Safe Part One
Here is my entry for ruuger's Welcome to the Nancy Tribe ficathon. I loved writing this story and am hopeful the ficathon will become an annual event. As far as I'm concerned, there can never be enough Spike/Watcher fics out there.
Written for dragonydreams, who wanted the following:
Characters: Giles/Spike
What you'd like to see: When Spike leaves in "Seeing Red" he heads to
England, where he runs into Giles.
What you don't like to see: Obsessing over Buffy. Given my request, I
know there will need to be some, but but only if it leads to Spike's
obsession lessening. Absolutely no hints of Giles seeing Buffy as
anything other than a slayer/daughter.
Preferred rating: R or NC-17
Comics canon, yay or nay? nay
This was rather a tricky time period to write about, so I hope she'll be reasonably happy with what I came up with. :worries:
Setting: Bath, England (where Giles had bought himself a flat, as he told Buffy in early season 6). Between Grave and Lessons.
Rating: R shading into NC17, I think
Pairing: Spike/Giles, mention of Spike/Buffy
Beta: Beta'ed by peasant_, to whom many thanks, especially as she wasn't feeling well at the time.
Safe Part One
"Open the bloody door, will you!"
Giles sat up in bed with a jerk. He'd been dreaming about explosions -buildings falling -great blocks of masonry crashing to the ground all around him - and even now he was awake, the thudding noises hadn't stopped.
Disorientated, he switched on the bedside lamp, put on his glasses and squinted at the clock - 3am, and some idiot was hammering on his front door fit to break it down, and certainly loud enough to wake the neighbours.
"Bloody hell!"
He threw back the quilt and set his feet on the floor, searching for his slippers. As he did so, a pulse beat painfully in his temple and he gave the empty glass on his bedside table a sour look.
Locating the wretched slippers at last - and why were they never where he'd left them? - he fumbled his feet into them, put on his dressing gown and headed for the bedroom door. Meanwhile, the sound of a very hard fist impacting against his front door continued, though - thank goodness for small mercies - the shouting had stopped.
"I'm coming, I'm coming."
He made his way along the hall, turning on lights and arming himself as he went. Old Sunnydale habits died hard.
The axe a comforting weight in his grasp, he opened the cover over the spy hole and peered out into the small lobby that separated his flat from number 2 across the way, expecting to discover some drunk who'd mistaken his front door for their own. But when he saw who was standing there, every muscle in his body seemed to clench tight as a wave of sheer, unadulterated fury washed over him, leaving him literally shaking with anger.
The evil little bastard - how dare he!
At that moment, the thudding started up again, so hard it made the door tremble in its frame.
"Giles - you in there?"
The voice of commonsense told Giles he should turn round, go back to bed, pull the quilt over his ears and ignore the increasingly desperate pounding, but just now, the voice of commonsense could go hang itself.
Instead, he gripped the axe more tightly, unlocked the door and flung it open, so suddenly that a normal person would have gone staggering forward into the hallway.
But his unwelcome visitor wasn't a normal person - or even a person at all. Instead, Spike rebounded off the invisible barrier that kept him - and all vampires - out.
He recovered quickly.
"There you are," he said. "Thought you were gonna keep me standin' here all bloody night."
"Spike."
Giles spat the name out through clenched teeth. He raised the axe, stepped over the threshold and into the lobby.
Spike's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He didn't try to run.
Instead, he let Giles back him against the wall on the far side of the lobby, right next to the front door of number 2, and set the axe blade to his neck.
"Like that, is it?" he said.
Giles's hands were shaking. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt light-headed. He stared into the vampire's blue eyes, hoping the little bastard could see his death in them.
Suddenly, Spike broke his gaze. He turned his head to the side, tilted his chin up and bared his throat.
"Do it."
At the same time, the front door of number 2 flew open and Mrs Finch was standing there, resplendent in shocking pink dressing gown and matching curlers, two of her many cats bristling at her feet.
"What on earth is all this racket?" she shouted. "Pipe down, or I'll call the police."
Giles had just time to note that it appeared she wore false eyelashes and lipstick even in bed and that the odour of cats that clung to her person seemed a little muted, as he hurriedly lowered the axe and hid it behind his back. Spike, meanwhile, didn't move.
Giles cleared his throat. "Very sorry about the noise, Mrs Finch. I think this -young man is rather the worse for wear."
He grabbed Spike's arm and wrestled him away from the wall. "Go away," he said. "You don't belong here." And he pushed him hard, almost sending him sprawling.
Mrs Finch gasped. "Is he drunk?"
Giles was about to reply, when Spike said, "Yeah, I think so. Sad, innit?" and Giles realised Mrs Finch hadn't been talking to him.
Mrs Finch's thin lips pursed in disapproval. "Dreadful!"
Suddenly, her claw-like finger, knotted with arthritis but still with a long nail painted the exact same shade as the lurid dressing gown, was jabbing in Giles's direction. "You should be ashamed of yourself - at your age."
Giles blinked. His anger had cooled a little - enough that he found the time to think that talk of age-appropriate behaviour was a bit rich coming from Mrs Finch.
"That's what I said," Spike agreed with her. "In fact, I said to him - Dad, I said-"
"Wha-?" Giles whirled round, in time to see the little shit's face adopt an expression of wide-eyed injured innocence as he addressed Mrs Finch.
"He's your son?" The old woman seemed to swell with outrage. Bending down, she scooped one of the cats into her arms and held it close, as if afraid Giles would snatch it from her, while the accusatory finger jabbed towards him again. "There are names for people like you."
It was when Giles realised he was on the point of telling her that Spike wasn't a child and consequently those names didn’t apply, that commonsense finally managed to make its voice heard after all.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" He grabbed Spike's arm again and propelled him towards the door of his own flat. "I'm sorry you were disturbed, Mrs Finch," he called over his shoulder. "I'll make quite sure it doesn't happen again."
"Nice meeting you," Spike called to her, and Giles shook him irritably.
At the threshold, he paused again to growl, "You're invited. Get in there!" in Spike's ear, before pushing him inside, and then turned to say to his staring neighbour, "And don't listen to him. He'll say absolutely bloody anything, Mrs Finch, to make me look bad. But it’s the drugs talking. How else can you explain the shocking state of him?"
What Mrs Finch might have said in answer, Giles didn't wait to find out. He slammed the door on her outraged face and turned back to Spike.
Then he frowned. When he'd mentioned the state Spike was in to Mrs Finch, he'd done it without thinking, and yet at some point his brain must have registered how much Spike really had changed - for the worse.
His hair, for a start. Instead of the usual well-kempt bleach-blond helmet, Spike's hair was shaggy - a mass of wild curls - and the bleach had faded in places, leaving a pattern of tiger-stripes behind. He was thin too - painfully so - and because his shirt was torn, Giles could see the stark outlines of ribs under his pale skin.
Worst of all, he stank - more so than any newly risen vampire crusted in grave dirt that Giles had yet come across. He stank of sickness and misery and encrusted grime, layer upon layer, inches thick, and now they were confined in the narrow space of Giles's hallway, the stink was coming off him in waves, poisoning the air.
Giles felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard. No wonder Mrs Finch's cat smell hadn't seemed quite as strong tonight, given the competition.
Spike watched him warily. He indicated the axe. "You gonna finish what you started?"
Giles looked from the axe to the pathetic creature in front of him. He frowned. Then he put the axe down on the hall table.
"Go and wash," he said.
Spike blinked and his mouth dropped open. "Come again?"
"You heard me." Giles indicated the bathroom door. "Bathroom's through there."
Spike's mouth shut with a snap. "Bit of a turnaround there, mate," he said, "from wanting to kill me to offering the use of your shower."
Giles kept his eyes fixed on Spike's face. "Oh don't mistake me. I still want to kill you."
Spike blinked again. Then he looked away, head drooping. "S'pose I don't have to ask why?"
"No," Giles agreed. "I don't suppose you do." He indicated the bathroom again. "Bloody get on with it before you stink the place out- and don't lock the door. You forfeited all right to privacy back in Sunnydale when you violated the privacy of others."
He'd expected Spike to protest, but instead the vampire just nodded. "Fair enough," he said.
Giles watched him walk away down the hall, taking his stink with him. He waited until he heard the sound of the shower running before going into the kitchen and pouring himself another whisky.
His anger had receded to a sullen glow, like a banked fire, down but definitely not out. Why Spike had come here, he didn't know, and why he hadn't run when he realised that Giles knew what he'd done was even more of a mystery, but Giles meant to find out the answer to both questions before he rid the world of the little bastard for good.
*
Giles drank his whisky in two quick gulps - a little dutch courage never went amiss - then he went back down the hall to the bathroom.
The room had filled up with steam. He could see Spike's slim shape behind the shower curtain. He was washing his hair.
His clothes - ripped jeans and torn black shirt, but not the infamous duster - were lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The sour smell coming from them was unpleasant in the extreme.
Giles wrinkled his nose. Bending down, he picked up the offensive garments gingerly between finger and thumb and carried them into the kitchen. There, he wadded them up and stuffed them into a black bin-liner, bundling that in turn into the dustbin. Afterwards, he took a can of air-freshener and gave the kitchen and hallway a liberal spraying.
Returning to the bathroom, he stood watching the dark shape behind the curtain for a while longer. Then, as Spike turned off the shower, he reached out and whipped the curtain away.
"Hey!" Spike protested, but then he grimaced. "Oh yeah. Forfeited the right to privacy. I forgot."
"Quite." Giles leaned back against the wall and folded his arms.
Spike might be overly skinny just now, he thought, but even so, he was a very attractive man - if small and rangy, with whipcord muscles was one's idea of attractive. Now he was clean, his pale skin gleamed softly and his wet curls, beaded with water drops, only increased the deceptive look of vulnerability.
