Sang et Ivoire

By Holly

Chapter Five

Time progressed, a tedious repertoire of each day's passing. William tended to the library - a thoughtful caretaker to be sure, if not otherwise bored and misplaced. Things were quiet on the home front. There were weekly reports, of course, the occasional threat of world domination, but, to the proud Watcher's delight, nothing the slayer was not capable of handling on her own accord.

Yes, things were quiet. Experience stressed, however, that silence meant the brewing of some catastrophic evil. And still it stretched endlessly. There were the usuals, of course. A vampire here, a demon there, perhaps one or two actual threats, but nothing that couldn't be handled. Thus, there was no further reason for conjugal research parties, though Giles and William met still out of habit and the need for company. When they weren't discussing demonology, they made long talks of cultural references; books they had both read and enjoyed, engaging in long and often amusing debates to the higher points of good literature. What surprised the Watcher the most was the idea that his vampire friend had read many of the works they discussed while evil pumped through his veins. There was no doubt that William was more scholarly than Spike, but their similarities leaked through with further intent as each day passed.

It wasn't until the day that the vampire had requested off that Giles finally stumbled onto some old notebooks that had seen more wear and tear than any in his private collection. A pile had been abandoned along with some other interesting reads; a few books for recreational enjoyment, a collection of Edgar Allen Poe opened to The Raven, and several volumes of demon ritual for furthered though futile research.

The notebooks, however, held the most surprise. Page after page was documented with thousands of poems, all flowing with rhythmic beauty and description, each coursed and linked, different but alike. Sorrowful works written with such pain that it stole the breath from his body. Poems composed with overwhelming beauty and insight, concerning love and life, and the sensation of watching those around you live without being able to join them. Giles was lost from the first word. He waned away patrons and students who approached him, muttering something about the card catalog before returning to the words. The words! William definitely possessed a bleeding heart, and while the Watcher would have guessed that the woman he loved inspired his work, the simplistic magnificence of the sonnets was the progression beyond the physical and to outlook on life itself. Unquestionably, there were dedications. Odes to Buffy without so many words, often written with grief but lined with splendor. He never named her specifically, but the way the pen seemed to move so freely, there could be no doubt.

Giles had never known poetry like this. His first instinct compelled him to approach William in question, but he decided against it with second consideration. No, the vampire would rebuke in the namesake of pride. He was a tough git - compassionate but straining to maintain his reputation, and would either insist that those were idle ramblings or that he had never seen them before, much less written them. Then he would do something foolish and brash like incinerate his work to maintain his esteem. That wouldn't do. To deprive one man was to deprive the world.

But now was not the time. He would wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Two entire years passed without single mention. There were activities to fill in the holes - the occasional demon to research - and honestly, the Watcher allowed it to slip from his mind at intervals at a time. Then the feedback started to roll in. Critics. Reviews. Little by little at first, and then the massive outburst. And that was when he could not take it. Giles presented William with his gift on what he believed to be his one hundred and thirty second birthday.

The reaction was not as he thought.

"You what?!" the vampire erupted. Before him was a collection of his work, bound by a thick navy cover, spanning the course of over five hundred pages. And every word was his own, every thought, every image. Everything he had conjured up from the bottom of his unbeating heart. "I...I...how could you? And not ask...not bloody TELL me...who gave you permission to-"

Giles frowned. "I didn't think you would mind. Your confidence has never lost its swagger."

"But...the...invasion..." The look on William's face truly was pathetic. He was strained, too pale, even for a vampire, and almost to tears. For a minute, all he could do was stare at the print on the front. William the Bloody - Giles had used his original moniker for the penname. "Bloody hell, Ripper," he murmured as the fire within began to wither. "Do people even like it? I can't...my work! Out there...it's..."

"They love it, Will," he said softly. "The London Press can't stop raving - I can't believe you haven't heard before now. My apologies for...taking without asking. It simply never occurred to me that you would..."

