jwaneeta

Clustering Round Young Buffy
Chapter 6
Giles, Spike, Angel, Andrew, Buffy
Previous chapters here.



What’s that plant that spreads and harasses? You know the one. The bambooish plant that grows everywhere, always where it shouldn’t, to the distress of all? Kazaa? Kryptonite? It’ll come to me. The point is this: in the Watching line, it’s simply amazing how often mortal foes bob up. One can hardly take a step without tripping over a new one. Enemies, for a Watcher, like a noxious creeping plant with an elusive name.

But perhaps I wrong the noble occupation of Watching. It may be my particular fate, and nothing to do with Watching at all. Perhaps I was a pasha in a former life, and spent a little too much time doing down the widow and orphan, and this embarrassment of enemies seeking my life is just the cosmos trying for an even distribution of ballast.

Just between us, I’d hoped my career shift to Well-Guarding would provide a respite -- we Gileses have a habit of seeking the bright side in trying times. But it wasn't to be. I was a bare two months into the new position and I had yet another enemy-style headache, courtesy of Angel and his baffling habit of killing the wrong people. As you can imagine, my disappointment was keen.

The posish in the dungeon was a sticky one. Drogyn’s little brother Ardryn seemed possessed of the notion that spilling all our blood would ease the old gnawing ache, and my keen penetrating eye told me that reason was futile.

Angel took a run at it, though. “I’m the one who killed your brother,” he said, struggling to rise. “These people didn’t have any part of it. I’m the one you want. Spike only lied to you to save my ass.”

“That’ll help,” sighed Spike.

“Kill me and let them go,” said Angel.

“I see no reason to leave anyone out,” sneered Ardryn. Unpleasant child, very. This is what happens when an adolescent is elevated to a position of power too early. “Your friends will die first, before your eyes. Do you have any idea what you have taken from my family, from the world?”

“Kid, Drogyn was like a brother to me. He was a great man and a close personal friend. Tearing his throat out to curry favor with the scum of the universe was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.” Angel drooped a bit. “I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry. But this –- killing innocent people –- your brother would never have wanted that. Let’s keep it between us.”

“So, Buffy,” said Spike conversationally. “How’s your thing? Your magical transport thing?”

“Working on it,” replied Buffy.

“Don’t bother,” sneered Ardryn. “Your unholy portal device is under my control. My mages are skilled beyond your wildest imaginings. ”

“Buffy?”

“The portal’s dead, Spike.”

“I guess it’s plan B, then,” said Spike, and he and Buffy sprang into action, charging the guards.

Drusilla joined them, going her hardest. Angel ripped a chain from the wall, and I rolled up my sleeves and set to work, too.

I won’t say we didn’t try. There were moments of glory – Angel conking a beefy combatant, Spike taking a sword thrust meant for Buffy, Drusilla howling with outrage and making the Spike-skewerer pay. Buffy logged some fine punches. But it was, sadly, a brief and uneven contest. I’ve been in many battles –- too many, in graveyards and high schools and living rooms beyond count –- but this one was unique in terms of thorough posterior-thumping for our side. We were trounced. Ardryn’s was no empty boast -– his mages were indeed skilled, and he was not above using magic to level the field. Fighting in that dungeon was like dog-paddling in marshmallow crème. My limbs turned to lead and a tap from a sword hilt sent me sprawling before you could say Waterloo.

And so the action paused. Angel was down. Spike was equally flat, and Buffy was semi-conscious. Andrew had failed to participate in our doomed uprising, being occupied with laying in a fetal position around his orb, and carried on unmolested in that particular task. Dru, her magnificent habit torn, broke the silence by gravely forgiving Ardryn, who didn’t seem terribly impressed.

“Owned!” he shrieked. “Owned! Did I say dawn? You shall die this very hour, by flame, the garrote, and the sword!”

Guards began to scurry, fetching the specified instruments of destruction.

“Do your worst,” said Drusilla. “You have no power but what was given you from Above.”

“And I mean to use it, too.”

“Shut up and kill us already, you little shit,” groaned Angel.

“Buffy,” said Spike, leaking blood rather freely. “You do it. Do me. I can die happy if it’s you.”

“Where did everybody go?” asked Buffy, reeling.

“Young man,” I said to Ardryn, “you reck little of Watchers, Slayers and souled vampires, if you think the gamma rays aren’t with us.”

