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The nice thing about slaying in the Deep South was the ready availability of crucifixes and holy water. Buffy dunked the vampire in the font again, pulling a face as the skin sloughed out into bubbling water.
“Gross!” she said, flicking a piece of skin off her oversized plastic daisy ring. It turned to dust in the light shafts that streaked through the windows.
“Y-yes, well, you will insist on melting them.” Giles’ voice has a peremptory tone of dismissal in it that she had missed in recent years.
“Hey, if they breathed, I’d drown them, it’s not my fault they are all undead and I have to resort to face melting.”
The doors of the little, shed-like church opened, spilling them into glorious, though unconditioned sunlight. Buffy felt sweat appear on her skin. These were no conditions for a slayer, bring on the night. She raised her hand and took the clean handkerchief that Giles had reflexively offered her, drying off the holy water as small bits of vampire dried and drifted as ash. They had been treading softly since the Spike incident and Giles’ response to it - which Buffy had realised was actually more of a trauma related response to her death, her resurrection, her previous boyfriend torturing and murdering when he’d gone off the rails. It made sense, however much of a butthead Giles had been about it all, and they were working through it. She hoped his tone, and the reflex to offer her things, meant they were getting there.
“Are we framing ‘face melting’ as a choiceless inevitability?” asked Giles, squinting up at the sun like he too found it an afront. Buffy remembered his dislike for the unending California sunlight. They were becoming creatures of the night, both of them, though perhaps Giles already was, what with all those generations of Watcher in him. “I would have thought…”
He was interrupted by the blacked-out car which skidded into the tiny lot. Buffy was already jumping clear, her slayer senses giving her the advantage. She gave her ex-watcher a push as she went, half seeing him fall to the curb under the force of it.
She jumped the bonnet, kicking through the black-out paint. The vamp inside erupted into fire.
“Not the conditions for you either huh?” she quipped, jumping down and rounding to face Giles. “Good news, that was a vamp not just some teen with seriously bad window décor. Giles?” He was unmoving on the ground. “Giles?” she called, leaping the few steps over to him. “Are you unconscious again?”
She knelt down and touched his face. His eyes were closed. She smelled the blood before her fingers touched it. “Giles?” she asked, the image of her mom’s sprawled body filling her mind. “Giles!”
“Awake are you, you silly sod?” Tommy’s voice had a grin in it, but there was worry too. Giles sat up, grabbing his head as it exploded in pain rockets.
“How many fingers?” Phil’s hand was somewhere through the mass of whizzing colours.
“One, and a mug.”
Giles closed his eyes again. Dierdra had a lovely laugh, deep and bell like, though at this moment it sounded horribly shrill, like the bells had all been sharpened.
“He means you dear,” she said to Phil, plonking a kiss on him. “Not just the tea. Here,” she gave Giles a nudge and the mug, “drink up.”
The tea was hot and white, which meant miraculously they had milk. The mug clinked against his teeth and he grimaced.
“What the hell did I take?”
“Nothing,” Tommy steadied the mug. “Dee Dee Death Defy-er here took a corner too hard and clipped you and Phil. He landed on you. Luckily, we weren’t going that fast.”
The huge bulk of Phil waved a hand. Giles’ was vaguely aware of a motorbike on its side near his feet. The slick of wet that was across the pavement and that glimmered in the streetlights was seeping into his jeans. They weren’t home then, but somewhere out on the streets. His brain scrambled and came up only with eggs. He rubbed his face, trying to process the screeching, blurry world.
“Sorry mate,” boomed Phil from somewhere above him.
“Yes, sorry Ripper,” said Dierdre nicely, “he squished you a bit and you bumped your lovely head.”
Giles rubbed his eyes again, aware now that his hands were grazed. There was blood and tiny grit from the road surface sticking between his fingers. As though waiting for it’s turn, his leg throbbed and he saw the long shred of skin and fabric.
“If you were out any longer we’d have to take you in. Probably still should.”
Tommy looked at him, analyzing.
Must be bad, thought Giles, if Tommy was thinking of hospitals. Tommy had an aversion to institutions that was understandable given his past but that also bordered on phobic. Giles had the same aversion – to police stations, government offices, schools, hospitals, anywhere the infiltrating web of the council could sense you land, trap you, consume you.
“No,” he sipped at the tea. “I’m fine.”
The tea was hot, sweet and served in some sort of heavy, industrial looking mug that made him panic for a moment. It reminded him too much of the refectory mugs at the Academy. That place where half the staff were watchers and half the kids were children of watchers, earmarked for training and in on the double life. A multi-national conspiracy of nightmare keepers.
The knock on the head must have been hard; he was getting poetic.
Another pair of boots appeared amongst the feet in front of him.
“The Sally-Bash are getting worried; they’re talking about ambulances.” Randall bent down to eye level holding up a finger. “How many fingers.”
“One and another mug.”
“He’s fine,” Tommy’s voice made the decision. “We’re going.”
