Sang et Ivoire

By Holly

Chapter Six

It had been over three years since Giles offered his couch to William, and strangely, it still felt like habit. When he arrived that night, the vampire found everything prepared for him - Wheatabix and telly alike. There was even an ashtray on the coffee table. It looked to be an antique, and though he was tempted, he decided not to test that 'no smoking in the house' policy. Instead, he poured himself a glass of blood, heated it up while leaving a message for the administration to phone him at the Watcher's flat, and flopped onto the settee to channel surf before inevitable sleep.

The lot of 'em are going to think I'm a poof, he thought dryly, glad to have his mind occupied elsewhere, even if the material was not entirely engaging. See me and the old man together all the time as it is. Now they have to make bleedin' house calls.

No rest would be found that night. Despite his attempts, William was too much absorbed in the knowledge that he would be home soon. The only place that had ever felt like home. He was dreading it; cold fingers spooling knots around his insides. What Ripper had said was right, of course, and in any regard, protecting her was more important than sparing his feelings. But it hurt. It made his body tremble at the mere notion of the days ahead.

He wished absently that his heart could beat if only to hear it pounding its terror.

Tomorrow was the commencement test of his personal progression. London had given him many things. A home away from home, an occupation, a friend - a true friend. He hadn't had one of those since before he died. The coming days would be hard, quite possibly unbearable, but there was comfort in knowing he wouldn't be alone. Giles wasn't one to betray friends for the comfort of others. He knew he was foolish to believe that everything could remain as it was here with the mindset that it was only a change of scenery, but the old man had a history with these kids that he did not have with him. And then, likewise, so much had passed here. It would be interesting, frightening but interesting, to see how things would play out.

Work would undeniably resume. Instead of the library, there was the Magic Box - (assuming they still met there, given the condition of Red and all). And then there was Angel. The ponce. The poofter. Peaches. How he loathed the thought of seeing him again. He wouldn't expect civility - couldn't. Soul or no soul, the very thought of what the vampire meant to Buffy - all the things he could never - made him wrench with inward torment and hate. And rationally, no one would understand the Watcher's bizarre allegiance with the demon they were supposed to hate above all others.

Unless they know about my Jiminy Cricket, he thought. And even then... it's doubtful.

There were also aspects of innovation, despite the harsh circumstances of this journey. Beforehand when he traveled, he left everything - save Drusilla - behind. To actually have luggage and a need to take studies with him was a fresh experience. He felt needed. Helpful.

The next day would be a busy one. Aside from settling his affairs, there was hair to dye, books to pack and part with, a supply of blood to stock for the plane ride, and of course, the uncovering of the blanket he used to navigate during daylit hours. He had not needed it for a long time; Giles always brought his morning beverage to the curator's apartment where they discussed the events for the day before going downstairs to open the library. Any external navigation was performed at night while the sun was safely away. There was no additional need for further travel. He had everything he needed in the library, from books to paper, smokes to Wheatabix, and daily deliveries of blood. William had not been so bold as to lose his sunshine protector, and while he knew Giles was looking into night flights, the transatlantic trip could not go thoroughly daylight free.

The vampire heaved a breath, suddenly desperate for a smoke. Sleep had never come particularly easy for him, and the knowledge of what awaited the next day did little to aid his plight. However, it came little by little in small doses. A catnap here, a nightmare there. Anything to get him through until the sun arose - the scent tainting the air upon every upheaval. Around five, he finally succumbed to deep though easily disturbed slumber. He jerked awake the instant Giles's chamber door cracked open.

"I suppose it's needless to inquire as to your alertness," the Watcher said in greeting, moving hurriedly through the kitchen and to his brewing coffee maker.

William grinned a tight, sleepy grin and stretched. "Morning to you, too, Ripper. You're off early..." He sat up and squinted at the clock that hung over the telly. "I think."

"We have a lot to accomplish within a short amount of time," he agreed, coming into view. "Are you well to stay here today? Have you spoken with the library administration?"

"They're calling me... sometime." William quirked a brow, for the first time noting the man's attire. He was set and ready to go, alert and jittery without caffeinated incentive. There was no actual need for coffee today, beyond habit. "Here. I gave 'em your phone number, so I'm stuck 'ere until they ring me up."

Nodding, Giles slurped down his coffee, placed it on the kitchen table (off the coaster - he was in a hurry), and moved for the door. "Right. Then it's best you stay here." He stopped as his hand reached for the knob, and he turned thoughtfully back to his vampire roommate. "I don't suppose, though, that you could run by the post office after your call and-"

"What do I look like? A bleedin' delivery boy?"

Giles snickered, his features mischievous. William was glad to see it. In the beat of all this tension, they both would be lost without humor. "Buffy," he said simply, waiting, gauging a response.

The name once upon a time would have enticed him to anything that was asked, and though it hadn't lost its power, the vampire had grown to a state of diplomacy and self-control. He shivered as he chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, the magic name won't work on everything, mate. I'm already hauling my pale ass across the ocean for her - but I won't become your sodding mailman."

