Rupert Giles

Wed, 10 Jan 2007 22:43:47 GMT

What song best describes your life?

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Giles sat behind his desk, his littered, paper-strewn, work-overburdened desk and listened to the music. It was thoughtful of Andrew, taking the old albums and putting them on to cds through some computer wizardry, so Giles could enjoy them in the office. It was like having old friends to visit. He wondered if his assistant would, in his later years, feel the same way about the music he was listening to now. Would Andrew wax nostalgic for Christine Aguiwhatever? Probably not, but again Giles thought maybe that was just the cranky old man in him railing about things now not being as good as when he was young. He smiled as he had a vision of himself tucked into a warm corner of a pub flourishing a cane as in his declining years he defended “Pink Floyd” as “real” music. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

“Ten years”, make that twenty or thirty. Where had it gone? Well, he was alive. Some he had shared this music with weren’t. Best not to dwell. He remembered the day he bought this album. It was a revelation. He must have played it over and over. It’s a wonder the grooves weren’t worn through. Oh god, that’s right, he had played it so often that Ethan had smashed “the bloody thing” one drunken night. And bought him another later to apologize. Well, best not to dwell on that, either.

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it’s sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you’re older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

The young romanticized death. They have no real concept of finality, do they? Giles thought the very last thing a man of his age wanted to acknowledge was the “one day closer to death” sentiment. This, perhaps, was a drawback in revisiting the old songs.

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say

Giles looked out the window at the winter afternoon, so early fading into winter dark. The time is gone and he should pull up his socks in “the English way” and clear up some of the paperwork before him.

Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
And when I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells.

He thought he’d have rather a large whisky before dinner tonight.

Sat, 09 Dec 2006 19:43:00 GMT

The mun for Giles will be taking December off.

Fri, 17 Nov 2006 21:39:45 GMT

Road Trip

That’s a particularly American concept, isn’t it? The roadtrip. Such an immense land mass spread before one. That’s probably one of the reasons American cinema was so popular in Europe, the lure of the open road. Certainly, there was nothing like that when I was growing up. We traveled, for the most part, by train.

I have made some roadtrips on the North American continent. I took Olivia about rather aimlessly when she visited. We went to the desert, something she wanted to see. Rather different than London, or indeed, anything in the UK. I think she found the empty spaces and lack of discernible life rather oppressive. She’s very much the city dweller.

Perhaps my return trip to the same region with Buffy could be classified as a “roadtrip”. We spend some hours in the automobile together, I, trying to impart some Watcher wisdom; she, for once, rather grave and silent. Of course, we missed the requisite eating at dubious-looking roadside dinner; hunger being a necessary requirement to a vision quest.

After the destruction of Sunnydale, I took a roundabout return to England. So many cobwebs to clear out of my mind, so many decisions about what I should do next. There were many dubious “eateries” on that trip. I should write about that sometime.

Thu, 12 Oct 2006 21:06:17 GMT

Summer

Giles swung the door open. “I thought you would come.”

“I had to see it...the grave. Willow told me where you buried her.”

Giles sighed and said, “Do you want a drink? I’m finding it helps. A drink. Or drinks.” He turned back into his apartment, leaving Angel to follow him and shut the door.

“I’ll fetch a glass. Sit.”

Angel sank down onto the couch. He accepted the tumbler, half filled with whiskey, which Giles offered to him and took a healthy swallow of it. Giles said, “I made it a triple, saves having to keep filling it.”

“Yeah, thanks. I noticed.” Angel took a long assessing look at Giles. “You look tired.”

Giles sat down so heavily the chair’s springs squeaked beneath him. “Well, I am.” They sat quietly for a moment, then Giles said, “Do you want to hear about it?”

“No. Willow told me everything I need to know.”

“Yes, I see that. The fact of death is the only important thing. And you’ve seen so much of it. Caused so much of it. Like Jenny. I’m getting more used to death. Watching it. Causing it.”

Angel put his unfinished drink on the coffee table. “Maybe I should...”

“No, don’t go. Sorry, I’ve let my tongue run away with me. We’re just two old men steeped in mourning. I’m glad you’ve come.”

They sat silent for a few minutes, each locked in his own memories. Then Giles burst out with, “She loved you fiercely, you know, but that’s how she did most things.”

“Yes, I could see that in her the first time I saw her.” Angel’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe if I’d known how little time she had, I’d have stayed. Maybe I should have stayed. But, she was so good...I thought she’d have a full life, I mean, a long one.”

Giles said quietly, “It’s not as though she were defeated, is it? She gave her life away; they didn’t take it.”

“She saved her sister. It was to save her sister.”

Giles had a slight smile on his face. “You remember Dawn?”

“Of course. I remember when she got taller than Buffy; she was so mad.” Angel took another long drink of his whiskey.

“Willow didn’t tell you?”

“What?”

“It’s an illusion. She wasn’t there. Monks made Dawn up. They knew the Slayer would protect her. Dawn’s just another burden Buffy took on. Buffy saw Dawn as family.”

“Fierce. Like you said, she was fierce when she made up her mind.”

Giles pushed himself up from the chair and got a fresh bottle from a cabinet, breaking the seal and putting on the coffee table.

“Fooling about with memories. Not sporting, is it?” Giles laughed. “Amazing how being drunk makes me speak like Colonel Blimp, isn’t it? Not sporting!”

Angel ran his hand over his face. “Not fair, no.”

The two mourners drank and talked of Buffy for hours. Angel sensed the sunrise coming and made some gestures toward leaving, but Giles told him to stay and sleep the day away on the couch. “Unless you’re in a hurry to go back?” he asked.

“No, no hurry.”

“Strangely enough,” said Giles, “you won’t be my first vampire guest. There’s blood in the refrigerator. This is Liberty Hall for vampires.” Giles giggled as he stumbled up the steps to his bed.

It was too late for Angel to leave safely. The sun would be over the horizon in just minutes. And he was exhausted. He made himself comfortable on the couch and slept.

It was late afternoon when they both woke. Giles looked even more tired than he had the night before. He made coffee while Angel showered, drank two cups and felt more awake but not much better. He decided to call Xander and the others for patrolling tonight. He needed an impetus to get out of the house.

As twilight fell and Angel was preparing to go, Giles said, “Are you returning to Los Angeles? I understand you’ve settled in quite well there.”

Angel didn’t say anything for a moment. “No, I’m going away for a while. Someplace quiet. Sometimes it’s hard to think in LA.” His voice trailed off. “You?”

“How I spent my summer vacation, you mean? Everything is at sixes and sevens. We’re patrolling. I have no urgent need to see the Council again. I’m still needed here for a while. I really haven’t thought much beyond each day.”

“I should be going,” Angel said. “Thanks for the whiskey and the couch.”

“Yes. It was good to share it with someone. With you.” Giles put out his hand. “Goodbye.”

Angel shook Giles’ hand and turned to go. Giles walked him to the door, and watched broad-shouldered figure disappear into the night. “Good luck,” thought Giles, “good luck to us all.”

Sun, 10 Sep 2006 22:04:13 GMT

Revenge

I started to write something scholarly about the subject. Something using the third person and a good deal of distancing language. Perhaps I would have even gotten to the point where I tsk-tsked and pointed a wordy finger at the base emotions that want revenge. But I had to stop before I drowned in hypocrisy.

I failed at revenge. I wanted it and meant to take it, but failed. I wasn’t quick enough or strong enough and I nearly got Buffy killed. Angelus killed Jenny and I wanted to kill him. I waded in, all righteous anger, all white-hot hatred. It was insane, but then, so was I. I only wanted to stop the pain I was feeling, and I neglected strategic planning.

Since I didn’t incinerate Angelus, he had the opportunity to torture me at a later date. Death and the near occasion of mayhem. Isn’t that enough to plot revenge on the offender? Apparently not, for me. When I again faced Angel, I invited him over my threshold.

I can’t hold on to revenge as a motivation. I’m a berserker but not a Titus. That’s interesting to know about oneself. But that mad dash into revenge opened up something in me that I long had buried for fear it would overwhelm me. As I was older now, I came more to terms with it, my anger. I can use it now, not deny its existence.

Maybe that was another gift Jenny gave me.

