Full Circle Part One

[shapinglight]

So, here it is - the final story in my Spike/Giles season 7 series (which is still searching for an overall title. I thought of Secondary Theatre - as in, theatre of war, Sunnydale being the primary theatre of the war against the First in season 7. But if you google 'secondary theatre' (or indeed 'theater') you just get links to secondary school theatre programs. So perhaps not?).

Anyway, this may not be what some of you were expecting as the end of this series, but it is the way I always imagined it ending. And it is a series. There are many references in this story to what has gone before, for which see here for previous stories in the series. I'll put up a link to the series on Ao3 when I've posted it there (which won't be till after I have an overall title. Sigh!)

Setting: Charles Robson's flat, London. The evening of the same day of the previous story, Secrets.
Rating: PG-13/R-ish (mainly for swearing and mention of attempted rape).
Pairings: Spike/Giles. Mention of Spike/Buffy.
Beta: dwyld read it through for me. All mistakes are mine, of course.
Author's Note: That's it! No more WIPs.

Full Circle Part One



Giles stood amongst the crowd on Woburn Place. Most of them had been evacuated from the British Museum, and the School of Oriental and African Studies, but there were shop workers and restaurant staff too from the affected streets, along with passers-by and other gawkers.

The road on the other side of the black and yellow police incident tape was thick with dust, which drifted through the air in clouds, settling on everything and making people cough.

Giles held his handkerchief over his lower face. He couldn't take his eyes off the destruction - the absolute devastation - of the scene.

"What was that place anyway?" he heard someone ask.

Someone else replied, "A government department, I think. Very hush-hush. Shouldn't be here, right next to all these public buildings. It's a wonder more people on the street weren't killed."

There were mutters of agreement from the crowd.

A hulking shape topped with flashing blue lights loomed out of the dust. A police officer unfastened the incident tape to let the ambulance through, while other officers gestured to the crowd to stand back.

The ambulance crawled past the onlookers, then, siren blaring, accelerated away. Giles watched it go. Were there badly injured survivors inside, or was it just ferrying corpses?

Either way, he was doing no good standing here.

With a last look at the dust-choked street and the tangle of metal and stone which was all that remained of Watchers' HQ, he turned and started to walk in the direction of Oxford Street, where he might stand a better chance of hailing a cab.

He had a demon to see about a spot of counterfeiting.

*

"Dreadful! Absolutely dreadful!" Robson was pale-faced as he stared at the television screen. His hand, resting on the back of a chair, was shaking.

Giles said nothing. He looked beyond Robson, to where the three girls were sitting, Molly and Annabelle huddled together, Norah a little separate. Molly had a puzzled frown on her face. Still trying to come to terms, perhaps, with the idea of a television hidden away in a cupboard, and what's more one with a black and white picture.

The screen was very small, and the monochrome made it difficult to work out what was going on, but in the circumstances, Giles thought that was probably a good thing.

He cleared his throat. Despite showering on his return to the flat, he could still taste dust in his mouth.

"You said there might have been survivors," Robson said, suddenly. His face, when he looked at Giles, was drawn and haggard.

Giles could guess who Robson was thinking of. "Possibly," he said, then cleared his throat again. He sounded as hoarse as he felt. "I don't know for sure. There was an ambulance, and it left in a hurry. I daresay we'll find out soon one way or the other."

Robson didn't reply. After a moment, in a fretful tone, he said, "This place is filthy. What were the clean-up team thinking, leaving it in such a state?"

Giles glanced around the room. Robson was right. Since their return, Spike had piled most of the wreckage from their fight with the Bringers in front of the door as a barricade. But no one had made any effort to clear it in their absence, and there were still smears of blood on the parquet. In fact, all that had been done in the way of clean-up was to remove the dead Bringers' bodies.

Very sloppy work indeed.

A sour voice in the back of his mind told Giles that the Council operatives hadn't bothered doing a thorough job because they'd known Robson wouldn't be returning. But surely Travers hadn't shared his murderous intentions with such lowly members of staff.

"We'll give it a good clean tomorrow," he said, as brightly as he could. "You should rest, Charles. You still seem a bit...well, not quite yourself."

