Title: Strange Awakenings, part 5/6
Author: Neena (varscona_pal@yahoo.ca)
Pairing: Giles/John Strange (friendship, mostly, but a slashy one:)
Rating: PG-13
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 visitorsa weary, defrocked priest and the demon he rode in on.
A/N: Set in season 5 of Buffy (before Joyces death), and before the episode Asmoth in Strange. Ive taken one or two liberties with Asmoth, tweaking him to fit the bill, so I apologise to the purists :)
It was a painful decision to make, as much for Giles as for John. They’d spent the rest of the morning debating whether or not to go through with it, but they both knew John couldn’t let Asmoth go. And it seemed unlikely that Asmoth would simply give up and leave John alone. So, after a hasty lunch of sandwiches and soup, Giles called Buffy to let her know what they’d decided. She promised to pass the word on to the others, and preparations would begin to do the invocation spell the following night.
That afternoon was spent going over possible possession demons they could summon. This time the requirements were considerably higher than they had been all those years ago when Ethan was in charge. It was important that the demon take full possession of John’s body during his unconsciousness—if any remnant of John remained, their entire plan would fall apart. It was equally important that they’d be able to completely rid him of the demon once they no longer needed it. That meant finding a demon like Eyghon, who would leap into a new host if John’s life were threatened.
Eventually they settled on a demon called Glax who fit the bill to a tee and was reportedly one of the tamer specimens up for grabs. Plus, as John pointed out, it didn’t hurt that the demon’s spiral-sun tattoo was kind of cool.
“We have a couple more decisions to make,” said Giles, a serious expression on his face. “Do we do the tattoos ourselves or get them done professionally? I believe I have a nice, rusty needle somewhere around here…” he trailed off and looked about as if a rusty old needle might suddenly appear on the table or under the sofa.
“No offense, Rupert, but I think I’d prefer the seedy backroom of a tattoo parlour and an unqualified tattoo artist named ‘Tank’.”
“Suit yourself,” answered Giles, “but that eliminates some of the more interesting places we could put the tattoos.”
“Not necessarily,” said John with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sure ‘Tank’ has done tattoos on every conceivable part of the body. I doubt we’d be able to shock him.”
Giles smiled wickedly back at him. “It would just be between the two of us,” he said, as if trying to convince himself more than John.
“And ‘Tank’,” John reminded him. “Don’t forget about ‘Tank’.”
“Yes—and Tank.”
Many hours later, Giles and John staggered out of The Pit Bull, having consumed more than their fair share of pints. After they’d got their tattoos it seemed like too much of a downer to go back to Giles’ place and sit around waiting to see if Asmoth to showed up. So they opted on a boisterous night on the town—just the two of them—for old time’s sake.
Giles knew it was time to head home when he got so drunk he forgot about the tattoo and made the mistake of sitting down. John laughed so hard he spilled his beer, for which Giles got his revenge, slapping him on the ass and making him yelp in pain. Not that it dampened their spirits any.
Laughing and tripping over their feet, they stumbled past Giles’ flashy new red convertible and flagged down a taxi. The driver was either too professional or too used to Sunnydale weirdness to question why his two drunken passengers chose to lie face down in the backseat instead of sitting up like normal people. He was also too shrewd a businessman to refuse the ridiculously generous tip.
They stumbled into Giles’ apartment, giggling like school children and blindly groping along the wall to find the light switch. But the sight that met their eyes when the light flicked on was enough to sober them instantly. On every wall, on every flat surface, one word was deeply etched over and over. “Next”.
“Looks like I had a visitor while we were out,” Giles remarked with a dry laugh. “Obviously never heard of an answer phone.”
“Rupert, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” said John, not finding it in the least bit funny.
Giles shrugged off the apology. “Please—this is nothing. You should see what happened to my last workplace.”
John picked his way through the wreckage of shredded books and cushions and made a futile attempt to restore order. He quickly ran out of steam when he realised his efforts were getting him nowhere, and he turned to find Giles watching patiently, an indulgent smile on his face.
“I should at least try and clean up,” said John.
“Leave it,” said Giles. “Tomorrow we’ll have an army of young people here to help us clean this mess. It’s late, I’m drunk, and I just want to go to sleep.”
Neither of them said anything when John followed him up to the bedroom. Thankfully Asmoth had confined his tantrum to the main floor and left the loft untouched, so they didn’t have to wade through debris to get to the bed. When they got there, they were both so exhausted that they collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to change out of their clothes.