Fri, 01 Sep 2006 00:23:06 GMT

Human Nature

The train had stopped. The lights flickered once but stayed on. Everyone in the car was calm and after a minute or two an announcement was made over the public address system. Giles wasn’t sure what was being said. The male voice sounded young and as though the announcer were moving to and fro in front of whatever he was speaking into. The upshot was, this particular Underground train wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

Well, as long as nothing was exploding about him, Giles saw no reason to become agitated. He was, however, irritated, mostly with himself. He’d nothing to read. To be correct, nothing he wanted to read. There was a detailed report positing that the threatened melting of the polar ice caps also threatened to release a demon or two that the world hadn’t seen since the ice age. He’d rather not get into it right now. Giles also had with him a novel that he’d already dipped into. He was loath to go any further with it. It purported to be a “thrill ride” of a spy novel. But it wasn’t.

He decided to make a list. With pen and paper. If he did it in his head as he did sometimes trying to fall asleep, he might nod off in this stuffy car. What should be his subject? Movies he wants to see before he dies? Movies he wishes he’d never seen? Beaches he’d like to lie on? He glanced around at the motley group brought together on the stalled public transport. He decided to list things that puzzled him about human nature.

1. Why do we not appreciate the things we have now? Why do we always look to what we used to have or will have?

2. Why are we ready to indulge the behavior of our own children but not that of others?

3. Why don’t we realize that tattoos will sag with the skin they are on and that it hurts like bloody hell to have them removed?

4. Why are we always surprised when things turn out badly? Do we honestly think that our lives will be without trouble during our whole existence?

5. Why don’t we all look in a full length mirror before we go out?

He thought briefly about religion but decided that was too much of an irritant to dwell on in these circumstances.

6. Why do we misdirect our anger so often? Why does it sometime take so long to understand what we’re angry about?

7. Why do some people think what Britney Spears does is singing?

The Tube car gave a lurch and started slowly forward. A collective sigh seemed to come from its occupants. Giles put away his pen and notebook. He decided he wouldn’t be using this topic to lull himself to sleep; it really was too exasperating. And he never got to saying anything about demons.

Wed, 09 Aug 2006 02:22:24 GMT

Spirit

When I first arrived at Sunnydale High I think the principal, Mr. Flutie, was nonplussed. We had a rather strained first interview.

“Mr. Giles,” he said, “Mr. Giles, Rupert, if I may. I’m not quite sure what you’re doing here.”

“Well, I’m to be the librarian. I believe that’s the position for which I was hired. Is there some problem?” I answered.

“The problem is, the essence of the thing is, the thing is, we’ve never had a librarian. Not full time. Now, suddenly, there’s a mysterious grant. A sudden infusion of money for a great many more books and we have you, a librarian. A lot of odd things happen in this town,” and here Mr. Flutie stared intently at me, “but not many of them...ummm...beneficial.”

“Really?” I said, “How interesting.”

“But I’m not one to look a gift horse, etc., if you get what I mean. I welcome you. Anything that makes the school a better place for the kids. We’re all, all about expanding opportunities. Broadening horizons.” And here he looked at me in what I thought was a speculative way. “There are a few things...”

“Yes?” Cautiously. It was obvious to me that this man, pleasant as he seemed to be, was not a confidante of the Watchers’ Council.

“Well, the last librarian, she had very little to do. So she helped out here and there. Helping the children cultivate a sense of belonging, here, in this, what can be this, overwhelming experience. You know, a community-building enhancement...”

I must have looked totally uncomprehending at this point.

He said, “She coached the Spirit Squad.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Spirit Squad. It a group of kids who get together and practice, that is learn cheers. Then they show up at all the team games, do cheers, keep the enthusiasm up. They, the Spirit Squad, wear uniforms. These are really hard-working kids. So, do you think this is something you’d be interested in? Coaching?”

“I...I,” I must admit I stammered somewhat here, “I’ve no doubt that I have no talent or interest in that direction.” He looked so crestfallen that I tried to lighten my refusal. “The chess club, perhaps. I could lend some help there, a mentor if you will, if you need it.”

He looked startled and began rifling through some sheets of paper. “Yes, yes, we do have one,” he read from one of the papers. “It says here they even compete in tourneys with other schools. Huh!”

“Not accompanied by the Spirit Squad?” I tried to keep my voice noncommittal.

“No, afraid not. The tourneys really don’t draw much a crowd to get stirred up.” He looked at me as if he thought I would now withdraw my offer of help.

“Still,” I said, “if it would be of benefit to the school, I’d be glad to be an advisor.”

“Excellent, excellent. I think you’re going to fit in here just fine. All those books, and now the chess. Excellent.” Mr. Flutie rose and I did, too. We exchanged a hearty handshake. “Welcome aboard!” he said.

I tell this story because it was my first encounter with the phenomenon of American ‘school spirit’. If I had thought of it before (and I don’t think I had) I imagine I would have supposed that the term meant ‘cheerleaders’, those staples of American cinema, both legitimate and of the bluer variety.

But it was really so much more. It seemed to me, an inhabitant from a less expressive background, that to be part of this encompassing mood-altering machinery, the Spirit Squad, was as important here as any actual gaining of knowledge was in this school. Rallies were held almost every day in the quad. The squad members walked as gods among the populace of the school. I was quite overwhelmed.

When my Slayer insisted on joining this band of merrymakers, I accused her of wanting join a cult. Perhaps I was overreacting. If I did, I apologize. But I was a stranger in a strange land. It was frightening.

You have no idea.

Sat, 22 Jul 2006 19:53:01 GMT

Inheritance

There’s a nice cottage in Cornwall I got from my grandmother. I used to spend a great many of my holidays from school there with her. I inherited the cottage and an expectation. She was a Watcher. As was her son, my father. I wonder if they both felt as chosen as Slayers do. Felt that picking up the burden of protecting the innocent was inevitable. Hmm, that is the kind of question one does not think to ask one’s family until one is so old that they are no longer here to answer. Or were they as conflicted about it as I was? They certainly didn’t seem so to me when I was growing up.

Many Watchers come from just such families. It becomes tradition. But unlike, say, royalty, more than just birth is involved. There’s extensive learning and sacrifice of time and leisure involved. So, unlike royalty, the more unsuited are weeded out.

It occurs to me that may be why I’ve always been rather glad I had no children of my own. I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to resist laying this burden on them.

On a lighter note, I also seem to have inherited Andrew Wells.

Mon, 03 Jul 2006 18:48:10 GMT

If...

If I were allergic to wool, what would my wardrobe look like? Would a Watcher be an authority figure if he were clad in cotton jeans and a tee shirt? Searching my memory it seems I did appear before Buffy wearing just that outfit, and as I remember, it engendered a distinct lack of respect.

You, no doubt, were looking for some more profound, or at least more introspective, musings. Well, things would have been different if...well, any number of things. Looking at the past through an “if” perspective is worse than useless; it can poison your present.

One must be cautious using “if” even for the future. An experienced person knows “if” they do a certain action it will lead to a likely result. Perhaps they’ve been down that path before. Love, falling in love, is the example that springs to mind. Who has not had love end in heartbreak, of one sort or the other? It may seem to be wise to make that sorrow outweigh any happiness, to say “if I allow myself to love this person, it will end badly”. But is life about wisdom, or involvement?

Better to save your “ifs” for more mundane matters, such as, if I drink coffee after eight in the evening, I shalln’t be able to sleep.

Sat, 03 Jun 2006 01:24:39 GMT

"When I awoke the next morning..."

it was much like any other day. Some people who had been alive the day before no longer were. The only difference in this case was that I knew, loved one of them.

I’d stood beside Buffy’s grave some short months after I started as her Watcher. That was a spell, or a delusion. I didn’t have to wake up the next morning and face her death again. But Jenny didn’t come back; she wasn’t a Slayer. So for quite some time after Angelus snapped her neck, each morning, just after waking there would come that moment that my brain would register, yes, Jenny is still dead.

Many people have had to face that unhappy (despairing? anguished? crucifying?) realization about a loved one but until one faces it oneself...well...one doesn’t understand the sorrow at all.

