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summer_of_giles2006-07-26 11:18 am
zandra-x.livejournal.com) wrote in summer_of_giles2006-07-26 11:18 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Four Pairs of Shoes Giles Never Bought and One He Did, Pt. III (Gen)
Title: Four Pairs of Shoes That Giles Never Bought and One He Did
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zandra_x
Rating: Ranging from G to Adult, individual stories will be rated.
Disclaimer: Joss is Boss.
Notes: Thanks toentrenous88 for the original inspiration for this.
Part I
Part II
My thanks toperri94 for betaing. I claim all mistakes as my own.
Rated: G
Part III
After Season Five.
If Buffy hadn’t come back....
So my brief as a Watcher on active duty was over. Not fired this time. Made truly redundant. If your Slayer is dead, what is there to be watched?
I made my report to the Council. And then...then...
Everything fell apart rather quickly. Dawn wanted, wanted very badly, to go to her aunt in Illinois. I think the most important thing to her was to be away from Sunnydale, and from us. Who could blame her? She must have looked at us and seen only what she had lost in her life.
Willow and Tara went to tell Angel of Buffy’s death. They could not bear to be apart from each other for any length of time. They clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck lost in a vast ocean. They, too, wanted to leave Sunnydale; they decided on finishing their schooling on the East Coast. I encouraged them; they need distraction and new challenges to put the horror of the last year behind them.
I began to feel restless myself. The magic store no longer interested me; Anya took it over completely. She and Xander began to bicker constantly. Poor Xander, he was like a man whose inner light had flickered out. No more jokes or bad puns. He became irritable, unable to hold a conversation or even stay still for more than a minute or two. Eventually he announced he’d taken a construction job in Nevada. He didn’t ask Anya to accompany him. He was quite simply there one day, and gone the next.
That left me. And Spike. How I came to feel responsible for a damaged vampire, well, it’s a mystery to me. He was there for the final battle; I saw him weep; he helped bury my Slayer. How could I object when he continued to show up, seeking comfort by being with the people who knew Buffy? So when I realized that I, too, wanted to leave this town, but was not yet ready to return to Britain it, I’m still not sure how, evolved into a plan in which Spike would accompany me on that most American of activities, a road trip.
We headed to Los Angeles first. I insisted, though Spike was not happy about it. I think, in the back of my mind, I meant to lumber Angel with Spike. Surely Spike’s sire should look to keeping him in blood rather than I. When we got there, of course, Angel was on his retreat. Wyndam-Price was there and a very different person than the Wesley I had known. We spent one long evening trading stories and finishing off a bottle or two. He made an excellent drinking companion, full of tales of his “rogue demon hunter days” and of how he joined up with Angel. I almost envied his adventures and was sorry not to have more time to spend with him. I also saw that Spike wouldn’t be staying in Los Angeles.
I explained to Wesley and Cordelia about the chip in Spike’s head, his inability to harm humans, but they were beyond skeptical. They only knew him as a dangerous adversary, and in Cordelia’s case, there was personal acquaintance with Spike’s capacity for mayhem. To put it simply, they didn’t want him.
I realize that I may have made Spike out to be a poor “orphan in the storm”. Some creature to be coddled and protected. He wasn’t that; he was the same Spike as always, irritating and potentially dangerous. But I did feel some obligation to him and sensed he felt a need for some connection to others and that I was what was available to him. The irony of my becoming, in defacto, a vampire’s Watcher did not escape me. As it seemed useless to wait for Angel to return, I had no inclination to linger in Los Angeles, a city that didn’t appeal to me, so Spike and I soon found ourselves on the freeway heading east.
We lived on a vampire’s time clock when we were traveling. Driving by night, sleeping in the day. There was no hurry; neither of us had a true destination. We took in Las Vegas, because Spike said it was a vampire’s dream city, then went on to the Grand Canyon, a natural wonder I always had a longing to see. We meandered. Upon settling somewhere for a day or two, we’d get a pair of motel rooms (I certainly needed a break from the cigarettes and his constant presence). I think one of the main aims of his conversation as we drove was to annoy me. We often end up talking about music and he’d say such outrageously dunderheaded things that I would soon be totally wound up, pointing out why it was nonsense and then I would notice the smirk on his face. (I’m embarrassed to say how many times it worked for him.) In these stays our schedules re-arranged themselves somewhat. I would go about in the sunlight, seeing the sights; Spike went out after dark and, presumably, did the same. When we’d both had our fill of the location, we’d move on.
We arrived in New Mexico. The cowboy cinema of my youth brought to life before my eyes. As we crossed the state border Spike, as he was driving, asked, “What’ll it be, Roswell or Santa Fe? Aliens or Indians?”
