FIC The Futility of Grand Gestures (3/10) (BUFFY)

[blairprovence]

Title:  The Futility of Grand Gestures
Author:  blairprovence
Rating:  PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s):  Buffy, Giles
Warnings:  Season 3, Serious Angst
Disclaimer:  All things Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al.
Summary:   Buffy would do absolutely anything for the people she loves.  That's a good thing, right?
Author Notes:   Completed at long last for my scheduled day on summer_of_giles  2008.  Apologies to my flist for the mass posting.  Set after the events of Graduation, Part 1.

Part 1
Previous Part

She had awakened in the dark, but she didn't need her eyes to identify her visitor – she would have recognized his voice anywhere. She blinked rapidly in the gloom, her night vision adjusting to make out the solid form of her former Watcher seated in the chair next to her bed. A feeble stream of light from somewhere down the hallway dimly lit her hospital room through the partly open door, and she could see a bit of reflection from his glasses. "Giles?" she whispered hesitantly, not daring to believe it.

 

"Hello, Buffy," he replied, in the quiet British tones she'd always found so comforting.

 

"Giles!" she cried, launching herself from the bed into his arms, hugging him tightly.  "Oh, God, Giles!  Wesley said you were dead – he said you died at graduation but I didn't want to believe it and I told him that you would have gotten away but he wouldn't believe me, he said it wasn't possible but – Oh, I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad you're alive!"  She knew she was babbling, but she couldn't stop herself.  "I'm so glad to see you!"

 

"Are you?" he asked.

 

She pulled back a little, confused, as she realized he wasn't hugging her back.  Well, he'd never been what one would call demonstrative.  "Of course I am," she said, blinking up at him, but in the darkness she couldn't make out his expression.  "I'm so sorry, Giles. I'm sorry I let you down -- but you have to believe me, I never ever meant for you to get hurt. I care about you so much."  She managed a tremulous smile. "I l-love you so much."

 

"You've an odd way of showing your affection, I must say," he replied diffidently, and Buffy's confusion deepened.

 

"Giles?"  She sat back on the bed.  "Are-are you mad at me?"  She berated herself silently for the tremor in her voice – he had every right to be angry with her, and she should take it like a grownup.

 

"Now why ever would I be mad at you?" he answered.  His tone was dryly sarcastic and just a little bit snide – like the way he'd always talked to Wesley when Wesley proposed one of his stupider plans.  But Giles had never used that tone when talking to her – Xander, maybe, when he was being an idiot, but never her.

 

"I know I messed up," she whispered, chilled by the sudden memory of the vengeful Giles from her nightmare.  Had she stumbled too badly this time?  Was she now beyond forgiveness?  Another dreadful thought occurred to her – maybe Giles agreed with the Council's decision.  "Do you...do you hate me now?"

 

"Not at all," he replied promptly, and he sounded as though he meant it.  "I suppose I should thank you, really, though the words come a bit hard. After all, without you I wouldn't be here."

 

"I-" Her mind whirled in confusion.  "I don't understand."

 

Giles shifted in his chair, leaning forward slightly.  "Well, now, you wouldn't, would you?  Intelligence was never really your strong suit – leaving the thinking to others better suited for it.  A bit selfish, really, but there you are."

 

Buffy's eyes filled with tears.  He hated her now – it was obvious, and though she told herself she deserved every harsh word he uttered, a part of her still reeled in disbelief.  Giles was never cruel, even to those who truly warranted it – he’d even helped Angel in spite of everything the vampire had done to him.  But then, probably not even Angel had ever hurt him as much as she had.  She shrank back against the pillows, as though mere distance could lessen the strength of his verbal blows.  "I'm sorry," she whispered, sniffling miserably.

 

"Of course you are," he told her.  "Aren't you always?"

 

She swiped at her tear-streaked cheeks.  "Why are you doing this?" she wondered in a tiny, hurt voice.  Despite the covering of darkness, she knew he must have been aware that she was crying.

 

"Why?"  He leaned forward further, invading her personal space until his face was mere inches from her own.  His tone was thoughtful.  "Why? Well, I suppose because...hmmm...simply because I can, perhaps?"

