellmouth, that always set his demon on edge. In the presence of the boisterous Buffy, the Chosen One, she had been overshadowed and dangerously overlooked. Now, in the power vacuum of the aftermath… Spike thought it was high time someone else had picked up on it as well.
“You couldn’t possibly be confiding in me now, could you, Rupert?” He regarded Giles with suspicion. “Clearly ‘member being told my opinion would never be wanted.”
"‘In the course of my life I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.’"
Spike laughed heartily, head rolling from side to side on the back of his chair. “Winston Churchill. Well, he’d know a thing or two ‘bout eating his words.” He raised his glass to Giles, then brought it to his lips and drained it dry.
Giles smiled warmly and returned the gesture, before taking a hearty mouthful from his own glass. Was he testing Spike’s knowledge? Either way, he seemed satisfied. “Good to have someone finally get the references I make! Talking to these children in California, I’m afraid to lower my IQ through osmosis.”
“Yeah, we Brits gotta stick together in this land of the colonials.” Spike poured himself another, and topped off Giles’ glass. “No decent cuppa to be had, that’s for sure. Except at yours, Rupert.”
Giles downed half the glass in one swig. “I’d trade Earl Grey for your beverage of choice here any day. Speaking of Merry Ol’, I won’t be long for the land of the, uhm, colonials, as you put it.”
Spike had known Giles would be leaving, but hadn’t expected the courtesy of a personal farewell from the Watcher. He felt vindicated, in a way, if an act of desertion could be wrangled to represent fellowship and acceptance. Nah, not the act, per se, he reconsidered, but the forewarning thereof. As if they were equals. As if he mattered. Flustered, he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“And you thought it fitting to crown me the head of the farewell party committee?” He settled on redirection to humor. It’d served him well before.
Giles laughed heartily, reclining and putting his feet up the sofa. “Well, I shudder to think of the refreshments, but the liquor I trust will be top shelf?”
“Only the best for you, Watcher. Only the best.”
“And come by honestly?” he hastened to add, sitting up with the glass of Macallan 18 safely within his grasp.
“Oh, certain sure! An’ to be enjoyed responsibly.” Spike nodded, wearing his best innocent expression. Giles narrowed his eyes.
“But before I lose my train of thought, I’ve rather a proposition for you...”
Spike sent the Watcher a quick glance: serious Giles was back. Quietly, he put down his drink, but covertly topped off the Watcher’s. The latter had recently witnessed him sloshed four-on-the-floor at Willy’s, which made it imperative he stayed reasonably sober throughout this conversation. And just to asseverate he was still evil, Spike relished the thought of turning the tables on the Watcher. By the look of it, he was already half way there.
(TBC in Chapter 6)
End Note: With the exception of Songs and Incantations of Ancient Maya, which I made up for the alphabetical order, all the book titles mentioned in this chapter belonged to actual books. The Voynich Manuscript, in particular, is a real mystery, in that the unknown alphabet used to write the medieval book has never been successfully decoded.
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Feedback will be most appreciated. :)
Previous chapters on LJ:
- Chapter 1: All My Days Are Trances (In which Spike is devasted, Tara is awesome, Giles verbally bitch-slaps Quentin Travers, and Xander is in the doghouse.)
- Chapter 2: Not in Old Heroic Traces (In which Spike copes the only way he knows, Dawn wins my sympathy, Giles rebukes Willow, and Anya practices small talk on Giles.)
- Chapter 3: On the Shore of the Wide World (In which Giles unwittingly starts a couple's fight, then becomes the hero of the day; and Spike has a nice dream that's not really uplifting, and a rude awakening that's helpful in the long run).
- Chapter 4: I Am Not Resigned (In which the Scoobies come together for the first time at Buffy's funeral. A stand-alone one-shot.)