He was pulled to his feet by Randall, Tommy watching with concern but with half an eye towards the Salvation Army who stood by tea van beneath the streetlight. A huddle of homeless people stood near them, cradling the heavy mugs as their only protection against the damp. “Give the Basher’s back their mug Phil and tell ‘em ta. And where’s that other silly bastard gone?” He looked around but there was no sign of anyone.
The other silly bastard un-spooled himself from a nearby shadow, like a piece of oil giving up a piece of darkness.
“Right here,” Ethan said, “not getting all hysterical, just as requested.”
“Right, well done,” said Tommy as Phil effortless picked up the fallen bike, setting it straight, mug in his other hand. “You’ve spent five minutes as the calmest ponce in London.” Tommy’s tone was a little savage, but it was just his worry showing. The crack of Ripper’s head against the pavement had been pretty loud.
Randall gently shepherded Giles a few steps forward.
“You got him?” he asked.
“For the moment,” replied Ethan, cryptically, but that was normal for him. They set off, Ethan with his arm around Ripper’s waist, the other boys pushing the heavy bikes between them until they could find somewhere to leave them away from Christian gaze. Never a good idea to dump stolen property around people who were moral about theft.
“We not riding?” asked Randall as a usefully empty side street provided them with their opportunity.
“Better to keep him walking,” Tommy nodded towards Giles. “He blacks out again at least we can catch him.”
They walked, Phil stopping after half a mile or so to allow Dierdre to climb his broad back. She hung there comfortably, ridiculous platform boots dangling, no weight to his massive and easy strength.
“No, it’s alright Phil, I’ll carry the heavy 6ft 1 bloke, you carry the tiny woman.”
“He maybe the calmest ponce in London but he’s still a noisy bitch,” said Randell, easily. The tension that had surrounded them whilst Ripper bled on the pavement was easily leaving them. They all bled on lots of pavements, it was nothing new.
“You sleep with it you carry it,” retorted Tommy back to Ethan.
“Hardly fair,” replied Ethan, “and not at all a reason for me to carry him solo. You really all should take a turn.”
But he didn’t mean it – not about them taking a turn to carry him anyway, their highly unfiltered sleeping arrangements were normal to them and natural. Right now, though, he would not hand over his charge for anything. He could feel the wincing of Ripper’s breath inside the leather of his jacket, feel the seeping cold of the other man’s skin as the wet of the road soaked up through him like a line up litmus paper.
“The amount of times I’ve carried you home,” said that mouth somewhere near his neck, “you’d think you could manage it once without complaining.”
“Ah, but I like complaining,” Ethan replied. “It’s part of my charm.”
“You don’t have any charm, you berk.”
They fell behind a little, their step naturally slowing.
“What did you see?” Ethan’s voice was low and guarded, like he didn’t want to ask but somehow had to. Giles took a deeper breath, the pain of it obvious. Maybe he didn’t want to tell him; Ethan braced for silence.
“We were somewhere sunny, muggy. She was drowning vampires in a font.”
Ethan breathed a bit, relieved the other had spoken.
“Same girl as before.”
“Yes, same girl as every time; faceless. Older though. She looked older than us.”
“Even though you couldn’t see her face? Well, there’s the argument for it being nothing more than nightmares.”
“Yes,” came the bitter reply. “No chance of her getting that old before I killed her.”
“No chance at all,” Ethan’s voice was almost soothing, “seen as though they are never going to give you a slayer. Not now, not after the things you’ve done.”
“Do you think so?” Ripper’s voice was hopeful. It broke Ethan’s heart; this man who was the only reason he knew he had a heart, he broke it.
“Well, not after doing me anyway. Besides, it’s a moot point isn’t it? They are never going to get you back.”
“No…” Giles’ voice trailed off. In the half-conscious states brought about by violence, or drugs, or alcohol or the deep lull of post-sex sleep, Ripper’s voice always defaulted back to his true accent. Not the one that Dierdre and the others had taught him so he could speak around his truly crippling stammer, but the one his family had trained his tongue into when he was young. It’s like it could get out, circumvent the stammer, when his mind was fraying or loose. “Unless it’s the future. Unless it’s real, every time.”
Ethan’s fingers gripped into him, as though to pin the other man beside him. Whenever Ripper, in those half conscious and true voiced states, went, whatever he dreamed, he always found the Slayer, though never an Ethan. If it was a future, Ethan wasn’t there.
“This is what is real,” he said firmly. “The rest is bad dreams, all of it, and you’ll probably forget most of it by tomorrow, that was a pretty hard knock.” He knew how dismissive he sounded; he would have to be careful, if Ripper thought him too dismissive he might stop telling him completely.
“Even when I forget her, she is still there. She is always there.”
Ethan gripped him harder.
“I can make her go away.”
Ripper rested his head against Ethan’s shoulder, slowing them to a stop.
“Make my whole head go away,” he pleaded. Ethan put his fingers into the other man’s hair. There was blood there, a little grit from the road, grease, dirt.
“Can do. Though maybe not all of it. Not the useful bit’s anyhow.”
Giles laughed, a short laugh that caused a grimace.
“No, you really do struggle with your ancient Abyssinian.”