Their matching tattoos made finding a comfortable sleeping position difficult, but eventually they ended up spooning, keeping their newly marked butt-cheeks pointing skyward. When Giles wrapped his arm around him, john didn’t object—it was the first time since he’d encountered Asmoth that he was able to drift effortlessly off to sleep.
Giles was a little surprised they’d managed to sleep through the entire night without incident. The only demons he had to face were the hangover that greeted him when he cracked his eyes open and the awkwardness of waking up with John still wrapped in his arms, peacefully sleeping.
Giles propped himself up on his elbow and watched the younger man sleep. He was fascinated by his eyelashes, which were just long enough to reach the curve of his cheek. And then there was the delicate curl of his upper lip… Giles sat up, shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts. Too much time had passed for both of them for him to even consider thinking those thoughts.
The movement jerked John awake, and in his shocked and sleepy state, he blurted out something about goldfish wearing moustaches.
Giles snickered, as much at the spectacular bed head John was sporting as at the nonsensical words coming out of his mouth.
“Wh-what? What is it? What happened?” John sputtered as consciousness seeped belatedly into his brain. “Why are you laughing?”
“If you could see what I see, you wouldn’t have to ask,” said Giles.
John’s hands followed Giles’ line of vision to his flattened and dishevelled mop of curls. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” he said, answering Giles’ smile with a grimace. “Why d’you think I used to shave my head when I was a kid?”
Giles lay back down, fighting the urge to let his own hands run through John’s curls. “I like the hair. It has attitude. And it’s…I don’t know…sort of sweet.”
Their first conversation of the day was cut short by the sound of the front door opening, followed almost immediately by the sound of frantic footsteps pounding up the stairs.
“Giles! Are you okay? What happened?” Buffy shouted as she raced up the stairs. Any other questions she may have had promptly flew out the window when she burst into the loft to see John in bed with her watcher.
John looked to Giles, a mild panic in his eyes. But Giles didn’t so much as flinch. It wasn’t like she’d caught them doing anything, he reasoned. There really was nothing to be embarrassed about. With a flourish, Giles threw back the covers, and fearing the worst, Buffy recoiled before she realized they were both fully dressed and presentable.
“I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of my sofa for John to sleep on,” Giles said by way of explanation.
“Right,” said Buffy. “Of course.” She’d seen John’s look, though, and couldn’t help feeling there was more to it than he was letting on. But that line of thought forked off into dark and twisting territories that she wasn’t willing to explore, especially not first thing in the morning.
“So what happened last night?” she asked. “And why didn’t you call me?”
“We weren’t here when it happened,” said Giles, plucking his glasses off the bedside table and putting them on. “John and I went out last night on an…errand, and we didn’t get in ‘til quite late. By then the damage was done and Asmoth was nowhere to be found. I didn’t see the point of alarming you over nothing.”
“Nothing? Giles, have you seen your apartment?”
“Not at great length, no,” he admitted. “But the point is, no one was hurt.”
Buffy looked at him askance; “If no one got hurt, then why were you bleeding?” she asked, pointing to the dark red stains on the front of his rumpled shirt.
Giles looked down and noticed the stains for the first time. He knew where they’d come from, or course, and a quick glance at John’s back proved his theory right—he’d once again soaked through his bandages. But he couldn’t very well tell Buffy that he’d got the stains from snuggling with John all night.
“What, this?” he asked innocently. “It’s nothing. It’s not even my blood.”
“Do I even want to know how it got there?” asked Buffy.
“Probably not,” Giles replied with a tight-lipped smile on his face. “Now, if you’ll give us a minute, we’ll get ready and meet you downstairs.”
With one last, uncertain glace at her watcher, Buffy turned and trotted off down the stairs.
It had taken a good part of the day to clean up the mess Asmoth had made of Giles’ apartment, mostly due to the fact that a large portion of his workforce had abandoned him to go to classes. But he, John, Xander and (occasionally) Anya, worked solidly to get the place in order once more. There were still gouges in the walls and woodwork that were going to require Xander’s newfound skills in carpentry, and Xander was honoured that Giles had offered him the job.
Willow and Tara were the first to arrive after their classes, and Giles sent them right back out again to get the supplies they needed for the spell. Giles gave Willow the key to his store to do a little pre-grand-opening shopping, and the grin on her face told him that she didn’t consider the request much of a chore.
