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Chapter 3.06
Saturday, May 18th, 2002
"So-o-o? Have you had a good time?" Dawn asked as she led Brandon
back through the main stairwell into the yard, avoiding the kitchen where her
sister, Spike and Lily were talking.
"It's been... interesting. Not bad... for an oldies party. I think
it's probably a good idea if you don't mention in front of my dad that one of
your sister's friends got stoned, though."
"Okay, if it comes up, you took him home because he had stomach
flu. What about the whole demon thing?"
"Check on the stomach flu. Can't really say that other than
the fact the guests look kinda unusual that it's really been any different to
Ma or Dad's parties. I'm definitely not going to complain about the company."
His eyes locked on her face as he moved closer, a gentle finger brushing a stray
hair from her face. "Even if your future brother-in-law is just a touch on the
over-protective side."
"A touch? If that's a touch, I'd hate to see a full on grope."
"He cares. No bad thing, considering he's going to be family.
And it's not like he doesn't have reason to worry... in general, I mean, not about
me. I figure it makes you kinda lucky. A lotta guys would just figure you weren't
their responsibility. He's looking out for you so much it makes me kinda paranoid
but I guess he's busy for now."
"You better kiss me before he comes to check on us, then."
"Anything you say."
Spike sipped blood from a huge breakfast mug, watching the
young couple through the kitchen window, ready to intervene if Brandon's hands
slipped into any of the areas he deemed as forbidden.
"There's no point being Mr Paranoid, you know?" Buffy told
him. "It's not like you can follow them 'round everywhere."
"I know. It's just... I'll feel better when I know he cares more
about what's right for her, than about lettin' their hormones get out of control.
My gut tells me to trust the pair of them. I mean, Bit's smart enough. Just
'cause her sister fell for a git at that age." Spike's mouth twisted into a
smirk which was soon hidden behind the mug, even though the mischief in his
eyes was apparent as he peered over its brim. "But it doesn't mean I wouldn't
rather barricade her in her bedroom till she's fifty."
"He no mean no harm. He protect her," Lily told them both.
"You can feel that?" Spike asked.
"No need to feel. Boy who want to take liberty of pretty girl,
he go find other pretty girl after he meet you. Yes, William, I feel it. He
already love your little sunrise. He just no know it." The demon grinned at
the vampire taking the sting from her next words. "Men, they stupid."
"And her?" Spike asked.
Lily shook her head as if he should know the answer to that
already. "She fifteen-year-old girl. Fifteen-year-old girl, they fall in love
five times a week, until right boy come along."
"And he's the right boy?" Spike probed.
"He pretty. He new in town. He have bad boy look, like her
William. He have eyes like jade and cute smile and he notice her. She love him
way before he play the hero."
"So, you're telling me that we're lookin' at Romeo and his
bloody Juliet, here? Tell me why don't I feel better?"
"Because you her big brother and you worry about her, you know
that most young girls get their hearts broken at least once. and you little
jealous that some day maybe he take her away from you."
"So, basically, he's being an ass?" Buffy asked.
Lily shrugged. "Lovable ass."
"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, girls!"
"Just telling it like it is, Blondie." Buffy wrapped her arms
around his waist and nuzzled against his back.
Spike tipped his mug right back, draining the last of the fluid
before emitting a long, loud burp that made Buffy wrinkle her nose and pull
back in disgust. "Okay, maybe not so lovable," she teased, though her eyes told
a different story.
"Wha'? You drink blood out of a cup, it's bound to get a bit
of air in, now and again. Gotta come out somehow. You tellin' me old poker-hair
never burped in front of you. What was he? Master of the Silent Fart?" Lily
took his mug from him, refilling it using the second pack of blood from the
microwave.
Buffy couldn't help but smile at the idea of Angel trying
to look serious while he clenched his butt cheeks to avoid letting rip, but
she still felt obliged to defend him in his absence. "Old poker-hair, as you
call him, never drank in front of me. Not blood, anyway, and now you mention
it, I'm kinda struggling to even remember him drinking coffee."
Spike rolled his eyes. "Caffeine makes him hyper, so I was
informed," he told her, his voice softening until he seemed to shake away whatever
memory had come to him. "Never bothered him before the soul. Come to that, I'm
pretty certain he wasn't drinkin' decaff the other week. Must be another of
those LA lifestyle changes."
Lily pushed the mug back into his hands. "Drink. Not talk about
old boyfriend. Is not becoming."
"Yes, ma'am." Spike took the cup, his free arm wrapping around
Lily to stop her stepping away before he placed a kiss on top of her head right
between her horns. "Thanks, luv, for everything."
The vampire turned toward the window again. "Isn't it about
time for Bit's curfew? Come to that, what about his?"