 

She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing emerged except a choked gasp – for at that moment the overhead lights in the hallway switched on, and she finally saw what the darkness had hidden from her.  Giles's face.

 

Giles's ruined face.

 

For one, semi-hysterical moment she was reminded of a character in one of Xander's precious vintage comic books – a villain from the Batman series named Harvey "Two-Face" Dent, whose appearance was bisected down the middle of his body – one-half strong handsome man, one-half scarred nightmarish monster.  The left side of Giles's face was ribboned with ropy pinkish-gray and white scar tissue, from his forehead all the way down his neck to beneath the collar of his black shirt.  His left eyelid drooped low over his pupil, giving him an almost sleepy look behind the cracked lens of his glasses, and one eyebrow and half of his hair had been singed away.  He looked terrible – and she could only imagine how horrific his injuries must have been to leave such scars behind.

 

The vanishingly small part of her brain still capable of rational thought wondered how he could have even survived wounds like that – and if he had, how he could be up and about just two days after suffering them.  But the larger part of her mind was completely occupied simply staring at him in shock.

 

Giles smiled – more of a grimace, really, since only half of his mouth moved.  "Admiring your handiwork?"

 

Buffy covered her mouth with her hands, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat.  "Oh, no...Giles," she breathed.  "No..."

 

The grimace widened.  "Oh, yes," he told her, clearly relishing her horror.  "Not a pretty picture, is it?  What remains of a mere mortal when one has been forced to do a Slayer's duty in her place.  Though, actually, I do seem to recall you complaining of chipped fingernails upon occasion. Ah, well, c'est la vie, I suppose."  He paused to eye her pityingly.  "Oh, I apologize; I had forgotten your poor marks in French.  C'est la vie means, 'That's life.'"

 

Tears rolled down her cheeks in gibbous drops as she hiccupped on a sob.

 

He rose from his chair and moved to close the door.  For a moment he was visible only in unscarred profile, and he looked almost like the Rupert Giles she had known for three years, the quiet, compassionate man who had seen her through all the best and worst moments of her life.

 

But he wasn't.  He wasn't that man at all.  Slowly, the truth began to dawn on Buffy, and when he turned back to her and raised his un-singed eyebrow, he saw comprehension blossom on her face.  Smiling slightly, he nodded a confirmation.  "Or perhaps the proper phrasing would be, 'That's un-life!'"  He cocked his head to one side and pretended to consider.  "Doesn't quite have the same ring, does it?  Ah, well..."  He returned to the chair and leaned back casually, regarding her with an expression that was almost friendly.  "I suppose you'd like to know what happened."

 

Numbly, she nodded.

 

"I assume that Wyndham-Price told you about the donnybrook at graduation."  

 

She nodded again.  

 

"Yes, well – as my Slayer had retired from the battlefield in order play the sacrificial lamb for her demon lover-" the sneer that accompanied his words was truly terrible to behold "-and having nothing better to do, I took it upon myself to lead the charge to stop the Ascension.  In short, your Gang of Four armed the graduating class, we stuffed the library to the rafters with ANFO, and I then led the Mayor a merry chase to a fiery demise."  

 

He reached a hand up to ruefully trace his scarred cheek.  "Alas, my four-minute miler days ended long ago, and I hadn't the legs to outrun an explosion.  Quite a painful denouement, I must say.  So there I lay, bleeding to death on the sodding front lawn, when who should find me but one of the Mayor's minions fleeing Angelus' bollocksed pincer movement."  He paused to scowl at the mention of the other vampire.  "Incompetent prat.  Anyway, it was injured, and hungry, and fancied me a bit of a snack – and somehow managed to sire me in the process, quite by bloody accident."  He rolled his eyes.  "Now there's a Turning to impress your mates.  It was so humiliating I simply had to stake him directly upon Rising."

 

"You killed your Sire?" Buffy managed to ask in a trembling voice, for want of a more coherent question.  She couldn't quite believe the words that were issuing from their mouths.  Giles can't be a vampire! He can't!