Then, eventually, comes the day when that isn’t your first thought. You might not think it for an hour or two. It becomes your history. The person becomes less alive, less a person and more an incident in your life, something that happened to you. Because you’re still alive, you see. It’s a normal, natural and no doubt necessary phenomenon that happens so that civilization can go on. It’s also like having her die again. She becomes a soft-edged, romantic memory. Not like the contradictory, surprising, provocative, laughing woman she was. So, I destroyed the photos I had; should anyone mention her I change the subject or leave.

I won’t have it. I don’t want her to be less than she was.

I refuse to think of her, to remember her; that’s the very least I owe her.

Sat, 20 May 2006 20:04:45 GMT

Describe a chance encounter that changed your life

My life hasn’t really been one of chance encounters. It’s not as though I met a man in a pub who knew of a job going at the Watchers’ Council and would I be interested? My grandmother was a Watcher, then her son, and it was assumed I was next to join the “family firm”.

My life in general traveled in some well-worn middle-class grooves. The boarding school, the uni. I can’t say that meeting Ethan Rayne was a haphazard occurrence since we spent several years together in school. We could have scarcely avoided one another if we tried.

Running across a demon did change my life, but is it chance if you summoned it?

I wonder if the tracking of the Slayers in order to gather them and combat The First qualifies under the category. Most of us would never have met otherwise. And why else were these girls chosen to be Slayers but the operation of chance?

The girls that I collected certainly had their lives changed by an encounter with me, so maybe they should be answering this question. But of course, many of them are dead and can no longer ponder fate. For me to do it for them is presumptuous.

I can’t say I don’t do it, but only under the influence of several strong whiskies. And I try to recall all of their names. I can be quite maudlin under the influence.

Sat, 06 May 2006 21:38:13 GMT

Who was "the one that got away"?

Well, doing a survey of my life now, I would say they all have.

I am solitary and likely to remain so. My fault, no doubt.

I believe I could have built a life with Jenny. She had such warmth. I amused her. We approached thing so differently that I believe we could have been endlessly intrigued by each other. I’m sure if I should want to plunge myself into a melancholy mood I’d continue listing the things that would have made us happy to be together. But you must agree that it’s a pointless exercise. Jenny’s dead. The one that was ‘taken away’ I suppose you could fashion her.

Olivia got away. Several times. Evidentially, I had allure as a guitar-strumming troubadour but not as a man connected to some rather scary underworld beings. One can’t blame her. For her, it must have been as if, oh, I don’t know, thinking you’re going to a chamber music concert and ending front row center with Marilyn Manson.

There’s Ethan, of course. I’d like to think I thrust him away. Yet, he is the one who remains in my life. And there’s no truer confirmation of the perversity of fate than that, I’ve no doubt.

Sat, 22 Apr 2006 04:09:39 GMT

Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly.

If I close my eyes to think, I may just drop off to sleep. Yes, I’ve reached that age. So, fully alert and wide-eyed, I say I miss certainty.

I’ve noticed that as one ages, one becomes either more sure of things or less sure. I belong to the latter group.

I think children are traditionalist, very firm in their beliefs. It always comes as a shock to the young that other families are different than one’s own. It’s upsetting to realize that not everyone shares your religion or just as importantly, never butters their toast or watches television. Confronting these things in other people alters one’s world view. Upon reflection, it seems to me that your later outlook on certainty probably forms here. One is intrigued by differences or one isn’t. (Yes, that’s psychologically interesting. I’ll just make some notes to think about this later.)

---Giles opens a notebook, jots for several minutes. Then returns.----

And of course, all adolescents believe firmly that the world started when they arrived. Anything that went before is useless. Certainty is their armour against a confusing world. Later, they usually come to see things differently.

I studied at the Council long and hard in order to identify evil when I saw it. I could rattle off the history of demons, their characteristics, and I was particularly versed in the ways of dispatching them. It was all very clear.

Then I became a Watcher. It turned out to be a grayish-hued world. Long-lived vampires who were champions and killers. Girls made from energy. Slayers who never loved wisely. It was not so easily decided who would live and who would die. I have made decisions that I thought were for the best. And they have broken other people’s hearts. So were they?

Certainty is an illusion but it can also be a comfort.

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 01:35:59 GMT

[A fic done for a ficathon, but it fits in this view of Giles. The fic had to have Giles, angst, internal monologue, alcohol, Ireland.]

Before

The funeral was small. People from the village came; a cousin or two whom he managed to notify in time, several old friends of her husband’s. Everything was as minimal as his mother would have wanted. He sensed a regret among the mourners that there’d be no church service, but his mother had left explicit instructions on that score. Even in his grief and confusion, Giles admired her organizational skills as he went through her desk and found all the legal and personal papers neatly docketed. Everything he would need to wind up her life’s obligations and final disposal was there. Yet, in a letter she included with the copy of her Will she, typically, allowed him to use his own judgment: “I would prefer no memorial gathering, but if it would be a comfort to you and my friends to have one, please do as you wish.”

The funeral was small, as I expected. Mother wasn’t a social woman. Even in this village, she kept to herself. And if an older woman doesn’t frequent the church and all its doings, well, the opportunity for interaction with her peers would be limited. Perhaps she should have started an atheists’ social group, but, I think, even stronger than her distaste for religion was her indifference to humanity in clumps. She had a few close friends, her books and her garden; I think it more than sufficed for her.

And of course, she had me. The boy who’d come to his senses. I wonder if she and a friend or two sat over tea or, knowing Mother, a decent burgundy in the evening and discussed wayward children.

Somehow he couldn’t bring himself not to have a public marking of her passing. Simply bundling up her ashes into an urn, having the urn put up in some ‘memorial garden’, and stalking off back to the city seemed too bleak. So, in a somberly but neutrally decorated room in the funeral home in the larger town nearby, some old colleagues and friends had gathered. Several spoke. Giles had read somewhere that most of the testimonials at funerals were about the speaker and not the deceased. ‘I knew the dear departed and this is impact he/she had on my life’ sort of thing, and now he found this to be true. Giles’ own short eulogy was respectful but not deeply personal.

Everyone said what they were expected to say to him at the later gathering in his mother’s house: how sad it was; how tragic the circumstances were; how she didn’t suffer; how she’d lived a good life. It was all true, and it touched him to see how much people he knew only slightly offered their sincere sympathy. It also made him want to scream and drive them out of the house.

It all happened so quickly. A telephone rings, and your life changes.

Rather a cosmic joke, if you think about it in the right light. There I sit at my desk, plump with self-satisfaction after a meeting with Travers. I’ve been given the news I’m on the short list for a field assignment. Likely to happen soon. As I savor a cup of tea, planning the dispersal and storing of worldly goods and the round of leave- takings I’ll have to make, Fate steps in, saying with a rude nudge, “Here, chum, here’s one I’ve taken care for you.”

The phone rings. One finds oneself saying, in quite an idiotic manner, “What? What?” And now, before the breaking up of my household, I’ll be disposing of my mother’s.

And then, in the midst of the inevitable rituals of death and burial, the thought comes, “My god, I’ll have to make a speech. A eulogy.” Mother wouldn’t expect anything; she was of the firm opinion that she’d expect nothing after death. Still, her live friends would be waiting for the only child to say...something. I did my best, something dignified and appreciative. Should she be wrong and she did linger for a while, I think she’d like it. I kept my composure. She wouldn’t have liked tears.

Mother used to have a custom of asking me, when I was a small child, to recite three good things that happened during the day before I went to sleep. I must have been a rather worried little thing. It’s an odd memory to dredge up on the day of your mother’s funeral when one would be hard pressed to find one good thing about that day.

The morning after his mother’s funeral, Giles woke in the guest room he used when he visited his mother. He felt a moment of confusion about his surroundings, and then he remembered why he was there and the things he had to do that day. There was the solicitor to see. Giles wanted sell this house he’d inherited as quickly as possible. His mother’s personal possessions would have to be gone over; he decided to do a sorting with the idea of saving some things to be stored and looked at more closely, later. And he’d have to call back to the Council sometime during the day.