Buffy showed up shortly afterwards, having dropped Dawn off at home first. She scanned the room appraisingly. “Not bad,” she said approvingly. “I mean aside from the lack of chair cushions and the Manson Family wall treatments.”
“Glad we passed inspection,” Xander remarked. He and Anya were sitting on the cushion-less sofa, but they both looked too tired to move somewhere more comfortable.
“So, are we all ready to take on the latest Big Bad?” Buffy asked with annoying peppiness.
“Yes, about that…” said Giles, leading her by the arm away from Xander and Anya. In a hushed voice he continued: “Buffy, when the time comes, I’d prefer it if the others weren’t here.”
“The latest Big really got you wigged, huh?” she asked.
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s the spell. I’d…I’d just rather it was me and John for that.”
He didn’t explain why. He didn’t have to; she could see it in his eyes. It was clear that this was very hard for him, and she had no desire to make things even more difficult by giving him a tough time. Her peppiness dissolved instantly and she was all business.
“Don’t worry, Giles, I’ll take care of it,” she said, and trooped off to dismiss the troops.
From the looks on their faces Anya and Xander didn’t need much convincing. With a merry wave farewell from Anya and a ‘good luck and stuff’ from Xander, they were gone. The real test, however, would be Willow and Tara, who would both be eager to help and might not understand why he didn’t want them to.
He was right, of course. Willow was so excited at the prospect of taking part in the spell that when she was told she couldn’t help out, anger and hurt flashed through her large hazel eyes.
Giles placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “This is the sort of magick you can’t turn back from, Willow,” he explained. “It taints you—believe me, I’ve been there, and if I could turn back the clock and take it all back, I would. John and I have no choice in this, but I cannot allow you to delve into this kind of magick for my sake. It’s far too dangerous.”
Willow pouted and looked as if she wanted to protest—he was underestimating her power, just like he always did, and it infuriated her—but there was something in Giles’ eyes that warned her this was not the time to argue. Plus, Tara looked spooked at the mention of dark magicks, and she didn’t want to scare her away. She decided to let it go, for Tara’s sake.
With sunset approaching and all the casual onlookers gone, Giles and John reluctantly prepared for the invocation spell.
Buffy insisted on standing by, in case Asmoth decided to crash the party before they were ready for him. Giles objected at first, but she promised to be quiet and to stay out of the way. To his utter amazement, she kept her promise, and after a while he forgot she was even there.
The furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving the living room floor bare. Giles had drawn a chalk circle in the clearing and lit the candles, placing them according to the spell’s instructions. In the centre of the circle sat John, looking apprehensive and determined at the same time. Only when Giles brought out the chains and shackles did his expression elevate to one of outright fear.
“Are those really necessary?” asked John.
“Of course not,” said Giles. “We could always forgo the restraints, turn you into a demon and sit back whilst you devour us in a fit of demonic rage.”
“All right, no need to get all snippy,” said John.
“Sorry, it’s just…”
“I know,” said John, freeing his friend from any further explanation. “Let’s just get it over with, shall we?”
Giles nodded grimly and stepped inside the chalk circle, the chains in his hands. He bound John’s feet and hands together so he wouldn’t be able to stand, then he stepped out of the circle again to get his bag. He dug around in it, pushing aside crosses and stakes to find the wooden box at the bottom. He discarded the bag and opened the little box with a squeak of its rusty hinges. He stared at the empty syringe and the small vial of drugs—a potent mixture he and Ethan had formulated years ago—and willed himself to do the unthinkable. With practiced skill, Giles filled the syringe, tapped it, and then depressed the plunger until he was sure no air bubbles remained.
John looked up at him, his eyes wild with fear. His whole body trembled as the syringe drew nearer, and he flinched as the cold metal needle touched the skin on his forearm.
Giles hesitated. He couldn’t bear sending John off to sleep, possible never to wake up again, without offering whatever comfort he could. He bent down, bringing his head down to John’s to whisper in his ear.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, John. I promise.” And they were so close it almost happened by accident. Giles’ lips brushed gently over John’s—more a remembrance of a kiss that a kiss itself. He hovered there a while—a breath apart—stretching the moment out as long as he dared.
John didn’t even feel the needle pierce his skin. The only thing he was aware of was Giles’ eyes locked on his and the way everything was fading into darkness.