The vampire sighed. "Yeah...I see that. Really. It's just...poetry's a soft-spot with me. I wrote a lot before I was changed, though I think you probably knew that."

"Actually, no."

"How the bloody hell did you think I got my sodding nickname?" He pointed emphatically to the author of the text.

The Watcher arched a brow. "That railroad spike trademark comes to mind for some reason..."

"Well..." William grinned tightly to himself. "Yeah. There was that. That's when I changed my name to Spike, sure. William the Bloody was before I died. I was poet then, too. William the Bloody for my bloody awful poetry." Good lord, there were tears glistening through his gaze. The Watcher had not seen his colleague actually weep since that first day, so long ago. It didn't last long. He wiped his eyes angrily and picked up the book, giving it a good shake. "But they like this? People do? It's not awful?"

The question seemed so completely ridiculous that he was tempted to laugh. "I would not have submitted it for publication if it was awful," he replied honestly. "Will, it's some of the most...breathtaking work I've ever read."

"Why the name?" the vampire rubbed his finger over the place his forename was embroidered in gold letters. "Why not William Ripper II or something equally stupid? If Buffy sees this-"

"Actually, I was hoping she does."

And that was it. That was the end of the discussion. No more would they talk of poetry or publications. No more would William hang his head in sorrow that his secret passion had been unveiled. He would never ask how Giles wheedled his notebooks away without his knowledge, and the Watcher would never tell. Over time, he grew comfortable with the assumption that he had hired a typist to dictate the pages to computer.

After a while, seeing his book in stores, in eager students' bags, even receiving a stock for the library, William allowed himself to grow with deserved pride. He was the first published vampire in history. The first with the will and the talent to have something to write about. If he never composed again, he felt complete. Vindicated.

Haha, Cecily! Beat that! Nana nana na na!

News from the home front remained unchanged. Three years without major developments. What was originally construed as tedium eventually became habit. Surprisingly, the more time that passed, the less William seemed to mind. He grew comfortable in habit - satisfied with his mended status in life. The café was less and less visited; nights occupied with trips to the butcher and grocery store for Wheatabix and all those humanly foods he enjoyed, despite rationality. He was completely adjusted to the taste of foreign packaged blood, though his method of weaning and resigned him with an unhealthy caffeine addiction.

One particularly boring day, William buried himself in research. Not looking up anything of notable importance - just the reassurance that he would be prepared for the sudden rising of an unspeakable evil. Giles agreed that excessive silence indicated the coming of something big, and the longer things festered, the larger the mutinous evil would be.

It hadn't been mentioned for two years, but suspicions that the Council's confiscation of the ancient text was holding them back from the truly pivotal discoveries. There was no way known to either that would provoke the Watcher's former employers to utilize an ode of trust.

So William, during one of his routine smoke breaks, concluded a surprise package was in order for the Council. He composed a very civil letter and enclosed it in a copy of his poetry volume. The play was cheap, he understood, but any attempt was a good one. Perhaps if those gits could see that he valued life as much as the next bloke then they would look at him like a man. Demons might be good at masquerading a good show, but honesty was a virtue none could feign. Especially since the Council made themselves to be a band of experts on the grounds of every vampire that walked the earth and had made special note of his case when he first came to Sunnydale. It was shooting in the dark, but blind faith was better than none.

Two weeks passed before he received a response. It was none more than he expected.

ATTN: William the Bloody
- We appreciate your inquisition, and will gladly add your donation to the archives. However, it is manifest that the Council does not negotiate with demons, nor accept petty efforts of subornment. Despite the special circumstances of your condition, we regrettably cannot authorize the shipment of time's oldest volumes to the betterment of your personal projects. Such reaches are so implicitly unrelated with the cause. Sincerest apologies.

