"Oh no..."
“Oh no...”
Blessed, blessed by a customers odd or not odd really, more like even, an even steven trade and barter for the Bard. Blessed by a young man and his quest for the first edition copy of the original script of Monty Python and the Holy Grail; blessed, oh yes he was blessed to be in the back of the shop when the young man had asked his asking and Willem had responded his responding which was this:
“Monti Python ik den Holie Grailen (Bok) ???”
The words...the words, the intimate words of inmates in this our cult cul de sac.
The young man had kanip fitted and weak knee gellied himself against the book shelves and so Willem eased him off his feet and into an overstuffed chair in a three piece setting at the back of the shop.
Willem chuckled and chided himself at the same time. Ah..what poor gamemansship...provoking the poor young lad into his first hard on, brought on by the holy chalice, the holy chalice of this thee quest and now the end within sight.
The Lad gasped and Willem leaned down to listen:
“You’ve seen it? You must have seen it--or you wouldn’t know...the words...”
An American. Well, well, well, a journey ‘round the world to end in this odd corner to even things up and Willem could respect that.
His voice soothed, almost crooned.
“'There's something a tad better than seeing, mate--“
What? What? The lad's poor eyes were almost rolling white and shit, Willem would have to check that chair later for any spontanous precious secretions that might have come rushing from the lad's timid body and into the world to hear news of the pearl, the prize.
Willem leaned in and murmured low.
“What you want mate? You want to dream about it? Keep it safe and perfect and forever in your ‘hope’ file? That way it will always be there, won't it? Always be the ready excuse, the ready reason of why you’re unhappy, always the explanation of why things don’t seem right and so your life would keep focus of kind wouldn’t it then? And so your eyes would be always there, always on the prize...always unobtainable. Or. Or....and listen careful lad: do you want the hope or do you want the experience? Do you want to touch it, own it? And so I'm asking you: are you willing to buy? Cuz looking won’t be enough, never enough--I won’t bring it out here, just to have you gaze upon it like long lost Lassie come home through the shire and mud and all only to have you decide the upkeep is too high. So, you willing to pay the price for what you want?”
The young man stared at the lean, hard looking figure towering over him. The intense man wore small glasses, John Lennon frames but that did not diminish the threat nor still the strange vibe he projected. Oh yeah, the lad had heard about this guy--his contact on the internet had warned him...but...but still there was something about him that was compassionate too...that understood intense unreasonable desire. Wasn't there?
“I...don’t have money...I have this...Ratcatcher told me you would trade...that, you know...”
The lad's voice trailed down under the avid scrutiny of piercing brown eyes and so instead of speaking, he held out a briefcase, stopped and then with trembling fingers he rested the case on his lap--worked the combo lock...heard the pop ping of release and then lifted the lid to expose.
The Bard.
The First Folio.
Narcotic to these jolly Englanders.
Willem’s breath caught, and there was a sharp pain in his throat. Not the oldest edition, surely, but certainly early 19th century; a complete bound collection of the works of William Shakespeare lay before him in a large zip lock freezer baggie.
Heaven preserve plastic. (and it will, it will, don’t doubt it!)
He blinked back a tear and regarded the young man with new respect. He asked this:
“Whas’your name?”
“Paa, paateeter. Peter...”
“Hello Peter. And you’re willing to give this up for Monti Python ik den Holie Grailen (Bok) ?”
The poor lad gasped at the name, the holy words being spoken again out loud, in broad day light and with an English accent (no less).
“Yes...” He eeped. “Yes...I...yes...”
Willem stared at him and then smiled, and it was so unexpected and bright it made Peter smile back at the glowing man as if he could warm himself a little under the furnace of his charisma.
“Then we are well met...well met indeed. Help yourself to a cuppa--I’ll be a few moments...”
And then he leaned in to whisper to the American lad.
“It has all the scenes, all the dialogue....uncut...” he purred the word and Peter ‘eeped’ and Willem continued on in his very best Sir Larry:
“I have it safe...in a very safe place...”