 

"He hadn't a brain to speak of," NotGiles informed her matter-of-factly, "and I can't say as I fancied being anyone's Child."

 

"Oh," she whispered, stunned by the news.  She remembered how Angel had brooded after killing Darla, and how Spike's attitude toward his Sire had been a strange combination of love and hate – not to mention how skanky-ho batty Drusilla had been over Angel.  She'd battled enough revenge-minded Children to know that there was something almost inviolate about a vampire's relationship with its Sire, at least until enough years had passed for a more gradual emotional separation.  No vampire killed its creator mere minutes after Awakening – it just wasn't done.

 

But this demon had done it, with less consideration than it takes to swat a fly.  And the last tiny part of her that wasn't terrified down to her toes began to tremble.

 

"I'd enough strikes against me, I should think," he went on blithely, seemingly unconcerned by her horror, "being an ex-Watcher, former ally to the Slayer and a magic-user – not to mention sporting the less than fearsome tag of 'Rupert'."  He smiled his gruesome grin again, and Buffy suppressed a shiver.  "I'm going by Ripper now, Slayer.  A much more fitting name for a demon, don't you think?  Do try to remember it."

 

The nickname instantly sent her mind flashing back to the days of the behavior-regressing band candy, and the juvenile delinquent who'd commanded her to "Sod off!" and shagged her mother on top of a police car.  But that Ripper, who had admittedly been obnoxious, rude and more than half-crazy, had still possessed a core of goodness in his heart which had led him to fight Lurconis to save helpless babies.  

 

That Ripper had grown into her Giles, who had made it his mission in life to make her strong and keep her safe, who'd stayed up all night to help her study for her SATs, who'd risked his Citroen and his life in a perilous attempt to teach her to drive.  But as she looked into the eyes of the man – the creature – in front of her, she could see that all of that goodness was gone, snuffed out by a nameless vampire already gone to dust – and by her own selfish, unthinking actions.

 

I did this, Buffy thought bleakly.

 

Ripper tilted his head to the side and regarded her with bemusement.  "You aren't going to continue weeping, are you?  It won't change anything."

 

"I know," she whispered as her tears spilled over anyway.   "I'm sorry."

 

He raised his lone eyebrow.  "You're sorry?  Why in the world would you be saying that to me?  I'm quite happy with how things turned out, on the whole."

 

Buffy sniffed and wiped her cheeks.  "I'm sorry to Giles," she told him, knowing it was nonsensical even as she said the words.  She wanted to break down in a torrent of tears, she wanted to throw up everything she had ever eaten...and more than anything else, she wanted to fling herself into his arms and hear him promise to make everything better.

 

She wondered if this was what it felt like to go insane.

 

Ripper studied her thoughtfully for a moment.  "He appreciates the sentiment," he said finally.

 

She blinked at him, a part of her wondering why she wasn't terribly afraid – after all, there was a vampire sitting not two feet away from her, and she didn't yet have the strength to fight him off.  But another part of her simply saw her Giles and felt no fear at all.

 

And what would it matter if he killed her, anyway?

 

"Wh-what?"

 

"Your 'Giles'..."  He made a face as he said the name.  "He appreciates your apology – though he, of course, being the puling puppy that he is, feels that you don't honestly owe him one.   Perhaps I should accept it on his behalf, hmm?"

 

Her brow furrowed.  "What are you talking about?"

 

Ripper leaned forward again, smirking as she flinched away from his ruined face, but she refused to move back any further, meeting his mocking gaze squarely. He tapped his scarred forehead with his index finger.  "He's still in here," Ripper murmured, eyes sparkling with wicked glee. "Inside this body.  His soul didn't depart the way it was meant to."  He reached out to trail the finger down the smooth curve of her cheek.  "You see, this is not the first time your Giles has shared this body with a demon – it’s simply a tad less voluntary this time.  He's still here, still Watching...still trying to save his precious Slayer."

 

She shivered at his cool touch.  "I don't believe you," she told him shakily.