Ardryn, who was occupied in overseeing the construction of a pyre, frowned at me. “What?”

“The voices,” I said, struggling to make myself plain. “The abiding whispers. The reason we need tin hats.”

It was odd. I could hear the words leaving my mouth, but I was hanged if I could control them. The concepts I was trying to frame slipped through my fingers like titmice. “Mama,” I concluded without volition. “It’s all mama drama these days.”

“You rave,” Ardryn sniffed, dismissing me.

“Oooh, here come the kitties,” cooed Dru. “Time to put down a saucer.”

To my horror, I realized I knew exactly what she meant. And then the darkness fell.



***


Admirers often ask why Rupert Giles is so very down on portals, as a means of travel, and here’s my answer in a nutshell: confusion. With portals, it’s anyone’s guess if you’re afoot or on horseback. There’s no frame of reference, and unseemly muddles have a tendency to abound. I don’t approve. Here and there are concepts to which I loyally adhere, and when I seek them in connection with portals, I always seek in vain.

This said, you will experience no surprise when I tell you that my reaction to finding myself slap back in the Deeper Well was one of consternation, and that my initial response, after picking myself up off the catwalk, was to give a sort of horrified yelp. Yes, I was out of harm’s way, undeniably. But I was also alone. R. Giles is not a man who thinks of only of self, and when I realized my companions were missing I felt a shiver of dread.

Making my way off the rickety bridge, I tried to reconstruct events. Hopeless resistance: check. Gloating from the Adryn quarter: check. Touching farewells among the condemned, check. Then, a certain loss of coherence on the part of yours t., a bit of babbling, and an abrupt transition to the Deeper Well.

To my sorrow, I was forced to conclude that Buffy and the rest of the crew had not made the trip with me. They were either still in the dungeon awaiting various ends as messy as Adryn could contrive, or scattered in bits across the transdimensional void. A fresh hatred of portals filled my sorrowing breast, and I cast about in vain for a solution.

None came. I shuffled through the torchlit halls, grieving and fretting. It would be no exaggeration to say that I was flummoxed. I had no portal, hadn’t a clue where to dig one up, and the rescue of my companions seemed impossible. R.G. was faced with a dead end, and very unpleasant it was to contemplate.

“You have returned,” observed Ilyria, looming out of the shadows in her customarily bouncy and winsome way.

“That I have,” I admitted. “Alone, alas.”

“There is an advantage to that,” said Illyria. “Now we may copulate unobserved. Your craven obsession with privacy will no longer prevent our joining, and after you have –- “

“I say!”

“—- serviced my needs, I will reciprocate orally -– “

“Just a moment!”

“Do you have an objection?” Illyria weighed me coolly. “I do not understand. You have been coveting this body since we moved in.”

“Well, yes, dash it, but –“

“I find I can no longer endure this tiresome plane without having you. I must have you, Rupert. Prepare to be had.”

Illyria made her grab, mantis-like, and I stumbled backward in panic. The wall vanished at the moment of head-cracking contact, and I found myself in a significantly altered environment, with no Illyria present and/or bent on erotic having, no Illyria at all.

Instead, I was surrounded by mirrors. Hundreds of them – mirrors everywhere. They were the kind of mirrors you find in funhouses of the least reputable type, distorted and unnerving. I experienced a wave of dizziness.

“Giles! Giles!”

To my astonishment, I found my shoulders clasped gratefully by none other than Angel, He Who Is Famously Disinclined To Touch. I’m not spinning tales, I do not embroider -- he was that chuffed by my appearance. You never know with people, do you?

“Christ, I’m glad to see you,” Angel said earnestly. “Where’s Buffy?”

“Angel, you are giving me a stress fracture. Less of it man, less of it.”

Angel released me and had the decency to look abashed. “Sorry. Giles, where’s Buffy? Have you seen Spike? I can’t find my way out of this damned place.”

“Can’t you? Interesting. No, I have not seen anyone, except a strangely aroused Illyria, who I now suspect was a spectre. You see, this is why portals are the very devil to muck with. I’ve said it and said it, but does anyone hearken? The hazard of -– "

“Giles, we need to find the others.”

“Er, yes, quite. Follow me, then, Angel. These mirrors are making me ill.”