Robson grimaced. "Frankly, Rupert, I feel dreadful. But we can't stay here. You know we can't. Where can we go?" He looked panicked suddenly. "There's nowhere to go. The Bringers are everywhere. And they know about this place. How long until they-"

"I'll sort it out, I promise," Giles interrupted, loudly. It seemed Robson was still 'not himself' to the extent that he'd forgotten the three girls were listening. "In fact, I ran a few errands when I was out earlier - passports, and so on."

"Ah." Robson grimaced. "You summoned Mr Zagam, I assume?"

Giles nodded. "Just so. He was as tricky to pin down as always, but I did it in the end. The passports and visas will be ready tomorrow afternoon. Until then, we'll have to lie low."

And hope for the best, he thought, but didn't say.

"Zagam's a very dangerous demon," Robson protested. "You should have taken me with you. I have more experience in dealing with him." He swayed as he spoke and grabbed hold of the chair again to support himself. "I hope you remembered to stay well inside the circle when you said the incantation."

"Of course," Giles assured him. "And you were in no fit state to accompany me, Charles. You're still more or less out on your feet. Please just rest. We're going to need you later."

This seemed to strike home with Robson. "You're right."

He gave the television screen with its depressing scenes of destruction a final anguished look and trudged towards the bedroom.

At once, Norah was on her feet. "Can I get you anything, Mr Robson?"

Robson tried manfully to smile at her. "A cup of tea, if you would, Norah. That would be wonderful."

"Coming up," Norah said, her own smile forced and unnatural. She hunched her shoulders and made her way towards the kitchen, making a big detour around Spike, who was leaning against the wall at the back of the room.

Spike grimaced, but he said nothing. Molly, meanwhile, whispered something in Annabelle's ear, which made Annabelle snort through her nose in a very unattractive way. They watched Norah until she disappeared from sight. Then they both burst out laughing.

Giles frowned. He could well imagine the sorts of spiteful idiocy the two girls were exchanging. Just now, though, he didn't feel like reprimanding them. There was no reason why they should listen to him anyway. He'd taken them to Watchers' HQ, and as a consequence they'd almost died.

The best thing he could do was to get them out of the country as quickly as possible before either the Bringers, or Griffiths' superiors, came looking for them.

The thought of Griffiths sent a pang of guilt through Giles. It was no good telling himself that they couldn't have taken Griffiths with them, or even reminding himself about the three men Griffiths had murdered in cold blood. They'd left him alone in that pit under the earth, and now Griffiths was dead.

Giles could only hope, for Griffiths' own sake, that he'd never regained consciousness before the explosion.

"Penny for 'em," Spike said, suddenly, right in Giles's ear.

Giles jumped almost out of his skin, and Spike raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Sorry." Giles cleared his throat, in embarrassment this time. "You startled me."

Spike just looked at him. "It's okay, Giles. I'm me. I'm not under the 'fluence or anything."

Giles blinked. "Glad to hear it."

"Thing is," Spike went on, "How long's that gonna last?" He gestured around the room. "We're barricaded inside. You're barricaded inside. With me."

He raised his eyebrow again, as if to say, so what are you going to do about it?

For a moment, Giles just stared at him. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, and his brain was definitely not firing on all cylinders.

"Oh!" he said, at last. "You mean...."

"Yeah." Spike took his arm, steering him out of hearing of Molly and Annabelle. "You said we're stuck here until tomorrow, so give me that Prokaryote Stone thing, all right? Now. Before I bottle out and scarper."

He tilted his head. "There was stuff you were gonna tell me too - like who's messing with my head, and what the fuck were you thinking of, taking us to Watcher Central in the first place."

"I was," Giles agreed. He wished he didn't feel so damn tired.

Too tired even to be as worried as he should be about their current situation, which was certainly cause for anxiety; trapped in a known location, easy targets for the Bringers, and locked up with an agent - albeit an unwitting one - of the enemy.

But Spike was right. It couldn't wait any longer.

Giles crossed the room and put his head around the door of the spare bedroom - the one where he and Spike had spent their only night in the flat. He had to admit it didn't look very inviting. The bed was now so much firewood, and the sheets on the mattress were bloodstained from where their Bringer prisoner had lain on them. Otherwise, the room didn't contain so much as a mirror.

It would have to do, though. Giles beckoned Spike to join him.

"Help me get this room ready for the girls to sleep in. Then when they've gone to bed, we'll do...what we have to."