Giles could quite understand why Buffy had succumbed to his dubious charms, particularly when she was so vulnerable herself.
"Here." He tossed Spike a towel.
"Thanks." Spike caught it, eyeing him warily. He stepped out of the bath and stood with his back to Giles, drying himself. His back was smooth, though the knobbly bones of his spine were rather too prominent, and his backside, though small, was round and cushioned with plump muscle.
"Had an eyeful, have you?" Spike turned round and glared at him, but when Giles didn't answer, his gaze dropped again and he sighed. Putting his right foot on the side of the bath, he began to dry between his toes.
Giles watched him. He watched his soft genitals, shrunken with cold, slapping gently against his thigh.
"Filthy little shit," he said. "I ought to cut your balls off."
Spike froze. He drew in a great, shuddering breath. Then he said, "Yeah, you prob'ly ought."
Again, it wasn't the answer Giles had been expecting. Suddenly, he was furious again.
"Don't you dare deny what you did - and don't you fucking dare try to defend yourself."
A muscle twitched in Spike's cheek. His fists clenched at his sides. "I won't," he said. "I wouldn't."
"And - don't - fucking - lie to me!"
Giles accompanied each word with a blow to Spike's naked body. The first caught him low in the belly, doubling him up in pain. The second struck the point of his jaw and knocked him backwards to collide with the side of the bath. The third was a kick to the outside of his left knee, that sent him sprawling to the ground, and the fourth was another kick right in the crotch.
Spike howled. Tears of pain started from his eyes and he curled himself up in a ball, trying to protect himself.
Giles drew his foot back for another kick. His heart was racing and his temples throbbed. He wanted nothing more than to beat the little shit until there was nothing left of him but dust and then to grind that dust into the ground beneath his feet, but somehow - with a supreme effort - he controlled himself.
Instead, he grabbed Spike's arm, hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the bathroom, listening in some satisfaction to his crowing, painful breaths.
In the living room, Giles pushed Spike down onto one of the dining chairs. Opening the wooden weapons chest that stood under the front window, he took out a set of cuffs and chains.
He'd expected Spike to try and run at this point - hoped he would, in fact, since it would afford him the opportunity to give him another good kicking - but Spike just sat there, knees drawn up, gasping, regarding him dull-eyed.
As before, his passivity only increased Giles's anger. He contemplated the pale face, imagining turning the blue eyes black, breaking the arrogant nose, bloodying the full lower lip.
But he did none of those things. Instead, he snapped metal cuffs round Spike's ankles and wrists and chained him to the dining table. It was solid - made of oak - and besides, the chains were vampire-proof. Spike was going nowhere.
Then he grabbed Spike's jaw in his fist.
"Open your mouth."
Spike blinked up at him tearily and Giles shook him.
"I won't tell you twice, you little shit. Do it."
This time it didn't surprise him when Spike did as he was told and didn't even struggle when he thrust the piece of worn leather into his mouth. Instead, he continued to stare up at Giles, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks.
"That's better." Giles smiled. Spike looked both pathetic and faintly ridiculous, but even so the sight of the resigned blue gaze made him feel uncomfortable. Irritably, he went back to the bathroom and rummaged in the airing cupboard. Then he threw a clean sheet over Spike's huddled form, like a shroud.
He was tired, Giles decided, and he needed a clear head to deal with this unexpected visitation. However, when he went back to bed, sleep was a long time coming.
*
The alarm clock woke him. He still set it for 7am on week days, even though he had no reason to get up so early. He lay, staring at the ceiling, feeling muzzy-headed and stupid.
As usual, the feeling made him vow never to drink whisky late at night again - a vow he knew he would probably break the very same day.
Grimacing at the inexplicable taste of stained pub carpet in his mouth, he got up and made his way to the bathroom. The signs of his unwelcome visitor were still very much in evidence - from the bathmat on the floor with its dirty footprints to the open bottle of shampoo tipped on its side, its contents run to waste in the bath.
The bottom of the bath was in a poor state too - full of a gritty, orange residue, like sand.
Giles frowned at the sight, though of course it was hardly the first time that Spike had made the use of his bathroom less than a pleasure.
He rinsed the bath clean and had his own shower, before brushing his teeth and shaving, and it was while he was shaving that it came to him all in a flash what he should do with Spike.
The notion made him smile grimly to himself. Yes, that would be a very fitting ending for him.
He glanced into the living room before going to dress. The room was dim and Spike’s seated figure stood out stark and white, ghostlike, under its covering. Whether he was awake or asleep, there was no way to tell. Even so, Giles found himself treading very softly as he crossed the room, eyes on the shrouded form. Spike didn’t move, however, or give any indication that he’d heard him.
Giles took the phone off its cradle and went back to the bedroom. Dressed, he glanced at the clock again - almost 8. Travers was always early. He should be in his office by now.
He dialled the number.
“Travers here.”
The man's voice set Giles's teeth on edge, despite their recent rapprochement - not that there was any love lost between them still.
“Good morning, Quentin. It’s Rupert Giles.”
“Ah.” Travers didn’t sound best pleased to hear from him, but that would soon change, Giles thought, when he heard what he’d called about.
“How are you?” Travers went on. “And how’s your young protégée doing - the witch?”
Giles scowled at the handset. Travers was so damn nosy.
“She’s well, I believe,” he said. “Still with the coven. However, that’s not what I’ve called about.”
Travers harrumphed, evidently displeased. “Council business, then. Make it snappy, would you, old chap? I’ve an important meeting to prepare for.”
Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Giles thought. Aloud, he said, “I appear to have come into possession of something that I believe the Council would be very pleased to take off my hands.”
“Indeed?” Travers sounded unimpressed. “And what would that be?”
“A vampire. Rather a notorious one, in fact - William the Bloody, also known as Spike. You recall the name?”
There was a short, pregnant silence. Then, Travers said, “I do indeed.” His voice was full of curiosity now. “Tell me, Rupert -just how did you come to -er, acquire such a thing?”
Giles opened his mouth to reply but then shut it again. He remembered that he still had no idea why Spike had turned up on his doorstep, let alone how.
“Never mind that,” he said, at last. “Do you want him or not?”
Travers appeared to consider the matter. “This would be the same Spike that young Lydia Chalmers interviewed in Sunnydale, would it? The one that was experimented on by agents of the US Government and rendered harmless to humans?”
Giles rolled his eyes. Just how many Spikes did Travers think there were?
“That’s him.”
“Interesting,” Travers said. “Very interesting.”
When he spoke again, his voice had taken on an insinuating note.
“Odd thing though, the last time the subject of this particular vampire came up, he seemed to have become a sort of ally of yours. Your report after the battle with Glorificus mentioned him in quite a favourable light, as I recall.”
Giles glared at the phone again. He didn’t want to be reminded of that.
“What of it?”
“I also recall,” Travers went on, “that in the…difficult time afterwards, he continued to assist you. Proved himself quite useful, so you said.”
Giles gripped the handset tightly. He didn’t want to be reminded of that either, especially not by Travers.
“Are you saying you’re not interested?”
As he’d expected, Travers changed his tune at once. “Not at all, old chap, not at all. I’m just trying to get all the facts straight, that’s all.”
Giles’s temper was rising fast. “The only facts that matter are indisputable. He’s a vampire - a beast - a killer. And I have him here at my flat - chained up and ready for delivery. Are you going to take him off my hands or not?”
“Odd,” Travers opined. “Most odd.” He sighed a put-upon sigh. “However, you’re right about his nature and past crimes. A behaviour modification device can’t change either. Yes, we’ll take him off your hands, but we can’t come for him for a day or so.”
“A day or so?” Giles heard the outrage in his tone too late. Travers would enjoy it far too much. “Why on earth can’t you send a team up to Bath immediately?”
This time the silence was rather more drawn out, and when Travers spoke again, his voice was sombre. “I’m afraid most of our operatives are busy elsewhere. Things are afoot - things far more urgent than the fate of one vampire, no matter how notorious.”
“Oh? What things?” Giles demanded, but Travers only sighed again.
“I can’t tell you at this stage, Rupert. Strictly need to know, I’m afraid.”
Giles felt the familiar exasperation tinged with resentment as he realised Travers wasn’t going to elucidate any further. Pompous old fool, he thought. He did so love his secrets.
“Still,” Travers went on, as if he were doing him an enormous favour, “I daresay we can get someone out to you by Wednesday. In the meantime, old chap, I know we can trust you to keep an eye on this Spike fellow.”
The line went dead. Giles glared again at the handset and slammed it down on the bedside table. Today was Monday. That meant he either forgot about the whole thing and disposed of Spike himself, or spent two days stuck in his very unwelcome company.
*
“Are you sure this is the size you want? Small to medium?"
With an effort, Giles suppressed his irritation at the dubious expression on the shop assistant's face. The whole world seemed to be conspiring to piss him off today.
“They’re not for me. They’re for a -friend.”
“Oh, sorry.” The woman looked embarrassed. She began to ring the items through the till while Giles waited, reflecting sourly that, going by past experience, it would probably be months, if not longer, before his expenses claim to the Council was honoured.
However, he supposed, he had only himself to blame for disposing of Spike’s clothes so precipitately, and charity shop replacements were hardly likely to put him too much out of pocket.
Even so, handing over the money added to his sour feeling, and his mood didn’t improve when he had to stand in a long queue at the butchers.’
For the tenth time, he asked himself why he was doing this. It was only a couple of days. Spike could stay naked and hungry for that long, couldn’t he? And no, it was nothing to do with what that fool Travers had said giving him the very faintest pricklings of a guilty conscience.
Guilt? Giles almost slapped the five-pound note into the startled butcher’s hand as the man handed over the sealed carton of pigs’ blood. Why the hell should he feel guilty about Spike? After what the little bastard had done to Buffy, Spike was getting off easy.
