Seven
Despite Giles’ stated wish to get some rest, his sleep didn’t prove helpful. He’d tossed and turned, his thoughts on the revelation Buffy had dumped on them scarcely two days earlier. Heaven. His Slayer had been in heaven, complete and finished. And Willow, that arrogant child, had willy-nilly pulled her from that reward. He’d never doubted that she’d gone somewhere good, knowing, instinctively that the Powers That Be wouldn’t leave her in some dire dimension, not after what she’d done to save the world. No Buffy, most assuredly, had been given a heavenly reward.
He sat up, absently rubbing his eyes and staring blindly at the walls. It all made sense now, Buffy’s reluctance to actively engage in her own life, her inability to cope with loud noises and bright lights, the need for peace and retreat from the world around her. She had to be in pain, and not merely the physical kind. Giles didn’t begin to think he had an understanding of what being ripped from heaven was like, but to his eyes, Buffy was suffering. She needed help and understanding, not pushing and definitely not the added burden of trying to keep a household going. He was going to have to do something to assist her.
A soft sigh broke from his pursed lips as he heard the stirring in the room next to his. Spike’s low baritone murmured indistinctly, interrupted here and there by higher tones that Giles could barely make out. No doubt it was Dawn . . . But then he heard Buffy grumbling through an open door and his heart constricted again.
“Oh, dear girl, whatever is to be done?” He’d failed her so many times over the years, culminating in the colossal mistake he’d made last spring. She’d jumped to save her sister, because he’d stopped looking for alternatives. Believing the only way to truly defeat Glory was by sacrificing Dawn, Giles had completely underestimated the depths of Buffy’s caring. Especially coming hard on the heels of Joyce’s untimely passing, he’d been incredibly crass and unthinking. Buffy had lost her mother and there he was, counseling her to kill the only family she had left. It hadn’t mattered to Buffy that Dawn had been a construct, a cuckoo brought into the nest by mystical means; and because it hadn’t mattered to Buffy, it shouldn’t have mattered to him either.
“What a fool I’ve been.”
Rising stiffly to his feet, Giles sighed again. “There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain goes on and on. Empty chairs at empty tables. . . Suddenly my Slayer was dead and gone.”
Fumbling for his glasses, the song continued to tumble unwittingly from his lips. “Then they talked of resurrection – and bringing her back into the game.” Anger flashed in his eyes, while grief momentarily closed his throat. Shaking his head to stifle the emotion, Giles took, again, took up the song. “Into a life of tears and sorrow, never realizing she’d not be the same.”
He gripped the back of the dressing table chair, staring at his own rumpled reflection. “Out from the depths of her coffin, she could see a world reborn . . .”
Unable to continue, Giles hung his head and let the tears fall. Buffy had been dead, her life’s work finished. Until Willow and the others had done the unthinkable, and brought her back. He wasn’t sure any longer, whether he wept because of Buffy’s sacrifice, or because she’d been damaged by her removal from heaven. Either reason was cause enough for tears.
His eyes lifted to the mirror as the music swelled around him. “Phantom faces at the window. . . phantom shadows on the floor. . . Empty chairs at empty tables, where my Slayer sits no more.”
The tears and grief muffled his voice, until he was barely singing. “Oh my Slayer, my Slayer, don’t ask me. . . what your sacrifice was for. . . Empty chairs at empty tables, where my Slayer sits no more.”
The last words faded into the still air, and Giles stayed there, his heart breaking for everything Buffy had been through.
Dawn slipped from the room Spike had shared with Buffy, grumbling to herself about people who tried to control other people, not realizing she had a rather reluctant audience. Giles watched her from his doorway, a speculative look on his face. He had an idea why Dawn was complaining, and while part of him agreed with her, a rather larger part of him knew she was wrong.
He followed her down the hallway, to find her alone in the kitchen. Dawn’s head was deep inside the old refrigerator, searching through the threadbare contents. “No. No. Ew.”
She slammed the door shut, jumping a bit when Giles appeared next to her. “Geez, Giles, could you maybe warn a girl?”
“Sorry, dear. I thought you heard me.” He shut the cabinet door he’d been searching through, after finding nothing of interest. “There appears to be little in the way of edible supplies.”
“Why, yes, Giles. It appears that way.” Dawn matched his formality, though there was more sarcasm in her response. “I guess we’ll have to hit up the baker again, huh?”
“Indeed.” He paused, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, he glanced over at her, noting the pensive look on her face. “Dawn? Is there something wrong?”