To that William only scoffed, unhampered. The next day, he composed a shorter letter: strict and to the point.
I'm sure the world will understand your unmoving position once she's destroyed, you crazed bints.
He related the situation to Giles and invited him to add his signature. There was nothing more effective than his involvement. The Council would have no reason to believe a vampire - the former Watcher's opinion was still respected in a sense, despite the bitterness of his release.
Next to his colleague's rugged though classy William the Bleeding Bloody Baby!, he added Rupert Giles (Ripper).

Two more weeks passed before the library received its delivery.

In his time, Giles had seen thousands of books. More volumes and collections than any one person could view. For years, he had lived under the assumption that his private assortment was of the oldest in history. However, the books before him were outmatched by any other. The pages were so old and tarnished that the lettering had long ago meshed into a display of black swirls and aged colors. Some of the passages were written in dialects he didn't even know existed. William was equally enthralled - not so much by the content as by the thrill of the arrival. For a full ten minutes, all he could do was singsong, "Someone beat the system... Someone beat the system..."

Then it was all business. Days were spent locked in basements, those overcast upstairs. They traded off working days, tending very little to library visitors, giving rash and nonsensical answers to avoid hefty explanations. Passages at a time were translated - others discarded until they could identify the various unknown tongues. Uncovered information was fascinating - some relevant, some not. Some simply repeated old foretelling any myth. There was so much to get through, so much to absorb.

"Bollocks! Listen to this," William said, eyes triumphant with conquered translation. "There's a prophecy in 'ere about the fall of the Roman Empire. Oh! And 'the bloodfest of the eighteen-hundredth year of documented time.'" He arched his brows and looked up. "Civil War, I'm guessin'. Bloody hell, there's somethin' in 'ere about that chap that was at Christ's side when he was crucified. Immortal demon! I don't believe...oh, looky looky: here's somethin' about the coming of the Chosen One."

"There have been several Chosen Ones, Will," Giles retorted absently. "And even more prophecies surrounding their origin. I don't think-"

"No! Bugger, it's about Buffy. Honest to bleedin' God. The slayer who lives ten years after her calling..." Eagerly, he whirled the book to the Watcher, pointing emphatically at the indicated text. "Three slayers will stand out as the most capable. The most confident. The most...basically, the most of the most. Live to see..." He frowned suddenly, leaning forward. "Hey...wait a tick..."

But Giles was already a step ahead of him, effectively grounded. They traded uneasy gazes for long minutes before the silence snapped in a whirlpool of action. In the same beat, they bounded to their feet, fighting for a place above the book - the Watcher turning away once his visual concern was verified. Then he could do nothing but sit. He leaned against the table, back to the vampire, whose muttered recital heightened in volume and panic with every word that escaped his lips.

"I...I didn't believe it was true..." Giles whispered to himself. "It was myth, Will. All myth. There are two sorts of myth in the Watcher's Guild; that you know for fact and the idle curses made of rambling idealists in the ages before the sun began to burn. All my life, I was told this was about as factual as professional wrestling." No response from the floored vampire. "Every slayer dies usually within the first three or four years of her calling. Buffy is different. We both know that. It's been what, nine years now? Since..." Then his voice trailed off, eyes going blank with blunt understanding. "Since I met her. Oh God..."

Finally, William found his voice, slamming the book shut and kicking it to the floor. Both eyes followed as it slid ineffectually under an aisle of text. "Let's not jump to any bleeding conclusions," he decided, tone not at all convincing. "I mean, she-"

Words were silenced by a growing rumble quaking the earth. They looked up breathlessly and moved by instinct to the various doorways, bracing themselves as car horns sounded crashes outdoors, as lights flickered and book racks toppled over. It was over as quickly as it began, rendering the electricity useless and one of the skylights shattered with a fallen cable wire.

Predictably, the vampire was the first to speak. "Well," he drawled. "That was weird."

"No." There was a dangerous edge to the Watcher's tone. That 'Oh-God-I-Know-Something-Horrible-Is-Coming-And-I-Can't-Bloody-Stop-It stitching value. "It was timely, whatever it was." Another silence - not as brief. "I need to call Buffy."