As he walked home up the steep, curving street behind the Circus, packages under his arm, Giles tried to keep his anger clear in his mind. Of course, he didn’t know exactly what had happened between Buffy and Spike. But then he didn’t need to know.
Just as he didn’t need to remember Spike holding out under Glory’s torture for Buffy’s sake, or doing his share of slaying demons and caring for Dawn during that long, terrible summer.
He was panting a little by the time he reached his front door - the street was always steeper than he remembered - and things weren’t improved when Mrs Finch’s door shot open as he fumbled with his keys.
Mrs Finch was all in bright, tomato-red today, with matching lipstick and nail varnish. Even so, she was covered in cat hair and accompanied by her usual overwhelming odour of the creatures, one of which was winding itself about her feet.
Giles fitted the key in the front door at last. “Good morning, Mrs Finch,” he said, as pleasantly as he could.
For answer, the old lady glared at him as if he were the local serial child molester.
“I’ve got my eye on you, Mr Giles,” she said. “Any more trouble like last night’s and it’ll be the worse for you.”
Giles thought, very briefly, of asking her what she meant - death by cat-odour, perhaps, or maybe she meant to jump out at him sans makeup and bring on a heart attack - his or hers. However, while he still had Spike chained up in his flat, outside interest was something he would rather discourage.
“There won’t be,” he assured her. “My…son will be going away in a day or so. Rehab, you know.”
Mrs Finch didn’t look much mollified. “There was never trouble like this around here until you came,” she said darkly, before going back inside her flat and slamming the door.
Giles was glad to be back inside his own flat - at least, until he thought again of the vampire chained up in his living room. Damn him! When he left Sunnydale, why hadn’t Spike just kept on going?
“Spike?” The living room was dark and still, the hunched shape still unmoving.
Giles’s irritation flared again. “I know you can hear me.”
Seizing the edge of the sheet, he tore it away.
Spike looked up at him, and Giles drew in a breath despite himself. Spike's eyes regarded him dully. He looked lost and scared and alone.
And small, Giles thought. Somehow, until this moment, watching Spike attempt, in vain, to draw his knees up and shield his privates, he’d never realised how small.
Spike’s prominent Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. There was a trail of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. A huge purple bruise bloomed along his jaw and his lower lip was swollen on one side.
As Giles stared, a trickle of saliva slid down the trail the blood had left.
The pricklings of guilt were becoming a little more insistent as Giles prised the obstruction from Spike's mouth.
Spike’s jaw worked. He turned his face aside and wiped his chin on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Giles pursed his lips. “I’ve brought you some clean clothes. I’m going to unshackle your ankles for a moment so you can put the trousers on, then your wrists for the shirt."
Spike licked dry lips. “Don’t need to chain me up. I won’t run.”
Well, Giles thought, that was the heart of the mystery really. However, once he told Spike about his coming fate, things would no doubt change pretty fast.
“Here.” Taking the charity shop clothes out of the carrier bag, he dropped the trousers into Spike’s lap. They were black and rather formal -part of a cheap suit perhaps -the material worn verging on shiny. Not Spike’s usual sort of thing at all.
“Thanks,” Spike said again, though with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
Nevertheless, he sat quietly while Giles unchained his ankles, stood up to step into the trousers and then sat down again. He didn’t protest at all when Giles re-chained him. The shirt - a vile shade of lavender, but clean at least - was donned with a similar lack of protest.
“Hungry?” Giles asked him. He didn’t see how Spike could be anything else, given how thin he was. There was nothing of him save skin and bone.
Spike looked at him with the same, dull, hopeless expression.
“Not really. Don’t have much of an appetite these days.”
For some reason, the answer made Giles feel angry again. Was the little bastard trying to elicit his sympathy?
“Too bad,” he snarled. “I stood in the queue at the butchers’ for fifteen minutes to buy you blood. You’ll do me the courtesy of drinking it.”
Spike shrugged, indifferent. “All right.”
What’s wrong with you, you little shit, Giles wanted to shout. Spike hadn’t been quite this subdued the previous night. What had happened to him since then?
Even as he thought it, he remembered. Oh yes, I beat the crap out of him, threw his clothes away and chained him, naked and gagged, to a chair.
This time the pricklings of conscience were a great deal more insistent.
Gritting his teeth hard, Giles took the carton of blood into the kitchen, poured some into a mug and stuck it in the microwave. As it turned round and round, he remembered with some irritation the way he’d learned exactly how long it should cook for.
Probably, when he'd recovered a little, Spike would revert to type and once again become the impossible houseguest he'd been then- rude, demanding and careless.
“Dammit!” A root through the kitchen cupboards having failed to produce a straw, Giles returned to the living room even more out of temper at the knowledge that if Spike was to remain chained up, he was going to have to feed him.
When he entered the room again, Spike flinched visibly, and Giles supposed his mood must be only too plain on his face. He was pleased, however. It was the first sign he’d had today that Spike cared at all about his own skin.
“Here,” he said, again, and he held the mug to Spike’s lips.
Spike's lost blue eyes flickered to his face and away again. Then he shut them and began to sip.
He was slow. Giles tried to up the pace, but when he did so, Spike choked, and he was forced to slow down again. Nevertheless, by the time he was finished, Spike was in game face and there was the faintest tinge of pink in his sunken cheeks.
“Better?” Giles asked him, and received a sullen, yellow-eyed nod.
The sight of that hideous demon visage was enough to stifle the guilt. Was that what Buffy had seen as she struggled with Spike in her bathroom?
A sudden urge to torment the wretched creature came over Giles. It would serve Spike more than right to spend the next two days pondering his likely fate.
“I had a word with the head of the Watchers’ Council earlier today.”
“Yeah?” Spike had shaken away his vampire features. His voice was as dull as his eyes. “Nice chat, was it?”
“Very…productive,” Giles assured him. “He agreed to take you off my hands.”
If he’d expected a horrified reaction from Spike at this point, he was doomed to disappointment. Spike looked faintly apprehensive, but then he shrugged again. “Good for him.”
“I wonder what they’ll do to you?” Giles mused. “Of course, they’re very curious about the chip. I doubt they can resist the urge to take a closer look at it.”
Spike stared at him, but he didn’t speak.
“Or perhaps they’ll put you to use at the Academy. They’re always on the look out for good training material. Of course, such material isn't terribly durable as a rule, but valuable lessons can be derived from its disposal.”
Spike looked away. “Fine,” he said, dully. “Can’t say I haven’t deserved it.”
For some reason, the answer infuriated Giles more than anything had yet. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed Spike by the shoulders and was shaking him.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” he shouted. “Why you’re here. But stop bloody pretending, damn you. Just -stop.”
Spike’s head waggled back and forth on his slim neck. “Stop what?”
Abruptly, Giles let him go. He was panting. Bloody vampire! Why couldn't it just behave like it was supposed to?
“You vicious, soulless little beast,” he snarled, through clenched teeth. “Stop pretending you feel remorse.”
To his complete astonishment, Spike laughed - a short, bitter bark of laughter, nothing like his normal dirty snigger.
“Would love to,” he said. “Can’t though - and I’m not soulless.”
*
The stupefied silence stretched on for a long time, but at last Giles said,
"I beg your pardon?"
Spike's gaze had been steady on his face meanwhile, his expression unreadable. At Giles's words, he tilted his head.
"I said, I'm not soulless."
Somehow, the words didn't seem to make sense. Giles found he was clutching the chair back rather hard, his fingers making deep indentations in the ancient leather.
"I heard what you said, but what on earth did you mean by it?"
Spike rolled his eyes. "What d'you think I meant? I have a soul. What else?"
Giles stared at him. Of course he'd known what Spike had been insinuating, but - no, it couldn't be. Abruptly, he was angry again.
"You couldn't have," he snarled. "I don't believe you."
Spike met his gaze for a moment longer, but then he turned away.
"Don't then. Doesn't matter now anyway."
Giles stared at Spike's bowed head - his unruly mop of fair curls with the dark roots showing- his skinny body with its stark ribs and concave belly. Suddenly, with utter and complete certainty, he knew that Spike was telling the truth.
For a moment, he felt dizzy- the world turned on its head.
"When?" he said. "How?"
Spike looked up at him again. Was there the faintest hint of amusement in his dull gaze?
"Long story. Wouldn't wanna bore you. Think I'll save it for your Watcher mates - keep 'em entertained while they vivisect me."
The words sent a chill down Giles's spine, even though he'd just taunted Spike with the prospect. He opened his mouth and shut it again while Spike looked at him, still with that same unreadable expression on his face.
"S'okay," Spike said, after a moment. "Nothing to get excited about. Happens all the time, I expect. An' I was stupid to come here. I get that now."
"Christ!" Somehow, Giles's legs propelled him as far as the nearest empty chair and down into it. He realised he was shaking.
"Why didn't you tell me at once?"
Spike shrugged yet again.
"Would it've made a difference?"
Giles took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head ached and he was desperate for a drink.
"Probably not. Now, though -"
It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps Willow might have been responsible - a bizarre side effect of her grief-induced rampage. Putting his glasses back on, he slid them into place.
"Tell me, Spike. How did it happen? Was it magic, or were you cursed, like Angel?"
At the mention of Angel's name, Spike's expression grew sour. He scowled.
"No, it sodding well wasn't - a curse, I mean. Wasn't just done to me. I asked for it back- fought for it fair and square."
Giles gaped at him. The words still didn't seem to make sense. "But - that's impossible. And why on earth would you do such a thing?"
Spike rolled his eyes again. "What're you -stupid? Why d'you bloody think?"
But then he deflated almost visibly and his gaze faltered.
"Like I said," he muttered, "it doesn't matter now."