 

"It hardly matters," he whispered, lightly fingering her neck.  "The soul of your Giles has no more control over this body than you seemed to have over your raging hormones.  But, just for your edification – your Watcher knew what was happening to him as my pathetic Sire drank his blood, and he fought it with all the power he possessed."  Ripper grinned his gruesome grin again, enjoying how Buffy paled at the thought of Giles's last moments.   "It's rather amusing, really, to find I now have the definitive answer to an age-old question, a longtime point of debate among the sniveling tweed-clad horde.  Most dismissed it as just a rumor, even faced with Angelus – oh, pardon me," he sneered, "I mean Angel – and argued that there was no possibility of a soul and a demon co-existing...disregarding the question of what happens when someone is Turned who understands the mechanics of the process."  

 

He curved his hand around the back of her neck, kneading the nape with dexterous fingers.  "There were stories, you see, about what happened to other Watchers who became foolishly attached to their Slayers, who were Turned trying to protect them. One of our profession is hardly likely to die abed of old age, now, after all."

 

"Giles never said anything about that..." she protested weakly, distracted by the feel of his skin against hers. Her flesh prickled icily in response to his touch.  Giles had rarely ever touched her, outside the course of training, but when he had, it had always been with infinite care and gentleness.  And it wasn't as though she was unaccustomed to the feel of cold hands upon her skin.  But Giles had always felt warm before, a living breathing man with a heartbeat and a pulse – and so to feel those clever fingers and know that no life pulsed beneath them...

 

"No," she whispered brokenly. "Please..."

 

She felt the collar of her hospital gown loosen and sag forward, and she realized that he'd undone the knot that held the garment closed.  His smooth palm circled her neck and came to rest against the hollow of her throat, where she could feel the throbbing of her own pulse against his cool hand.  "What is it you want, little girl?" he asked, his tone mocking. 

 

Buffy gazed at him with brimming eyes.  "I want Giles back," she replied, then squeezed her eyes shut.  She couldn't bear to look at the ruined face any longer, couldn't bear to wonder any more what the creature in front of her wanted from her.  "What do you want?"

 

He leaned even closer, until his cold non-breath whispered against her ear.  "I want to know...he wants to know..."  His lips brushed against her earlobe.  "Was it worth it, Slayer?  Was your demon lover worth all of this?"

 

She choked on a sob and brought her hands up to hide her face. "Oh, God..."

 

He chuckled, using his free hand to pull her wrists away.  "No God here, Slayer," he answered as his fingers tightened around her throat. He pushed her back against the pillows; she allowed it without protest. "No reply?" he asked. "I'm afraid that's not an option, Slayer. We require an answer to our question."

 

After a moment she opened her eyes and regarded him miserably. He smiled again, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand to withdraw a small object. "So tell us, Slayer...the death of friends, the death of families...the death of your Watcher...was it worth gaining a few additional days of un-life for your pet demon?"

 

Her eyes widened in horror as she beheld the small silver object in his hand. She would have recognized it anywhere — a Claddagh ring, the counterpart to the one Angel had given her on her seventeenth birthday. She'd never seen him take it off — even as Angelus, he'd worn it faithfully.

 

A few additional days...  

 

Buffy swallowed convulsively. "You k-killed him?"

 

His snide grin didn't waver. "Oh, my dear Slayer," he replied, tossing the ring onto her pillow. "He died years ago.  You know that."

 

She began to cry in earnest and attempted to pull away from him to curl into a ball, but he wouldn't let her – and after a moment she simply gave up.  Her grief robbed her of all strength, and so she lay in front of him, defenseless, her body racked by shuddering sobs.  He shifted from the chair to the bed, looming over her like a monster from a dream.

 

Ripper's fingers traced her delicate collarbones underneath the loose material of the gown.  "Your lover didn't suffer...much," he told her conversationally.  "He seemed almost grateful, really – I suppose he had been feeling guilty for draining you and wished to pay some penance."  The sneer returned.  "To be honest, I found him quite pathetic.  But I suppose I shouldn't have expected him to face me like a demon."   

