Title: Strange Awakenings, part 3/6
Author: Neena (varscona_pal@yahoo.ca)
Pairing: Giles/John Strange (friendship, mostly, but a slashy one:)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: BtVS characters belong to Joss Whedon (almighty creator!!!), Kuzui, Sandollar, WB, Fox, ME, Etc. ad nauseum. “Strange” characters belong to the BBC, and Big Bear Productions, etc.
Summary: Sunnydale receives two new visitors—a weary, defrocked priest and the demon he rode in on.
A/N: Set in season 5 of Buffy (before Joyce’s death), and before the episode ‘Asmoth’ in “Strange”. I’ve taken one or two liberties with Asmoth, tweaking him to fit the bill, so I apologise to the purists :)
John took a deep breath and started from the beginning. He’d never told anyone the whole story before: certain people knew certain things, and that suited him fine. But he needed help—he was in way over his head on this one—and if Giles was who he said he was, then he’d be foolish to keep anything from him.
It was difficult at first, talking about Helen. But once he’d resigned himself to it, he found he was enjoying reliving the happier days of their time together. He told Giles how he’d met her and fallen madly in love, and how she’d stood by him when his life did a complete turnabout. She’d nurtured him through the uncertainties of his faith and humoured him when it came to his fascination with the supernatural. It felt good to finally give voice to her name, almost as if saying it out loud was enough to bring her to life in his mind once more. But that only made it much harder to tell Giles what had happened to her.
Giles listened in silence, knowing from his own experience with such things that John needed to get it all out. He knew what it was like to keep painful secrets, how it kept you isolated from those around you like a wall being built, brick by brick around your heart. Giles had his secrets. And he’d built his walls. But maybe it wasn’t too late for John.
As he came to the most difficult part of his story, John paused and eyed the nearly empty bottle of wine on the table.
“Would you like me to pour you another glass?” offered Giles, understanding the need for ‘Dutch courage’.
“Have you got anything stronger?” John asked, looking sheepishly at Giles.
“Certainly,” he said with a kind smile, and he went to his liquor cabinet to fetch a bottle of single malt. He poured three fingers into a tumbler and brought it to him. He knew better than to ask if he wanted ice or soda. This occasion warranted an undiluted scotch.
John thanked him and took the drink. The amber coloured liquor, with its peculiar wet, woollen sock smell, was a strong reminder of the times they’d spent together in Giles’ dilapidated flat in college. He took a gulp, the liquor scorching a path down his throat and sending warm tendrils throughout his body.
“It was October, 1999,” he began.
“John please…let it go,” said Helen, exasperated by her fiancé’s stubbornness. John was already donning his coat, and she could tell he was determined to go through with it despite the Canon’s threats and her pleading. She couldn’t understand where his obsession with demons had come from, and it was starting to put a strain on their relationship.
He was convinced that demons were real—he’d come across books, ancient books, locked away in Canon Black’s study, that were filled with proof of their existence. And although he’d only had one chance to browse through them before they were snatched away and summarily locked up, he’d seen enough to know, without a doubt, that the writings in those books were much more than the fanciful imaginings of long-dead monks. Why else would the Canon keep them so carefully guarded? Why else would he lie about their existence when John pressed him about them? And why was it only now that he’d pulled them out from their hiding place and blown the dust off them?
John suspected it had something to do with the string of grave robberies that had started up a few weeks earlier. The incidents were increasing in regularity, and although the police had been tight-lipped on the subject, there were rumours spreading that it was the work of some demented necrophiliac or budding serial killer.
Tonight John intended to get some answers. There had been a burial that afternoon, and he was betting that this creature would find the temptation of a freshly dug grave too much to pass up. The fact that Canon Black had expressly forbidden him to look into the matter only made him more determined to see it through. As for Helen…she would come around once he’d shown her irrefutable proof that he was right.
John checked his camera again, testing the battery and making sure there was enough film. One good shot of this demon at work and Canon Black would have to admit he knew more than he was letting on. Just one picture and he’d be closer to the truth than all his years in the Church and his dabblings in the occult had brought him. He would finally have proof where there had only ever been suspicion.