Giles's head was still whirling. He cleared his throat
"I beg to differ."
"Yeah?" Spike looked at him again. His tone affected disinterest, but his Adam's apple bobbed, betraying his agitation.
Giles stared deep into Spike's eyes, searching for any hint of deceit and not finding it.
"Let me get this straight. You're telling me that what happened in Buffy's bathroom - when you - when you - did what you did to her -" his voice ground to a halt. He couldn't articulate the words.
"When I tried to rape her, you mean?" Spike's gaze remained limpid, but the tell-tale muscle ticked in his cheek.
Giles drew in a sharp breath. "Yes - then. You're saying that remorse for your actions that day caused you to go and get your soul back?"
Spike opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. He chewed his lip.
"Could say that," he said, at last. "S'only half the story, though." He laughed - another short, sharp bark. "Like everything in Sunnydale, it's complicated."
"But remorse comes into it?" Giles pressed. Suddenly, it was very important to him that Spike should say it was.
Spike's face was sombre. "Yeah." His head drooped. "I told her I'd never hurt her an' I broke my promise. Felt bloody awful about it. Hated her too for makin' me feel that way, but still - "
Giles took his glasses off again. He polished them with his handkerchief while he regarded Spike's slumped form. Spike had just admitted to his crime - the latest of many - but somehow Giles couldn't rekindle his rage of the previous night.
"I need a drink," he said, suddenly. "You?"
When Spike looked at him this time, his eyes were round with astonishment. He glanced from the clock on the mantelpiece, to Giles's face, and back.
"Uh - yeah," he said, at last. "A drink would be good."
Giles looked at his watch. 2pm - Spike was right. It was a little early in the day to start drinking. However, in the circumstances…
As he got up, he realised how dim the room still was, and on the way to the door, he paused to switch on the standard lamp. As he did so, he couldn't help noticing how the soft light cast a golden glow on Spike's pale skin.
In the kitchen, he took the whisky bottle and two tumblers out of the cupboard, moving almost on autopilot, very aware of his brain still trying to process what it had just learned.
It didn't make sense. Soulless vampires were unfeeling monsters. Why should Spike care in the least about what he'd done to Buffy?
The answer wasn't a conclusion the Watchers' Academy training manual would ever have led Giles to. Vampires couldn't love, so it asserted, any more than they could feel pity - or remorse.
For a moment, Giles felt dizzy again, as the world seemed to shift under his feet. He wasn't ready by a long chalk to say the manual should be re-written, but perhaps a judicious footnote or two?
Returning to the living room, he set the glasses down on the coffee table and bent to unchain Spike's hands. Spike's wrists looked raw under the worn shirt cuffs, and Giles felt a momentary pang of regret for his injuries. Not enough, however, to make him unchain Spike's ankles.
"Here." He held out the glass.
"Thanks." Spike took it off him and sipped. He winced as the spirit came in contact with his swollen lip.
Giles sat down in the chair opposite again and took a healthy gulp of his own drink. The scotch burned as it slid down his throat.
"Well," he said. "Bit of a shock, all this."
Blue eyes regarded him over the rim of the glass.
"You're telling me," Spike said, softly.
Giles set his glass down and leaned forward. He couldn't help being curious. "How does it feel?"
Spike's mouth tightened at the corners. "Like fire."
"Oh?" The brevity of the answer was very unlike the old Spike - usually never at a loss for words. "In what way exactly?"
Spike set his glass down next to Giles's, almost untouched. "Set the old Watcher juices flowin', have I?" he asked, voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Something like that," Giles agreed. "You have to understand, Spike - this is unprecedented. That a vampire - a soulless monster - should voluntarily ask for its soul back -"
Spike raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't happen all the time, then?"
"Hardly." Giles felt light-headed again - a mixture of scotch and a heady dose of intellectual curiosity. "Tell me - how did you do it?"
Spike's face turned stubborn, and for a moment, Giles thought he would refuse to answer, but then Spike sighed and picked up his glass again.
"There's this demon in Africa - Uganda, in fact, right in the middle of the war zone. If you can beat all-comers - survive, whatever he throws at you - he'll give you what you ask for."
"Good lord!" Giles had never heard of such a thing. "That's extraordinary. This demon - what's it called?"
Spike shrugged. "Dunno. Never asked."
His answers were becoming more and more grudging, and suddenly he burst out, "In any case, why should you care? I'll be off your hands soon enough - on my merry way to the dissecting table. In view of that, think I'll keep what else I know to myself - can use it, maybe, to bargain for a quick death."
"I…understand." The chill went down Giles's spine again. He wished more than anything that he'd never called Travers.
He cleared his throat again. "There is one other thing, though -something that's of no interest to anyone save myself."
"Yeah?" Spike's gaze was hostile now, the faintest tinge of yellow in his eyes. "What's that, then?"
"Why did you come here - to me?"
The yellow was gone, like a candle sputtering out.
"Told you," Spike muttered, "it doesn't matter now."
"Yes it does." Giles willed Spike to see the truth in his words, as he'd looked for the truth in Spike's. "It matters to me."
Spike chewed his lip again, considering. "You'll laugh."
"Not very likely." Nothing, Giles reflected, about today had yet struck him as funny.
Spike picked up the glass again, tilted his head back and drained the contents in one swift gulp.
"You remember a while back - before Buffy did her swan dive off Glory's tower- Dru came back to Sunnydale and there was…a spot of bother?"
"I remember." As Giles recalled, the incident hadn't been one of Spike's finest hours - not that there were many to choose from.
"Yeah, well." Spike looked embarrassed. "I came to the Magic Shop, makin' excuses, and you told me - "
"To get over it." Giles poured himself another drink, eyes on Spike all the while. "Yes, I recall it well. What of it?"
"I'd never seen you like that." Spike wouldn't meet his eyes now. "'We're not your friends', you said, 'not your way to Buffy. There is no way to Buffy'. Don't mind admitting it, you scared the crap out of me."
"Really?" Giles felt absurdly pleased. He frowned to hide it. "Like I said, what of it?"
Spike's face worked. When he looked at Giles again, his expression was anguished.
"Resented it like hell at the time. Wanted to kill the whole fucking lot of you - 'cept the Bit, maybe. But now I realise it needed saying - needed you sayin' it. And - and-" His voice faltered to a stop. He cleared his throat. "And I need you to say it again."
As the words sank in, all his pent-up rage from the previous night came rushing back, and Giles was on his feet, towering over Spike, fists clenched. "Are you trying to insinuate that you had some notion of going back to Sunnydale - ever - after what you did to Buffy?"
Spike didn't seem daunted this time. "No," he said. "At least - " and he dropped his gaze - "only if she asked me - if she needed my help."
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Not that I'm saying the idea never crossed my mind. Was so stupid - thought having a soul made all the difference - until I got one."
Giles took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. "So, if you didn't come here wanting me to -to dissuade you from that course of action, then why?"
The anguished expression was back. "I'm lost," Spike said, simply. "I dunno who I am - dunno where I am half the time. I knew I couldn't go back - burnt those bridges - I thought you could set me right - teach me to be a good man." His Adam's apple bobbed violently again. "Like you."
"Oh." Giles sat down again with a thump. To say he felt stunned was a crass understatement.
"Yeah," Spike went on, oblivious. "And not just that. Like I said, you scared the crap out of me that time. Thought you could control me - stop me from goin' wrong." He shut his eyes and Giles couldn't help noticing the wetness at their corners. "And in the meantime, they keep whispering in my ears, and it burns- oh God, it burns!"
The hairs on the nape of Giles's neck prickled unpleasantly. "They?"
Spike's eyes stayed shut. His voice had taken on an eerie, broken quality. "So many of them - all telling me to go to hell, where I belong."
With a shudder, Giles realised Spike meant his victims - his many, many victims.
"You can see them?" he asked, still curious despite himself.
Spike's blue eyes snapped open. He blinked, as if waking up from a dream. Then he made a face. "Sometimes - yeah, I think so. Other times -" and he shuddered - "I know I'm just goin' mad."
It was on the tip of Giles's tongue to tell him it was only what he deserved, but he bit back on the words. How would Spike's insanity profit anyone?
Abruptly, he leaned down and unfastened the shackles around Spike's ankles. The cuffs fell free with a loud, metallic clank.
"Wha-" Spike jumped, startled.
"You're free to go," Giles said - hurriedly, before he changed his mind. "Get out of here, Spike - and don't come back."
Spike blinked again. "What about your Watcher mates?"
"What about them? They've managed all these years without the pleasure of your company. I'm sure they can manage a while longer. Now - go."
Spike's mouth set stubbornly. "No."
"What?" Giles was on his feet again at once. He grabbed Spike by the arm and hauled him upright. "Get lost, I said." And he tried to push him towards the door.
But Spike stood his ground, and no matter how hard Giles shoved him, he wouldn't budge. "No fucking way." His blue eyes pleaded. "Please."
Giles ignored the desperation in those eyes. Spike wasn't his responsibility and he wasn't going to allow him to become so. "I said, bugger off."
Spike grabbed hold of the chair, standing his ground. He began to babble.
"Can earn my keep - can be useful."
"Oh?" Giles tugged at him again. "How?"
The next moment, to his complete astonishment, Spike's lips were pressed to his. He gasped, and a cold mobile tongue darted inside his open mouth.
Giles flailed his arms. He grabbed hold of Spike's shirt and pushed him, and at once, the tongue was gone. Instead, Spike was staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified, while the cold shock of his touch seemed to roll over Giles's body in waves, quickening his pulse and starting a familiar tingling at his groin.
"What the hell-" Giles began, but Spike interrupted him, words almost tripping over themselves in his haste to fill the shocked silence.