Buffy sighed. "He's eighteen, Spike. If things were different
he might even be in college. He doesn't have a curfew Fridays or Saturdays,
he just has to call before half past eleven, if he's going to be any later than
twelve."
"So tell me, how on earth did I manage to deserve him?" the
vamp asked.
Buffy just grinned back at him. If Spike couldn't see that
Dawn had found herself a younger, human, version of him, she wasn't about to
enlighten him.
"So when his father's illness got worse, my Thomas moved back
here to help Lily and Clem look after him, and then when I graduated a couple
of months later, I followed." Marie used the Spanish pronunciation of the name
that was shared by Clem's brother and father even though it was spelled in the
English manner.
"Is that when you got married?" Wes asked, noting the way Marie
turned the heavy gold band on her wedding finger.
"No, Thomas and I, we never married." Marie covered her confusion
by taking a sip from her mug, only to find it empty.
"I'm sorry. I-I just assumed." Wes stuttered as he was caught
off guard. "I mean, you obviously cared about him a great deal, and with Rosa
and the ring."
Marie shrugged. "Thomas bought me the ring. We hoped my family
priest would marry us. It wouldn't have been legal, but it would have meant
something to us, and to Lily and his father. Instead, the priest said that I
consorted with the devil and had me excommunicated. After that, my mother more
or less followed suit. So, I just wear the ring as a sign of our commitment
to each other."
"I'm sure as far as he was concerned, you were his wife. Lily
certainly seems to regard you as if you were, and it's hardly your fault that
you weren't."
"I'm the mother of her only grandchild. That buys a girl a
lot of leeway, a lot of help getting over good old-fashioned Catholic guilt,
but I don't know if anything ever makes it entirely go away."
"I would have thought it would be difficult to feel guilty
about a relationship that resulted in someone as beautiful as your daughter."
"That's because you are a good man who judges people on their
merits. There are plenty of people who wouldn't find her beautiful."
"Then that's because they are ugly, on the inside, where it
counts."
"Like I say, you're a good man."
"And you're a strong, brave, loving woman who has nothing to
be ashamed of. The prejudices of those around you are their problem." Wesley
seemed to consider for a moment before he placed his mug on the floor and looked
straight into Marie's eyes. "My father worked long and hard to make me feel ashamed of
myself for being a disappointment to him. If I hadn't come to America, I think
I would still be trying to live up to his expectations and still feeling ashamed
I can't meet them. No one ever could. I've learned over the last couple of years
that what's important is to live by your own standards. It doesn't mean that
when I phone my father that I don't end up feeling like some sort of inadequate,
but I don't let it overshadow my whole life any more."
"It sounds like your father is the sort of man who would say
that I am a demon's whore and my child is an abomination."
"He probably would... And I'd probably knock him out cold for
saying it."
"So? Does he come to visit often?" Marie asked with a smile.
"And you say you have this book, just sitting in your apartment
upstairs?" Giles was almost drooling.
"Well, unless the other Rupert's gone and loaned it to one
of his friends." Bee answered calmly. "He does that sometimes."
The momentary look of confusion on the former Watcher's
face earned Bee a lopsided smile from Tara. "You shouldn't tease him about books," the witch told her.
"He'll get over-excited."
"Really!" Giles protested. "As if one of you weren't bad enough."
"Yes," Bee told her, "it's upstairs and since I haven't read it for a while,
it might even have made its way back to the bookcase. Every so often I do a
round up and put back any I can spot."
Tara grinned as the ex-librarian winced.
"Perhaps you should be a little more careful with them," Giles suggested. "Some
of these texts sound as if they might be unique."
"No, it's okay. Pops only lets me use the ones he has duplicates
for... at least since the incident with the magnifying glass."
"I dread to think," Giles countered sarcastically.
"There were only three caught fire. It was the ones that got
wet when I tried to put them out that got him really pissed. I mean who really
wants a copy of Malus Maleficarum, anyway, even if it is a third edition? It's
all a bunch of hooey, but no, he wouldn't talk to me for hours after
that, though I suppose he did have a point about Nostradamus's notebook, but
it wasn't like you couldn't still read it once it dried out. It just took a
bit more work."
"For God's sake, woman, tell me you're joking."
"I'm joking," Bee replied with a huge grin. "That one is kept in its own special glass case
in Pop's library and I don't even have a key. I do have photocopies though...
somewhere."
"I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking this, but what
exactly does your father do?"
"He's head of the languages department at a university, but
he runs the family business as well. Most of the mystical texts have been in
the family for generations."
"You come from some sort of warlock dynasty?"
"Yep, but to use common parlance, I'm a squib. I turn purple
just trying to float a twig big enough to stake a vamp. Besides, I prefer to
paint."
"So you're an artist?"