“Wrong? Um. No. Well, not really.” She sat down at the table, her fingers playing with the hideous fringe on the tablecloth. “Kinda. Sorta.”
He wasn’t certain, though he deduced the problem surrounded Buffy and whatever had caused Dawn to grumble her way down the hallway. “Care to enlighten me?”
“What would you do if you had a second chance?” She didn’t look at him. “Would you still let everyone tell you what to do? Would you do something different?”
While at first her questions appeared pointless, Giles knew there was something specific the girl had in mind. “Such as?”
“Well –“ She drew out the word, elongating it to an over-done point. “If you got a second chance to live, would you let your friends tell you what to do?”
Ahh, so that was the crux of it. “No. I don’t believe I would.” He sat down at the table opposite from her, so he could watch her expressions. “I’ve rarely let others make decisions for me.”
Dawn smiled cryptically. “So then why do you do it for Buffy? You’re always making decisions for her.”
“Buffy is the Slayer, and I am her Watcher. I’m supposed to make decisions, based on my knowledge of demonology and training.” He sat back in his chair, confident that she would see his point.
“So? You don’t fight demons the way she does and she goes out slaying without you all the time.” Dawn looked at him then, her features set in brewing anger. “Why do you tell her it’s wrong to care about Spike and Angel?”
“Because it is, Dawn. They are both demons.”
“Yeah, and?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “They both helped. I know Angel went bad, and now no one trusts him. But Spike? He totally earned it. He stayed and took care of me all summer, he patrolled with all of you and you still tell us he’s evil. He’s not.”
Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that simple, Dawn. The only reason Spike hasn’t struck at us is because of the chip.”
“Bullshit.” The word exploded out of her as she slapped the table top. “You know that’s a load of crap, Giles. He could’ve gotten minions or burned the house down . . . or just not saved us when we needed him.” She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. “Do you really believe this crap or is it something you just spout whenever you don’t have a decent answer?”
He’d never been called to task like this before, and never by someone as young as Dawn. His own anger grew apace, and he glared at her. His fists tightened as he tried to rein in his temper. “You silly child, you have no idea what demons are like.”
“Really? I’m thinking I know exactly what demons are like. I grew up on the Hellmouth, Giles. And even before that, I was around. I know what evil is, and it sure isn’t Spike.”
Before he could control himself, the lyrics spilled forth, angry and hurtful. “You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear – you’ve got to be taught from year to year. It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear . . . you’ve got to be carefully taught.”
“Right. Because prejudice is really the way to go.” Dawn stared at him, her eyes full of disappointment. “Is that what they taught in Watcher school?”
Giles couldn’t look away from the censure in her eyes, no matter how much he wanted to look away. He was beginning to think she might have a point – that his blind hatred of Spike might not be warranted. At least not completely.
He opened his mouth to speak, to try – but the words that spilled forth were not a plea for understanding. “You’ve got to be taught to be afraid of people whose eyes are oddly crazed, and people whose skin is a different shade. You’ve got to be carefully taught.”
“Are you listening to yourself? Does that just work with demons? Or do you have to hate people who aren’t like you? People like Anya? Or is it just people who don’t look like you?” Dawn got up and paced the floor, anger in every step. “Go ahead, Giles, try to convince me that you’re right, coz, right now? Not buying it.”
She slumped back into her chair, waiting for him to continue. He shot up from his chair, looming over her, his hands flat on the table. “You’ve got to be taught, before it’s too late, before you are six or seven or eight – to hate all the people your relatives hate. You’ve got to be carefully taught.”
Dawn glared back at him, refusing to back down. “I think you need to re-think all this crap you’ve been fed over the years. Spike’s not like other vampires. Or demons. And if you think that people who aren’t like you are something you should hate, I think you’re a loser.”
She got up from the table, then pushed him back into his seat. “And another thing – if you trust Buffy enough to save the world all the time, don’t you think you should let her choose who she wants to hang around with?”
With that parting shot, Dawn was gone.
And Giles was left alone to think.
Unlike all the others, Willow had spent an easy night’s sleeping. Though she’d woken up alone, Willow didn’t give it a second thought, surmising that Tara had gotten up earlier than she, and started her day. She was oblivious to the fact Tara hadn’t spent the whole night in the same bed, nor did she noticed the pillows, sheets, and blanket covering the couch. Instead, she’d gone straight for the kitchen, and realizing there was nothing edible, headed down to the bakery.