"Or can be useful in other ways. Your neighbour, for instance - the mad old bag with the cats - bet you didn't realise she was a demon, did you?"
*
Part 2
Written for dragonydreams, who wanted the following:
Characters: Giles/Spike
What you'd like to see: When Spike leaves in "Seeing Red" he heads to
England, where he runs into Giles.
What you don't like to see: Obsessing over Buffy. Given my request, I
know there will need to be some, but but only if it leads to Spike's
obsession lessening. Absolutely no hints of Giles seeing Buffy as
anything other than a slayer/daughter.
Preferred rating: R or NC-17
Comics canon, yay or nay? nay
This was rather a tricky time period to write about, so I hope she'll be reasonably happy with what I came up with. :worries:
Setting: Bath, England (where Giles had bought himself a flat, as he told Buffy in early season 6). Between Grave and Lessons.
Rating: R shading into NC17, I think
Pairing: Spike/Giles, mention of Spike/Buffy
Beta: Beta'ed by peasant_, to whom many thanks, especially as she wasn't feeling well at the time.
Safe Part One
"Open the bloody door, will you!"
Giles sat up in bed with a jerk. He'd been dreaming about explosions -buildings falling -great blocks of masonry crashing to the ground all around him - and even now he was awake, the thudding noises hadn't stopped.
Disorientated, he switched on the bedside lamp, put on his glasses and squinted at the clock - 3am, and some idiot was hammering on his front door fit to break it down, and certainly loud enough to wake the neighbours.
"Bloody hell!"
He threw back the quilt and set his feet on the floor, searching for his slippers. As he did so, a pulse beat painfully in his temple and he gave the empty glass on his bedside table a sour look.
Locating the wretched slippers at last - and why were they never where he'd left them? - he fumbled his feet into them, put on his dressing gown and headed for the bedroom door. Meanwhile, the sound of a very hard fist impacting against his front door continued, though - thank goodness for small mercies - the shouting had stopped.
"I'm coming, I'm coming."
He made his way along the hall, turning on lights and arming himself as he went. Old Sunnydale habits died hard.
The axe a comforting weight in his grasp, he opened the cover over the spy hole and peered out into the small lobby that separated his flat from number 2 across the way, expecting to discover some drunk who'd mistaken his front door for their own. But when he saw who was standing there, every muscle in his body seemed to clench tight as a wave of sheer, unadulterated fury washed over him, leaving him literally shaking with anger.
The evil little bastard - how dare he!
At that moment, the thudding started up again, so hard it made the door tremble in its frame.
"Giles - you in there?"
The voice of commonsense told Giles he should turn round, go back to bed, pull the quilt over his ears and ignore the increasingly desperate pounding, but just now, the voice of commonsense could go hang itself.
Instead, he gripped the axe more tightly, unlocked the door and flung it open, so suddenly that a normal person would have gone staggering forward into the hallway.
But his unwelcome visitor wasn't a normal person - or even a person at all. Instead, Spike rebounded off the invisible barrier that kept him - and all vampires - out.
He recovered quickly.
"There you are," he said. "Thought you were gonna keep me standin' here all bloody night."
"Spike."
Giles spat the name out through clenched teeth. He raised the axe, stepped over the threshold and into the lobby.
Spike's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He didn't try to run.
Instead, he let Giles back him against the wall on the far side of the lobby, right next to the front door of number 2, and set the axe blade to his neck.
"Like that, is it?" he said.
Giles's hands were shaking. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt light-headed. He stared into the vampire's blue eyes, hoping the little bastard could see his death in them.
Suddenly, Spike broke his gaze. He turned his head to the side, tilted his chin up and bared his throat.
"Do it."
At the same time, the front door of number 2 flew open and Mrs Finch was standing there, resplendent in shocking pink dressing gown and matching curlers, two of her many cats bristling at her feet.
"What on earth is all this racket?" she shouted. "Pipe down, or I'll call the police."
Giles had just time to note that it appeared she wore false eyelashes and lipstick even in bed and that the odour of cats that clung to her person seemed a little muted, as he hurriedly lowered the axe and hid it behind his back. Spike, meanwhile, didn't move.
Giles cleared his throat. "Very sorry about the noise, Mrs Finch. I think this -young man is rather the worse for wear."
He grabbed Spike's arm and wrestled him away from the wall. "Go away," he said. "You don't belong here." And he pushed him hard, almost sending him sprawling.
Mrs Finch gasped. "Is he drunk?"
Giles was about to reply, when Spike said, "Yeah, I think so. Sad, innit?" and Giles realised Mrs Finch hadn't been talking to him.
Mrs Finch's thin lips pursed in disapproval. "Dreadful!"
Suddenly, her claw-like finger, knotted with arthritis but still with a long nail painted the exact same shade as the lurid dressing gown, was jabbing in Giles's direction. "You should be ashamed of yourself - at your age."
Giles blinked. His anger had cooled a little - enough that he found the time to think that talk of age-appropriate behaviour was a bit rich coming from Mrs Finch.
"That's what I said," Spike agreed with her. "In fact, I said to him - Dad, I said-"
"Wha-?" Giles whirled round, in time to see the little shit's face adopt an expression of wide-eyed injured innocence as he addressed Mrs Finch.
"He's your son?" The old woman seemed to swell with outrage. Bending down, she scooped one of the cats into her arms and held it close, as if afraid Giles would snatch it from her, while the accusatory finger jabbed towards him again. "There are names for people like you."
It was when Giles realised he was on the point of telling her that Spike wasn't a child and consequently those names didn’t apply, that commonsense finally managed to make its voice heard after all.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" He grabbed Spike's arm again and propelled him towards the door of his own flat. "I'm sorry you were disturbed, Mrs Finch," he called over his shoulder. "I'll make quite sure it doesn't happen again."
"Nice meeting you," Spike called to her, and Giles shook him irritably.
At the threshold, he paused again to growl, "You're invited. Get in there!" in Spike's ear, before pushing him inside, and then turned to say to his staring neighbour, "And don't listen to him. He'll say absolutely bloody anything, Mrs Finch, to make me look bad. But it’s the drugs talking. How else can you explain the shocking state of him?"
What Mrs Finch might have said in answer, Giles didn't wait to find out. He slammed the door on her outraged face and turned back to Spike.
Then he frowned. When he'd mentioned the state Spike was in to Mrs Finch, he'd done it without thinking, and yet at some point his brain must have registered how much Spike really had changed - for the worse.
His hair, for a start. Instead of the usual well-kempt bleach-blond helmet, Spike's hair was shaggy - a mass of wild curls - and the bleach had faded in places, leaving a pattern of tiger-stripes behind. He was thin too - painfully so - and because his shirt was torn, Giles could see the stark outlines of ribs under his pale skin.
Worst of all, he stank - more so than any newly risen vampire crusted in grave dirt that Giles had yet come across. He stank of sickness and misery and encrusted grime, layer upon layer, inches thick, and now they were confined in the narrow space of Giles's hallway, the stink was coming off him in waves, poisoning the air.
Giles felt his gorge rise and swallowed hard. No wonder Mrs Finch's cat smell hadn't seemed quite as strong tonight, given the competition.
Spike watched him warily. He indicated the axe. "You gonna finish what you started?"
Giles looked from the axe to the pathetic creature in front of him. He frowned. Then he put the axe down on the hall table.
"Go and wash," he said.
Spike blinked and his mouth dropped open. "Come again?"
"You heard me." Giles indicated the bathroom door. "Bathroom's through there."
Spike's mouth shut with a snap. "Bit of a turnaround there, mate," he said, "from wanting to kill me to offering the use of your shower."
Giles kept his eyes fixed on Spike's face. "Oh don't mistake me. I still want to kill you."
Spike blinked again. Then he looked away, head drooping. "S'pose I don't have to ask why?"
"No," Giles agreed. "I don't suppose you do." He indicated the bathroom again. "Bloody get on with it before you stink the place out- and don't lock the door. You forfeited all right to privacy back in Sunnydale when you violated the privacy of others."
He'd expected Spike to protest, but instead the vampire just nodded. "Fair enough," he said.
Giles watched him walk away down the hall, taking his stink with him. He waited until he heard the sound of the shower running before going into the kitchen and pouring himself another whisky.
His anger had receded to a sullen glow, like a banked fire, down but definitely not out. Why Spike had come here, he didn't know, and why he hadn't run when he realised that Giles knew what he'd done was even more of a mystery, but Giles meant to find out the answer to both questions before he rid the world of the little bastard for good.
*
Giles drank his whisky in two quick gulps - a little dutch courage never went amiss - then he went back down the hall to the bathroom.
The room had filled up with steam. He could see Spike's slim shape behind the shower curtain. He was washing his hair.
His clothes - ripped jeans and torn black shirt, but not the infamous duster - were lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The sour smell coming from them was unpleasant in the extreme.
Giles wrinkled his nose. Bending down, he picked up the offensive garments gingerly between finger and thumb and carried them into the kitchen. There, he wadded them up and stuffed them into a black bin-liner, bundling that in turn into the dustbin. Afterwards, he took a can of air-freshener and gave the kitchen and hallway a liberal spraying.
Returning to the bathroom, he stood watching the dark shape behind the curtain for a while longer. Then, as Spike turned off the shower, he reached out and whipped the curtain away.
"Hey!" Spike protested, but then he grimaced. "Oh yeah. Forfeited the right to privacy. I forgot."
"Quite." Giles leaned back against the wall and folded his arms.
Spike might be overly skinny just now, he thought, but even so, he was a very attractive man - if small and rangy, with whipcord muscles was one's idea of attractive. Now he was clean, his pale skin gleamed softly and his wet curls, beaded with water drops, only increased the deceptive look of vulnerability.
Giles could quite understand why Buffy had succumbed to his dubious charms, particularly when she was so vulnerable herself.