I must get in touch with Quentin Travers sometime today. God knows, the Council is much like every other organization for the machinations and office politics. I wish I could believe that deliberate choices are made for suitability and compatibility in the field assignments, but looking at some of them, I can’t help but think that the appointment committee sends someone out into the corridor to look in the first office with an open door and say, “Yes, that’ll be the chap.” I have to keep my memory alive in their hearts and minds.

The day went as Giles had expected. The visit at the solicitor’s office revealed no surprises. He’d already seen copies of all the papers the man had. There were certain bequests his mother had asked Giles to handle; the rest of her property was his, to do with as he wished.

The solicitor was just the man I would envision Mother choosing. He had all the relevant documents at his fingertips. The minimum-of-fuss approach for which Mother always looked. I felt let down somewhat when the business was concluded, and I was at sea as to why. Having a pint and Ploughman’s at the local, I realized it was because I was half hoping she’d left a letter for me. Some encouraging words to help me on my journey. Our dialogue, such as it was, was finished. The tragedy of death is that opportunity is lost. And that each person must learn that for themselves. Now, is that a trite thought or a universal truth?

One of his mother’s circle, Angela, a woman Giles had known from his visits to his mother, came to help him with the sorting and packing. She arrived precisely at the time they’d arranged. He was grateful she didn’t seem to need any easing into the task with small talk and reiterated condolences. Only a moment or two after she crossed over the threshold she said, “Well, let’s get to it, shall we? The packing boxes are in the bedroom? I know the way.”

They worked efficiently, with only a few words exchanged. After a while Giles said, “You know, if there’s anything you’d like of Mother’s, I’m sure she’d want you to have it.”

She ran her eyes over the collection of twin sets and wool skirts strewn over the bed and in the open drawers. “Oh God, no. Your mother hated to shop for clothes. She kept buying the same thing over and over. I was a teacher for years and had outfits like these; I used to ask her why anyone would chose to dress like a Barbara Pym spinster, if it wasn’t necessary for work. When I retired, I bought a collection of track suits and trainers,” she gestured at what she was wearing. “Happiest day of my life.” Angela folded one of the sweaters and thrust it forcefully into a box. “I’m going to miss her. She liked me because my bridge game was even more cut-throat than hers.”

Giles found himself asking, “Did she ever talk about me?”

“Not too often. Of course, I don’t have children of my own, so there was no need for that inevitable comparison conversation. She did tell me that you were a scholar. At times we would do the crossword together, and if we’d get stuck, Helen would say, ‘Rupert would know, if he were here’. She talked of your father more often and some of their travels.”

“Yes, they visited some exotic places together,” he said.

Angela looked at him speculatively. “She never said why they did, though. Very hush-hush, was it? She gave me the impression she didn’t care much for his work. I thought at first it must have been archeology, but Helen was rather dismissive of the whole thing.”

Giles sidestepped that with, “I’m not quite sure what it was, myself. I was still in university when he died. We never had an adult conversation.”

“Yes, Helen said he died just before she came here. She said she’d be happy not to see any of those work people again. Though, I must say, she dearly missed your father. I used to want her to get out a bit, you know, meet some nice men. But she’d say, ‘I was happy as I was; I’m content as I am’.” Angela’s hands continued to work while she talked, making neat bundles of Helen’s now unneeded clothing and packing them away. When she spoke again, it was of Giles. “With your father dying so young, and now Helen, I hope you’re taking care of your own heart. Of course, Helen always said your father had a great deal of stress in his life. Still, don’t we all nowadays?”

Angela had finished emptying the bureau of clothing, and in the closet there were only the shoes left. “I don’t see much point in sending these on,” she said, pointing to the shoes, “do you? Much too sensible. Anybody who’d wear them wouldn’t buy them second-hand, broken in to someone else’s foot.”

“No, I suppose not.” Giles envisioned a waste container full of his mother’s shoes. To turn off the picture in his mind, he grabbed at Angela’s last comment, “Stress? Yes, I suppose my father’s career was very stressful for both of them.”

Angela, filling a large plastic bag with the shoes, answered in a distracted tone, “Well, yes, the moving about and such, always a lot of bother. And raising a teenager! She gave me the sense that you were a bit of a handful.”

“Yes, there was a bad patch.”

Angela finished bagging the shoes and then went and sat on the edge of the bed, sighing a little. “Thank God I always taught the younger ones. I heard an endless amount of stories from other teachers and parents about teenagers, though. Staying out to all hours and coming home the worse for wear. Rude language. Sullenness.”

Summoning up a demon and letting it rip a friend to pieces. Yes, the late teen years can be a trial on everyone.

She mistook Giles’ expression and said quickly, “Not that your mother said anything like that to me. She just mentioned in passing that she and your father were at one time rather worried about you. But it all turned out all right, didn’t it? You seemed to have grown out of it. I know Helen looked forward to your visits.” She stood up and gave a brisk, straightening tug on her jacket. “I’m getting to the age where I get to do too many of these packing-ups.”

“I’m extremely grateful for your help. Really. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through without you. Can I offer you some tea?”

“No, dear, thank you.” Angela started toward the door. “I’ll just go home and put my feet up. I’m sure you’re quite tired, too.”

“Wait,” Giles said, “I’d almost forgotten. Mother wanted you to have something of hers.” He took a small velvet-covered box from inside his mother’s jewelry box and handed it to her.

She snapped it open and said, “Oh, it’s her little silver shamrock pin. She always wore it when we played cards. For luck. Oh, now I really must go before I cry. Thank you, Rupert.” She seemed on the edge of saying something more, but instead just turned to go. Giles walked with her to the front gate. He noticed that the lovely Autumn day was clouding over and that there’d, no doubt, be rain soon.

Alone, back in the house, he sank into a chair before the fireplace.

Mother’s passing seems to have been a greater blow to me that than Father’s. But of course, she dealt with these mundane artifacts of death after his funeral, not me. I went back to my studies, ever more determined to become a Watcher, a man of whom he would be proud. What can I offer to Mother’s memory?

I never quite grasped how much she disliked the Watchers’ Council and all its doings. She put up with them for father’s sake, it seems. But never a word to me about not following in his footsteps. Was she resigned to men’s foolishness, or in my case, did she not care that much?

On the whole, I’m finding death to be an exhausting experience.

Giles considered getting a meal together, but it seemed to require more energy than he had. Gradually, his breathing deepened, his chin lowered onto his chest, and he slept.

He woke a few hours later, cramped and cold. He leaned over to switch on the heating element in the fireplace and sat there watching the unit turn a dull orange and savoring its heat. His life in London and the Watchers’ Council seemed far away; he felt locked in a reality where only this cottage and his mother’s absence from it had any substance.

The air in the room was damp, he noticed; no doubt the rain had arrived, though he couldn’t hear any splatter against the window. Just a few more minutes in front of the fireplace and then it’s an omelet for dinner, he decided.

He’d just stood up when there were several sharp knocks on the front door. Giles went to open it and found there a slender, shortish, youngish man whose mop of black hair had gathered drops of water from the heavily-misted air. He had a valise, and, for a moment, Giles wondered if he were a salesman. Perhaps they still went door-to-door here in the country, though surely it was a bit late in the day for such intrusions.

“Are you Rupert, then?” The man had an Irish accent and a confident manner.

“Yes, I’m Rupert Giles.”

“I’m your cousin Michael Keogh, come for the funeral.”

Giles said, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I...” His words trailed off, but he didn’t move to let the man in.

“You phoned my Da’s house. Jimmy Keogh. He and your mother were half-cousins. You and me are sort of second cousins, I guess. And, fella, I’m getting terrible wet standing here.”

Giles moved aside with a quick step. “Of course, please come in. There’s been so much going on, the name completely slipped my mind. I’m afraid you’re too late for the funeral. Please, sit down.” Indicating a chair near the fireplace, Giles felt suddenly that he’d run out of words and sat down rather heavily, himself.

“Ah, thanks very much. The first thing I’m to say is how sad my da is at Lena’s passing. And how he’d have come himself, but he’s old and he’s afraid he’d die in England and he’d never live it down.” Keogh shrugged. “Da’s a bit of a comedian, but the sad news did twist the old man’s heart. He just got out of hospital himself; that’s why he didn’t get your message right away.” Keogh lifted his valise to his lap and opened it. “He sent along some pictures he thought you’d like to see.”