Peter nodded and...and he was crying a bit, just a little bit too because his quest, his long, long, well, he was a young guy (long for him) his long eleven year quest and the grail was now, finally, within sight.
Willem patted his shoulder and called back as he walked away--“Tend the store whilst I’m looking eh?”
And then he was in the stacks, he knew where to go, where it was, the stacks of his shop, buried in the stacks in a used bookshop buried in Newcastle upon the Tyne, in a country called the United Kingdom buried, but alive...oh yes he was alive...he reminded himself the way he had to do sometimes, most times ...alive...still...
Still alive...ha bloody ha, dear god, missed again...because I'm still here...still alive...hee, hee, ho, ho, ha, ha...
And then he stopped, just stopped, right there; standing on the ladder and leaning up to the top shelf, the seventh shelf, shelf seven and in his seventh year sans Buffy he stopped, just stopped and stared at his hand. He brought his hand to his face and sniffed his skin, and yes, he could smell everything he was, everything he had eaten for the last week was right there in the flesh, in this book of bones and blood and he remembered yet again: 'this is what it means to be alive.,
This is what it means to be consuming, breathing, and burning every secret.
To be alive.
To be alive was to constantly tell the tale of yourself.
The horror and the honor.
And which was which he could scarcely say, even on his best day. And so becoming human, being human as he was now, made the expereince of getting his soul feel like...like watching a cartoon on the telly; all two dimensional and almost insubstantial in comparison.
Being human with soul and having a reformed demon along for the ride too, was...was this reward or just deserts? Is this the terrible thing that happens after you wish so hard for something and then God turns it all into mockery, into a joke by making it true, literally true. . He had wanted to please her, to save her from death to give her what she deserves and this is where the story brought him. Seven years after closing the hellmouth, seven years after burning the dark of the demon out of his being with that bloody amulet, seven years as a human and he still didn’t know the punch line to this joke called: life.
And of course this phrase came back the way it did as just a reminder, as just a mad dash of salt to tasty up the wound.
She didn’t love me...
She hadn’t loved him.
She hadn’t loved him, that kiss to her first love on their last night had made that perfectly clear.
And that had been a defining moment for him. That had been the real choice, the real work. Seeing her put her arns around that wank, that hulking mass of brick vampire whereas she had barely touched him (Spike) all year (not that he blamed her really, but still) Still, so still he had watched and there, right there, was when he had grown up and become a man. That was it.
No attack, no rage, just walk away and let her be.
Let her have what she wanted.
And so he had walked away from his quest, from his golden girl, his holy chalice and he had respected her choice.
He had thought about leaving town that night, he had to admit he had--but just for a moment because past such an event when there was nothing left but his second love. The dance. There was still this thing he could do better than any being he had ever faced and it was to go out dancing with death and so to quote the poet.
Two paths diverge in the wood...I took the one less traveled by...and it has made all the difference...
So here he was, understated, diminished but made greater too and...(whisper here) alive...
And so all that was left to him after that point of discovery; was service. Like a knight carrying m'Lady's kerchief on his lance; his function in this world was to serve his love...ah...so be it...
He sighed. Maybe he would never get over the insanity. Maybe never.
His strange contemplation over the years over the nature of God, of a god that showed him Buffy’s soul, something so bright it eased the pain in his demon, a god that inspired him to love...but never to...be loved.
And Angel, wank that he was, got it all and without even asking--
--He could go mad thinking on it and suspected he had somewhere in year one plus two...plus there was...well...the other thing, that definitely had something to do with the ‘lost weekend’ effect; that lasted two years. But that was another story. And perhaps this was how God made good little servants when he ran short of heavenly help; he/she/it recruited loose cannons from hell.
By simply revealing to one demon the beauty of one woman.
But you’d think the talent scout would have found somebody a little more...well, willing.
