Title: Ripper (Part 1)
Author: Weezer
Summary: Giles returns to England after Buffy’s death (the one with Glory), but is there still a place for him here?
Spoilers: Mention of Buffy’s death after Glory, her confrontation with Travers when she gets Giles’ job back, and some mention of Ethan, but nothing specific.
Pairing: Eventually (and likely Giles/other)
Rating: G/PG (except maybe some bad language)
Feedback: Very Welcome! Especially constructive criticism!
Use: No problem, if you want it, just shoot me an email at Weez2424@aol.com
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine (belong to Joss-the-Magnificent, et al.), and I'm just having fun with them. Some may say too much fun . . .

Author's Link: http://www.geocities.com/weez2424/ASH_addict.html

Giles turned over onto his stomach and yanked the pillow over his ears. He’d only been back in England for two weeks, but he had hoped to re-adjust a bit more quickly than this. Sadly enough, what bothered him most, what had prevented him from sleeping each night, was the absence of the racket from the garbage truck every Wednesday at 4 am. He missed the wonderful sounds of Sunnydale—car horns blaring, people swearing, and doors slamming. All of that sweet music had been replaced by the tortuous sounds of silence. A silence interrupted only by the sparse chirping of birds, occasional crickets, and fresh air rustling the leaves of the trees outside his window. God, it was horrendous.

Giles flipped over again, landing on his back and pulling the pillow tightly over his face, this time in an attempt to muffle his frustrated cry into the down. “Arrrgghh!” Not that he really needed to muffle his cries. He was alone in this house, and there wasn’t another soul for miles. No one had built up on this side of the hill in the twenty-plus years since he’d left.

Giles threw the pillow across the room, not caring that it knocked something off the dresser. He then threw his arms down at his sides with a thump and gazed over at the clock. It was no use, another night without sleep. The red digits taunted him; the colon which separated the numbers blinked away the seconds. Slowly, ever so slowly. It was only 4:23 am.

Initially, Giles had told himself the old family house would be a respite, providing a needed break from the chaos that was California. Well, more like that was what he had told the others, anyway. Who was he kidding? This house had never been a respite. Not since he was 16 years old. Hell, its home-sweet-homeness had ended for him even long before then. So what the hell was he doing here then? What was he looking for? It wasn’t peace. The silence was deafening; the isolation was killing him. God, could he actually be missing children bursting through his front door as if they paid the mortgage? The endless ramblings and mutilations of the English language? The blaring of meaningless noise, disguised as music. Well, he’d never admit it! He glanced back at the clock. 4:25am. Bloody hell! If time kept moving this slowly, he’d surely go mad.

Giles threw the covers off and swung his feet to the side of the bed. As he sat up, he tried to figure out just where it was he felt the sudden need to rush off to. He couldn’t lie down any longer, and he didn’t feel like sitting. His feet had this itch to move, to carry him somewhere, but where? The sound of Willow’s voice filled his head once again with her accusation that his departure from Sunnydale was just an attempt to escape. Well, maybe from Sunnydale, but what kind of escape was it to leap from a burning ship into the mouths of starving sharks?

Tea. That’s what he needed. A nice hot cup of tea. It was his fallback remedy in Sunnydale, and he finally had access to the proper ingredients for a real cup of tea at his finger tips. He wasn’t as comforted by the idea as he’d hoped. He decided to start off with a shower, and see if that couldn’t help him shake this somber mood. Giles walked across the hardwood floors to the bath. One perk of being in a large, empty house, safe from unannounced visitors, was the freedom to pad around the bedroom naked.

As he got in the shower, he purposely turned the water on colder than necessary to try to rejuvenate himself. It did little to wake him up or supplant the empty feeling. He soon lost interest in this task and after a quick wash off, stepped out and toweled himself off.

Giles had been easily preoccupied of late. He could find nothing to hold his attention for more than a few moments. Not until he glanced in the mirror, that is. His eyes locked immediately on the image before him, a wave of nausea following the panic gripping his throat. His father’s face stared back at him. Laughing that laugh, his eyes dark. He fought to tear his eyes from the menacing image, but he was frozen. Imprisoned by his own fear. Suddenly, his head was filled with a deafening roar, as if all the water taps had suddenly turned on full force. The noise shocked him out of his paralysis and he quickly tore his gaze from the mirror. “No, dammit! Not now!” He grabbed the counter, squeezing until his knuckles went white and hoping that the self-inflicted pain would tear him from this episode. It’s not real, he told himself. It’s just a trick.