Spike gazed around the room, grimaced, then shrugged. "Yeah, okay."

He bent and tore the dirty sheets off the mattress. "Bed's in bits. No salvaging that. One've 'em can have the mattress, I 'spose. The others'll have to sleep on the floor. 'Less you're gonna turf your mate Robson out of his room."

Giles shook his head. "No, best to let him sleep. There are clean sheets in the airing cupboard in the bathroom, if you wouldn't mind. And spare quilts and pillows inside the ottoman, and in that big wooden chest in the hall."

Spike was kicking bits of broken wood into the corner.

"I'll bring the stuff here, but I don't do housework. Kiddies can make up their own beds."

"Fine." Giles left him to it.

Back in the living room, Molly and Annabelle were dozing in front of the television. There was no sign of Norah, but Giles had a feeling he knew where she was.

Sure enough, when he opened the door of Robson's room a crack, Norah, fast asleep herself, was curled up in the armchair next to the bed, in which Robson slept like the dead. A mug of weak-looking tea sat on the bedside table, going cold.

Giles looked at Norah's face. It was pale and strained, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks. He frowned. Then he went to the chest where Robson kept spare bedclothes, took out the biggest, warmest blanket he could find and draped it carefully over her. He shut the bedroom door behind him when he left the room.

It was probably better this way, Giles told himself. Molly and Annabelle were thick as thieves, and Norah was very much an outsider. What's more, all three girls were scared out of their wits and on edge as a consequence. Making them share a room could result in who knew what unpleasantness.

Back in the living room, he shook Annabelle awake. She sat up with a start and a muffled scream, which had Molly instantly on her feet, belligerent glare on her face.

"Yeah, what d'you want?"

"It's late." Giles resisted the urge to take a step back. "The two of you are nodding off. We've made a room ready for you. Best if you try and get some sleep."

Molly only glared harder. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? We fall asleep, who the fuck knows what you'll do to us?"

Giles gritted his teeth. He couldn't blame Molly for being suspicious, but he was so damn tired!

"I've no intention of doing anything to you, Molly," he said, "except trying to save your lives. Which is what I've been attempting to do all along. But I understand why you find that difficult to believe. Barricade yourselves inside the room, if you like."

Molly still glared, but Annabelle put a hand on her arm.

"He did save us down in that cave, Molly. I think we should do what he says."

Molly shook off her grip. "Yeah, but you're a dozy bitch."

But when Annabelle only yawned, and headed towards the spare room, Molly followed reluctantly in her wake. The door shut behind them with a bad-tempered bang. There followed muffled sounds of Molly complaining, and Annabelle trying to shush her. Eventually, these subsided into silence.

By that time, Giles's own eyes were drifting closed. He startled from his seat when Spike put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Giles. Can see you're exhausted, but this can't wait. Here, I made you some tea."

Giles blinked his tired eyes, taking in the steaming mug on the occasional table in front of him. Spike had switched off the ancient television. The picture had shrunk to a tiny white spot in the centre of the screen.

"Surprised it still works," Spike remarked. "Thing's practically steam-powered."

Giles hadn't the energy to laugh.

He drank the tea. It was weaker than he liked, but acceptable. Spike, meanwhile, had perched on the edge of one of Robson's uncomfortable looking armchairs.

"Out with it, then."

Giles sighed. Where to begin?

*

"So you're telling me," Spike said, in a sceptical tone, "that we're fighting the manifestation of a dodgy philosophical concept?"

Giles put down his empty mug.

"I suppose I am, yes."

"And it calls itself the First Evil?"

"Yes."

"And it's intangible?"

"That's right."

"Bit rubbish really," Spike said. "As arch-nemeses go, I mean. It can't hurt anyone. It can't touch anything. All it can do is play ghosties with us and sneer a lot."

Giles frowned at his levity. "There are enough dead Watchers and Potential Slayers to give the lie to that assessment. The First doesn't need a physical form. It has the Bringers. It may well have other earthly servants. And on a metaphysical level, it's very powerful. It has you firmly in its claws, Spike, as I shouldn't need to remind you."

Spike had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"There is that."

"Don't you have the least idea how it happened?" Giles asked him.

He reflected - not for the first time - that, beyond the bare fact of him acquiring a soul, he knew nothing about Spike's doings in the period of time between his leaving Sunnydale and turning up on Giles's doorstep in Bath.