Giles abruptly rose to his feet. “I was about to fix something to eat. I hope you’ll join me and stay the night. I’m afraid you won’t find another accommodation in the village.”

Really, not one more conversation about my mother just now. Hearing my father’s name for her used again is so disorienting. No one else ever called her that. I can remember all his intonations of it. Mostly pleased, sometimes just bewildered-sounding because they were such different sorts of people.

Giles was half way to the kitchen when he stopped short. “Michael, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink?”

“It’s Mick to friends and distant cousins. And why don’t you just bring a couple of glasses.” He reached again into the suitcase and put a bottle on the small table at his side. “Da sent this along, too. Like he says, it’s all right to be sentimental, but a man should be practical, too.”

Giles, glancing at the label, saw it was the 16-year-old Bushmills. “That’s generous of him. And extremely thoughtful.” He went to the cabinet that held his mother’s best crystal and returned with two heavy tumblers. Mick poured a liberal amount in each.

I’m watching him tilt the bottle over the glass, thinking how abstemious my life has been since...well...since Ethan. I believe I’m out of practice. On the other hand, my Watcher appointment is still hanging fire; I’m facing an evening of studying snaps of my mother as a hopeful girl. Oh, pour on, MacDuff

Mick followed Giles into the kitchen. He chatted while Giles made some dinner. He kept on neutral subjects: his trip over, his roundabout way of getting to this small Cornish village, the times he visited London. He stayed away from any mention of Giles’ mother or the funeral. They ate, sipping at the whiskey throughout the meal. Giles found himself laughing at some of his cousin’s stories, warmed and relaxed by the liquor and the companionship. After dinner was over, Mick said, “Let me do the washing up. I had an older sister who’d give me a smack if I dawdled when it was my turn; it’ll take me no time. She’s a heavy-handed girl.”

This time, Giles sat at the table while Mick worked, and, true to his word, they were soon back sitting in front of the glowing fireplace in the parlour. Giles reached for the Bushmills, gave each of their glasses a large dollop, and said, “I found some of your father’s letters to my mother among her papers. That’s why I called him. Really, my mother never mentioned him that I can recall. I only knew she had some relatives in Ireland, but I never knew she was close to them. Maybe you could take the letters, if you think he’d like them?” He made the last sentence a question.

“I’m sure he would. My da is in the way of being the opposite your ma; nothing he likes more than a chin wag about old times. I’ve heard the stories so many times, I feel like it was me standing right next to him when things happened.”

“You must be close, to have made this journey for him.”

“Well, he’s the ol’ lad, you know.” He looked over at Giles and said, “Look, if you’d like me to just leave the stuff he sent, not look at it now, I mean, that’s okay. We’ll just exchange packets like we’re spies or something and settle down to a good night of drinking.”

“No, I’d like to see the photos. The whiskey has mellowed me nicely.”

Mick began to pass Giles the old snapshots, black and white or with bleached-out colors, explaining who some of the people in them were. “Now, here’s your grandfather with his brother, my grandfather, half-brothers, like. Their da, you know, married twice. The second one was English, and their son was raised over here. But he brought his daughter, that’d be your mother, over to visit.” The figures in the photo stood casually lined up, their eyes squinting against the light of the sun. Giles judged from the age of his mother that it was taken sometime after the war.

Well, there they all are. My unknown Irish family, or more like an Irish connection, the familial ties just about stretched to their limits. There’s my grandfather, scarcely remembered, with the same half-smile mother wore when she about to say something tart and amusing. And I’m listening to a never-met demi-cousin tell me about them. Mother never did, but then, I can’t say I ever asked, did I?

“Wait!” Giles looked intently at the last photo Mick passed to him. “This is my father, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, that was probably taken the summer they met, your parents. You know, he was over to doing some Watcher investigations or some such. Da says he was looking for Brachens. Don’t know if he ever found any. But he found Lena.”

Giles glass slipped in his hand and almost spilled. “You know about the Watchers, about demons?” he said, staring at Mick.

“Oh, Jaysus, sure we do. Da says his own father was, I’d guess you’d call it now, the ‘go-to guy’ on stories about demons and banshees and ‘The Lianhan Shee’. Myself, I always remember him waiting for a dark, rainy night to tell all us kids about Irish vampires. So, that was how they met, your parents.” Mick had slid rather low in his chair, and the whiskey was beginning to have an effect on him, making him want to illustrate this part of the story with hand gestures. He held up the forefingers of both hands and began moving them towards each other. “Your father, Harry (right forefinger) comes to Ireland to consult the ‘The Great Keogh’; your mother, Lena (left forefinger) is visiting.” The fingers came together. “It was love.” He stared intently at his hands for a few seconds and then used them to hoist himself up straighter in the chair. “The thing of it was, according again to my da, that the family was gobsmacked that she’d fall for a Watcher. She’d have nothing to do with Grandda’s stories. Just sniff and say it was ‘stories for snappers’.”

“Snappers?” Giles asked.

“You know, like, children.” Mick leaned over to pick some photographs that had slipped to the floor. “But one look at your da, and she couldn’t hear enough about ancient demons. Bedazzled she was. So my da says.”

Giles filled both glasses again. “Well, luckily for all of us, she remained under his spell for the rest of his life. Always waited for her Watcher to come home. I remember she was always a little distracted while he was on a trip without her.” Giles took a rather deep drink and seemed to be speaking to himself. “If I get to go, am I better off that there’ll be no one worrying at home about me, or worse?”

“Now then, the whiskey is making you sad, isn’t it? It has that effect on some. We could talk about football, instead, like. I have some decided opinions on that.”

Giles shook his head and noticed the room continued to move after he stopped. “I’m fine with the family stories. You’re very kind to share them. And your father is kind, too. I read some of his letters to my mother. You’re a kind family.”

I had read some of them. Was that rude? Can you be rude to the dead? I also read the ones she kept from my father. I was ‘like Niobe, all tears’. That’s right, Rupert, literary allusions instead of owning up to genuine emotion. How very English of you.

The pair worked their way through the rest of the Bushmills. Then through a bottle Giles found in a cupboard, not of as good a quality, but they didn’t notice the lack. They looked through everything Mick brought with him, and as the hour grew later, conversation drifted this way and that as the whiskey dissipated their ability to pay close attention to it. Mick began reminiscences of his own childhood, during which Giles would chime in with a ‘really?’ or a ‘yes, I see’.

In the middle of one of Mick’s stories, in the middle of one of Mick’s sentences, Giles suddenly said, “I’m an orphan, you know.” He waved his whiskey glass in emphasis.

“I know, fella, it’s a terrible thing. But it comes to all of us, don’t it?” Mick answered.

“Yes, it is the human condition,” said Giles, articulating carefully. “But, would my father still be here if I hadn’t played the fool, the murderous fool, in my youth? Stress. There was a lot of stress. One wonders.” He stopped and started again. “One wonders if ...I wonder if mother ever had thoughts like that.”

There was no answer to that speculation from Mick, whose eyes had closed. Giles reached over to shake his arm but miscalculated the distance and almost toppled out of his chair. Righting himself, he said, “I could use some sleep myself.”

He leaned his weight on his left hand and pushed himself, only realizing he should have put down the glass in his right hand halfway through his attempt to stand. After he felt securely upright, he turned and put it on the table. He slipped his eyeglasses off, folded them and very carefully laid them crosswise on the tumbler. Pleased with this engineering feat, he turned to go upstairs. His journey up the hall stairs seemed endless to him, but eventually he reached the bedroom and fell face down on the mattress.

It was mid-morning before he awoke. It’d been years since he’d felt so wretched. He felt as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks. He stumbled into the bathroom and cupped his hands under the sink tap to splash his face. He drank three glasses of water. He never regretted more than now that the cottage had no shower, only a bathtub. He thought, fleetingly, that to stand right now under a steaming hot stream of water for a very long time, he would gladly renounce the Watcher’s Council and his entire future. His head ached, and he was aware of each tooth in his jaw.

He turned on the bath’s taps, flinching at the clanging noise the old pipes made. While it filled, he used his toothbrush to try to scour the old sock taste from his mouth. Then he took three aspirin.