There was a shrug of pure innocence. "It was worth a try. I will go by the library and put a sign in the window. 'Family emergency' or what have you."

"Right then."

"Here." Giles reached to the stand beside the door and tossed a small box in the vampire's direction. It was hair color; higher quality than the stuff he used forever ago. William blinked his surprise. "I picked it up last night. Thought you might find it useful."

He grinned. "Covers up that pesky soul, eh?"

"So I've been told. I'll be back this afternoon. And then we should really..."

"Leave. I know. I'm used to the idea, Ripper."

"And you will be ready? To face everything?"

William snickered. "How can anyone ever 'be ready' for this, mate? Go back to the town that began and ended you to look the girl you love in the face while knowing you're the source fer her pain an' sufferin'? And it's not just her. I'll hafta face Nibblet an' Red. Harris... I already know what to expect. That wanker never gave me the benefit of a doubt." He sighed, running a hand through his dark strands. "Peaches... good god, I don't know how I'm gonna be able to talk to the ponce. I hated him before... I don't think I'll be able to bloody look at him now." Another sigh and his head shook sullenly. "It hurts too much."

"What does?"

"She... she loves 'im no matter. I know she doesn't anymore, but that's a bloody hard thing to get over. I've always hated that. Knowin' even if I got close enough, I'd still be number two." William ran a finger over the hair dye and smiled softly. "Can't do much about it. Don't deserve anything else. Don't-"

Giles rolled his eyes and heaved a frustrated breath, coaxing the vampire's gaze to his, tingling with surprise. "Honestly," he muttered, "I know you have done many things that don't deserve reckoning, Will. What happened in that bathroom might be one of them, but so help me, with each passing day, the less steady my conviction stands. The only way you don't deserve to attempt for forgiveness - from all ends ­- is if you fail to desist this continuous boohooing. It is my belief that you have done enough good these past three years to deserve anything." He wisely ignored the look of pure astonishment and shook his head, moving again for the door. "When we return to Sunnydale, I will make no attempt to disguise your goodwill, my value of your opinion, or what has occurred here since I took Willow back. Despite our many attempts, we have somehow managed to become friends, and I will not choose alliances. Nor will I stand for anyone suggesting my friend's loyalties are not what they seem to be. I know better." There was an honest smile as he stepped outside. "Be ready to leave when I return," he advised, leaving before the vampire could conjure up any form of an answer.

The morning was spent occupied with a variety of mundane activities. Lackluster and edgy, William devoured the rest of the coffee - flavored with his favorite additive. His stomach emitted several humanly rumblies and after a hefty investigation of the kitchen, he flipped a stack of flapjacks. There was an assortment of morning talk shows for telly entertainment, an episode of Passions to catch. He would never admit it, but he was so far behind on that show that he doubted any amount of watching would catch him up. When the television no longer claimed his interest, he flipped through whatever reading material was sorted about the flat - all things he had read before. Bored, he decided to test out the new stuff Ripper had provided him with on his full head of brown curls.

William took his place in the bathroom, staring at the space of nothing reflected in the mirror. After long minutes, he turned his gaze to the box, reading over instructions that he could have recited by heart. "Well," he said, running a hand through brunette strands. "Here goes nothing."

The process in itself didn't occupy as much time as he would have liked. Within a half hour, he was bored again - meandering about the apartment in anticipation for the dye to set. He finished off his pancakes, dipping the last in blood and licking his fingers clean. Thoughts threatened to tread over territory he did not want to consider. In twenty-four hours, he would be back in Sunnydale. In twenty-four hours, her scent would taint the air with such potency that he would be surprised if it failed to provoke him to tears. He tried to tell himself that things had changed, summoning three years' worth of memories. He recited his status: a curator for a well-regarded library, a demon researcher, a friend of Giles's. A good guy. A-

Filthy rapist.

The growl that arose in his throat pained and stretched and nearly tore his vocals out. No, no, no, no! he warred. What have I just spent the last years doing? Proving that it's not me...proving-

The demon would always be a part of him. No amount of earthly redemption could change that. In the end, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He had endured time and trial, failed more times than was worth mentioning and passed a few. Very few. He had kneeled before a demon a lifetime ago, asked for the restoration of his former self, to give him what he wanted, what Buffy deserved.

A soul. His soul. Had he truly wanted that? Could he want it? Could a demon rise above probability and ask for the one thing that would...

It was beyond reasoning now. Beyond the need to ask. Three years of progression had driven him back to the starting point. He never felt so lost.

A few minutes past noon, the silence of the apartment was perturbed by the sudden shrill of the telephone. The phone rarely rang when he was here - Giles had that cell that he kept handy, reminding William that one of the administrators was scheduled to call sometime soon. He released a needless breath, shaking his head and grinning tightly to himself. "You're losing your edge, git," he murmured, moving to push himself off the couch. "'Course, you've known that fer a while now." He hauled to his feet, stumbling slightly and stubbing his toe on the coffee table just as he reached the phone. A sharp ache jittered up his foot, and he bit a menacing "Oh, bloody hell," before realizing the receiver was pressed to his ear. "Sorry 'bout that, mate. 'Ello?"