“I’ve always been interested in the Pueblos, so naturally, Santa Fe and maybe Taos. Having spent too much time in this car with you, I feel no further need to commune with the extraterrestrial and non-human.”
“Right, forgot you’re a man of the past, not one interested in the future. Abandoned clay houses it is then.”
We eventually got to Taos. Autumn had well and truly come. The days were short and often clouded over enough for Spike to venture out. He accompanied me one late afternoon when I went in search of an additional sweater or two to add to my wardrobe. We browsed in the shops; I was trying to find something more neutral than the ubiquitous western themes beloved by tourists. How would it look if I showed up at a Watchers’ Council staff meeting, fresh cup of tea in my hand to help me through the tedium, resplendent in a knitted garment sporting a bucking mustang? It would be whispered about for weeks.
While bemused by that scenario, I found myself wandering into the boot section of the store. Some of the selections, much too brightly-colored, looked fit only for the more dazzling type of country music performer. The prices were astounding. I’ve had automobiles that cost less. Then I saw a truly beautiful pair in a rich, deep brown with subdued scrolling on them. I found myself picking them up; really, I felt unable to do otherwise. As I rubbed my thumb up and down the leather, I knew I wanted them. What man doesn’t harbor a little boy inside who wants to be a cowboy?
My sensible side mocked me. Boots? Whenever would I wear them? Did I imagine myself as a stern-eyed sheriff in some dusty town? Shouldn’t I face the fact that I was just an ex-Watcher who’d let his Slayer down? I looked around the store to see a salesgirl approach Spike, tsk-tsking at him for smoking indoors. He growled at her, leaning toward her no more than a millimeter or two; she hurriedly went to busy herself in another part of the shop.
I contemplated my arrival back at the Watchers’ Council. I pictured myself striding into the Board Room whilst one of those dry, pedantic meeting were taking place. My new cowboy boots tapping on the floor, Spike in tow. No, it was too absurd. No, it would never happen.
Suddenly, I knew the reason it wouldn’t happen was because I wasn’t going back. Not to London, not to the Council. Not anytime soon. I couldn’t be circumscribed by that organization and its routine again. No more coffee and a biscuit exactly at three; no more endingless meetings with colleagues quibbling over whether a translation from the Proto-Sinaitic should be “hill” or “mound”. I no longer fit in there.
I picked up the lovely brown boots and made for the cash register desk. Spike saw them in my hand and gave me an amused smile. “Gone native, Rupert?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I answered. “I’ve had an idea, Spike. How would you feel about a little “rogue demon hunting?”
The End
Author:
zandra_xRating: Ranging from G to Adult, individual stories will be rated.
Disclaimer: Joss is Boss.
Notes: Thanks to
entrenous88 for the original inspiration for this.Part I
Part II
My thanks to
perri94 for betaing. I claim all mistakes as my own.Rated: G
Part III
After Season Five.
If Buffy hadn’t come back....
So my brief as a Watcher on active duty was over. Not fired this time. Made truly redundant. If your Slayer is dead, what is there to be watched?
I made my report to the Council. And then...then...
Everything fell apart rather quickly. Dawn wanted, wanted very badly, to go to her aunt in Illinois. I think the most important thing to her was to be away from Sunnydale, and from us. Who could blame her? She must have looked at us and seen only what she had lost in her life.
Willow and Tara went to tell Angel of Buffy’s death. They could not bear to be apart from each other for any length of time. They clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck lost in a vast ocean. They, too, wanted to leave Sunnydale; they decided on finishing their schooling on the East Coast. I encouraged them; they need distraction and new challenges to put the horror of the last year behind them.
I began to feel restless myself. The magic store no longer interested me; Anya took it over completely. She and Xander began to bicker constantly. Poor Xander, he was like a man whose inner light had flickered out. No more jokes or bad puns. He became irritable, unable to hold a conversation or even stay still for more than a minute or two. Eventually he announced he’d taken a construction job in Nevada. He didn’t ask Anya to accompany him. He was quite simply there one day, and gone the next.
That left me. And Spike. How I came to feel responsible for a damaged vampire, well, it’s a mystery to me. He was there for the final battle; I saw him weep; he helped bury my Slayer. How could I object when he continued to show up, seeking comfort by being with the people who knew Buffy? So when I realized that I, too, wanted to leave this town, but was not yet ready to return to Britain it, I’m still not sure how, evolved into a plan in which Spike would accompany me on that most American of activities, a road trip.