"Here." He tossed Spike a towel.
"Thanks." Spike caught it, eyeing him warily. He stepped out of the bath and stood with his back to Giles, drying himself. His back was smooth, though the knobbly bones of his spine were rather too prominent, and his backside, though small, was round and cushioned with plump muscle.
"Had an eyeful, have you?" Spike turned round and glared at him, but when Giles didn't answer, his gaze dropped again and he sighed. Putting his right foot on the side of the bath, he began to dry between his toes.
Giles watched him. He watched his soft genitals, shrunken with cold, slapping gently against his thigh.
"Filthy little shit," he said. "I ought to cut your balls off."
Spike froze. He drew in a great, shuddering breath. Then he said, "Yeah, you prob'ly ought."
Again, it wasn't the answer Giles had been expecting. Suddenly, he was furious again.
"Don't you dare deny what you did - and don't you fucking dare try to defend yourself."
A muscle twitched in Spike's cheek. His fists clenched at his sides. "I won't," he said. "I wouldn't."
"And - don't - fucking - lie to me!"
Giles accompanied each word with a blow to Spike's naked body. The first caught him low in the belly, doubling him up in pain. The second struck the point of his jaw and knocked him backwards to collide with the side of the bath. The third was a kick to the outside of his left knee, that sent him sprawling to the ground, and the fourth was another kick right in the crotch.
Spike howled. Tears of pain started from his eyes and he curled himself up in a ball, trying to protect himself.
Giles drew his foot back for another kick. His heart was racing and his temples throbbed. He wanted nothing more than to beat the little shit until there was nothing left of him but dust and then to grind that dust into the ground beneath his feet, but somehow - with a supreme effort - he controlled himself.
Instead, he grabbed Spike's arm, hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the bathroom, listening in some satisfaction to his crowing, painful breaths.
In the living room, Giles pushed Spike down onto one of the dining chairs. Opening the wooden weapons chest that stood under the front window, he took out a set of cuffs and chains.
He'd expected Spike to try and run at this point - hoped he would, in fact, since it would afford him the opportunity to give him another good kicking - but Spike just sat there, knees drawn up, gasping, regarding him dull-eyed.
As before, his passivity only increased Giles's anger. He contemplated the pale face, imagining turning the blue eyes black, breaking the arrogant nose, bloodying the full lower lip.
But he did none of those things. Instead, he snapped metal cuffs round Spike's ankles and wrists and chained him to the dining table. It was solid - made of oak - and besides, the chains were vampire-proof. Spike was going nowhere.
Then he grabbed Spike's jaw in his fist.
"Open your mouth."
Spike blinked up at him tearily and Giles shook him.
"I won't tell you twice, you little shit. Do it."
This time it didn't surprise him when Spike did as he was told and didn't even struggle when he thrust the piece of worn leather into his mouth. Instead, he continued to stare up at Giles, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks.
"That's better." Giles smiled. Spike looked both pathetic and faintly ridiculous, but even so the sight of the resigned blue gaze made him feel uncomfortable. Irritably, he went back to the bathroom and rummaged in the airing cupboard. Then he threw a clean sheet over Spike's huddled form, like a shroud.
He was tired, Giles decided, and he needed a clear head to deal with this unexpected visitation. However, when he went back to bed, sleep was a long time coming.
*
The alarm clock woke him. He still set it for 7am on week days, even though he had no reason to get up so early. He lay, staring at the ceiling, feeling muzzy-headed and stupid.
As usual, the feeling made him vow never to drink whisky late at night again - a vow he knew he would probably break the very same day.
Grimacing at the inexplicable taste of stained pub carpet in his mouth, he got up and made his way to the bathroom. The signs of his unwelcome visitor were still very much in evidence - from the bathmat on the floor with its dirty footprints to the open bottle of shampoo tipped on its side, its contents run to waste in the bath.
The bottom of the bath was in a poor state too - full of a gritty, orange residue, like sand.
Giles frowned at the sight, though of course it was hardly the first time that Spike had made the use of his bathroom less than a pleasure.
He rinsed the bath clean and had his own shower, before brushing his teeth and shaving, and it was while he was shaving that it came to him all in a flash what he should do with Spike.
The notion made him smile grimly to himself. Yes, that would be a very fitting ending for him.
He glanced into the living room before going to dress. The room was dim and Spike’s seated figure stood out stark and white, ghostlike, under its covering. Whether he was awake or asleep, there was no way to tell. Even so, Giles found himself treading very softly as he crossed the room, eyes on the shrouded form. Spike didn’t move, however, or give any indication that he’d heard him.
Giles took the phone off its cradle and went back to the bedroom. Dressed, he glanced at the clock again - almost 8. Travers was always early. He should be in his office by now.
He dialled the number.
“Travers here.”
The man's voice set Giles's teeth on edge, despite their recent rapprochement - not that there was any love lost between them still.
“Good morning, Quentin. It’s Rupert Giles.”
“Ah.” Travers didn’t sound best pleased to hear from him, but that would soon change, Giles thought, when he heard what he’d called about.
“How are you?” Travers went on. “And how’s your young protégée doing - the witch?”
Giles scowled at the handset. Travers was so damn nosy.
“She’s well, I believe,” he said. “Still with the coven. However, that’s not what I’ve called about.”
Travers harrumphed, evidently displeased. “Council business, then. Make it snappy, would you, old chap? I’ve an important meeting to prepare for.”
Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Giles thought. Aloud, he said, “I appear to have come into possession of something that I believe the Council would be very pleased to take off my hands.”
“Indeed?” Travers sounded unimpressed. “And what would that be?”
“A vampire. Rather a notorious one, in fact - William the Bloody, also known as Spike. You recall the name?”
There was a short, pregnant silence. Then, Travers said, “I do indeed.” His voice was full of curiosity now. “Tell me, Rupert -just how did you come to -er, acquire such a thing?”
Giles opened his mouth to reply but then shut it again. He remembered that he still had no idea why Spike had turned up on his doorstep, let alone how.
“Never mind that,” he said, at last. “Do you want him or not?”
Travers appeared to consider the matter. “This would be the same Spike that young Lydia Chalmers interviewed in Sunnydale, would it? The one that was experimented on by agents of the US Government and rendered harmless to humans?”
Giles rolled his eyes. Just how many Spikes did Travers think there were?
“That’s him.”
“Interesting,” Travers said. “Very interesting.”
When he spoke again, his voice had taken on an insinuating note.
“Odd thing though, the last time the subject of this particular vampire came up, he seemed to have become a sort of ally of yours. Your report after the battle with Glorificus mentioned him in quite a favourable light, as I recall.”
Giles glared at the phone again. He didn’t want to be reminded of that.
“What of it?”
“I also recall,” Travers went on, “that in the…difficult time afterwards, he continued to assist you. Proved himself quite useful, so you said.”
Giles gripped the handset tightly. He didn’t want to be reminded of that either, especially not by Travers.
“Are you saying you’re not interested?”
As he’d expected, Travers changed his tune at once. “Not at all, old chap, not at all. I’m just trying to get all the facts straight, that’s all.”
Giles’s temper was rising fast. “The only facts that matter are indisputable. He’s a vampire - a beast - a killer. And I have him here at my flat - chained up and ready for delivery. Are you going to take him off my hands or not?”
“Odd,” Travers opined. “Most odd.” He sighed a put-upon sigh. “However, you’re right about his nature and past crimes. A behaviour modification device can’t change either. Yes, we’ll take him off your hands, but we can’t come for him for a day or so.”
“A day or so?” Giles heard the outrage in his tone too late. Travers would enjoy it far too much. “Why on earth can’t you send a team up to Bath immediately?”
This time the silence was rather more drawn out, and when Travers spoke again, his voice was sombre. “I’m afraid most of our operatives are busy elsewhere. Things are afoot - things far more urgent than the fate of one vampire, no matter how notorious.”
“Oh? What things?” Giles demanded, but Travers only sighed again.
“I can’t tell you at this stage, Rupert. Strictly need to know, I’m afraid.”
Giles felt the familiar exasperation tinged with resentment as he realised Travers wasn’t going to elucidate any further. Pompous old fool, he thought. He did so love his secrets.
“Still,” Travers went on, as if he were doing him an enormous favour, “I daresay we can get someone out to you by Wednesday. In the meantime, old chap, I know we can trust you to keep an eye on this Spike fellow.”
The line went dead. Giles glared again at the handset and slammed it down on the bedside table. Today was Monday. That meant he either forgot about the whole thing and disposed of Spike himself, or spent two days stuck in his very unwelcome company.
*
“Are you sure this is the size you want? Small to medium?"
With an effort, Giles suppressed his irritation at the dubious expression on the shop assistant's face. The whole world seemed to be conspiring to piss him off today.
“They’re not for me. They’re for a -friend.”
“Oh, sorry.” The woman looked embarrassed. She began to ring the items through the till while Giles waited, reflecting sourly that, going by past experience, it would probably be months, if not longer, before his expenses claim to the Council was honoured.
However, he supposed, he had only himself to blame for disposing of Spike’s clothes so precipitately, and charity shop replacements were hardly likely to put him too much out of pocket.
Even so, handing over the money added to his sour feeling, and his mood didn’t improve when he had to stand in a long queue at the butchers.’
For the tenth time, he asked himself why he was doing this. It was only a couple of days. Spike could stay naked and hungry for that long, couldn’t he? And no, it was nothing to do with what that fool Travers had said giving him the very faintest pricklings of a guilty conscience.
Guilt? Giles almost slapped the five-pound note into the startled butcher’s hand as the man handed over the sealed carton of pigs’ blood. Why the hell should he feel guilty about Spike? After what the little bastard had done to Buffy, Spike was getting off easy.