 

His hand swept lower to press against her breastbone, stilling her convulsive whimpering.  "Not like your Giles, that one — your Watcher at least had *that* to recommend him."  He leaned forward again, bringing his cool, unscarred cheek to rest against hers.  "He never told you what Angelus did to him, did he?"  The murmured inquiry wasn't really a question.  "Why is that, do you think?  Did he not want to say, or did you simply not wish to hear it?"

 

"Don't," Buffy told him brokenly. She stifled a crazy impulse to turn and bury her face into his chest. He smelled – bizarrely – just like Giles: like tweed and tea and book dust.  Only the coppery scent of blood underneath was different.

 

"Still hiding," he whispered, his lips trailing down her neck to her collarbone.  "Still running away.  Will you never face the consequences of your actions?"  He kissed her shoulder, light as feathers, and pulled the gown down to bare her upper arms.

 

"I c-can't," she sobbed, turning her head away and squeezing her eyes shut again. This can't be happening...this can't be happening... Giles – her Giles - couldn't really be gone. This creature couldn't be all that was left of the man she had known.  Maybe if she closed her eyes...if she couldn't see, then maybe she could pretend... "Oh, Giles..."

 

"He's dead," Ripper whispered, nuzzling her, drawing the gown down to her waist.  Everywhere he touched her she was chilled to her very bones. "And there's nothing you can do to bring him back."  He kissed the slope of her right breast as he shifted one leg over hers until he was straddling her body.

 

She reached out automatically, thinking to shove him away – but instead her hands circled his neck of their own volition, the fingers of her right hand tracing his scars. Nothing I can do... she thought. Was this damaged shell all that was left of him? Or was Giles's soul really inside, watching her...watching them? Was there nothing she could do to bring him back to her?

 

"Willow," Buffy breathed.

 

He chuckled against her breast and raised his gaze to meet hers.  "I was wondering when you'd think of that."  He crawled forward on his elbows until he lay almost fully atop her, like a cold, heavy blanket. Their faces were mere inches apart, but his scars were soon invisible to Buffy, caught as she was by his magnetic eyes.

 

They were Giles's eyes.

 

"You think to gift me with my soul, to bind me to your side for all eternity."  His lips grazed hers as he spoke, his tongue darting out for a light, fleeting touch.

 

"Please," she breathed, without knowing for what she pleaded.  Her hands tightened around his neck, trapping him flush against her, the rough material that covered his chest scraping her bare breasts.  Her body felt numb with cold.

 

His mouth touched hers, briefly – a whisper of a kiss, more of a promise – or a threat – than a reality.

 

"Selfish," Ripper murmured, chuckling again.  "You'll never change, will you?"

 

"I will," she swore vehemently.  "I'll do better, I promise. I'll do so much better.  Just-"

 

His kiss stopped her words – a real kiss this time, his lips and tongue bizarrely cool against the heat of her mouth.  She closed her eyes and opened herself to it, ruthlessly silencing the part of her brain that told her she was acting completely crazy, that she was allowing the touch of a vampire who'd just admitted killing Angel, the demon who'd taken Giles away.  She let the kiss go on until her need for oxygen became acute, then broke it off, gasping. "Giles-"

 

"I've a present for you," Ripper said, nuzzling her neck.  Oddly, she didn't fear at all that he would bite her.  "Check my pocket."

 

Obediently she reached for his jacket pocket, and he chuckled again.  "Not that pocket.  The trouser pocket."

 

He levered himself up on his elbows as she groped down between them, laughing as her questing fingers found evidence that left no doubt as to how their close contact was affecting him.  She flushed, mortified, but persevered until her hand found something rectangular and plastic.

 

Slowly she brought the object up between them, squinting at it in the dim light.  "What...?"

 

He kissed her earlobe, his tongue darting out to trace the pineal curve.  "I haven't the slightest idea what it is," he murmured softly.  "She seemed to value it, however – held onto it with all her strength as the life drained out of her."

 

Buffy froze in shocked horror.

 

It was a Pez dispenser.  A witch Pez dispenser – one that looked just like the toy she'd seen clutched in Willow's hand less than six hours ago.  A gift from Oz that Willow carried with her always.

 

"Oh, no..." she breathed.  "Oh nononononooooo..."

