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Lies My Watcher Told Me

Title: Lies My Watcher Told Me
Prompt: A Watcher's Council Spy
Rating: R-- possible trigger (sexual violence)
840 words. As Gandalf taught us, when you use magic to look at something, you never know who's looking back. Takes place during "Lies My Parents Told Me." I meant to write lighthearted fun, as my pen has been rusty these past months, but it darkened up on me. Insert legally-meaningless copyright disclaimer here.


It's started.
It's all right. I understand. I'll take care of it— (fade to black)
--“Sleeper,” BtVS7
Oh, bollocks. With all the rubbish people keep sticking in my head, it's a wonder that there's room for my brain.
--“Lies My Parents Told Me,” BtVS7
“Have you got it yet?” In a dripping basement an ocean away from Sunnydale, two men crouched over a silver bowl half full of murky water.

“Not yet. Foggy image. No audio.” The shorter, squatter man rubbed at an ear as he passed his other hand over the bowl.

“Well, hurry up.” The taller man stood and turned away, resuming the pacing he’d been doing since his arrival, an hour before.

“Afraid you’ll miss the trailers and credits, yeah? Here we are.” The impenetrable surface of the water suddenly cleared, revealing the image of a young man and an older woman in a Victorian sitting room. The man’s voice drifted, muffled and echoing, out into the damp air of the basement.
“Shall I call for Dr. Gull?”

Spike was no stranger to restless energy. Once upon a time—before the chip, before the soul, before her-- he would have worked it out on a hunt. He’d cut a worthy-looking lamb from the flock, one with some kick in her. He’d stretch it out for hours, toying with his prey. In the end, he’d have his release in her final spurt of blood and fear. He’d taste the adrenaline and the salty tears, reveling in the flavor as he spent himself in his victim.

The taste of the memory was foul and ashy in his mouth.

Now, alone in the dank, he saw the chains hanging limp from the wall, reminders of his bloody past (and sometimes present). He was left to sort his thoughts, the prospect of sleep laughable. Rupert’s chunk of rock may have left his skull, but the shattering, visceral flashes of memory kept coming. The Chinese slayer, who had welcomed the ugly death he had to offer. Nikki Wood—he’d grinned as he made her son an orphan.

It’s what you were then.

His first glimpse of Buffy, dancing at the Bronze.

Leaving her to Angelus’ tender mercies.

Lying bloody on the concrete as she dove from the tower.

Taking the physical form of her self-loathing every night.

The Bathroom.

Flashes, in full-color high def, threatening to overwhelm him.

How could you use a poor maid so?

“Did you get what you needed?” Giles cradled the phone between his ear and a besweatered shoulder as he poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass. Since the explosion, the remaining odds and ends of the Council were scattered to the winds, but, like cockroaches, a few could still be found if you looked under the right refrigerators.

“The spell worked,” came the gravelly voice on the other end of the line. “Pity to waste it on the vampire. Bloody disturbing, too. Surely you could have done something about it and your Slayer, Ripper?”

“She’s a law unto herself, as you very well know, and the reason this project is needed. At any rate, I expect that problem will solve itself directly.” Giles glanced over at the clock in the kitchen. He’d need to be going shortly if he was to intercept Buffy at the cemetery.

“Getting the spell into your Slayers and the potentials will be a challenge. Especially now they think they know what that stone’s about. We’ll have to come up with a different carrier. Maybe involve the witch?”

“Maybe, but we’ll have to do it delicately. That the spell even works, that’s promising. They think they don’t need us anymore, that we’re irrelevant. To watch their thoughts and memories unobserved—can you imagine a more powerful tool to lead them? To stop them going rogue?”

“He even so much as looks at me funny again, I’ll kill him.”

Spike’s words, and her own warning to Robin Wood, echo in her mind as she creeps toward the kitchen as quietly as she can. She can’t sleep, not with the bile rising in her throat every time she remembers Giles’ face, rationalizing Spike’s demise. Hardly realizing the direction her silent footsteps take her—no reason to wake Dawnie and the baby slayers—she finds herself on the basement landing. Dim moonlight from the window well cuts across the space, all shades of silver and gray. Spike’s shock of peroxide hair almost glows in the twilight where he sits on the edge of his narrow cot. He’s dead still, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. She knows he knows she’s there, but he doesn’t move as she drifts across, closing the space between to sit next to him.

There are no words. No snarky commentary. None of the shields or barriers or raw electricity that has always crackled between them. In the silence, he raises his head, staring into the middle distance. She offers her hand with no expectations and no demands. Their fingers interlace in the dark as the moon sets.



( 7 comments — Leave a comment )
Oct. 6th, 2013 01:41 am (UTC)
That's the end? It feels like part of a longer 'verse or story, what with Giles and the intrigues. I'd love to read more, please!
Oct. 6th, 2013 01:53 am (UTC)
Oooh, that's nicely creepy!
Oct. 6th, 2013 08:47 am (UTC)
Creepy. Nice work.
Oct. 6th, 2013 09:15 am (UTC)
Giles' creepy side is always fascinating. Nicely done.
Oct. 6th, 2013 03:21 pm (UTC)
Ooh, this is great! I love all the possibilities that are there with the last scene. With the Slayer spell and everything like that... Although I can't believe Buffy won't solve it eventually!
Oct. 7th, 2013 07:22 am (UTC)
Saturday October 5th - Sunday October 6th
User lynnylou referenced to your post from Saturday October 5th - Sunday October 6th saying: [...] Spike/Buffy. PG. Lies My Watcher Told Me [...]
Oct. 10th, 2013 02:49 pm (UTC)
Dark and sad and nuanced. Well done!
( 7 comments — Leave a comment )


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