The phone lines, however, did not agree. After several useless attempts, Giles was inconsolable. His air was awry, part of his sweater tucked into his trousers, hand caressing his eyes as he attempted futilely not to tremble.

Modesty was not betrayed through voice, nor the knowledge of their impending situation concealed. More over, William was not used to being the calm one, but he knew that if he lost it, neither of them was going to be of much help. "Ripper, we don't know what it says. The lights went all out before-"

"What are the chances - tell me - that it says something good?" Giles snapped. "Good God, I should have known. The inactivity, the-"

"Don't assume-"

"How can this not kill you?!" The biting menace in his voice was almost more than William could tolerate. He understood the Watcher was upset but there was no need to revisit old questions of manifestly resolute faith. "You claim to love her, and-"

"Sod off, you old bint before you say something that makes me wanna bite you." They exchanged fiery glances through the dark - the vampire with a bit more luck. "I'm half mad as it is; I don't fancy a headache. Why are you so buggered up?"

"Because the last slayer who lived ten years was killed by the Master." Giles exhaled. "The Master that Buffy killed."

"So?"

"So she - the other slayer - had killed the Master before him." The man was gasping, nodding as comprehension bled into William's eyes. "I never...according to folklore, there's a succession in the line of Masters. A line that waits for their separate calling, much like the Slayer only with advanced training and years. Buffy killed the oldest, and this...myth that I never believed in...claims another rises on the tenth anniversary of his death. One stronger than his predecessor, one who will torture his killer, if she is not already dead. It has only happened once before, when the Master arose." He heaved significantly, eyes glossing over. "I can't do it again, Will. I can't. I've watcher her die twice now, only to hurt herself beyond death in the process, and it's all but destroyed me. I can't do it again." Another pause. "He will be...he will have ties over her. She can beat him, but things are different now. The succession of the Masters is as old as predated history - an incidence that only occurs once a millennia, if that. This new arising is only the third since the world began, and he has had thousands of years to prepare for surfacing."

William's eyes were cast downward somberly, his body unable to cease its quivers. For the first time in a hundred years, he felt cold. Truly cold. Genuine anger coursed through his system - he hadn't felt it in so long. Accusingly, he glared upward, voice biting with venom. "Why didn't you tell her?"

"Because when she was threatened with the idea that the Master that killed her could arise again, it destroyed her." The Watcher shook his head. "I thought she could make it this far. But it wasn't supposed to be real, Will! It's speculation dismissed by everyone involved in the demon world. I thought about mentioning it from time to time...idly...but there was no point. It wasn't real. I didn't want her to worry, especially if..."

"In case she died?" The vampire shifted uneasily. "Sod your excuses, you shoulda told her, mate. And you bloody well know it. Buffy's faced a lot of things wackier than the Master. I mean...she killed Angelus, for god's sake! True, he wasn't the baddest of the bad, but she stuck a bleedin' sword through her boy's chest." It killed him to admit it, but personally, William was still regretting that he hadn't been there to see it. Thoughts of Angel and Buffy together were not happy ones - with or without a conscience. "I'm willing to bet kittens that that was more traumatic for her than physical death. Heartache is the worst, old man. Take it from someone who's had a bit of both. Then after Peaches, there was the mayor and that renegade slayer bint. And that mad-scientist creation. Then the hell-god, who she bloody died 'cause of. And me, o'course. The Big Bad." William heaved a breath. "You shoulda told her. She's not a tike anymore. She's had her lot of death. Bugger her readiness - you were yellow, Ripper."

"Of course!" Giles snapped. "If you had an inkling of feeling, if you knew what she went through when the Master...she was just a girl. I had to protect her."

"She's a little girl not now. She hasn't been for a long time. And protect her from what, exactly? Where's the bloody harm if you didn't think it was real?"

"I don't spend a lot of time making guesswork about idle mythology," the Watcher muttered, surprising him with the degrees lost in volume. "It makes sense now."

"What?"

