Title: Ripper (Part 2)
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 G/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 laughed as beer sprayed from the kid’s mouth. Mattie burst out into a fit of giggles as well. The kid was torn between being scared and decking Giles. “What the hell?” The kid demanded. When Giles didn’t look at him, the kid turned to the bartender, “Is he putting me on?”

Mattie just shrugged, “Not my story to tell.” Giles shot the bartender an appreciative smile, then chuckled as Mattie tossed the bar rag at the kid. “Wipe up the bar while you’re at it, will ya?” Giles tried to hide his giggle in another sip of beer as he watched Mattie head to the other end of the bar to wait on two new customers who had come in mid-spray.

Peter huffed and shot Giles a glare as he grabbed the towel off the bar. He wiped his face roughly, started to wipe up the mess in front of him, and then seemed to think better of it and stopped half-way through. He tossed the rag down, “Bugger it.” Giles chuckled and picked up the rag to finish wiping up the mess. “Well?” the kid pressed.

Giles took his time wiping up the beer and placed the rag down gently before he spoke. And even then it wasn’t a real response. “Care for another?”

The kid looked down at his beer. It was practically empty, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, since half of it was now soaking up in the bar rag. He glanced back at Giles, “You messin’ with me?”

Giles continued to study his own empty beer. As his smile faded, he answered, “No. I’m not messing with ya.”

The boy seemed to think for a moment, then relaxed back onto the barstool. “OK, I’ll take another. Now spill.”

Giles had a desperate urge to tease the boy further at his choice of words in light of his recent mishap, but thought better of it. Besides, part of him seemed to want to tell this story. And as he sat here now, he couldn’t remember ever having told it before. Not that people didn’t likely have their own ideas about what had happened, but that was all second-hand. After all, being the sole survivor, Giles was the only eyewitness; and he never told a soul, not even Ethan. Now, returning to the scene of the crimes was bringing it all to the surface again, and the bloody truth was demanding release. He really would have to think through his escape plans a bit better next time. Maybe the Caribbean. Not memories there.

* * *

It had been over 30 years since it’d happened, since the whole of the Giles’ line had come to rest on the broad shoulders of a 16-year-old Rupert Giles. When his father lost his mind and killed them all. All but him. He’d cursed his father for years for sparing him. That had been the worst, and in some sick twisted way, Giles knew that was exactly what his father had in mind. Sadistic bastard.

Giles could see the kitchen of their modest farm house as it had been back then. Down to the basket of fresh rolls that his mother had just set down on the table, the sweet smells escaping through the weave of the cloth laid on top to keep in the warmth. As always, the kitchen was tidy and filled with life—from the fresh cut flowers his mom always supplied from her garden to the sounds of her voice filling the room. She loved to sing while she cooked. She was always humming something or other, and it seemed to make the food she cooked that much more delicious.

Giles could even hear the annoying sounds of his younger sister and brother. God, how he had hated their endless chatter and whining back then. God, what he’d give to hear it now. There had been a significant gap between his younger siblings and him. It made for much tension among the children, but, he had to admit, he loved them dearly. Despite his annoyance, eye rolling, complaints about invasion of privacy, he looked out for them. And despite his often-short temper in his quest for his own space, he would have given anything for them, including his life. But, his father knew that, and so he specifically denied him that right. Bastard.

* * *

Giles looked up, realizing he had drifted off again. Peter rapped his knuckles in a not-so-subtle attempt to signal his impatience. Giles chuckled. “Yes, well. If you’re sure you want to hear it.”

“Sure? Hell, I’m biting my nails here. OK, not really, but you’re a bit more interesting than the ole’ blokes that normally stumble in here.” Peter nodded to the two men at the end of the bar that had entered earlier. Giles must have missed them in the midst of his conversation. Eyeing them now, he noticed their attire, immediately switching into watcher mode. His change in demeanor was not lost on Peter. The lad took another sip, and as he put his beer down, he turned so that his back was completely facing the two men. He lowered his voice, “You know them?” Giles didn’t answer. “They look even more out of place here than you do.”