Once there, she’d gotten sidetracked by the singing baker and spent more than a few moments watching him and his staff sing and dance while making pastries and breads. Willow half expected some of the loaves to begin singing along and was surprised when nothing happened. Finally breaking free of the spell, she hurriedly made her purchases and, then remembering they had no idea where exactly they were, she asked the baker for their location on the map.
Satisfied with everything, she headed back up the stairs.
Spike had retreated to the bathroom after his duet with Tara, needing space away from everyone, and rightly figuring that the bathroom was the one place no one else would barge into. He’d watched Tara flee out the door and head up the steps to the roof and, knowing he couldn’t follow her there, let her go. He had an inkling she needed the space. No more’an I do.
All this singing – and sometimes dancing – was going to drive him round the bend. He wasn’t ashamed of his voice, nor did he care what tunes he sang to – but the idea that something else was controlling him irritated beyond the telling. He hated not being in control, even moreso since the chip had been inserted into his brain.
‘S not right, what they did to me. He slammed his hand against the porcelain, growling at the empty mirror. An’ this bloody West End nightmare isn’t much better. “Bloody hell.”
Catching himself humming a tune, he growled again. He was loud enough to drown out the knocking, so he was caught short when Buffy opened the door. “Grouch much?”
Irritated by the interruption, yet perversely happy to see her, Spike couldn’t quite get a handle on which emotion was more pronounced. So he merely grunted at her. “Buffy.”
“What’s got you so growly?” She stepped into the bathroom, warily eyeing him.
“All this bloody singing.” He stepped aside, allowing her further entry into the room, then moved to pass her. Now closer to the door, he tried to escape.
“You don’t like singing?” The wistfulness in her tone captured his attention and Spike turned to face her. “What’s so bad about singing?”
He gaped at her, amusement creeping into his expression. “What’s so bad? Have you been listening, kitten?” Spike gestured between them. “Everyone’s spewing their deepest an’ darkest secrets, an’ you wanna know what’s so bad?” He shook his head. “I’d rather not have all the Scoobs knowin’ what’s going on in my head, thank you very much.”
There was laughter in her eyes, responding to the chagrin in his, no doubt, and it made Spike strangely happy to see it. “So you’re saying you’ve got even deeper and darker secrets than the ones you’ve already spilled? What are they? Dreams of mayhem and destruction?”
“No. S’not what I dream about.” He could bite his own tongue for giving that up, and he closed his eyes, because he knew it was about to get worse. Much, much worse. “I have dreamed that your eyes are lovely. I have dreamed what a joy you’ll be. . . I have dreamed every word you’ve whispered, when you’re close, close to me.”
Spike stepped closer, brushing her hair back from her face. “How you look, in the glow of evening, I have dreamed and enjoyed the view. . . In these dreams I’ve loved you so, that by now I think I know what it’s like to be loved by you. I will love being loved by you.”
Big tears surfaced in her eyes and Spike bit his lip, trying hard to keep the rest of the song from emerging. But the look she was gracing him with wasn’t helping any, and he found himself singing the rest of the lyrics. “Alone and awake, I’ve looked at the stars, the same that smile on you. And time and again, I’ve wondered of all the things you were thinking too.”
Buffy moved closer to him, close enough for him to hold her and he didn’t hesitate. She was giving him an opening, he was going to take it. “I have dreamed that your eyes are lovely, I have dreamed what a joy you’ll be. I have dreamed every word you’ve whispered, when you’re close, close to me. How you look, in the glow of evening . . . I have dreamed, and enjoyed the view. In these dreams I’ve loved you so, that by now I think I know, what it’s like to be loved by you. . . I will love being loved by you.”
The music died off, his voice trailing away into nothing and Buffy laid her head on his chest. His arms snuck around her and Spike laid his cheek against her brow. “An’ now you know what I dream about.”
Liner Notes:
Empty Chairs at Empty Tables; from the musical Les Misérables, originally composed by Claude-Michel Schönberg, (French) libretto by Alain Boublil, (English) libretto by Herbert Kretzmer. Debuted at the Barbican Centre in London, England on 8 October 1985, performed by Colm Wilkinson (both in London and on Broadway), also sung by several others.
You’ve Got to be Carefully Taught; from the musical South Pacific, music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II. Debuted on Broadway 7 April 1949, performed by William Tabbert, also sung by others through numerous performances.
I Have Dreamed; from the musical The King and I, music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II. Debuted on Broadway 29 March 1951, performed by Larry Douglas and Doretta Morrow; also sung by others through numerous performances and cover versions.