Hangover, dead parent, perhaps condemned to a lifetime of shuffling papers. Look at that pathetic man in the mirror. Ah, Rupert, pull your socks up. Time to stop wallowing.

After his soak, Giles went downstairs. Mick, who looked rumpled but alert, was in the midst of frying up some breakfast. He looked around at Giles and said, “Tea, then?”

Giles nodded with a small motion. After finishing the first mug and starting on another, Giles found himself willing to share in breakfast with Mick.

“You were terrible ossified last night,” Mick said in a conversational way.

“At least I made it to bed.”

“I don’t like to try those tricky maneuvers, myself. Better to stay put, I say. You could only make half-way, and stairs are fucking uncomfortable to wake up on.”

Giles managed a small chuckle.

They’d almost finished the meal, eating slowly and only talking at irregular intervals, when Mick said, “Oh, there was a message for you. It was the phone that woke me. It was all I could do to make sense of what the man was saying. I just took down the number he gave me.” Mick waved his fork in the general direction of the kitchen counter. where there was a slip of paper.

Giles went to look at the message and went to the other room to use the telephone. When he came back, he poured himself a fresh cup of tea, sat down and said, “I’m going to California.”

“Brilliant! Fucking brilliant!”

That’s it, then? My big news, and I get to share it with someone who showed up on my doorstep last night? Still, I could be sitting in an empty house feeling even sorrier for myself. And I’ll have the envy of the other researchers at the Council to warm me. Time to put away self-pity and assume massive anxiety about your coming job. Everything in its place, chum.

“Yes, I’ll have to wrap things up here and in London. They want me in place as soon as possible.”

“It’ll be good to have something to do, like, too. After this. Say, I was wondering if you could run me up to Truro so I can start back home.”

“Yes, of course. No problem. It’ll be good to get out of the house. And I have some things for you to take back.” Giles left the room and came back carrying a wooden box. He put it down gently on a clear spot on the table. “Mother left instructions for me to send this to your father. It seems it’s a wedding gift to her from your grandfather. It’s a keepsake box, apparently he made it himself. He must have been a skilled craftsman. See this pattern of several different inlayed woods? Quite a handsome piece.”

“Jaysus, it’s a beauty.”

“His letters to her are inside.” Giles hesitated, “I don’t know why she was so secretive with me about my Irish connections, and now I’ll never know. It seems another great loss to me, now.”

“Ah, well, people are God’s mystery, aren’t they?”

“Yes, no doubt.”

Mick lifted the box up and said, “There’ll be room for this in the valise with the bottle gone. Let me go wash up and change and we can be off for the station.”

Giles said, “That sounds fine. And when you see your father...well, please convey my thanks to him, for everything. Most of all, being Mother’s friend.”

“Done,” Mick said as he was leaving the room. “Jaysus, you English are so fecking sentimental.”

Giles tided up and then sat at the kitchen table making a list of things he would have to do before leaving for California.

California and a Slayer to guide, both scary thoughts. How thoughtful of the Council to arrange a Hellmouth assignment for an untested Watcher, and the reports on this Slayer all emphasize a certain lack of discipline on her part. Am I seen as so rigid that my presence will counteract her tendency to anarchy? Or was my name picked out of a hat? Well, ours not to reason why, ours but to do and...

Giles heard Mick in the other room and went to see if he were ready to depart. They left soon afterward, and Giles’ Mini sped toward the town of Truro and the train station. Mick insisted that Giles not wait with him, and they shook hands in goodbye.

Giles looked back once and waved, but his mind was already on his own departure and the things he needed to do before it. He was sure there would be paperwork for the Council; there always was. Most every one of the staff was an archivist at heart; documentation filled them with delight.

Passport is in order; I’m sure the green card path will be made smooth by the Council’s contacts; there’ll be payroll issues to tend to. What else? What else? Ah, yes. One important issue I’ve never faced before.

Who does a man without a family put in the blank on the emergency contact card? Who do I put, now?

The End

Sat, 25 Mar 2006 03:57:03 GMT

My Father

Giles was on his way to see Ethan and he was thinking about his father. Wondering whether his father would understand. He usually did. Still, it felt like betrayal.

Those ‘lost’ years Giles had, when his father was at a loss as to what to do for, or to him. To bring him back. Giles felt unsure, himself, at this late date, as to why he was such the proverbial angry young man. Fear, he thought was the best guess. Afraid of being drawn into Watcher tradition of his family. Fear of failing at it; fear of succeeding at it and have it be his whole life, like it was that of his father.

As in the way of most parents, Giles’ own put a lot of the blame of what was wrong with their child on the people he associated with. Some evil strong-minded magician led their little lamb astray. And they were right, at least, in the fact that Ethan was a magician. Well, a neophyte one, then. But there was a lot of mutual leading off the beaten track between them.

It wasn’t until there was blood, real human blood, on his hands that Giles turned away from the life he started with Ethan. He’d promised when he came home that he wouldn’t see Ethan again. He hadn't much, up until now, and never voluntarily.

But Giles was going to need some help on a mission. Someone acquainted with demon haunts and demon gossip. Ethan would do nicely. Giles hoped his father, should he be in a position to notice, would approve.

Sun, 26 Feb 2006 20:20:28 GMT

[The mun is thinking of getting Giles out of the office and have him show a little of the Ripper in him. He probably will be interacting belovedchaos, and they may be alternating updates on what's happening within the boundaries of the prompts of TM. That's the plan. It may change.]

Write about an overheard remark or secret that you were not supposed to have heard

He looks at the gray sky, knowing that it’s liable to stay that color for another month. He complained mightily about California’s persistent sun and waxed poetic about the misty motherland. Now that he’s back he feels the romance of the image is decidedly threadbare.

He feels caged, shut up in a space too small. He’s head of a worldwide organization, yes, true. It’s also true the Council has about a twentieth of the resources it once did. The Slayers’ mission is world-wide and to keep it going he hasn’t been out this office for, well, he can’t remember when it hasn’t been a groove between his flat and this office.

He decides to do a little “walk about” in the building. See what everybody else is up to. He grabs a file off the desk and heads for the door. The file is to make him look purposeful; plus, he can plead the press of work if someone tries to corner him. He strides past his assistant who doesn’t even look up from her work. Andrew’s door is open but he’s not in the room. Giles heads for the training room.

Several girls are engaged in hand-to-hand. He slips into the room and watches for a while, admiring their energy and grace. He catches himself drifting from introspection about elegant ballets to something more earthy, pulls his thoughts away from the girls and leaves the gymnasium.

With a sigh, he resigns himself to fixing a cup of tea for himself in the caf, and going back to finish some paperwork. Pushing the door of the cafeteria slightly, he hears voices inside and hesitates. It’s Andrew and two or three of the Slayers. “Oh, no. I mean it. It’s totally true. Mr. Giles can absolutely kick demon ass. I’ve seen him.” Andrew is at his most emphatic.

There’s giggling now. “All right, if you say so, Andrew,” another voice says. Giles is certain from the tone that there’s eye-rolling involved. He steps back into the hallway, to return to his office.

Passing through the outer office again, he asks Miranda to bring his calendar in; he needs to free up some time. Something’s come up and he may have to go out of town.

Sat, 11 Feb 2006 22:02:50 GMT

It was one of those days

He sat at his desk with his mid-morning tea. He allowed himself a biscuit in the afternoon on occasion, but never before lunch.

The intercom buzzed. “Yes, Miranda?”

“There’s a man here.”

“Yes? And what does this man want?”

Another voice wafted through the machine. “Hello, Ripper.”

“Oh, god,” Giles said under his breath and then said, aloud, “It’s all right, Miranda. Let him in.”

When the door swung open and Ethan was standing there, looking a little tired but casting a sardonic glance around the room, Giles felt his heart jump just a little. “Nice digs, Rupert. Landed on your feet, as usual.”

“And you’ve managed to worm your way out of a tight corner. Again.”

“Yes. Fascinating story. Shall I tell you it? But first, let me take the chair you haven’t yet offered me.”

Giles made a small snorting sound. “I always trust you to take what your want without waiting for it to be offered.” Then thought, Christ, why do I always sound like Oscar Wilde when Ethan’s around.