He hadn’t had such an episode in a long time. Well, what the hell did you expect, old man, he chastised himself. Coming back here, you know very well this bloody house is haunted, if not literally, then at least figuratively for you. Too many damned memories. Why didn’t you sell the blasted thing? Of course, he also knew the answer to that one as well; no one would buy. And somewhere inside of him, he wasn’t ready to let go of the memories, of the perfect source of self-torment. Heaven forbid he stop punishing himself, let alone forgive himself for what happened here.

Giles threw his head back up in defiance of his own fear, and as he did, the room fell silent. The mirror once again reflected his own face, albeit a fairly weathered image that would forever carry a hint of his father’s face. A hint that Giles was genetically cursed to carry around with him forever, and a hint that seemed to grow more pronounced with each year that passed, bringing Giles’ face ever closer to the image of his father, the last time Giles had seen the man alive.

Giles took a moment to study his reflection. It had been a while; hell, it was the first time in years that Giles had allowed himself an extended look in the mirror. He looked much older than he’d expected. The vision of himself that he carried in his mind was more that of a young man of 20 or 25. It was amazing how glaringly different one’s outer image was from the image carried around in one’s own mind. When people catch sight of themselves in photographs or in a shop window, they usually say such things as, “I always imagined myself thinner, younger, happier.” Giles’ first thought was that he had always imagined himself a bit less . . . dark. Perhaps that was why he rarely looked in mirrors anymore, except to shave. And even then, he avoided the full reality, by focusing his attention only on the specific area at hand. By narrowing his focus to a single part, he found it much easier to lose sight of the whole, and in turn, much easier to continue living in denial.

Giles headed downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of tea, hoping to find some peace in the daily habits. It helped a bit, but not much. As he sat down on the couch and set the cup down on the table, he scanned the room for something to read. His morning cup of tea just wasn’t the same without something to read. He spotted an old newspaper on the bottom shelf of the coffee table amid some old magazines. As he pulled it up, he had to chuckle at the dust that he disturbed. He wondered when the last time Anderson gave the place a good dusting. Not like he paid the man that much anyway, so he didn’t really expect much. Giles couldn’t help but let out another chuckle as he got a good idea of the last time Anderson had been around. The date on the newspaper was January 5th; today was the 25th . . . of March. Oh well, he hadn’t opened a newspaper since his arrival, so it was all likely still news to him.

As Giles scanned the front page, he couldn’t help but notice the blatant differences in what was considered newsworthy in Bath versus Sunnydale. Overall, these headlines were a bit tamer. And the English editor didn’t seem afraid to waste valuable space on humorous, happy stories, lest a shocking horrific event be left out. Of course, the American editors, never ones for moderation, overdid it so much that now, normally horrendous events had lost their shock value, people needed to read bigger and worse deeds in order to get that “oh my god” reaction the papers were hoping for.

The headline Giles set his eyes on made him chuckle. “Ian Masters was fined Ten Pounds for pissing behind Mrs. Karstens’ rose bushes.” He was lucky he hadn’t gotten caught every time he relieved himself out doors, or he’d have likely been driven to the poorhouse. He took a sip of tea and continued on to the next story. As he read the opening line, he burst out laughing, sending a spray of Earl Gray across the paper and the table. “Mr. Dale’s prize goat is missing again, and those who took him are strongly encouraged to return him in time for the Annual Livestock Fair this Saturday.”

Giles was still laughing, not bothering to wipe up his mess just yet. Wonder if the poor goat ever made it to the Fair? He giggled and paused to enjoy this feeling that had come to seem to foreign of late. He hadn’t had a good laugh in months, and he forgot what he’d been missing. Giles was still chuckling when he finally succumbed to his compulsion to wipe down the table. He compromised by doing a shoddy job, so he could quickly return to the paper.