Was it only a month ago? It felt like forever.

Spike shook his head. "Not really. But a lot of stuff that's happened since I got my soul's...fuzzy? Dunno how else to describe it."

"But you remember the bad dreams? The voices? They would tell you to kill, you said. That you'd feel better if you did."

Spike shivered. "Not bloody likely to forget 'em."

"And you did kill Harriet Harkness, didn't you? Ripped her throat out and buried her body in a field. Do you not even remember that?"

Spike's expression grew anguished. He shook his head vehemently. "'Course I don't bloody remember it. I wouldn't do that. Except..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes?" Giles prompted, as gently as he could, though the thought of Ms Harkness's miserable death at the hands of a guest in her house made him feel very angry. Not least with himself for taking Spike there in the first place.

Spike sighed. "Except, when the phone call came the other night, I knew I must have killed the old girl. Don't remember doin' it, but I knew." He grimaced. "'S' why I let you shoot me. Was worried what I might do next. Just never expected to wake up in a Watchers' Council holding cell."

Giles frowned. Was Spike trying to change the subject?

"I didn't see any other course of action," he said. "The First's servants - the Bringers - were killing Potential Slayers with impunity. I knew they'd be back for Norah and the others, and that Robson and I on our own hadn't a chance against them. I genuinely thought we'd be safer."

He looked Spike straight in the eye. "If I had to do it all again, I would probably make the same choice."

Spike tilted his head. "S'pose I get that. And you did say - well, not say, but I know what you meant - that the only thing you regretted in this whole sorry business was having sex with me."

Yes, Giles thought. Spike was definitely trying to change the subject. Further evidence that he knew more than he was letting on.

"That's right." He nodded. "I told you, Spike, before we left the Westbury house that we couldn't be...be intimate any more. I stand by that. I'm only sorry it happened in the first place. You weren't in your right mind, and I knew it. I can only apologise for taking advantage of you."

Spike blinked. Clearly, an apology was the last thing he'd been expecting. Then his face cleared.

"So, it's not that you find me ugly, or disgusting, or...or..." His voice trailed off again, but his expression, when he looked at Giles, showed his relief.

At this stage, Giles thought, he hardly knew himself what he thought of Spike, beyond that, consciously or not, Spike was keeping secrets from him.

"No," he said. "It's not that."

"So, if I was in my right mind," Spike went on, "you think you'd have second thoughts?"

His eyes, scared and eager at the same time, implored Giles to say yes.

Giles winced inwardly. He was still tempted. It was hard not to be when someone as attractive as Spike looked at you like that.

But even if it were that simple, there was no way to be certain.

Reaching out, he patted Spike's cold hand.

"Not the point. We're trying to get to the bottom of the First's hold on you, remember? Tell me, Spike, what does the song Early One Morning mean to you?"

Spike's face closed down again at once. He looked away across the room.

"S'just a song," he muttered. "My mum's favourite. She used to sing it to me, when I was...when I was a baby."

"Your mother?" Giles stared at him.

Odd. Until this moment, he'd never even considered that Spike might have one.

"What about her?" he asked.

Spike was looking increasingly defensive. "Nothing about her. She was a nice lady. We got along fine."

"Nevertheless."

Giles waited, but when Spike's mouth stayed shut, he got up and crossed the room to where he'd stowed Robson's knapsack containing the precious books. He took out Bay's Book of the Dead and stood, holding it in his hands.

One of the only two books remaining from the Watchers' Council's great collection. The rest was dust blowing down a London street. Centuries of knowledge gone forever.

It hardly bore thinking about.

"Giles?" Spike broke in on his reverie. "You still with us?"

Giles shook himself, gave Spike a brief smile, and came to sit down again. "Of course."

Spike watched apprehensively as Giles thumbed through the pages of the book until he found the right incantation. It was a simple one, fortunately. No extra ingredients necessary, just the Prokaryote Stone itself.

Giles took the stone out of his pocket. It sat in his palm, a tiny, polished pebble.

"The stone will move within your mind," he told Spike. "It will unleash thoughts, feelings...memories. Hopefully, once you understand the root of the First's hold on you, you'll be able to break free of it."

Spike stared at the stone, as if it were his enemy. His hands, Giles saw, had begun to tremble.