There was a long, startled silence on the other end, followed by a sharp intake of breath. William froze, his entire body growing numb. He felt it climb up his legs, his abdomen, until he was standing - unmoving, horrified, panged, and speechless. All humanly traits betrayed him; rendering him very much a standing corpse in the middle of the Watcher's flat. Words rose within him, verses of long-forgotten poetry before all withered and died. He wanted to breathe - wanted to fill his lungs, but found not the strength.

Then there was a voice. A voice so heavenly, so hesitant that it made him jolt with pain. It was the closest he had heard that voice in three, long years.

She whispered one word. "...Spike?"

All sense of poetry abandoned him without warning. He was flabbergasted - at a new loss of words. A loud voice screamed just to answer her. After all, he would be seeing her soon. In a few precious hours, he would be under that inscrutable observation, pained with rekindled guilt and begging for another death. A wealth of angst could be spared with the acknowledgement of what was inevitable, and yet his will refused to allow his mind to take the easy way out. Not for his sake or hers. Instead, he cleared his throat, adapting his voice as Gilesy as he could manage before summoning the courage to speak.

"Ummm...who?"

He frowned at his imitation. It would be a miracle if she did not burst out laughing - or start screaming. Extended silence tautened, and neither happened. There was a huff of what could be construed as disappointment if one did not know better, followed by dreary recognition. "Oh. Never mind. This is Rupert Giles's number, isn't it?"

He wanted to deny the claim but knew she would call back. "Yes. I am..." he searched his memory palace quickly. Giles had given her a name long ago. Something... "Fitzwilliam. Yes. Rip...Rupert's cousin." Rip...Rupert...bloody brilliant. Very smooth, yeh wanker. "May I help you?"

It was quite possibly the worst English accent an Englishmen could portray.

"Yeah. If you...he's not there?"

"No...he stepped out. To - uhh - run a few errands." William squeezed his eyes shot. Was it too late to reveal his identity? He was certain she knew already. "Is this about...ummm...the family business?"

"Yes. This is Buffy Summers. He's probably told you about me. If he hasn't, he's dead." There was a fond pause. "Oh god. He has told you about me, hasn't he?"

"Oh. Yes, yes." Told him? William shuddered to think of the world where someone would have to tell him Buffy existed without knowing her. Really know her.

"Good. Got kinda awkward there for a minute." Sweet Jesus, you have no idea. "Tell him I to talk to him immediately. Something...majorly wiggy has happened. Standard apocalyptic stuff." She chuckled humorlessly, and he pictured her nervous grin and a roll of those beautiful eyes. He soared with painful adoration. "Pretty much the norm around here." Another pause. "Have you ever been to Sunnydale? I can't remember-"

"No...no...I believe." Speaking was odd. He had never had to consider his vocabulary to such a degree as he did now. "I think Riii...upret's planning a visit, anyway. He - err - expressed a...ummm...desire to visit soon." That's right. Stick to the big words.

"I know. Ang...my friend called and said he had talked to Giles and that something major was in the works."

Great. Peaches was already implicated. That was swell.

"Yes," William managed to croak. "That chap in Los Angeles, right? Angelus?"

"Yeah." There was another pause. Darker. Suspicious. Then she sighed heavily, and it killed him to hear the fatigue in her tone. The weariness. The aspects of feeling deficient. "I don't mean to be weird, but you really sound like a guy I used to know."

"Oh?" he choked, reaching for the couch in support. "Who?"

The silence that followed was the hardest he had ever been made to endure. Every fiber scurrying across his flesh seemed to tighten across his bones, his muscles hardening in tension. When she responded with a quiet, "It doesn't matter," he thought he would break down into tears. However, he managed to hold onto his wits long enough to jot down a message for Giles, give his respects, and place the phone back on the hook. Then he could not stand it. Pathetically, he collapsed to his knees, long, hard sobs racking his body. He cried until he could force no more tears, hating himself for instability.

"How many sodding years have to pass?" he demanded the silence.

The dye was likely dry. When he felt he could trust his legs, he warily made his way back to the bathroom. There he crashed again - curling beside the shower, tearing at his vocals. The evidence was there and he could not ignore it. There was absolutely no way he would survive this trip. If a phone call winded him, seeing her, watching her, feeling her betrayed hatred would surely be the end of him.

He wanted to tell that to Giles. He had nearly convinced himself to when the conversation held the night before reverberated through an unwilling cavity.

I need someone I can trust her with.

As the last of his outburst finally subsided, William heaved a quaking breath from his chest and fought to his feet. No, there was no backing out. No turning back. No changing his mind. What he had to do was for her - and nothing, not this uprising evil, not the Scoobies, not even his selfishness would prevent him from doing his duty.

Even if it killed him.

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