“Yeah,” grunted Angel, shuddering.

A bit of bold trailblazing on my part soon put the mirrors behind us. A meadow, wrapped in gentle night, opened beneath our feet. Ghostly chimes rang as the Aurora Borialis shimmered in curtains of green and pink across the sky.

“This is an improvement,” allowed Angel. “But why are we hopping around so much?”

“I theorize a portal malfunction. I recall Ardryn saying he’d had his mage lads tinkering, you know.”

“That must be it.” Angel scuffed at a pale daisy. “Still, better here than there.”

A musical laugh interrupted us, and Drusilla came tripping across the greensward. “Oh, the silly, silly boys. Don’t they know what’s real and what’s not? How do you manage when I'm not here?”

Angel squinted. “Dru, what are you doing? Are those wings?”

Drusilla twirled. “Do you like them? They grew like rosebuds. I think a pair would look very fine on you, too.”

“Hey!” protested Angel, trying to bat the sudden feathered protuberances off his back. “Dru, stop it! What the hell is going on?”

Drusilla waved a hand, and Angel’s wings vanished. “Don’t you understand? This is a haven of the mind. Your mind, my Angel, and the Watcher’s, and my own. We are in the little Watcher’s orb. We are safe here, and may do whatever we list. I want to meet a saint. Do you want to meet a saint?”

“No,” I said hurriedly. “Drusilla, kindly unpack. Are you saying this is a mental sort of place? Where are we physically, then?”

“Still in the prison… captive, I should imagine,” replied Drusilla, looking supremely untroubled. “Perhaps we have already been slain. Does it matter?”

“I’d say it jolly well does matter, to me at least.”

“Me too,” said Angel.

“You are both very prosaic, aren’t you?” Drusilla patted Angel's cheek indulgently. "Always clinging to earth, when all of heaven is open and free. Oh, bless the freedom you never chose, wear your tribulation like a rose. Listen! St. Cecelia’s mighty organ chords roll forth on the Roman air.”

Angel looked at me. “Giles, we’re defenseless.”

“As rabbits. What do you suggest?”

“Finding Andrew,” said Angel, “and breaking a couple of his legs.”


***


“Oh, it’s lovely!” cried Drusilla, gazing on the temple with delight. “Look, holy lamps, and garlands too.” She skipped up the broad marble steps, holding her hem delicately. “Spike? Spike, leave aside your prayers, for we have come to visit.”

There being no reasonable alternative, we followed her through the portico and into a dimmish sort of nave. The air reeked of incense and beeswax. Spike, the monomaniac in residence, was puttering about the altar, an excessive confection topped by a massive statue of Buffy carved from jasper. He froze when he saw us, and dropped his floral offerings in dismay.

Angel whistled sarcastically. “Nice. It’s like The Phantom of the Opera set. Sure you have enough candles, Spike?"

“What the hell do you mean, barging in here?” demanded Spike, recovering himself. “This is my afterlife. You’re trespassing. Push off.”

“Wrong. We’re not dead, just crazy. You’re in your own head, dummy.” Angel took a long look at the ceiling. “Nice frescos. I especially like the panel with the Last Buffy Judgment. I guess you think that one’s gonna go your way, huh?”

“Sod you,” said Spike.

Drusilla was gazing at a modestly-scaled statue of herself, realized in onyx. She touched the vase sitting before it and shook her head. “Oh, Spike, my flowers are all wilted. Couldn’t you have changed the water?”

“Uh, sorry, love. I forgot.”

“How fickle is a man’s heart,” observed Drusilla. “But I am married to God now, so I cannot reproach you. Worship your Slayer, call her your heaven -- it is all one, and I wish you joy from the fullness of my soul. Give us a holy kiss, my Spike, and swear eternal friendship.”

Spike pecked her cheek obediently. “You’re a treasure, pet.”

“I know,” smiled Drusilla.

“We regret to interrupt an afternoon’s idolatry,” I said, “But this is not a pleasure call, Spike. Andrew seems to have been up to mischief with his orb and we’re in the soup once again.”

“And let’s not forget that you put him up to the orb scheme so you could spy on Buffy,” added Angel. “So this is completely on you, Spike. I’m so going to kick your ass when I get my body back.”