As he walked home up the steep, curving street behind the Circus, packages under his arm, Giles tried to keep his anger clear in his mind. Of course, he didn’t know exactly what had happened between Buffy and Spike. But then he didn’t need to know.
Just as he didn’t need to remember Spike holding out under Glory’s torture for Buffy’s sake, or doing his share of slaying demons and caring for Dawn during that long, terrible summer.
He was panting a little by the time he reached his front door - the street was always steeper than he remembered - and things weren’t improved when Mrs Finch’s door shot open as he fumbled with his keys.
Mrs Finch was all in bright, tomato-red today, with matching lipstick and nail varnish. Even so, she was covered in cat hair and accompanied by her usual overwhelming odour of the creatures, one of which was winding itself about her feet.
Giles fitted the key in the front door at last. “Good morning, Mrs Finch,” he said, as pleasantly as he could.
For answer, the old lady glared at him as if he were the local serial child molester.
“I’ve got my eye on you, Mr Giles,” she said. “Any more trouble like last night’s and it’ll be the worse for you.”
Giles thought, very briefly, of asking her what she meant - death by cat-odour, perhaps, or maybe she meant to jump out at him sans makeup and bring on a heart attack - his or hers. However, while he still had Spike chained up in his flat, outside interest was something he would rather discourage.
“There won’t be,” he assured her. “My…son will be going away in a day or so. Rehab, you know.”
Mrs Finch didn’t look much mollified. “There was never trouble like this around here until you came,” she said darkly, before going back inside her flat and slamming the door.
Giles was glad to be back inside his own flat - at least, until he thought again of the vampire chained up in his living room. Damn him! When he left Sunnydale, why hadn’t Spike just kept on going?
“Spike?” The living room was dark and still, the hunched shape still unmoving.
Giles’s irritation flared again. “I know you can hear me.”
Seizing the edge of the sheet, he tore it away.
Spike looked up at him, and Giles drew in a breath despite himself. Spike's eyes regarded him dully. He looked lost and scared and alone.
And small, Giles thought. Somehow, until this moment, watching Spike attempt, in vain, to draw his knees up and shield his privates, he’d never realised how small.
Spike’s prominent Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. There was a trail of dried blood running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. A huge purple bruise bloomed along his jaw and his lower lip was swollen on one side.
As Giles stared, a trickle of saliva slid down the trail the blood had left.
The pricklings of guilt were becoming a little more insistent as Giles prised the obstruction from Spike's mouth.
Spike’s jaw worked. He turned his face aside and wiped his chin on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Giles pursed his lips. “I’ve brought you some clean clothes. I’m going to unshackle your ankles for a moment so you can put the trousers on, then your wrists for the shirt."
Spike licked dry lips. “Don’t need to chain me up. I won’t run.”
Well, Giles thought, that was the heart of the mystery really. However, once he told Spike about his coming fate, things would no doubt change pretty fast.
“Here.” Taking the charity shop clothes out of the carrier bag, he dropped the trousers into Spike’s lap. They were black and rather formal -part of a cheap suit perhaps -the material worn verging on shiny. Not Spike’s usual sort of thing at all.
“Thanks,” Spike said again, though with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
Nevertheless, he sat quietly while Giles unchained his ankles, stood up to step into the trousers and then sat down again. He didn’t protest at all when Giles re-chained him. The shirt - a vile shade of lavender, but clean at least - was donned with a similar lack of protest.
“Hungry?” Giles asked him. He didn’t see how Spike could be anything else, given how thin he was. There was nothing of him save skin and bone.
Spike looked at him with the same, dull, hopeless expression.
“Not really. Don’t have much of an appetite these days.”
For some reason, the answer made Giles feel angry again. Was the little bastard trying to elicit his sympathy?
“Too bad,” he snarled. “I stood in the queue at the butchers’ for fifteen minutes to buy you blood. You’ll do me the courtesy of drinking it.”
Spike shrugged, indifferent. “All right.”
What’s wrong with you, you little shit, Giles wanted to shout. Spike hadn’t been quite this subdued the previous night. What had happened to him since then?
Even as he thought it, he remembered. Oh yes, I beat the crap out of him, threw his clothes away and chained him, naked and gagged, to a chair.
This time the pricklings of conscience were a great deal more insistent.
Gritting his teeth hard, Giles took the carton of blood into the kitchen, poured some into a mug and stuck it in the microwave. As it turned round and round, he remembered with some irritation the way he’d learned exactly how long it should cook for.
Probably, when he'd recovered a little, Spike would revert to type and once again become the impossible houseguest he'd been then- rude, demanding and careless.
“Dammit!” A root through the kitchen cupboards having failed to produce a straw, Giles returned to the living room even more out of temper at the knowledge that if Spike was to remain chained up, he was going to have to feed him.
When he entered the room again, Spike flinched visibly, and Giles supposed his mood must be only too plain on his face. He was pleased, however. It was the first sign he’d had today that Spike cared at all about his own skin.
“Here,” he said, again, and he held the mug to Spike’s lips.
Spike's lost blue eyes flickered to his face and away again. Then he shut them and began to sip.
He was slow. Giles tried to up the pace, but when he did so, Spike choked, and he was forced to slow down again. Nevertheless, by the time he was finished, Spike was in game face and there was the faintest tinge of pink in his sunken cheeks.
“Better?” Giles asked him, and received a sullen, yellow-eyed nod.
The sight of that hideous demon visage was enough to stifle the guilt. Was that what Buffy had seen as she struggled with Spike in her bathroom?
A sudden urge to torment the wretched creature came over Giles. It would serve Spike more than right to spend the next two days pondering his likely fate.
“I had a word with the head of the Watchers’ Council earlier today.”
“Yeah?” Spike had shaken away his vampire features. His voice was as dull as his eyes. “Nice chat, was it?”
“Very…productive,” Giles assured him. “He agreed to take you off my hands.”
If he’d expected a horrified reaction from Spike at this point, he was doomed to disappointment. Spike looked faintly apprehensive, but then he shrugged again. “Good for him.”
“I wonder what they’ll do to you?” Giles mused. “Of course, they’re very curious about the chip. I doubt they can resist the urge to take a closer look at it.”
Spike stared at him, but he didn’t speak.
“Or perhaps they’ll put you to use at the Academy. They’re always on the look out for good training material. Of course, such material isn't terribly durable as a rule, but valuable lessons can be derived from its disposal.”
Spike looked away. “Fine,” he said, dully. “Can’t say I haven’t deserved it.”
For some reason, the answer infuriated Giles more than anything had yet. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed Spike by the shoulders and was shaking him.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you,” he shouted. “Why you’re here. But stop bloody pretending, damn you. Just -stop.”
Spike’s head waggled back and forth on his slim neck. “Stop what?”
Abruptly, Giles let him go. He was panting. Bloody vampire! Why couldn't it just behave like it was supposed to?
“You vicious, soulless little beast,” he snarled, through clenched teeth. “Stop pretending you feel remorse.”
To his complete astonishment, Spike laughed - a short, bitter bark of laughter, nothing like his normal dirty snigger.
“Would love to,” he said. “Can’t though - and I’m not soulless.”
*
The stupefied silence stretched on for a long time, but at last Giles said,
"I beg your pardon?"
Spike's gaze had been steady on his face meanwhile, his expression unreadable. At Giles's words, he tilted his head.
"I said, I'm not soulless."
Somehow, the words didn't seem to make sense. Giles found he was clutching the chair back rather hard, his fingers making deep indentations in the ancient leather.
"I heard what you said, but what on earth did you mean by it?"
Spike rolled his eyes. "What d'you think I meant? I have a soul. What else?"
Giles stared at him. Of course he'd known what Spike had been insinuating, but - no, it couldn't be. Abruptly, he was angry again.
"You couldn't have," he snarled. "I don't believe you."
Spike met his gaze for a moment longer, but then he turned away.
"Don't then. Doesn't matter now anyway."
Giles stared at Spike's bowed head - his unruly mop of fair curls with the dark roots showing- his skinny body with its stark ribs and concave belly. Suddenly, with utter and complete certainty, he knew that Spike was telling the truth.
For a moment, he felt dizzy- the world turned on its head.
"When?" he said. "How?"
Spike looked up at him again. Was there the faintest hint of amusement in his dull gaze?
"Long story. Wouldn't wanna bore you. Think I'll save it for your Watcher mates - keep 'em entertained while they vivisect me."
The words sent a chill down Giles's spine, even though he'd just taunted Spike with the prospect. He opened his mouth and shut it again while Spike looked at him, still with that same unreadable expression on his face.
"S'okay," Spike said, after a moment. "Nothing to get excited about. Happens all the time, I expect. An' I was stupid to come here. I get that now."
"Christ!" Somehow, Giles's legs propelled him as far as the nearest empty chair and down into it. He realised he was shaking.
"Why didn't you tell me at once?"
Spike shrugged yet again.
"Would it've made a difference?"
Giles took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head ached and he was desperate for a drink.
"Probably not. Now, though -"
It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps Willow might have been responsible - a bizarre side effect of her grief-induced rampage. Putting his glasses back on, he slid them into place.
"Tell me, Spike. How did it happen? Was it magic, or were you cursed, like Angel?"
At the mention of Angel's name, Spike's expression grew sour. He scowled.
"No, it sodding well wasn't - a curse, I mean. Wasn't just done to me. I asked for it back- fought for it fair and square."
Giles gaped at him. The words still didn't seem to make sense. "But - that's impossible. And why on earth would you do such a thing?"
Spike rolled his eyes again. "What're you -stupid? Why d'you bloody think?"
But then he deflated almost visibly and his gaze faltered.
"Like I said," he muttered, "it doesn't matter now."
Giles's head was still whirling. He cleared his throat
"I beg to differ."