"Won't ask you how you're gonna get it in my brain," Spike said. "That Travers bloke made it pretty sodding clear."

"Good." Giles kept his voice neutral. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

"S'pose." Spike looked dubious. "Think it might be a good idea if you chained me up again first, though."

Giles couldn't argue with that.

*

"Kun'ati belek sup'sion. Bok'vata im kele'beshus. Ek'vota mor'osh boota'ke."

Giles kept his eyes on the stone as he chanted, fascinated by the way it writhed and twisted, before becoming a pool of dark liquid in the palm of his hand.

He turned to Spike. "Ready?"

They'd retreated to the kitchen, the room furthest away from the bedrooms. Spike was perched on a spindly-looking kitchen chair, body wound about with every remaining restraint in Robson's collection. The manacles on his hands and feet were anchored to the ancient gas cooker, the most solid item in the room.

"Not really." Spike was sweating. His eyes were fixed on the inky liquid. He licked his lips and swallowed. "Wouldn't wanna let that Lydia bint down, though. Seeing as she's dead an' all."

He tilted his head back as far as it would go. His Adam's apple jerked in his throat. "Get to it."

"Very well." Giles held Spike's eyelids apart with his finger and thumb and tipped the liquid into the corner of his right eye.

Spike's body jerked, making the chains rattle. "Fucking hell, that hurts!"

He opened his mouth to scream, but Giles was ready for him. A moment later a thick wad of cotton gauze from Robson's first aid supplies was jammed behind Spike's teeth, holding his mouth open and blocking his howls of pain.

Spike huffed frantically through his nose. His eyes clung to Giles's face, imploring him to relent.

Giles shook his head. "I'm sorry." He covered Spike's mouth with a large strip of duct tape, to hold the gag in place. Meanwhile, darkness, like a splash of ink in water, seeped from the corner of Spike's eye, glazing over the white and pupil. Spike writhed and spasmed in seeming agony as the darkness crept into the other eye. His feet drummed an urgent tattoo on the ancient linoleum.

Giles watched Spike's struggles dully. He should feel bad, he thought, to make him suffer so, but he was too exhausted to feel much of anything.

All the same, it was a relief when Spike finally went limp. Both his eyes were black pools of inky darkness, behind which...who knew what was going on? Certainly, without Travers' amplifier box and its attendant magics, Giles had no way of telling.

In an effort to keep himself awake, Giles made another cup of tea. He sat at the small kitchen table drinking it, while Spike slumped unmoving in his chains. Even so, he nodded off, only to jerk awake some while later at the sound of muffled groaning.

Spike's eyes were clear again. Black tears, like droplets of glutinous ink, were sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor. As Giles watched, the droplets coalesced into a shimmering pool, which a moment later, was a stone again.

It was over.

Spike was pale and haggard, every inch of him defeated and small. When he saw Giles looking at him, he turned his face away and hung his head.

Giles grimaced. Standing, he went through cupboard after cupboard, until he found a bottle of cheap scotch, tucked away behind a vegetable rack. Robson wasn't much of a drinker.

He poured a generous tot into two tumblers and set them down on the table. Then, he ripped the duct tape from Spike's face. Spike howled through the wadding in his mouth, but he held still while Giles prised it out.

The gauze was sopping. Giles threw it in the bin with a shudder of distaste. He turned to find Spike watching him, silent and pale.

"Here." Giles put the tumbler of scotch to Spike's lips and held it steady while he drank. The scotch was gone in two convulsive gulps.

Giles turned from putting the glass down on the draining board, to find Spike looking at him again.

"Seems we've come full circle."

Giles blinked. "What do you mean?"

He realised what Spike was getting at, even as Spike went on, "'Course, last time, it was your sitting room you had me chained up in. The booze was better too. This stuff tastes like shit."

"There are similarities to the two situations, I suppose," Giles admitted, "but...."

Spike interrupted him.

"One thing hasn't changed, though. You still look like you hate me."

They stared at each other. Giles realised his mouth was hanging open and shut it.

Do I?

He resisted the urge to feel his face.

"That's ridiculous," he said. "I do not hate you."

Spike stared at him, dull-eyed, much as he had that first morning in Bath.

"Why the bloody hell not?" he said. "You should."

"I..." Giles found he had no answer. He sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself another drink.