“I won’t be long. If Black calls, tell him I’ve gone visiting poor old Mrs. Marshland. He’ll like that one.” Helen’s mood was dark, and he caught the glint of anger in her eyes. “Please, Helen, don’t give me that look—I need to do this. You know it as much as I do.” He waited until she granted him a reluctant smile, then he ducked out into the brisk autumn evening.
Time seemed to slow down for John as he waited impatiently for the demon to make an appearance. He’d been waiting, crouched in the bushes, for well over an hour. He was about to admit defeat when he heard the sound of gravel crunching underfoot along the path. The narrow beam of light from a torch lit the ground in sweeping arcs, as if searching for something. John remained still, holding his breath in the hopes of avoiding detection. He figured it was probably Black out patrolling his territory, trying to flush him out to give him a proper reprimand. But the figure that appeared around the bend was not that of the old man—it was Helen. She looked agitated, like something had scared her.
John stood, revealing himself to beckon her over to him, but he was suddenly pierced with an excruciating pain. His cry caught in his throat, lodged there by his paralysing fear. The nerves in his back were on fire, and every time he dragged in a hitching breath he was assailed by a cloyingly sweet smell that nearly made him gag. Whatever it was that had impaled him from behind was breathing hotly down his neck. The demon laid its enormous hand on top of John’s head, and he saw a slick, talon-like claw flash before his eye before embedding itself in his forehead. The world swam sickeningly around him, his body growing heavier, and just before he blacked out, he heard Helen screaming.
He was nudged awake some time early the next morning. He grunted, not wanting to wake up and have to face the pain that was pressing in on him. The nudging grew harder until he had no choice but to open his eyes. It was a moment he fervently wished he could erase from his memory.
A heavy weight was being lifted off of him, leaving him cold and exposed. He stirred enough to raise his head and saw that the weight had been Helen. He didn’t understand, at first. Why had they been sleeping outside? Why wasn’t Helen waking up? Who were all these people?
Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. The people were policemen, and they were watching him—talking to him, asking him questions that he couldn’t comprehend. And he hadn’t been sleeping outside—he’d been unconscious. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his back made it impossible.
He noticed the redness next. The deep crimson redness seemed to be covering him from head to toe. And as the policemen laid Helen down on the ground beside him, he saw that she, too, was covered in red.
And he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Her eyes were open, but they were staring into an emptiness that only she could see. John cried out then, his cracking voice a mere echo of the scream of agony he felt welling up inside of him.
Blood. There was so much blood.
The rest was lost in a haze of shock and pain. There were hospitals and detectives asking him questions he didn’t know how to answer. There were accusations and reporters, and friends who were too ashamed to look him in the eye.
In the end, with no motive, no weapon, and with wounds that couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted, he was released from custody, and the charges were dropped. But the damage was done. Canon Black had him defrocked the moment he was released from custody, and it was only out of pity that the Bishop had granted him a stipend and a place to live. He sank into a depression borne of guilt and anger, and he would have stayed buried in that bleakness forever if it weren’t for the dreams.
He was a marked man—literally tagged by the demon that had killed his future—and because of it, every demon that got near enough could sense his presence. And he, in turn, could sense them through his dreams. John grasped onto this knowledge and used it to his advantage. He would learn everything he could about the evil that preyed on the innocent, and he would fight back. Along the way, he’d come across others like him who were sensitive to the presence of demons, and together they were starting to turn the tide.
Jude, Toby and Kevin all fought because it was the only way they knew how to survive. But not John. He fought so he could get revenge. He fought in the hopes that one day he would come face to face with the creature that took his Helen away from him, and he would rid the world of it’s presence or die trying.
But when he’d finally got the chance, he’d blown it. He’d literally had the demon by the throat, and he’d let it go.
A salty tear streaked down his face and into the crack of his lips, and John swiped it away. He fought to hold back the tears, ashamed that it had taken him so many years to cry for her. He’d held back for so long.
Giles plucked the empty glass from John’s fingers and set it down on the table. Then he gathered his old friend into his arms, holding his head against his chest until the tears came. Giles hugged him tight, feeling some of his own grief rising to the surface, begging to be recognised, but he refused acknowledge it. There were too many ghosts in his past, and right now, John’s ghost was the one he needed to deal with.