We headed to Los Angeles first. I insisted, though Spike was not happy about it. I think, in the back of my mind, I meant to lumber Angel with Spike. Surely Spike’s sire should look to keeping him in blood rather than I. When we got there, of course, Angel was on his retreat. Wyndam-Price was there and a very different person than the Wesley I had known. We spent one long evening trading stories and finishing off a bottle or two. He made an excellent drinking companion, full of tales of his “rogue demon hunter days” and of how he joined up with Angel. I almost envied his adventures and was sorry not to have more time to spend with him. I also saw that Spike wouldn’t be staying in Los Angeles.
I explained to Wesley and Cordelia about the chip in Spike’s head, his inability to harm humans, but they were beyond skeptical. They only knew him as a dangerous adversary, and in Cordelia’s case, there was personal acquaintance with Spike’s capacity for mayhem. To put it simply, they didn’t want him.
I realize that I may have made Spike out to be a poor “orphan in the storm”. Some creature to be coddled and protected. He wasn’t that; he was the same Spike as always, irritating and potentially dangerous. But I did feel some obligation to him and sensed he felt a need for some connection to others and that I was what was available to him. The irony of my becoming, in defacto, a vampire’s Watcher did not escape me. As it seemed useless to wait for Angel to return, I had no inclination to linger in Los Angeles, a city that didn’t appeal to me, so Spike and I soon found ourselves on the freeway heading east.
We lived on a vampire’s time clock when we were traveling. Driving by night, sleeping in the day. There was no hurry; neither of us had a true destination. We took in Las Vegas, because Spike said it was a vampire’s dream city, then went on to the Grand Canyon, a natural wonder I always had a longing to see. We meandered. Upon settling somewhere for a day or two, we’d get a pair of motel rooms (I certainly needed a break from the cigarettes and his constant presence). I think one of the main aims of his conversation as we drove was to annoy me. We often end up talking about music and he’d say such outrageously dunderheaded things that I would soon be totally wound up, pointing out why it was nonsense and then I would notice the smirk on his face. (I’m embarrassed to say how many times it worked for him.) In these stays our schedules re-arranged themselves somewhat. I would go about in the sunlight, seeing the sights; Spike went out after dark and, presumably, did the same. When we’d both had our fill of the location, we’d move on.
We arrived in New Mexico. The cowboy cinema of my youth brought to life before my eyes. As we crossed the state border Spike, as he was driving, asked, “What’ll it be, Roswell or Santa Fe? Aliens or Indians?”
“I’ve always been interested in the Pueblos, so naturally, Santa Fe and maybe Taos. Having spent too much time in this car with you, I feel no further need to commune with the extraterrestrial and non-human.”
“Right, forgot you’re a man of the past, not one interested in the future. Abandoned clay houses it is then.”
We eventually got to Taos. Autumn had well and truly come. The days were short and often clouded over enough for Spike to venture out. He accompanied me one late afternoon when I went in search of an additional sweater or two to add to my wardrobe. We browsed in the shops; I was trying to find something more neutral than the ubiquitous western themes beloved by tourists. How would it look if I showed up at a Watchers’ Council staff meeting, fresh cup of tea in my hand to help me through the tedium, resplendent in a knitted garment sporting a bucking mustang? It would be whispered about for weeks.
While bemused by that scenario, I found myself wandering into the boot section of the store. Some of the selections, much too brightly-colored, looked fit only for the more dazzling type of country music performer. The prices were astounding. I’ve had automobiles that cost less. Then I saw a truly beautiful pair in a rich, deep brown with subdued scrolling on them. I found myself picking them up; really, I felt unable to do otherwise. As I rubbed my thumb up and down the leather, I knew I wanted them. What man doesn’t harbor a little boy inside who wants to be a cowboy?
My sensible side mocked me. Boots? Whenever would I wear them? Did I imagine myself as a stern-eyed sheriff in some dusty town? Shouldn’t I face the fact that I was just an ex-Watcher who’d let his Slayer down? I looked around the store to see a salesgirl approach Spike, tsk-tsking at him for smoking indoors. He growled at her, leaning toward her no more than a millimeter or two; she hurriedly went to busy herself in another part of the shop.
I contemplated my arrival back at the Watchers’ Council. I pictured myself striding into the Board Room whilst one of those dry, pedantic meeting were taking place. My new cowboy boots tapping on the floor, Spike in tow. No, it was too absurd. No, it would never happen.
Suddenly, I knew the reason it wouldn’t happen was because I wasn’t going back. Not to London, not to the Council. Not anytime soon. I couldn’t be circumscribed by that organization and its routine again. No more coffee and a biscuit exactly at three; no more endingless meetings with colleagues quibbling over whether a translation from the Proto-Sinaitic should be “hill” or “mound”. I no longer fit in there.
I picked up the lovely brown boots and made for the cash register desk. Spike saw them in my hand and gave me an amused smile. “Gone native, Rupert?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I answered. “I’ve had an idea, Spike. How would you feel about a little “rogue demon hunting?”