“Exactly,” Ethan replied. “I’ll keep that bit.” He moved his hands around Ripper’s face, cradling it gently so it stayed still. “And this bit.” He kissed him, put his thumb onto the lip line as though he could feel the kiss there and live it a second time.
A voice called out to them.
“Stop snogging and get a move on!”
The others were at a corner, not wanting to lose them. Ethan gave a little smile and kissed him again, never really one to do as he was told. Then he put his arm back around that waist and started walking.
“Giles! How many fingers?” Buffy held her hands in front of the rapidly blinking eyelashes, dropping the cell that she had pulled out of her jeans. “Giles!”
“Four” he managed, the eyes closing again before they opened, wider this time and with, Buffy was happy to note, matching pupils.
“Don’t move!” she instructed. “Or move, maybe. I don’t know, you’re so used to getting knocked out you must know what you’re doing by now.”
“Yes,” replied Giles, his eyes still closed, the hot pavement burning through his jacket into his skin. “Quite.”
He took a minute but got up, probably sooner than he should have but he could feel her anxiety. He stood up slowly, feeling himself tower above her. She was so strong, in her whole being and aura, that it wasn’t often he felt his height beside her; it was probably the wooziness flooding through his head. Buffy gestured over the small lot.
“We should probably go get in the car, get you some tea or something.”
“Yes, tea would be good, thank you Buffy. And erm, good job on the face melting part.”
“See,” said Buffy, steering him by the elbow, “I knew you’d come around to it.”
They pulled into the drive-thru next lot over. There was no tea so Buffy got him something herbal in a smoothie, which was practically the same thing. They pulled over into the shadow of the drive-thru sign.
“Do you go anywhere, when your unconscious? I mean, do like go all dreamy or is it like ‘bang,’ darkness.”
He startled a bit at the question, turning slightly to her.
“Why do you want to know?”
She shrugged and prodded at her drink with her straw.
“Just wondering. Faith said that when she was in a coma it was like it was real, but you know, screwy. She dreamed of stuff, about the mayor, me. Plus, you know, there was that whole ‘Buffy is actually in an asylum spell’ thing. So, guess I was just kind of wondering if everyone did that. Dreamed other lives, other realties.”
He lifted the lid off the smoothie and looked at it dispassionately.
“I don’t know about everyone, but I have read that people in coma’s have been known to dream, really quite vividly, whole lives sometimes. Though a lot of the time they know they are dreaming – they have an awareness as it were, of their nonreality. A’and I would point out that though Cordelia did once say I would wake up in a coma I have never actually yet to, to my knowledge at least. So, I really can’t speak for any sort of unconsciousness such as that which Faith experienced.”
“But you’ve had Giles-experienced unconsciousness. What is it like, do you dream?”
He knew her well; she wasn’t going to let it drop. She had no reason to; it was an understandable enough curiosity.
“I used to,” he admitted, “quite vividly when I was younger. Much, much younger. But now…” he paused and thought about it. “Just darkness,” he said, truthfully. “If this is my own unreality it’s the only one. Outside of it there is, erm, nothing.” He looked back ahead and added “Of all my futures, this is the only one that could be.”
She was a little confused by the wording of that last part; her face wrinkled. Then it smoothed and she looked relieved.
“You think so? That this is it, you and me and everything we’ve done, good and bad and reall messy at times? You think this is the world as it should be? Cos, you know, I’ve made a few big changes to it,” she poked at the straw, “and I worry sometimes.”
His hand reached over and held hers, stopping the attack on the cup.
“Of all the realities that may or may not be, Buffy, this is the one I would choose. Every time. Even if I haven’t always done a good job of being in it and even if there are certain regrets in there. I wouldn’t choose any other future, or any other past, but this one.”
“This one,” she repeated.
“This very one,” he assured her. “Because that is the one that brings us right here, right now. This is what is real.”
“That’s good to know.” She squeezed his hand and they took a moment, the car heating up around them from the pounding intensity of the light. Then Buffy reached out and turned the engine, switching up the air con to full blast. She took a massive slurp of coke. “Besides, some of those other realities I’ve heard about, like Anya’s no Buffy Sunnydale Hellscape, they weren’t so good. Probably best we stick to this one.”
“Right, agreed Giles, “though one where America is semi capable of making a decent cup of tea would be welcome.”
Buffy threw the car into reverse, slamming the gas on and whizzing them out of their stillness.
“You have to let that go Giles, Boston happened. The tea is never coming back.”
“Certainly not on this trip anyway.” He politely put the awful drink into the cup holder and wiped his hands on a second clean handkerchief.
Buffy grinned, pulling them into traffic between a semi and an SUV. Behind them, the flames of the burning vampire had ignited the dust inside the car and the whole vehicle now blazed like a miniature sun. Giles gingerly touched his head, surprised to find a dried cruddy knot of blood in his hair. Blood flakes stuck to his fingers and he hurriedly wiped them before they got on the hire car’s cream leather upholstery. As she zipped along the freeway, Buffy saw him lift his fingers up to his lips and touch them, like he felt something there.
Then he wiped his mouth with his hands and stared out the window at the burning sky.