Ethan put the small box he was carrying on the edge of the desk. He leaned back in the chair and draped one leg over the other. “Let’s see, the last time we met was in Sunnydale, wasn’t it? You had me carted off—illegally, I might add—for playing a prank on you.”

“I remember it as a near death experience.”

Ethan smiled and shook his head. “Overly dramatic. Anyway, to get back to me. I was transported to a sunny clime and stashed in a small cell to begin with. Surprising primitive. I mean, for Americans. I really think they didn’t know what to do with me, once they got me.”

Giles shifted in his seat, “Ethan...”

Ethan waved his interruption off. “They asked me questions, but I could tell their hearts weren’t in it. Prisoners and guards, we were just a forgotten cul-de-sac of officialdom. Well, you know me, I try to make myself agreeable. Soon I had a better cell and a little more freedom.”

Giles looked resigned. “This is going to take a while, isn’t it? Tea?” At Ethan’s nod of assent, he pushed a button and said, “Miranda, could we get another tea in here.” Giles threw a quick look at Ethan and continued, “No milk, one sugar. And some biscuits.” He addressed Ethan, “This doesn’t end in a daring escape, does it? Perhaps across ice floes?”

Ethan smiled at him and continued, “Hmmm, no. It was too tropical a location for that. Well, I’d gotten into a routine, just a little sunbathing, a little reading. I knew I was getting lazy, but I kept putting off deciding about how to get out. Then, as usual, fate decided things for me.”

A young, slim woman entered the room with Ethan’s tea just then, giving him a smile as she put it and the biscuits on the desk before him. “Thank you, my dear. Rupert is, I see, a lucky man.”

Giles said, “Thank you, Miranda. Please try to hold any calls for me. Tell everybody I’ll call them back.” She nodded and without saying anything, left the room.

Ethan took up where he left off. “Suddenly, the prison became a hive of activity. All the cells were filled. The number of soldiers dramatically multiplied. Very few of the prisoners spoke, or they claimed not to speak, English. I simply got turned out of the place. They needed the room and no one could remember quite why I was there.”

“This is Guantanamo you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Why, yes, Rupert, very perceptive. The military wanted to take me and dump me wherever the first plane out was going. I managed to wiggle a little shore leave, so to speak, out of them, and a later plane to going to Atlanta, and ticket back here to Mother England. For that, I’m to keep mum about my experiences, forever.”

“Ethan, you’re telling me. You’ve already broken your promise,” Giles found himself smiling in spite of himself.

“Oh, you don’t count. And look, to show you I hold no grudges, I brought you a pressie.” Ethan indicated the box he’d put on the desk. “Cigars. Cubans. My only luggage from the trip. Well, I had some rum, too, but I drank that. I turned you into a demon; you had me arrested; I bring you cigars. Everything, as the Americans say, is even-steven.”

“And, yet, why do I think there is something else?” Giles asked.

“Because you know me too well,” Ethan said, pleasantly. “I thought you could give me a job. Of sorts. Umm, what are they called?...an independent contractor.”

Giles sat upright in his chair. “My god, you never cease to surprise me. We try to bring order into the world, not spread chaos. Where in the hell would you fit in?”

Ethan drank the last of his tea and put down the cup. “You trade in information. I’m good at sussing things out. You pay me by the job. Really, is that so hard to understand? I’m a bit on my uppers, not that I’m blaming you for putting me out of circulation, but, I do think you owe a little something. Moreover, I can go where your goody patrol wouldn’t think of venturing. I daresay I’d be a considerable asset.”

“And what guarantee would we have that you wouldn’t sell us out at the first opportunity?”

Ethan gave Giles a serious look. “My word. That is, I would promise to inform you that I’ve stopped regarding you and your organization as my liege lord, before I began any mischief. I don’t see how I can be fairer than that.”

Giles looked at Ethan, as if judging the offer. Ethan went on, “As a sign of good faith, I can tell you of a group smuggling voodoo artifacts into southern Florida in preparation of raising a great many zombies. Quite well along in their plans, too. They hope to prey on tourists.”

Giles said, “Ethan...”

And that was the day Ethan Rayne came to work, on a day to day basis, for the Watchers' Council.

Tue, 07 Feb 2006 21:55:36 GMT

The mun has thoughts:

My Giles

Loathes cricket
Loved Ethan passionately
Knows he would have spent the rest of his life with Jenny.
Is considered the expert in all things American in his local pub.
Watched Dr.Who mostly for Romana.
Believes his mother, though she never said this, blamed him for his father’s sudden and early death.
Daydreams about an island near Corfu where he once spent two weeks, mostly naked, when work bores him.
Tries to spend Christmas with Buffy and Dawn. At least one toast is always made to Joyce.
Always wanted to water ski.
Works with Andrew, who amuses him and is very competent, but whom he doesn’t completely trust.
Has a cat.
Lies about work overload when invited for a weekend in the country.
Never worked out why just the sight of Spike made him irritated.
Fears a stroke more than he fears dying.
Is glad he never had children.
Misses the family Mexican restaurant he used to go to in Sunnydale.
Quite likes emailing people.
Never wished sexual congress with any of the Scoobies.
Would have admired and been drawn to the man Wesley became.
Is a good plain cook and buys odd kitchen gadgets on impulse.
Reads stories about hard-boiled detectives, male and female, for pleasure and relaxation.
Is a dutiful rather than a giving man.

Sat, 28 Jan 2006 23:28:08 GMT

New Year's Reflection

Giles took his scotch, the good stuff he only drank to mark an occasion, over to his desk. He set the glass down on the small area clear of papers. He’d let things pile up, rather, over the Christmas holidays. Thankfully it was a slow time, even for demons. There was always a burst of black masses and some sacrifice rituals on Christmas day itself (the Watchers’ agents were on alert for those and even manage to stop one or two); otherwise it tended to be very low key. Now it was New Year’s Eve and in a day or two things would be busy again. Sighing, Giles sat down, to work through it all.

Even without the task before him, he would have been spending the evening quietly. He’d come to regard New Year’s Eve as very much ‘amateur night’. Forced hilarity, overindulgence by those unsuited or unused to it, the pressure to kiss at midnight. A sensible man avoided it, staying by the home fire with a good drink.

He spent some time on the stack of papers, checking reports, being astonished at proposed budgets, comparing graphs submitted by overseas offices. Finally he came to a single sheet of what he imagined would be called ‘fluorescent magenta’ paper, if one were to describe it. Undoubtedly it had come from the desk of his assistant, Andrew. Giles realized once again, ‘you can take the boy out of America, but you can’t take...’

It was one of Andrew’s ‘communiqués to the staff’ or ‘morale boosters’ or ‘tips from the top’. Giles forgot which term Andrew was using at present. How it got mixed up in his work papers he couldn’t imagine. He must have been paying even less attention to things than he thought.

This newsletter’s theme was, of course, the new year. Rededication was stressed; gratitude for good fortune; letting go of old slights and worries. Giles, in glancing over it, even saw the term ‘clean slate’ used. It was amazing to Giles, that even though Andrew did a tremendous amount at the office, he still found time to churn out these things. He put the flyer aside.

Giles found it best not to dwell. On the past, or the future. Especially on the artificially significant time like New Year’s Eve. The days of life are long, but the years are short. He knew he wasn’t the only older person to have made that observation. Best just to get through the paperwork and let life unfold as it will.

Tue, 24 Jan 2006 03:09:29 GMT

What is the greatest sacrifice you have made for love?

There was the time I saved two month’s worth of pocket money to buy my mother a bottle of scent for Christmas. She was so grateful. I wanted her to wear it always, but she said it must be saved for very, very special occasions. Poor woman. She put it on her handkerchief that day and perhaps that is the greatest sacrifice she ever made for love.

I spent a bemused evening inhaling gas fumes and trying to understand the American character when Jenny dragged me to spend an evening in an arena full of big motor vehicles. That is a sacrifice I’d be glad to make again, if she were still here to insist we go.

I’ve made many sacrifices for what I regard as my duty. I don’t regret them, but they weren’t for love. Considering it, I have to admit that love has always come second. Perhaps I told myself that when the time was right, I would give equal time to my personal life that I had given to the Watchers’ Council. But I’ve come to realize that one does what one is comfortable with.