"Everything. The inactivity, the selection of those demons that decided to make themselves known." Giles sighed heavily. "This earthquake was only the start. More will follow across the globe."

"How yah know the earthquake-"

"After so many years, you learn to decipher nature from ritual." A long pause. "We need to go to her."

The room became deathly still and remained frozen for what seemed like hours. For the longest time, all William could do was stare at the old man; the nonexistent need for air seizing his chest and constructing harsh breaths to crash passed his lips. And then he was overtaken with pain. Simply seeing her face flash before his eyes, the hurt and betrayal, the biting sting of her retort. The pained hate. The hate.

Go back to that?

"I can't!" he choked at last. "Ripper, you can't ask me to do that."

"I need you for this, Will. It's not a matter of your willingness. I'll also need...need to call LA. Angel-"

That was too much. Buffy and Peaches? He couldn't fathom the weight. "Bloody no. I-"

Suddenly he forced back, surprised his night-vision hadn't caught the Watcher moving forward. A grip tightened around his throat and forced his back to bend along ways the table, cracking him over books and notes and uncovered prophecy. "Perhaps you didn't hear me," he growled. "I. Need. You. There is no choice. You're coming if I have to pay every vendor in this town to rid their supply of blood for the next year and every store to stop their shipments of Wheatabix. I need someone there to watch out for her." Then his gaze soften and he released his grasp. William coughed and sat up, own hand compensating for the absence of Giles's around his throat, caressing the bruise undoubtedly forming. "I need to feel that she is safe. I know I can count on you for that."

A longer silence along with a stare of pure astonishment. For minutes, all he could do was stand and gape at the old man. The words sounded foreign, and he could not, for the life of him, decode the higher value. Long ago, he had asked the Watcher never to forgive him of his trespasses. Wasn't that what trust was: understanding mistakes made in the past, granting pardon, and allowing a fresh start? William didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Tears were so overdone now and not nearly as efficient as silence.

And then it was too much. With a frustrated growl, the vampire tore himself away, stalking further into the darkness, beyond fallen bookshelves where Giles could not see him. "No, no, no, no, NO!" he screamed, loud and violent until his throat ached. "This is wrong! You're not supposed to..." Unsatisfied, he came forward again, light surviving his eyes if nowhere else. "How could you, Ripper? You promised me...you promised me that you would never forgive me. You bloody well can't go back on that now. Don't say you trust me with her, you bleeding wanker. Don't give me a sodding clean slate. I'll bugger it up somehow." Desperate and not receiving a response, he collapsed to his knees, at last unable to stop the tears. "Don't trust me. Don't treat me like nothing happened. I don't deserve that."

The air fell silent save the long chokes of endless sobs. William lowered his head, grasping onto Giles's coat, asking - pleading for an answer. Anything to counter still nothingness. No matter how many barriers he crossed, this was one boundary beyond his reach. For the past three years, he had been comfortable with that. Sure, it hurt like hell, but it fit the crime. Loving from afar, standing steadfast in the same place, knowing he could never look at her again, let alone touch her. Protect her.

Trust? Faith? Forgiveness? Such words had no place here. No matter how much time passed or how he progressed, that part of him was rendered forever still. There could be no advancement - it was not craved or warranted. Punishment was in order, and he was - or had been - certain that this incessant, intolerable distance was what satisfied the severed means.

To see her? After all this?

"I never promised not to forgive you," Giles said finally. "You begged for that release, and I could not grant it. Truthfully, Will, I haven't forgiven the demon. How can I? But you...I forgave you a long time ago. I know a part of what happened was because of you, but I don't believe things would have gone so badly if it had been you and not Spike. I doubt many things that happened that year would have concurred. These past few years have changed my outlook tremendously. And whether or not you like it, that is how we stand. You cannot help my forgiving you, and you could have prevented it. I didn't even realize it until after it was done. You earned it, Will. I need you now. I need someone I can trust her with." A degree lower. "I need my friend to come with me."