"Sort of... Unless you think that to be an artist, you should
actually be able to make a living at it."
"I don't see why," Tara countered. "Quite a few of the great
masters actually died destitute. It was only after their deaths when their works
became a finite commodity that the prices went up."
Giles looked surprised at Tara's contribution.
"I'm taking history of art. It's really interesting... and slightly
discouraging if you happen to be an artist."
Bee gave a slight nod. "Hence the working as a translator or an interpreter most of
the time."
"So, you're a frustrated artist, who happens to have the sort
of skills that some watchers would devote their lives to developing, but all
it means to you is that you have a means to avoid penury?" Giles asked, not sure whether he should be impressed or horrified.
"That pretty much covers it, though my father has been known
to bail me out for the rent money now and again, since he says it just means
there's a bit less to inherit in however many years, so it's more the means
to save my pride than a means to avoid starving.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against doing that sort
of work," Bee told him. "There are times when it's even interesting, but most stuff that was
written a thousand years ago is basically relevant to a thousand years ago.
When people ask me to translate stuff, it more often turns out to be some old
shopping list, or somebody's old accounts. It's not like anyone's going to hand
me a copy of The Lost Scrolls of Aberjian and say, 'There you go. Translate
that.'"
"And from what you've said I can see why," Giles observed dryly.
"Other than the fact they're not called the lost scrolls for nothing."
"Well, there is that, but you may well find that most of the
so-called 'lost' stuff tends to accumulate in the vaults of the sort of people
I prefer not to work for."
"The Council of Watchers has any number of unique texts that
might be considered lost to the world at large," the watcher protested.
"Uh-huh. A bunch of holier than thou, genocidal, male-dominated
prigs who look down on any of their own number not born within the bounds
of England's green and pleasant land, and who would hide or subvert anything
you might happen to find if it didn't meet with their political agenda, even
if that meant eliminating the translator. Why wouldn't I want to work for them?"
she asked sarcastically. "No offence."
"W-well," Giles stammered. "I su-suppose that would be one
way to look at them, but it's not as if they haven't done a lot of good over
the years."
"And no small amount of harm. How many histories of their conflicts
with the demon populations have you actually read that weren't written by the
Council themselves?" Bee asked.
"Well, none, b— but I'm sure that for the most part the accounts
are written fairly."
Bee snorted, her scorn for Giles' remark obvious.
"Giles, maybe you should retire gracefully at this point,"
Tara suggested. "It's not as if you haven't had your own differences with the
Council."
"B— but—"
"Look, I'm sorry if you feel my description of the Council sums
you up so well that you have to take offence," Bee interjected. "I was under the impression that
you were a reasonable man, capable of intelligent thought, who no longer paid
allegiance to the elitist principles in which he had been indoctrinated from
youth."
"Wh-what?" Giles was momentarily disorientated whilst he tried
to work out whether he had just been complimented or insulted.
"You're at a shindig thrown by a demon. You obviously don't
buy the party line," Tara translated for the flustered watcher.
"Well, no," Giles responded. "I'm well aware that demons come
in all manner of forms, not all of whom are inherently hostile to the human
race. I'm also sure that the Council has made mistakes in the past, but I happen
to believe that the majority of its members are well-intentioned."
"There would be far more species of demon who aren't inherently
hostile to humans if it hadn't been for your well-intentioned Council
of Watchers and their kill on sight policies," Bee argued, her chin tilting upward as she glared at the far taller man.
"I sincerely doubt that you can back that up convincingly," Giles replied, his enunciation getting more and more precise,
"and even if you could I would have to point out that there would also be far
fewer humans."
"I can back it up," Bee refuted. "The problem is that none of you Council
types can actually read the languages that the texts are written in. Why bother
to understand someone when you can simply annihilate them instead?"
Tara intervened between the two. "Maybe we can just leave the
past in the past and agree that Giles was never responsible for Council policy."
"Well, I can, if this harridan can stop acting like a rabid
pitbull for five minutes," Giles offered less than graciously.
"At least I didn't stoop to personal insults, and given our
respective ages and your apparent lack of the normal male equipment, I would
conclude that you are closer to being a harridan than I am." With that Bee turned
and headed for the yard. Her confrontation with the overwhelmingly uptight,
arrogant (and possibly in a mature sort of way ruggedly handsome) Englishman
left her with the desire for another stiff margarita.
"I say." Giles' mouth opened and closed a couple of times as
he watched her retreating back sashay across the room like a mini Marilyn Monroe
with straight hair.
"Well, you did kinda ask for that one." Tara gave him a semi-sympathetic
look. "You'll never get to see her library now," she teased.
"No book in the world could possibly be worth it... unless of
course she was serious about that Nostradamus notebook." Still, his eyes lingered
on the small woman as she made her way outside.
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