 

"'Fraid so," Ripper chuckled.  "Couldn't have her mucking about with souls and curses, after all.  I quite like the way I am now."  He rested on his elbows and grinned down at her.  "Don't you?"

 

Using all the strength sudden fury afforded her she pushed him upward, drawing her right leg up to knee him in the groin.  He doubled over with a satisfying grunt and rolled off of the bed, landing hard on the scuffed linoleum.  "You bastard," she hissed through a waterfall of fresh tears.  "You bastard, you killed her!"

 

Ripper stumbled to his feet, the smugness of his grin marred a bit by the fact that he was obviously in some pain – and by the sudden appearance of a pair of gleaming fangs.  "Of course I did," he returned blithely.  "I'm a vampire, after all."  He straightened his jacket, dusted himself off, and continued speaking in a conversational tone.  "She was quite savory – tasted of magic, and sunlight, and lust not long sated."  He paused to offer a 'tsk' of mock reproof.  "Sex with a werewolf--a very risky proposition.  Wouldn't have thought the little witch had it in her, actually.  But I'm sure you'll be interested to know that it is true that wolves are very protective of their mates."  His forehead smoothed and his fangs retracted as he nodded companionably.  "Very protective..."

 

"Oz?" Her fingers clutched the PezWitch convulsively.

 

"He'd been a part of the ritual before, you see," Ripper explained in a helpful tone.  "And Cordelia as well, of course, but she spared me the trouble of killing her by dying during the Ascension.  Counting your Giles, that's everyone in Sunnydale who might have possibly been capable of performing the soul-restoration ceremony.  You yourself never bothered with the book work, remember?  Always running off with your demon or dancing at the Bronze or watching the telly or some such rot."

 

Buffy licked her dry lips, stunned into near immobility by his words.  "You k-killed them just so we wouldn't give you your soul back?"

 

"That's right."  He braced his palms on the bed and leaned forward, a scant two feet from her.  "You see, he knew you so well--and so I know you, too.  I know just how selfish you are, little girl.  I know that it wouldn't matter to you that life as a vampire would be the last thing Rupert Giles would want – or that the gypsy curse to restore his soul would deny him happiness for the rest of his unnatural life – or that his loyalty to you would tie him to an existence he utterly loathed for all your remaining years."  He shifted toward her, until his face was mere inches from her own.  "Because you want your Watcher back, and that's all that matters, correct?  Buffy wants what she wants and to hell with the rest of the world...just like three days ago, when you decided you wanted your demon."

 

She swallowed past the large lump in her throat and did not – could not – reply.

 

And still he kept after her, relentless, his words cutting deeply.  "Your Giles screamed inside me as I drained the life from them, you know – loudest for the little witch, but he was fond of the werewolf, too.  He even managed a token protest for the vampire, though if he were an honest soul he'd have to admit he hates Angelus nearly as much as I do."

 

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, incapable of listening anymore.  Ripper reached up and pulled her hands away, his vampire-enhanced muscle more than a match for her depleted strength.  "Hiding again?  Are you going to run away, little girl?  Once more leaving your mess for others to clean up?"

 

She just stared at him, utterly stricken.

 

He leaned forward to kiss her slack lips.  She offered no response.  "I'm afraid I must leave you now," he whispered against her cheek.  "Places to go, people to kill..."  He reached out and trailed one cold finger down her chest, from her collarbone to her navel. She shivered convulsively.  "I'll be seeing you soon, Slayer."  One final kiss, then he rose and turned away.

 

Ripper paused in the doorway for a last look at Buffy.  She sat frozen in the middle of the bed, clutching Willow's toy to her bare chest, her eyes huge and dark with horror and pain, her expression blank with shock.

 

"Have I gone crazy?" she wondered numbly, her voice a hoarse whisper in the silence.

 

"Not yet."  He grinned at her – and it was, bizarrely, the familiar, charming, roguish Giles-grin she'd seen all too seldom in their years together.  "Not just yet."  He offered her a mock salute.  "But you will.  Very, very soon now."

 

In another moment he was gone.

Part 4