O.K. now this was better, bitter jokes amidst a struggling good humor he could do. And most times these days he was fine...really, he had his books, his stories...he had become an advocate of writers, encouraging them--giving them a place to come and write, to be quiet amidst the words, books made holy by story. He had set up an open mike night that was always filled to overflowing--he was all about encouraging a writer to find his/her voice, and was considering starting a publishing company. He hadn’t found his own voice, not yet, but he was extremely skilled in recognizing it in others.
He had a life...of sorts, he did, and there were places he could go, places to disappear into in his mind when the world fell too hard against his heart and usually he was fine, he was a survivor...it’s just today, well...he had been feeling so...off. It happened sometimes--memories...sadness, images and such and of course there was that soft feeling in the air...
Just there in the air, like how she was--how it felt to be close by...to her.
Probably just the rain. It looks like rain. (“Then let it come down...”)
The phrase unbidden broke through to calm him: The Bard. Macbeth. His own grail come home to sup from. An omen? HA. He chuckled, he laughed at portents...
“Then let it come down...”
He looked at his hand again, attention suddenly caught by the small golden hairs growing on the back of his hand and then let it go back to it’s task of looking, questing and almost there almost about to make some young lad’s dream come true...well, all right then.
Do some good.
His hand was on the book, the bok when he heard the bell jangle to announce a customer or two--he heard several footfall patterns...and something, some instinct made him clutch the book tight and grip the bookcase but never ever would he ever have intuited...her laugh.
Her.
No...
More laughter and murmur of voices.
Her.
No...
“Oh no...”
He couldn’t hear the words, but his world became one vortex sucking spinning and daring him to fall down the ladder.
And all he could think was: God must hate me, God must really, really hate me, and I’ll never be able to pay it back, ever what I did and so here I am as I am working on the side to entertain the angels....lets watch poor Spike...he can’t really work in the world but let’s watch him struggle to get up each day...bloody good telly, no, not good enough, not NEARLY--let’s throw her into the mix and match him up with sudden death. A sudden death match, a final round of kick the Spike--NO! No. Willem now. Ha ha. Gotcha. Spike can’t play. Spike was...dead...
This calmed him down. Considerably. It would be alright...Spike was dead. He was Willem now.
And so he had been blessed by the young American Lad's quest to be in back when the shop bell rang and it was the final come 'round to smack down, but it would be all right. He had been given the gift of these extra minutes to prepare himself, to gather and hold himself and so now, as English as the day was long, he quietly descended the ladder, using small phrases to coax himself down, to ease himself back to calm--it will be alright, she’ll never know me. Spike is dead. She doesn’t know Willem from Adam. Oop. Wince.
Wrong monster of the week. She never knew Spike, not really, not who he was, and how he loved her and so she will never recognize him turned inside out to Willem. Me, he amended.
It’ll be alright.
It will be fine.
He had the foresight for such a terrible day as this and he was prepared, had been prepared, he absently touched his necklace tucked under his white button-down shirt. Felt the pendant at the end of the chain. And relaxed.
He could hear Peter babble now, babbling on, brook all open and falling down with the gush of almost acquisition.
He could hear Buffy make encouraging sounds--oh my god!
Oh God!
He could hear Buffy.
That was her, her voice, just there; over there at the other side of these stacks...in a few moments...moments...he would not just be hearing her...he would be seeing her. He would see her.
He wanted to see her. He acknowledged it; he wanted to see her just as much as he wanted to run and then there was hungry Spike, half starved Spike buried inside him begging, begging to see her.
Just for a bit mate, it won’t hurt, not much...and, and...t’will be closure...of a kind...just to see her, just see her...maybe, maybe she’ll buy something. How 'bout that mate? A capital gain and that'll be a first.
Spike was arguing, planning ahead...
And maybe when you give her the change back, maybe, maybe you could touch her...
Willem leaned against the stacks...ah God help me...please, I know you must loathe me...but have a little pity, God...please help me bear it...
*
Buffy had made herself quite comfy in the easy chair opposite this young man, this strange twitchy young guy that looked like he might be incredibly shy with women but was overcoming it in order to share his good news. Only a little of which she actually understood. Something that sounded German or pig Latin but he was happy and happy people were good. She was here on vacation and needed lots and lots of happy people.