Slowly the shuddering sobs ceased, but John didn’t move. With his head pressed against Giles’ chest, he listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat. He’d forgotten how comforting that sound could be, and he didn’t want to pull away just yet. He felt Giles’ fingers gently combing through his hair and he closed his tired eyes—just for a minute.
He awoke gasping for air, nausea making the room around him spin. He sat up and took a deep breath, trying to push back the flood of saliva that kept rising at the back of his throat. The nightmare was fading fast, but the sickly-sweet smell of the demon lingered in his memory, unshakable.
A hot, thick drop of blood rolled down his nose and fell to the floor with a tiny splat. John brought his fingers up to his forehead and they came away wet. He looked around the shadowy room, momentarily disoriented. He knew where he was—he was on the couch in Giles’ living room—but he couldn’t remember actually going to sleep. John rubbed his eyes as they strained to see in the darkness. His eyes ached dully and his lids were heavy—it hurt to blink. Then he remembered why they were so sore. He remembered the tears and how he’d fallen asleep on Giles. John groaned. As if things weren’t complicated enough between them, he’d added pity comfort into the mix.
Taking it slowly, John got up and padded his way into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. His hands were still shaking as he went to reach for a glass in the cupboard, and the glasses clinked together loudly in the dead silence of the night. John winced and strained his ears to hear if he’d woken up Giles. To his relief, all remained silent, and he ran the tap, filling his glass with icy water. He drank it down in one gulp and poured himself another. The nausea subsided at last and he pressed the cold glass against his hot forehead, forgetting about the wound that had started bleeding again.
John swore softly under his breath as he felt a hot trickle of blood escape from under the bandages on his back. He quickly stripped out of the sweater Giles had loaned him and cursed again. Even in the dim light he could see dark blood stains setting in. He filled the sink with water and soaked it, rubbing at the stains until he was sure it was clean, then spread it out on the counter to dry.
Hoping to curl up on the couch for a few more hours of sleep, John wandered back into the living room. But halfway across the room the air turned chilly and he stopped dead in his tracks. The hair on his arms prickled—he could smell the demon.
“He’s next,” came the hateful, disembodied voice, followed by the clicking sound of its claws. The sound had come from the shadows near the staircase.
John’s heart raced as he flew up the stairs two at a time. Entering the loft, he saw the demon perched on the bed, its mask-like face hovering menacingly over the sleeping form of Rupert Giles. Moonlight glanced off the demon’s claws, which were poised over Giles’ chest and head, about to rip into his flesh.
“No!” John shouted at the top of his voice.
Giles sprang awake, eyes darting in every direction to find the source of the danger. But the demon was gone. All he saw was John, standing shirtless and out of breath at the foot of his bed.
“John, what is it?” he asked. To say John looked spooked would be a massive understatement. “Come here, have a seat,” he offered, shuffling over to make room for him on the bed.
“He was here,” said John, ignoring the offer. “Asmoth was here in your bedroom, standing right over you!”
Giles didn’t know how to respond. John was clearly shaken, but he found it hard to believe a bloody great demon had been standing right over him without him knowing. Then again, if what John had said about its ability to appear out of thin air was true, then he was lucky to have escaped with his life.
John paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Giles was getting edgy, too, and he clicked on his bedside lamp, casting out the darkness.
“He’s gone now, John,” Giles said. “I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of this tomorrow, but it’s late, and you should really try to get some sleep.”
“I’m not some child who’s had a bad dream,” snapped John. “I can’t just go back to bed and forget that that…thing…nearly got to you. How can you even think about sleeping after what just happened?”
Giles studied his young friend and saw the determination in his eyes. He sighed. There was no sense trying to get any more sleep tonight, he thought. So he climbed out of bed and pulled on his housecoat.
“Come on, then,” he said. “If we’re to spend the rest of the night awake, we might as well make ourselves useful. How good are you at research?” he asked.
“I’m a few PhD’s shy of your skills, but I think I can hold my own,” John replied with a smile, glad to have something to do.