After a moment, Spike said, "I'd say sorry for every horrible thing I've ever done, if I thought it would make any difference. But words...they're worth bugger all, aren't they? Least of all to..." he looked away from Giles again..."her."

Giles took a big gulp of his scotch. Spike was right. It was pretty poor stuff.

Taking off his glasses, he laid them down on the table and rubbed his tired eyes.

"Spike," he said, at last. "I hardly know what to say to you, except to reassure you again that I don't hate you. More to the point, though, has the Prokaryote Stone worked? Has it helped?"

Spike's face was wet. "Dunno if it's helped. But yeah, it worked." He looked away again. "Knew it all along really. Was time I faced up to it, I s'pose."

"Faced up to what?" Giles put his glasses back on. He would have to be careful. Ask the wrong question and Spike might clam up completely.

Spike blinked tears from his eyes. "My mum," he said. "You may not hate me - thanks for saying that, not sure I believe it - but she did."

"The stone showed you this?"

Spike nodded miserably. "Reminded me, more like. Can't explain otherwise why she...why she..." He hung his head again. "Oh, Christ!"

Giles waited a moment, but Spike didn't seem inclined to continue.

"Why she what?" he asked, in the end.

When there was still no answer, he leaned forward, and patted Spike on the arm. "I realise this is difficult for you, Spike. Anyone could see that. But it's just the two of us here. You can tell me. I won't breathe a word to anyone."

After a moment, Spike looked at him again. "No one? You won't even tell Buffy?"

That gave Giles pause. "I won't lie to you," he said, at last. "If her life depended on it -if the fate of the world depended on it - then, yes. I would tell her."

Spike nodded. "Fair enough." He took a deep breath. "Was very close to my mum, all right? My father died when I was very young and she brought me up alone."

"This would be when?" Not that it really mattered, Giles thought, but he was curious, and Watcher records about Spike's human life had been scanty at best. There was even some uncertainty as to who exactly had sired him.

"Late eighteen hundreds." Spike's gaze had gone very inward looking, his lip lifted in a slight sneer, as if contemplating his human self gave him no pleasure. "Wasn't unusual, of course, at the time - a bloke in his twenties living with his mum - but she kept me close as a kid - was what was referred to back then as 'delicate' - an' when I grew up, I stayed close."

His gaze focused on Giles again. "Then, one of the few nights of the year that I did go out, I met Dru."

"Ah." So that answered that question.

Giles wasn't sure whether sympathy was in order or not at this point, so he kept his voice neutral. "Go on."

"One siring later," Spike said, "Dru's all ready to take me home and show me off to daddy - not that she told me that. But first things first."

He fell silent again, and after a moment, Giles prompted him, "Which would be?"

Spike grimaced. "Dru's a great believer in family tradition, see? Angelus killed his entire family when he was sired, so she thought I should do the same. Not that she told me that either. 'Spose she thought I'd work it out for myself. An' I did - after a fashion."

There was another silence, longer this time, while Spike looked at Giles expectantly.

"Ah," Giles said, at last, when yet again more information failed to be forthcoming. "I suppose you killed your mother?"

No wonder Spike was upset, he thought. If he'd been close to her, the memory of that long ago murder must have hit him especially hard after he got his soul back.

"Well, yeah," Spike said, after a moment, in a tone that implied that Giles was being stupid on purpose. "Goes without saying I killed her. But there's more."

Again, the expectant look, and this time there was a touch of desperation in it.

After a moment, Giles exclaimed, "Oh, I see."

He felt queasy suddenly. "You didn't just kill your mother, did you? You sired her."

Spike's face showed his relief at not having to spell it out. "S'right. She was sick, you see. Had TB - consumption, they called it back then - would've killed her soon enough, and probably me not long after. I thought...I thought if I turned her, she'd be cured. And we'd be together. Forever."

Giles's queasiness turned to astonishment. He'd never heard of such a thing. The human familial bond didn't endure past siring. Every Watcher knew that.

Except that in Spike's case, it apparently had.

Yet another corrective footnote to be added to the canon of Watcher lore.

Which no longer existed, Giles reminded himself.

"And what did Drusilla make of that idea?"

Spike gave him a lop-sided smile. "Not a lot. Don't think she fancied my mum tagging along with us wherever we went." His Adam's apple jerked again. "She needn't have worried, though."