He missed this part of life in England. In Sunnydale, the missing goat story would have quickly been supplanted by a story of yet another blood bank robbery or a suspicious, satanic ritual killing. In fact, it took him a few stories to get to the first report of violence – a fight after hours outside of a local pub. Giles smiled fondly at the picture of the front of the Garrick’s Head Pub. He’d spent many a day and night there. Hell, he’d had many a brawl there as well. An image of him and Ethan wreaking havoc at that very pub flashed through his mind. He had to admit, for all the chaos Ethan brought upon Giles’ life, he had also brought a lot of laughter. Unfortunately, the laughter was usually at some innocent soul’s expense. Still, Giles couldn’t suppress the chuckle that escaped at the memories flashing through his mind. Of course, Giles hadn’t been completely innocent in all the chaos either. An image of Eyghon flashed through his mind, and Giles instinctively grabbed his arm where the tattoo burned as a reminder. He knew it wasn’t literally on fire, but it burned with the memory nonetheless. No, Ripper had hardly been an innocent in all of his runnings with Ethan. Hell, he’d never been an innocent if he truly looked back on his life. He’d failed too many times already by his early twenties, all for which others seemed to suffer. His most recent failure of course, had driven him back here. He had managed to suppress the worst aspects of Ripper in attempt to escape that feeling of failure, but now he found himself with an identity far worse than any Ripper could have conjured -- he was a Watcher without a Slayer.

The last thoughts quickly doused his recently lightened mood. Giles flipped back toward the events section, trying to distract himself. He scanned the Announcements Section for names he might recognize, people he might look up in an effort to reconnect to his old home. So far nothing familiar, not in the To-Be-Wed section, or in any of the Obits. Of course, the Obits was probably not the best place to look if he was truly trying to “reconnect,” with the living, at least.

He began to feel out of place again. Or maybe the right phrase was out of time. God, if he didn’t fit in back in Sunnydale, and he no longer had a place here, where the hell did he belong? Giles sighed and tossed the paper onto the table. Leaning back, he pulled his glasses off for a good cleaning. Pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, he squeezed tightly, then released, and repeated it in some futile attempt to release the pressure. Or maybe he was trying to create a focal point with which to hold himself together.

After a few moments he took a deep breath. Damned that blasted silence. At least in Sunnydale he could count on the noise to keep him distracted. Whenever it was too quiet, he started to think. If he had something to research that was fine, but when he had nothing to do, thoughts often led to . . . well, things that he’d rather not dredge up. Noise. He needed noise. He looked around and suddenly realized that some of the thoughts conjured up by this place were not much better than the thoughts he was trying to escape by coming back here. He needed to get out. That was it; he’d go into town. People, noise, chatter; that’s what he needed. He glanced at his watch. Damn, it was only quarter of six. Who the hell would be up this early? Well, if he walked he could burn up forty-five minutes. Maybe longer, if he walked slowly. He decided that a walk would do him good.

* * *

After a nice, warm breakfast and a long sit in the park, Giles resorted to wandering, deciding to let himself end up wherever his legs carried him. Giles shouldn’t have been surprised he ended up there. The Garrick’s Head Pub had been the local hang out when Bath had last been his home. He’d hoped it’d give him some feeling of connectedness, familiarity, belonging. All it did was make him feel old. The clientele was as he should have expected, unchanged from the faces he’d seen when he frequented this bar, 20-some years ago. Different names, of course, but the same attitude. The styles hadn’t changed much, or perhaps they had just made their way back ‘round in the cycles that fashions seemed to follow. Industrial blue jeans, T-shirts, leather jackets and a pair of Docs. Oh, and a cigarette hanging off the ear. Can’t forget that fashion statement. He had to smile at the memory of how cool he thought he looked back then. Not a bad look, but a blatant attempt to appear cool, nonetheless. He wondered if these boys were just as insecure as he’d been. He chuckled and took a sip of beer.

“Something funny, old man?” A voice came from behind him, interrupting him mid-gulp. Giles practically coughed the beer back up, but he managed to swallow it down and clear his throat.

Turning to face this challenging lad, he said, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” the kid spat. Giles chuckled again. Not the reaction the boy was seeking; it pissed him off even more. “What the hell’s your problem?”

“No problem,” Giles tried to soften his chuckles. “Just having a pint.”

“Well, you don’t belong here,” the kid said.

Giles noticed the bartender pick up a glass and begin wiping it out with his towel. He was eying the boy. “Hey, Peter. No trouble, ya here?” the man said, setting the glass down and picking up another in his towel.