After redressing John’s wounds and finding him a fresh t-shirt to wear, they headed back downstairs where Giles introduced him to his impressive collection of demon texts. Most of them were unavailable to the general public, and some of them represented the only copies in existence. John whistled appreciatively. In his four years of diligent research, he’d never seen so many books on demons.
John filled Giles in on the sketchy information he’d managed to collect in his studies, as well as every detail of his encounter with the demon, so they’d have some idea where to begin. He’d surmised that its name was Asmoth, and that it fed off of human flesh—at first only from the recently deceased, then from the living as it neared its time of hibernation.
John spied a familiar book on one of the shelves and he pulled it out. ‘The Encyclopaedia Daemonica’. He handed it to Giles.
“This is where I found most of my information, if that helps,” he said.
Giles smirked. “Ah yes, ‘The Encyclopaedia’. I’m afraid using this book to track down a demon would be as futile an exercise as trying to win the Tour de France on a tricycle.”
“Not enough to go by?” John asked.
“Not nearly. And it’s highly inaccurate in the information it does possess. Still, the fact that your demon warranted mention in ‘The Encyclopaedia’ suggests that it’s powerful and most likely ancient. That’s good news for us.”
“It is?”
“Well, at least as far as research is concerned, yes. There’s likely to be a great deal of information on him. The more we know, the better equipped we’ll be to destroy it.”
The two of them delved into the research, going through book after book, jotting down notes, which they compiled in the centre of the coffee table. There seemed to be plenty of information on Asmoth, some of it under the names ‘Astartoth’ and ‘Asmodeus’. The problem was that the accounts of this demon tended to disagree with each other on certain key factors. According to some texts, Asmoth was the ‘Eater of Souls’, and the consumption of human flesh wasn’t even mentioned, while most texts made no mention of the eating of souls at all, focusing instead on the flesh-eating business.
The sun rose without a second glance from either of them, and it wasn’t until there was a knock at the door that they realised they’d been at it for hours. Giles looked at his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty, and they’d been so caught up they hadn’t even stopped for breakfast. Giles got up to answer the door just as the knocking started up again, more insistently.
The entire Scooby gang was waiting outside with Buffy heading the pack, a big smile on her face. Willow had her wide-eyed curious expression fixed firmly in place, while Tara smiled shyly at him, as if apologizing for their intrusion. Xander and Anya were close behind and in the back, jumping up and down in a blatant attempt to get a better look at Giles’ guest, was Dawn.
John joined Giles at the door. “You were right—news travels fast in these parts.”
Buffy and the others filed past them into the apartment, and Giles introduced them all one by one. John smiled and nodded politely at all of them until Dawn bounced her way inside. He couldn’t help but stare at her—she was glowing with a radiant green energy that was at once beautiful and frightening. Only when he realised that Xander was asking him a question was he able to pry his attention away from the girl.
“Sorry, what?” he asked, not having caught most of the question.
“I said I hope you haven’t been playing in traffic again. They’ve got really strict penalties for jay-walking here in Sunnydale,” Xander said.
“Don’t worry, Rupert’s been keeping a close eye on me,” he answered.
“So, you knew Giles from way back, huh?” asked Buffy, quickly assessing Giles’ new houseguest. “Was that before or after his Easy Rider days?”
“You’ll have to excuse Buffy,” Giles interceded, “she’s under the misconception that my entire youth was nothing more than a series of nefarious acts.”
“It wasn’t?” John teased, winning a smile from Buffy. “The way you described it…”
“This really isn’t the sort of thing we should be discussing right now,” Giles said, jumping in quickly. “We have serious work ahead of us and we need to stay focused.”
“I think you should tell us more about your nefarious acts. In detail, please,” said Anya. The others nodded in agreement.
“No,” he said firmly. “Now please, there’s a very powerful demon at large who fancies me as its next meal. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to figure out how to defeat it before I become its dinner.”
“Ooh, research party!” said Willow.
“Is it too early for pizza? Or should I go get some donuts?” asked Xander.
“Oh! Donuts!” said Dawn, casting her vote.
Giles sighed. It was clear they were going to have company whether they wanted it or not. “Fine,” he said. “Go get donuts. Just make sure you order enough jellies this time.”