Or perhaps, I remember the one sacrifice I did make and don’t know if I can do it again.

Once I was entwined in someone’s life. I felt less than myself when he wasn’t at my side. I could walk into a room and sense if he were there, whether I could see him or not. I didn’t think in terms of forever; I don’t think many young men do, but I thought he was as necessary to me as oxygen.

Then I left him. I sacrificed everything for love. I loved myself more than him. I loved my soul and staying with him, I knew I would lose it.

Of course, with the years, I not only knew I made the right decision, I began to feel that way, too. But there were too many desolate hours until I reached that stage. And I never allowed anyone to mean that much to me again.

Until Jenny. She made me feel as though I walked out of a dark room into the sunlight. Sadly, it was only a short time we had together. There’s not much more I’m comfortable in saying about it.

But life has taught there are days to be filled and that my work is something the world needs to have done. I’m lucky to have it.

Wed, 28 Dec 2005 04:52:32 GMT

Talk about a moving act of kindness you experienced or witnessed

I could talk about my family, of course. How they welcomed me back after I’d gone so far astray. I’ve no doubt my parents are the reason Ethan and I led such different lives, even though our two lives were once so intertwined. I had something to which to return, while he did not.

But a different instance came first to my mind. It was after Buffy plummeted off the tower; for days afterward we were in shock. There were discussions about a suitable burial spot that in my remembrance have a nightmare quality about them. (Dawn’s sobbing at her realization that her sister could not rest beside her mother is not something I like to recall). Once that sad duty was taken care of, the realities of ordinary life asserted themselves.

Of course, I felt some responsibility for Dawn. I was the oldest and had been her sister’s teacher and Watcher for some time. I wondered if it was going to be best for Dawn to go to her father, assuming we could locate him and further assuming he was in any condition to take care of a young girl. I can’t say I felt decisive about the matter. I felt lost in such a fog of grief and regret. I just knew that something had to be done for Buffy’s younger sister.

That’s when Willow and Tara came to me with their plan. They proposed moving in with Dawn. Willow had already thought about what the loss of the Slayer would mean to the Hellmouth. She proposed reanimating the Buffybot. She said life should go on much as before for us and Dawn.

I found this overwhelming. That these young people, who could have been free to pursue their own lives, should want to take up the burden of caring for a teenager and to continue fighting the Hellmouth’s demons without the protection of the Slayer, moved me beyond words. They, Willow, Tara, Xander, would listen to no objections. And, of course, as always in the case of true kindness, they saw nothing extraordinary in their actions. They even accepted Spike into their midst, for the sake of Buffy.

I found it all quite moving.

Mon, 19 Dec 2005 23:02:25 GMT

What are you happy about right now?

It’s raining outside and I’m inside. That’s always a welcome situation. I’m fed, rested, warm. That sounds unbearably dull, doesn’t it? Yet, as one ages one understands the appreciation of simple comforts, and sees that they are not available to everyone. So it behooves one to be grateful.

Is this happiness? No. Happiness is a less palpable condition. It’s your heart quickening as the time approaches for seeing someone you love. It’s feeling loved. It’s laughing out loud with your friends. It’s giving your heart away.

Right now, I have important work to do. I am valued. I guide the young and though they aren’t always appreciative, they are respectful. I’ve had love in my life and I’ve turned away from it or had it taken from me. Happiness is usually an ephemeral thing.

Am I happy? No, but I’m obliged to be content.

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 03:26:25 GMT

Picture Prompt

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

“I’m smiling at this. The normality of it. A quiet dinner and a movie. A date.”

Jenny leaned her head on the tweed shoulder. “Yes, for once no emergencies involving the Hellmouth and the things it spawns.” She reached over to the car radio and fiddled with the dials. “I say we should celebrate with some music. How does this work? Or does it work?”

Giles let go of the stick shift to thump the radio with the heel of his hand. “Of course it works. There, see.” A quartet, perhaps playing Mozart, began giving a fairly muted performance.

“Yes, I see. Very nice, not overpowering.” Sighing, she continued, “It was a lovely movie. Venice and all.”

“It was very enjoyable, quite different from the usual film fare. Though, of course, in the customary Hollywood style they got the facts all wrong. I mean, Veronica Franco wasn’t the dewy-eyed innocent; I read up on her before we went, I think...”

Jenny interrupted firmly, “Rupert, it was a love story with gorgeous costumes and gondolas and heroine in peril. It was not a history lesson. We’re on a moonlight drive after a perfect evening. We should talk about appropriate things. Now, wasn’t Venice enchanting?”

Giles smiled down at her. “Yes. Very lovely. Much like I remember it.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Once, on school holiday. With a group of 14 year old boys. I don’t think we absorbed much history. I think the teachers’ main accomplishment was keeping any of us from falling into the canals. Since they did that, they probably considered it a very successful trip. Have you been to Italy at all?”

Jenny shifted slightly and resettled herself. “Not, really. Not to stay.” She said in a brighter tone, “We should go. You could take me on a gondola ride. It must be like punting on the Thames. You’ve done that, haven’t you or does that only happen in books?”

“Yes, I have and that time I did end up in the water.” Giles had pulled the car off the road, onto a small promontory overlooking the ocean. They sat in silence for a while, then Giles said, “I think we’d enjoy Venice, I mean, together. Let’s think about it.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Jenny.

(Note: The movie they saw was "Dangerous Beauty" aka "The Honest Courtesan")

Wed, 09 Nov 2005 20:56:41 GMT

Talk about losing control.

That morning he makes himself a proper cup of tea. He brings the teapot down from the shelf, warming it, of course, before adding the tea leaves and hot water. There have been quite a few mornings in the past few years when he was grateful, or even surprised, to be alive and he always tries to savor them with this small gesture.

He sits on the couch, clutching the mug but ignoring the morning paper. He thinks about his close call last night. He must look through the Watchers’ Diaries to see if any Slayer has actually killed her Watcher. Perhaps even when the Watcher wasn’t disguised as a demon. Surely there have been Watchers more annoying then he, and in combination with a Slayer even more erratic than Buffy...

His eye catches Ethan’s shirt he wore home, now discarded and peeking out of the waste bin. The man’s choice of material, real silk, was improved but not his sense of style. Really, he was a most infuriating man. It’s as though he’s crossed the line from worshipping Chaos to being Chaos. Truth be told, that was once exciting. Being near Ethan. Ethan pried him away from his predestination, at least for a little while. Until he understood what ‘out of control’ meant. Lost friends, dead bodies, endless regret. He had only to clap eyes on Ethan to churn it all up.

A sip of tea, then, to calm himself down. Yes, he was calm, in fact, becalmed. As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean, that about described it. It wasn’t just the aftereffects of a tumultuous night. It struck him, sitting as he was on his couch, with no job and no official Watcher duties, that there are other ways to lose control of oneself. There’s the explosive way, all frenetic activity and addictive behavior that ends in death, if one is lucky, or an all-too-long something that only resembles life, if one is not. And there’s the way he’s lost control. Allowing it to leak away. His life was a deflated balloon. He was quite entranced by the metaphor, conjuring up a sad, rainy Blackpool boardwalk of his youth, and in the gutter a large pastel balloon, now of no use to anyone.

But his tea was growing cold, time to refill the cup. Then a shower and a brisk walk, or perhaps the other way about. He drank his second cup while he decided his day.

Thu, 03 Nov 2005 18:17:15 GMT

What do you think when you look in the mirror?

Not much if I don’t have my glasses on or am not very, very close. If I can see myself, I probably just look to see if I need a shave. I don’t look for white hairs; I’m just grateful I have some hair, no matter what the colour.

The signs of the wear and tear of life creep up on one. It would be horrifying if we made the facial and body transitions that happen from twenty to fifty in one day or one week. Perhaps that’s why school reunions are always such an ordeal. We don’t notice time’s erosion on ourselves, but we see them quite clearly on our contemporaries.

Once again I’ve wandered around a bit when exploring the question. I imagine the short answer would have to be: When I look in the mirror and don’t see a Fyarl demon looking back, I think ‘oh, very good’.