“Oh, I’m terrified. Look, you bloody bastard, I never promised not to keep tabs on her.” Spike pointed accusingly. “And where do you get your brass, anyway? I know that you’ve been hiring fays to bring you reports, so get stuffed. You’re a hypocritical, sneaking, holier-than-thou –-“

“And you’re a lying, Andrew-exploiting, copycatting –-“

“Belay!” I roared. “Cease and be silent! Have I your attention? Good. You seem to forget I am the parole officer here, empowered by Hell’s court to take it out of both your hides, which I hasten to assure you I shall, after we make our escape. We must hang together if we hope to swing a jailbreak. Right now we need muscle. Ho for Buffy, and thence to Andrew by the shortest road.”

Spike and Angel nodded, chastened.

“After you, Spike.”

“No, after you, Angel.”

“Give me your arm, Watcher,” said Drusilla. “All this visiting of strange heads is making me tired.”

“Indeed, madam,” I said. “Indeed.”



****



I have good reason to consider myself the most loyal of men, but truth is truth: I found the interior of Buffy’s cranium by far the most disconcerting way station in a long, disconcerting day. One has to ask oneself what goes on with the girl, seriously. I had expected to find a trim sort of barracks, couched in the posture of war; what we entered was more like a garment district showroom.

Shoes and smart jackets lay everywhere, like the detritus of a fashion explosion, but that was hardly the worst of it. It was the graphic adornment that gave me pain. Huge posters papered the walls, towering fuzzy glamour shots of various male types. To starboard Angel glowered in a misty alley. To port Spike gazed fatuously from a wreath of flame. Tacked above a door, the Riley boy was pitching himself from a helicopter.

It was really too much. I couldn’t place a few of the subjects, which I found most disturbing of all. One of the enormous photos had a dagger sticking from it, and all of them exuded a thumping overabundance of insight, to my mind, at least.

“Giles!” Buffy threw herself into my arms, exacerbating the damage Angel
had inflicted earlier. Why do these phantom realms always cheat when it comes to injury? “I thought I’d lost you, Giles.”

“There, there, my dear. Not yet.”

Buffy turned to Spike with her heart in her eyes, but stiffened as Drusilla swept in.

“Well, the gang’s all here, I see,” muttered Buffy.

“Hullo, love,” said Spike hopefully.

“Mm hm,” replied Buffy. “Thanks for coming, Angel. What’s up?”

“We’re all insane, but not dead. Well, maybe dead. Hard to tell. Andrew’s been playing with cosmic forces again.”

“Well, that’s a huge shock. Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s his orb,” I said. “Andrew’s, I mean. It seems to induce madness, as a side effect of supernatural surveillance. And the foolish boy has sucked us in for the ride.”

Buffy folded her arms. “What the hell is up with that stupid orb?”

“Andrew got the orb so Spike could watch you,” said Drusilla. “He was tracking your every move, dear Slayer.”

“Dru!” gasped Spike, stricken.

“Okay, that? Is totally creepy,” said Buffy, but without great force. Something softened in her manner. Drusilla smiled, and suddenly Buffy was smiling back. It was like watching two strange sea creatures communicate with phosphorescence. Who can fathom the mind of Woman?

Not Spike, in case you were wondering. He lowered his head, beaten, and seemed to give up the struggle. “I’m sorry. I never meant -- I just couldn’t live without you, Buffy.”

“You big idiot,” said Buffy gently.

Angel threw up his hands. “All right! All right! I confess. I kinda did the same thing, okay? I did it first. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Mm hm,” replied Buffy absently. She approached Spike, who raised his eyes, clearly steeling for a pop in the mush.

But Buffy merely laid a hand on his arm. “Hey. I forgot to say thanks for not being dead anymore. But you cost me a whole year, you jerk.”

And saying this, she kissed him.

Drusilla giggled and clapped her hands. “Oh! It’s pretty. Now, don’t be sad, Angel. You’ll always have your family.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Angel tightly.

I coughed. “Buffy? Spike? We really should be popping. Ardryn seemed very keen to kill us, after all.”

“We’ll catch up,” said Buffy.



***



There is a slanderous assertion making the rounds that I am dead to popular culture, but this is not true. I know the command deck of a space ship when I blunder onto one.

Andrew swiveled in the captain’s chair, resplendent in crimson and braid.
“Welcome aboard, my friends,” he said. “Welcome to the USS Orb.”

TBC