The Tao of Not Murdering All Your Friends, Part 4 of ?
As Not Willow scurries under the table, I remove a dusty pile of comics from what nominally serves as the guest chair, if anybody besides me ever came down here. Not that I am bitter. Nope. No bitterness here. No sirree, Bob. No sirrees at all. We are experiencing a sirree drought this year. In the meantime, would you like to try our fine crop of Don't Give A Fuck?
I become aware of the fact that Giles is saying something.
“Huh?”
“I said,” says Giles, in his usual tone of voice when talking to me (mild annoyance), “That Willow sounded quite worried about you.”
“She must have been talking about someone else. She's been kind of busy doing other things recently. Or other people.” That comes out with more bitterness than I had intended. Giles doesn't seem to pick up on it, although you can never quite tell with Giles. Much like another individual in our group, or their group these days, who's really a great guy twenty-seven days out of the month and whom I have absolutely no business being bitter about.
“There was a phone call from your address,” says Giles. “You didn't know? Very well, then. I'll be going now. Work to do, you know.” Of course. Who wants to hang out with the unemployed loser who lives in his parents' basement?
Giles strides over and opens the door, and I'm already preparing to check under the table to see if Not Willow has taken the opportunity to get away somehow or other when he shuts it again without leaving and returns to me, making surprisingly little noise and writing in his notebook as he goes. He hands it to me. It reads: “There's someone hiding in your apartment.”
Wow. I always used to think it was OK to be on the slow side, because Will and I were basically the same person anyway and we averaged out, but now I sort of wish I could do that kind of Sherlock Holmes stuff by myself.
On a related note: This is bad. I still have no idea of what to do about Not Willow, and if Giles could tell she was in the room without seeing her, he'll certainly be able to find her. Assuming she's still under the table and not off using the population of Sunnydale as her personal Jell-O mold (now in three all-new shapes!) because I didn't have the guts to stake her.
Oh, crap. I'm as bad as Buffy was with Angelus. Worse, even. I mean, Buffy did kill him eventually, and it's not really her fault that people around here return from the dead more often than Cher reunion tours. Whereas I don't know if I can do it. I mean, this is Willow. Or rather, this isn't Willow, but even the just-as-good All Natural Willow Substitute looks pretty Willowy to me.
Not the time. Giles is already looking around the room. I write in the notebook, “How did you know?”
He returns, still looking uneasily over his shoulder, and writes “Phone call. You didn't know. Hence someone else did.”
Oh. Yeah. Should have thought that through, but I didn't really expect anyone to be interested enough to come looking for me. I mean, if Not Willow hadn't been ... whatever she is, I would have been dead yesterday, and the first time anybody realized I was missing would probably have been when my mother noticed the smell, which means never.
“I did call,” I explain. “I hung up when I realized I didn't have anything to say.”
Giles gives a stiff sort of nod and walks a few paces towards the door, then stops and clears his throat.
“You do know that you can call your friends regardless of, ah, immediate urgency or import?”
“Yeah.” Right.
He nods again and heads door-wards. His shoulders seem slumped; he suddenly seems a little older.
As he opens the door, he looks back, clears his throat and says, “Willow and Buffy will be patrolling near, ah, Shady Hill Cemetery around nine this evening. If you were by any chance able to spare the time to drop by, I believe it would be a very pleasant surprise for them.”
“Yeah,” I say again. And they would in no way say anything along the lines of “Hey! What are you doing here? This is an excursion for cool college-worthy people only.”
He looks as if he's about to say something, but doesn't. Instead, he heads out and shuts the door. I wait until he's gone to check on Not Willow.
Well, she's still there, which is good. On the other hand, she's also curled into a fetal position and whimpering to herself. So there's that.
Next
I become aware of the fact that Giles is saying something.
“Huh?”
“I said,” says Giles, in his usual tone of voice when talking to me (mild annoyance), “That Willow sounded quite worried about you.”
“She must have been talking about someone else. She's been kind of busy doing other things recently. Or other people.” That comes out with more bitterness than I had intended. Giles doesn't seem to pick up on it, although you can never quite tell with Giles. Much like another individual in our group, or their group these days, who's really a great guy twenty-seven days out of the month and whom I have absolutely no business being bitter about.
“There was a phone call from your address,” says Giles. “You didn't know? Very well, then. I'll be going now. Work to do, you know.” Of course. Who wants to hang out with the unemployed loser who lives in his parents' basement?
Giles strides over and opens the door, and I'm already preparing to check under the table to see if Not Willow has taken the opportunity to get away somehow or other when he shuts it again without leaving and returns to me, making surprisingly little noise and writing in his notebook as he goes. He hands it to me. It reads: “There's someone hiding in your apartment.”
Wow. I always used to think it was OK to be on the slow side, because Will and I were basically the same person anyway and we averaged out, but now I sort of wish I could do that kind of Sherlock Holmes stuff by myself.
On a related note: This is bad. I still have no idea of what to do about Not Willow, and if Giles could tell she was in the room without seeing her, he'll certainly be able to find her. Assuming she's still under the table and not off using the population of Sunnydale as her personal Jell-O mold (now in three all-new shapes!) because I didn't have the guts to stake her.
Oh, crap. I'm as bad as Buffy was with Angelus. Worse, even. I mean, Buffy did kill him eventually, and it's not really her fault that people around here return from the dead more often than Cher reunion tours. Whereas I don't know if I can do it. I mean, this is Willow. Or rather, this isn't Willow, but even the just-as-good All Natural Willow Substitute looks pretty Willowy to me.
Not the time. Giles is already looking around the room. I write in the notebook, “How did you know?”
He returns, still looking uneasily over his shoulder, and writes “Phone call. You didn't know. Hence someone else did.”
Oh. Yeah. Should have thought that through, but I didn't really expect anyone to be interested enough to come looking for me. I mean, if Not Willow hadn't been ... whatever she is, I would have been dead yesterday, and the first time anybody realized I was missing would probably have been when my mother noticed the smell, which means never.
“I did call,” I explain. “I hung up when I realized I didn't have anything to say.”
Giles gives a stiff sort of nod and walks a few paces towards the door, then stops and clears his throat.
“You do know that you can call your friends regardless of, ah, immediate urgency or import?”
“Yeah.” Right.
He nods again and heads door-wards. His shoulders seem slumped; he suddenly seems a little older.
As he opens the door, he looks back, clears his throat and says, “Willow and Buffy will be patrolling near, ah, Shady Hill Cemetery around nine this evening. If you were by any chance able to spare the time to drop by, I believe it would be a very pleasant surprise for them.”
“Yeah,” I say again. And they would in no way say anything along the lines of “Hey! What are you doing here? This is an excursion for cool college-worthy people only.”
He looks as if he's about to say something, but doesn't. Instead, he heads out and shuts the door. I wait until he's gone to check on Not Willow.
Well, she's still there, which is good. On the other hand, she's also curled into a fetal position and whimpering to herself. So there's that.
Next