The vampire's eyes watered again, a hand coming to his mouth as he retracted his grasp on the Watcher's coat and clamored to his feet. "We're friends?" he asked meekly. "Since when?"

"We have been for a while," Giles replied, a kind smile tickling his lips. "People don't ask for these things, Will. They happen. Trust me, friendship was the last thing I wanted from you. You have caused me more grief than you're worth, but things are different. They have been for a long time."

With some reluctance, William nodded, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes. "I know," he replied softly. "So, what now? We waltz back to Sunnydale? What makes you think she'll let me get near her or the Little Bit? Or anyone, for that bleeding matter? Even if I could protect her...who would it be from?"

"I'll tell her," Giles decided. At the panic that spread through his colleague's eyes, he amended, "About our working together. Buffy trusts my judgment. It'll be easier for her to believe I put up with a noisy Fitzwilliam Ripper II rather than William the Bloody. As for your soul, that's for you to decide. You got it for her, Will. Despite your attempts, she will find out, sooner or later. How she finds out depends on you."

"I know." He heaved a breath of concession. "I've always known she'd find out...somehow. But I'm not ready for it, Ripper. I'll do what I can, but I...she can't know. Not at first."

"Then I suggest you dye your hair," Giles observed casually. "And slip back into the Big Bad." A heavy breath rolled off his shoulders. "We have to get ready. I'll call Buffy as soon as we-"

"What about this?" William stood indicatively in the middle of the library, surrounded by debris. "What about my job? What about everything-"

"Contact the administration and explain an emergency has arisen overseas. They will have to find a replacement curator for now." Giles paused. "Perhaps that psychiatrist they mentioned back when you got the job. Don't worry. The management likes you too much to let you go without a fight."

The vampire twitched and grumbled. "Bloody well hope so. Right, I better stay 'ere, then, while you run out and make your phone calls." He gestured to the wreckage. "I gotta clean up this sodding mess and make it all fancy before we leave."

"Right. Then we better plan to meet at my flat later tonight. I want to be out on the first available flight tomorrow. Go to your place and grab whatever you think you'll need." And that was that. Tasks ready and issued; there was no going back. Promises constructed through air. What a world, what a world.

He appreciated that level of understanding they shared. Verification was rarely needed anymore. Unless something completely unprecedented came up, spoken word was stronger than any forged contract. William nodded and huffed, bent forward and collected a few books, paused, and called after the departing Watcher. "Ripper...one more thing." He cleared his throat. "Do you have an orb?"

Giles paused shortly in stride. "What?" he demanded without turning around.

"Yah know - an orb. Of...soul keepin' and all that magicky stuff." As the Watcher finally offered him a frown in question, William's hands came up peacefully and he stepped back, though the space between them could have been marked with mileage signs. "Hey - I'm a trusted bloke, but I figure that this new ponce will...you said make the Master's killer suffer, right?" He sighed. "I'm not sure if he could, and I'm not sure how I'd react, but this git might be able to take what's mine. If that happens, you gotta be ready to curse me. To work that mojo or whatever. I don't think I'd be a prat. I mean - I love her no matter. But there's always a chance." When Giles did not extract his dubious expression, the vampire again stood back quickly and quirked a brow. "What? Did I say somethin' worth a staking? I just want to keep my bloody soul, dammit. Do you have one? The ritual? The orb? The hocus pocus?"

"I do," the Watcher said softly, at last. "It's just...three years of tolerating your inconsistencies and you can still astonish me." There was a comfortable pause. "I will likely have retired by the time you arrive this evening. Goodnight, William. And do look up. Daresay, Buffy might surprise you with her reaction."

"Yeah...she might not stake me immediately. Might go a few rounds of a good beating before she decides it's time to spike old Spikey."

Giles grinned though there was no humor behind it - just simple, sad understanding, perhaps a shimmer or so of sympathy. "We'll see."

That was it. He was gone - and it was time to prepare.

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