It was clear that they'd reached the crux of the matter. As gently as he could, Giles prompted, "Go on."

Spike licked his lips. He looked away across the room once more, as if he couldn't meet Giles's eyes.

"Went back for mother the next night. She was cured all right. Not just of TB, but of...of me. Made it pretty clear I'd never been anything but a millstone around her neck and that she didn't fancy an eternity of the same."

His head drooped. "Then she said that to be rid of me she'd give me what she knew I'd always wanted - to crawl back inside her. And she...she..." He looked up, face stark with misery and shame. "She opened her gown, and...and offered herself to me."

Giles stared at him, lost for words. After a moment, he forced himself to ask,

"And did you...did you take up the offer?"

"What?" Spike gaped at him, as if he'd gone mad. "'Course not. What d'you bloody think I am? I dusted the evil old bitch. Then I left, telling myself I'd never look back."

His face twisted with anguish. "Not the bloody point, anyway. Don't you see? She always hated me. My own mother hated me. It was only convention that kept her from saying so while she was alive."

His gaze went inward again. "S'why I'm like I am. S'why I do what I do. I want women to love me the way I love them, but how's that possible when even my own mother couldn't stand me? So they reject me, because you bloody would, wouldn't you, and I get angry, and I hurt them. Over, and over, and over."

He met Giles's eyes again, solemn-faced. "So when Buffy told me she didn't want me any more I couldn't accept it and...well, you know what happened."

After that, there didn't seem to be anything else to say. Giles poured himself a third scotch and a second for Spike. Again, he held the glass to Spike's lips while he drank. He didn't offer to unchain him, and Spike didn't suggest it.

Giles glanced at his watch. It was two am. It must be nearly forty-eight hours now since he'd had any sleep.

Spike saw his gesture. "You should get some kip. I'll be all right like this. Just bring me a blanket."

Giles opened his mouth to say no, but he was too tired. All he could think about was stretching out on Robson's cramped, uncomfortable ottoman and sleeping until morning.

"I don't think I'm free of it," Spike said, suddenly, and Giles jumped. He'd almost nodded off again, he realised.

"The intangible bugger's hold," Spike went on. "I don't think it's broken."

"Oh dear." Giles couldn't think what else to say.

"Bummer, yeah?" Spike grimaced. "'Course, you could always put it to the test, if you want."

Giles thought of the feral emptiness he'd seen in Spike's eyes as recently as the early hours of this morning. He shuddered.

"Perhaps not just now."

Spike's shoulders slumped. "No." He watched as Giles levered himself up from the chair and made towards the kitchen door. "Think I know what will break it, though."

Giles paused with his hand on the door knob. "And what might that be?"

Spike's face was hollow and haunted in the fluorescent glare.

"Forgiveness," he said.

Part Two

Comments

[hello-spikey.livejournal.com]

Haunting, beautiful, and now you've gotten that bit out of the way. ;)

FYI, I feel very tired after reading this! Poor Giles! I want to take a sympathy nap. :D

[shapinglight]

I was feeling his pain when I wrote it. Literally. As my sore back was keeping me awake half the night. ;)

[sibilant.livejournal.com]

This has such a sad and weary tone. But it feels like the calm before the storm. And they're all so exhausted and messed up, it's quite ominous - I'm scared for them all.

Of to read the last bit - really enjoying this!

[shapinglight]

Thank you! And thank you so much for sticking with this story.

[rebcake.livejournal.com]

How about "Second Front"? I am not so great at titles, alas. But I'll try to come up with something!

Another riveting chapter. I wonder that Spike is so concerned with his attractiveness to Giles. Is that really more important than having control of your mind/body/soul? He's got a ways to go on the road to saving the world, poor dear.

Giles should definitely get some sleep! But I shall not...until I finish the next chapter!

[shapinglight]

How about "Second Front"? I am not so great at titles, alas. But I'll try to come up with something!

:) What a coincidence! That name came to me a flash yesterday, and I've already put up the first story in the series on A03 under that title.

I'd say great minds think alike, etc, but that would be showing off and I'm too British. ;)

[brutti-ma-buoni.livejournal.com]

Oh no, still triggered? After all that? I love your take on Spike's mum and these revelations; more powerful than in canon in terms of interacting with current characters instead of flashbacks. Great stuff.

[shapinglight]

Thank you! Yes, still triggered.