Giles smirked. This kid was not stupid. He suddenly didn’t want to leave the kid hanging. If he was to empower anyone with knowledge about his past, he suddenly felt that this was the right recipient. Or at least, someone who could handle it. “You know, these old bones aren’t what they used to be. Mind if we grab a booth? My back could use the support, I think.”

Peter chuckled and nodded, getting the message. He played along fine, perhaps embellishing a bit much for Giles’ taste. “Sure, ole’ man. You just carry yourself over there, and I’ll grab the beers. Wouldn’t want ya trippin’ over your cane on the way.”

Giles chuckled and shook his head as he got Mattie’s attention, threw some cash down on the bar, and signaled they’d be over in the corner. As he headed toward the booth, he shot a quick glance at the men. They had been eyeing him, and quickly turned their attention back to their beers, the minute he turned their way. God, the kid was smoother than these prats, he chuckled to himself. The Council’d do better to hire locals to do their reconnaissance for them. Of course, then the secrets would be harder to keep. Giles hurried up his step with a chuckle, as the kid yelled from the booth, “Need a hand grandpa?”

Giles hung his coat up on the hook and settled into the booth. He leaned back flat against the wood, until his back cracked. He gave out a sigh, and took a moment to glance at the ceiling. A smile crept across his face, as he spied the numerous little dings and slits covering the wooden planks in the ceiling. He wondered how many of them were from his old pocket knife. Or Ethan’s, for that matter. He wondered if Ole’ Matthew purposefully ignored them, leaving the marks there as a reminder. It did add to the atmosphere, and Giles had to admit that seeing evidence of his presence here, despite the difference in time, made him feel just a bit more at home.

“So, do you know those two?” the kid asked, still keeping his voice down despite the distance.

“No,” Giles said, mimicking the kid’s volume. “But let’s just say I don’t like suits.” He took another sip of his beer and shot the two a quick glance over the edge of his glass.

The kid chuckled. “Me either. They’re Council, you know.”

Giles coughed, “What do you know about the Council?”

“Bunch of suits that act like they own everything.”

Giles settled back down. Obviously, this kid had no clue of the real purpose behind the Council, and Giles wasn’t about to share. He owed the Council no allegiance, and he had no desire to invite trouble on this boy.

“How’d you know they were Council?” the kid asked.

“Who else would think they’re fittin’ in with locals, by covering up their hundred-Pound suits with hundred-Pound over coats?” They shared a hearty laugh at that and then washed it down with a healthy chug of their beers.

“So, on to this story of yours?”

“Hm? Oh yes,” Giles said relaxing back into the booth. “All right then.” He took one more sip of beer for strength and began. The catharsis was not immediate, but then he found this lad’s age required a fair bit of background and filler in order to bring him up to speed. Well, that was one excuse. It was just another attempt to delay the inevitable. And, if Giles was being completely honest with himself, he’d have to admit that some part of him knew the pain of the story’s climax would be that much more intense, if preceded by a taste of happier times. Giles had never really gotten over his taste for inflicting pain, it’s just now the target was usually himself, not others. One would think he’d grown up Catholic. Actually, outside of the courtesy baptisms for the elders’ sakes, his family served no god, save magic.

“I’ll have to take you back a bit farther than just that day. There was a time when our lives were fairly normal—‘our’ being my mum, brother, sister and me. I was about 16 years old then, just a bit younger than your self,” Giles said.

“I’m 18.” Peter insisted, a bit louder than necessary, obviously for Mattie’s sake. The only acknowledgment was a loud guffaw from the bar.

“Yes, of course,” Giles chuckled. “Anyway, you called it the Giles’ farm, but it wasn’t really a farm, just a modest farm house with a nice piece of property. Not developed in any enterprising way. My mother couldn’t stand the thought of using animals for profit. We had a slew of ‘em though, but it was strictly for our own supply and often they were animals my mum saved from certain death.” Giles smiled fondly at his mother’s determination to save every beast she came across.