The kid looked up and glared at the bartender. “I’m just having a conversation with the new guy here, Mattie. No harm in that is there?” he asked Giles suggesting Giles’ answer for him with a forceful slap on his back.

“Not at all,” Giles said. He couldn’t help but smile at the similarities he saw in this boy. Back in the day, he’d have picked a fight with a stranger just for fun as well. It was a way to get out aggression, a way to take the edge off. Hell, mostly it was just a way to pass the time. And of course, challenging others was a great way to shift the focus from himself to others. The distraction had managed to delay the inevitable introspection Giles was forced to do, for a few years anyway. But eventually, he could hide no longer. And admittedly, Giles was glad it had finally come to a head when it did. Actually, he would have preferred it to be sooner, fewer casualties would have been nice.

Giles couldn’t deny that he thoroughly enjoyed parts of his old self, and even over the years found himself longing for that youthful lack of responsibility. Perhaps denial of responsibility was more accurate. But, he also had to admit that growing and changing as he had over the past 15 years was well worth it. Giles felt more at peace. Well, at least moreso than he had felt at this boy’s age. Using some of that growth, Giles tried to temper the boy’s hostility before it intensified. “How about another beer?” Giles asked the bartender. “And one for Peter?” he asked, glancing at the boy.

The kid’s eyes showed confusion. Again, not the reaction he’d expected. Giles suppressed his smile this time, not wanting to push his luck. But he had to admit, with age came the knowledge that doing the unexpected was useful in leveling the playing field, or, at least throwing one’s opponent off. The kid took the bait; his face softening with a smirk. “Eh, why not.”

He grabbed a stool and sat next to Giles. He took the two pints from the bartender and slid one towards Peter. “Cheers,” he said, not looking at the kid, but lifting his glass toward him. The kid mimicked him and took a large gulp.

“So,” Peter said, setting the glass down harder than necessary, which earned him a roll of the eyes from Mattie. “What’s your business here?”

“Straight to the point, eh?” Giles noticed his own accent taking a quick dive to accommodate his surroundings.

“Why waste time with pleasantries?”

“Used to live ‘round here,” Giles said, intentionally vague.

“Really? Must have been a helluva long time ago, ‘cause I never seen your face before.”

“And you know everyone who’s ever stepped foot within a hundred miles a here, I s’pose?” Giles asked.

“Yep. It’s my turf. My business to know.”

“Well, I hate to admit it, but I probably lived here about the time you were just learning to crawl,” Giles said.

“No way! You’re that old?”

Giles laughed fully; he liked the kid already. “Yep, sadly enough, I am that old.”

The kid chuckled, seemingly pleased that Giles didn’t take offense at every little thing. “So, where’d you used to live?”

“Family had a house out on the south side of Brestler’s Hill,” Giles said.

“What? The Giles’ Farm?”

“You heard of it?” Giles was a bit shocked, not so much that the kid knew of the farm, but the name. His parents had died so long ago, and he couldn’t bring himself to sell it. So he paid the taxes and had an old family friend handle the upkeep, but no one had lived there for over 25 years. It really was a waste of a beautiful piece of property, to go unused for so long.

“Yeah. Some crazy ole’ man owned it. Supposedly thought he was a magician or something.”

“Sorcerer, actually,” Giles corrected.

“No way, tha’ story’s true?”

“Depends on which story you’re referring to,” Giles stared at the bottles along the shelves in front of him, glancing at Mattie who was now off to his right. Mattie gave Giles a smirk, signaling he knew a bit more about the Giles’ history than this boy, but not much. He also seemed to convey that it was Giles’ story, not his own, so he was not going to presume to know the whole picture, lest it came from Giles. And he was not pushing. Giles immediately knew that Mattie had to be the son of Ole’ Matthew, who owned it back when Giles frequented the bar. Same sense of honor. Giles immediately warmed to Mattie, and was beginning to feel like he was finding a little bit of a niche again.

Giles was startled from his thoughts by the kid. “Hey, you deaf? I said, the sorcerer—that you? You really go all mad and kill your whole family with magic?”

“God no,” Giles said.

“Whew,” the kid exhaled, relaxing his shoulders as he took another sip of beer.

“That was my father,” Giles said calmly. Peter practically choked on his beer.

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