"Yeah?" Spike looked at him again. His tone affected disinterest, but his Adam's apple bobbed, betraying his agitation.
Giles stared deep into Spike's eyes, searching for any hint of deceit and not finding it.
"Let me get this straight. You're telling me that what happened in Buffy's bathroom - when you - when you - did what you did to her -" his voice ground to a halt. He couldn't articulate the words.
"When I tried to rape her, you mean?" Spike's gaze remained limpid, but the tell-tale muscle ticked in his cheek.
Giles drew in a sharp breath. "Yes - then. You're saying that remorse for your actions that day caused you to go and get your soul back?"
Spike opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. He chewed his lip.
"Could say that," he said, at last. "S'only half the story, though." He laughed - another short, sharp bark. "Like everything in Sunnydale, it's complicated."
"But remorse comes into it?" Giles pressed. Suddenly, it was very important to him that Spike should say it was.
Spike's face was sombre. "Yeah." His head drooped. "I told her I'd never hurt her an' I broke my promise. Felt bloody awful about it. Hated her too for makin' me feel that way, but still - "
Giles took his glasses off again. He polished them with his handkerchief while he regarded Spike's slumped form. Spike had just admitted to his crime - the latest of many - but somehow Giles couldn't rekindle his rage of the previous night.
"I need a drink," he said, suddenly. "You?"
When Spike looked at him this time, his eyes were round with astonishment. He glanced from the clock on the mantelpiece, to Giles's face, and back.
"Uh - yeah," he said, at last. "A drink would be good."
Giles looked at his watch. 2pm - Spike was right. It was a little early in the day to start drinking. However, in the circumstances…
As he got up, he realised how dim the room still was, and on the way to the door, he paused to switch on the standard lamp. As he did so, he couldn't help noticing how the soft light cast a golden glow on Spike's pale skin.
In the kitchen, he took the whisky bottle and two tumblers out of the cupboard, moving almost on autopilot, very aware of his brain still trying to process what it had just learned.
It didn't make sense. Soulless vampires were unfeeling monsters. Why should Spike care in the least about what he'd done to Buffy?
The answer wasn't a conclusion the Watchers' Academy training manual would ever have led Giles to. Vampires couldn't love, so it asserted, any more than they could feel pity - or remorse.
For a moment, Giles felt dizzy again, as the world seemed to shift under his feet. He wasn't ready by a long chalk to say the manual should be re-written, but perhaps a judicious footnote or two?
Returning to the living room, he set the glasses down on the coffee table and bent to unchain Spike's hands. Spike's wrists looked raw under the worn shirt cuffs, and Giles felt a momentary pang of regret for his injuries. Not enough, however, to make him unchain Spike's ankles.
"Here." He held out the glass.
"Thanks." Spike took it off him and sipped. He winced as the spirit came in contact with his swollen lip.
Giles sat down in the chair opposite again and took a healthy gulp of his own drink. The scotch burned as it slid down his throat.
"Well," he said. "Bit of a shock, all this."
Blue eyes regarded him over the rim of the glass.
"You're telling me," Spike said, softly.
Giles set his glass down and leaned forward. He couldn't help being curious. "How does it feel?"
Spike's mouth tightened at the corners. "Like fire."
"Oh?" The brevity of the answer was very unlike the old Spike - usually never at a loss for words. "In what way exactly?"
Spike set his glass down next to Giles's, almost untouched. "Set the old Watcher juices flowin', have I?" he asked, voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Something like that," Giles agreed. "You have to understand, Spike - this is unprecedented. That a vampire - a soulless monster - should voluntarily ask for its soul back -"
Spike raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't happen all the time, then?"
"Hardly." Giles felt light-headed again - a mixture of scotch and a heady dose of intellectual curiosity. "Tell me - how did you do it?"
Spike's face turned stubborn, and for a moment, Giles thought he would refuse to answer, but then Spike sighed and picked up his glass again.
"There's this demon in Africa - Uganda, in fact, right in the middle of the war zone. If you can beat all-comers - survive, whatever he throws at you - he'll give you what you ask for."
"Good lord!" Giles had never heard of such a thing. "That's extraordinary. This demon - what's it called?"
Spike shrugged. "Dunno. Never asked."
His answers were becoming more and more grudging, and suddenly he burst out, "In any case, why should you care? I'll be off your hands soon enough - on my merry way to the dissecting table. In view of that, think I'll keep what else I know to myself - can use it, maybe, to bargain for a quick death."
"I…understand." The chill went down Giles's spine again. He wished more than anything that he'd never called Travers.
He cleared his throat again. "There is one other thing, though -something that's of no interest to anyone save myself."
"Yeah?" Spike's gaze was hostile now, the faintest tinge of yellow in his eyes. "What's that, then?"
"Why did you come here - to me?"
The yellow was gone, like a candle sputtering out.
"Told you," Spike muttered, "it doesn't matter now."
"Yes it does." Giles willed Spike to see the truth in his words, as he'd looked for the truth in Spike's. "It matters to me."
Spike chewed his lip again, considering. "You'll laugh."
"Not very likely." Nothing, Giles reflected, about today had yet struck him as funny.
Spike picked up the glass again, tilted his head back and drained the contents in one swift gulp.
"You remember a while back - before Buffy did her swan dive off Glory's tower- Dru came back to Sunnydale and there was…a spot of bother?"
"I remember." As Giles recalled, the incident hadn't been one of Spike's finest hours - not that there were many to choose from.
"Yeah, well." Spike looked embarrassed. "I came to the Magic Shop, makin' excuses, and you told me - "
"To get over it." Giles poured himself another drink, eyes on Spike all the while. "Yes, I recall it well. What of it?"
"I'd never seen you like that." Spike wouldn't meet his eyes now. "'We're not your friends', you said, 'not your way to Buffy. There is no way to Buffy'. Don't mind admitting it, you scared the crap out of me."
"Really?" Giles felt absurdly pleased. He frowned to hide it. "Like I said, what of it?"
Spike's face worked. When he looked at Giles again, his expression was anguished.
"Resented it like hell at the time. Wanted to kill the whole fucking lot of you - 'cept the Bit, maybe. But now I realise it needed saying - needed you sayin' it. And - and-" His voice faltered to a stop. He cleared his throat. "And I need you to say it again."
As the words sank in, all his pent-up rage from the previous night came rushing back, and Giles was on his feet, towering over Spike, fists clenched. "Are you trying to insinuate that you had some notion of going back to Sunnydale - ever - after what you did to Buffy?"
Spike didn't seem daunted this time. "No," he said. "At least - " and he dropped his gaze - "only if she asked me - if she needed my help."
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Not that I'm saying the idea never crossed my mind. Was so stupid - thought having a soul made all the difference - until I got one."
Giles took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. "So, if you didn't come here wanting me to -to dissuade you from that course of action, then why?"
The anguished expression was back. "I'm lost," Spike said, simply. "I dunno who I am - dunno where I am half the time. I knew I couldn't go back - burnt those bridges - I thought you could set me right - teach me to be a good man." His Adam's apple bobbed violently again. "Like you."
"Oh." Giles sat down again with a thump. To say he felt stunned was a crass understatement.
"Yeah," Spike went on, oblivious. "And not just that. Like I said, you scared the crap out of me that time. Thought you could control me - stop me from goin' wrong." He shut his eyes and Giles couldn't help noticing the wetness at their corners. "And in the meantime, they keep whispering in my ears, and it burns- oh God, it burns!"
The hairs on the nape of Giles's neck prickled unpleasantly. "They?"
Spike's eyes stayed shut. His voice had taken on an eerie, broken quality. "So many of them - all telling me to go to hell, where I belong."
With a shudder, Giles realised Spike meant his victims - his many, many victims.
"You can see them?" he asked, still curious despite himself.
Spike's blue eyes snapped open. He blinked, as if waking up from a dream. Then he made a face. "Sometimes - yeah, I think so. Other times -" and he shuddered - "I know I'm just goin' mad."
It was on the tip of Giles's tongue to tell him it was only what he deserved, but he bit back on the words. How would Spike's insanity profit anyone?
Abruptly, he leaned down and unfastened the shackles around Spike's ankles. The cuffs fell free with a loud, metallic clank.
"Wha-" Spike jumped, startled.
"You're free to go," Giles said - hurriedly, before he changed his mind. "Get out of here, Spike - and don't come back."
Spike blinked again. "What about your Watcher mates?"
"What about them? They've managed all these years without the pleasure of your company. I'm sure they can manage a while longer. Now - go."
Spike's mouth set stubbornly. "No."
"What?" Giles was on his feet again at once. He grabbed Spike by the arm and hauled him upright. "Get lost, I said." And he tried to push him towards the door.
But Spike stood his ground, and no matter how hard Giles shoved him, he wouldn't budge. "No fucking way." His blue eyes pleaded. "Please."
Giles ignored the desperation in those eyes. Spike wasn't his responsibility and he wasn't going to allow him to become so. "I said, bugger off."
Spike grabbed hold of the chair, standing his ground. He began to babble.
"Can earn my keep - can be useful."
"Oh?" Giles tugged at him again. "How?"
The next moment, to his complete astonishment, Spike's lips were pressed to his. He gasped, and a cold mobile tongue darted inside his open mouth.
Giles flailed his arms. He grabbed hold of Spike's shirt and pushed him, and at once, the tongue was gone. Instead, Spike was staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified, while the cold shock of his touch seemed to roll over Giles's body in waves, quickening his pulse and starting a familiar tingling at his groin.
"What the hell-" Giles began, but Spike interrupted him, words almost tripping over themselves in his haste to fill the shocked silence.
"Or can be useful in other ways. Your neighbour, for instance - the mad old bag with the cats - bet you didn't realise she was a demon, did you?"
*
Part 2