Giles took a sip of beer and noticed the kid rolling his eyes. He giggled and then continued. “Yes, the point. Well, at the time I was not attending school. Well, not as regularly as I should have been, anyway. And, my dad was beginning to lose patience with me. He was overworked and the stress was really getting to him. I learned later that the stress went beyond just the hours he had been putting in, but I never really understood the true nature of his job back then.”

“Which was?” the kid prodded, picking up on and none to thrilled about Giles’ love for vagueness.

“Let’s just say, he wore a suit,” Giles said, glancing toward the two men.

The kid got the message, then cast Giles a wary glance, “Whoa hang on. You one of ‘em?”

“Hell no,” Giles said, truly offended. That seemed enough to convince Peter, and he settled back into his chair, allowing Giles to continue his story. Giles felt a tinge of guilt wondering if his response could be classified as a lie. He decided his answer was truthful, at least in so much as his allegiance was never truly with the suits. In fact, he really wasn’t one of them anymore, not since . . . the fall. Giles’ hand tightened on his beer and he clenched his jaw, trying to fight back that blasted image that had haunted him every night since the battle.

“Hey. You all right?” Peter asked, noticing the change in Giles’ demeanor. “I really didn’t mean to offend you.”

Giles looked up, and found the boy’s sincerity calming. “None taken. Just don’t care much for ‘em.” He took one more sip and then continued his story. “Anyway, my dad had always been an odd one. Too smart for his own good, people’d say. They tended to treat him as an outcast, until he joined up with the Council that is. Then they feared him.”

“What’d he do at the . . . Council?” the kid asked, purposely lowering his voice at the last word.

“Well,” Giles paused trying to figure out how to phrase it. “He was a teacher of sorts.”

“And that made people afraid of him?” the kid asked in disbelief. “I have to say, I am not fond of my teachers, but it’s more the boredom they inflict than any fear. I’m not afraid of no one.”

Giles smiled. Yep, a few inches taller, a bit more chiseled features, and he could be talking to himself at 18 years old. Giles continued, “You’ve heard of the saying, ‘Knowledge is power,’ right?” The kid nodded. “Well that power can be intimidating, especially depending on what the knowledge is behind the power,” Giles resorted once again to vagueness and took a sip of beer. He wanted to keep going, but he had to be careful just what he shared.

“What knowledge? You mean magic?”

Giles noticed the kid was beginning to neglect his beer as he leaned in, hanging on Giles’ every word. He wondered if the kid had been this interested in anything this much before. He recognized the spark in his eyes; Giles too had been eager for knowledge back then, it just wasn’t cool to publicize it. Made for a fair bit of beatings at school. So, he had fed that hunger anywhere he could, outside of schools, that is. It’s amazing what you could learn hanging out in pubs and talking with people on the streets. A lot of stories, and not all were tall tales, either.

Giles continued, “Yeah, some magic of sorts. You don’t dabble, do you?” He knew the answer already; he hadn’t sensed any hint of magic on this boy. This kid was as clean as they come. If they’d been discussing pot, he’d have bet this boy had never even been near anyone lighting up. But they weren’t discussing pot, as Giles could well tell from the familiar aroma that clung to the lad’s jacket. Funny how those who smoke it, have no idea how obvious it is to those who don’t. Now that he hadn’t touched the stuff in years, he had fallen into the camp of those who don’t, and his nose was fairly keen. He also found himself itching for nice, long drag.

The kid startled Giles from his silent memory trip with his answer. “No, and I don’t really buy into all that magic crap.”

“Yes, well many people don’t,” Giles said. “I didn’t myself at first. Not until . . . well, not until I experienced it first hand.” A chill slowly made its way through Giles’ spine at the memory of his first taste of magic. He turned his glass in circles, in the beer as it swirled around and up the sides.

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