“So where’s the King of the castle? Isn’t he a little worried about leaving his shop wide open?”
Peter waved her fears away--“Oh no...just wait till you meet him--he scares everybody half to death, nobody would dare steal anything from him..." but then he added in a hurry, lest she might dart from the shop, "but he's all right too...see? He has cookies.”
And here Peter pointed empathiclly at the abundance of treats for passerbys and surely, truly, anybody who put out mass quantities of cookies for ready consumption...well...must be alright.
“So...” Peter continued...”You a writer?”
Buffy coughed up a bit of tea and laughed. “No, no no one could say I’m a writer, a scribbler maybe. Maybe...”
“Oh that means you are a writer and you’re just scared--you should show your stuff to...” and here Peter nodded his head back as if he dared not speak 'It's' name.
“He’ll read anybody...and he has an open mike...on Fridays...right here...you should come back!” Peter said it as if it was decided. He was so loud it sounded odd coming from his too thin, too weak body and so she smiled. But it was a smile of pleasure, she was happy he was happy. It was a moment of happiness one feels compelled to share and so she smiled.
“Maybe...maybe I will...” she had no intention of coming back and was only here now because...
Willem entered the room.
Peter jumped up fairly dancing...
Buffy turned to watch the exchange with a half smile on her face. She didn’t want to be noisy, but really...it was fun...joy was fun...
She looked at the man whom she could only assume was the owner of the shop and her half smile froze on her face as her heart did a little double beat; she shook her head and blinked.
No, no, he...how...funny...well not funny because she wasn’t laughing but odd...but no...he looked nothing like him. Not really. Huh. Must be the bloody gene pool. Been in England only a few days and that was what? The third time she thought she saw him or someone who looked like him; bloody English and their diminished gene pool, making everybody look alike. It...wasn’t...kind.
She turned her attention back to her tea, but studied him out of the corner of her eye.
He, the shop owner had dark brown hair, thick and curly and pulled back tight into a pony tail at the nape of his neck. Medium height. Ha. Suddenly she knew that he grew his hair long only so he could pull it back in an attempt to flatten it out. It almost made her smile...it was kinda...vain. So, he was vain about his hair was he? About 5’10’’ Chiseled features, hooded eyes, he was looking down, showing something to Peter, so she couldn’t see the color but they were probably brown. That other part of the English genetic pool. Brown hair, brown eyes and white, white skin...there were similarities but not...him...
She sighed. She looked up to find him handing change to the young man...who was resisting the money...but no, no, the shop owner insisted and pushed the bills into his palm.
She turned away and heard him say something about not wanting to take advantage of Peter and his love for fine literature...and then as a whispered warning, she heard something like:
“Love--you love...and that’s good and you go after what you want and that’s better...but know when to quit, eh? Know when someone takes advantage and don’t do it....just don’t let it happen...”
She couldn’t say why she felt those words were spoken a little louder and a little directed toward her--just that odd feeling you get sometimes. Huh.
Peter fairly danced out of the shop, said goodbye to her and she was afraid for a moment that he was going to hug her goodbye but instead said: “Maybe I’ll see you Friday!”
Buffy nodded and smiled “Who can say? Maybe...”
Peter left with a bell jangle to tell the tale.
“You shouldn’t get his hopes up...”
It was soft but sounded almost like an accusation.
“Huh?’ Buffy stared at the genetic pool wannabe him.
“He’s a just a young bloke, no experience in the world--doesn’t know when a girl is just being ‘nice’--don’t lead him on--believe or not, men have hearts too.”
“This is where I say: double huh?”
The man had the grace to look down and then away, and then mumbled, “Sorry, none of my business...speaking of which...how can I help you the day?”
“You mean besides the unwanted free advice to a strumpy tart such as myself obviously bent on ripping the hearts out of young men and eating them raw or no...maybe something a little more feminine--say dipped in chocolate...beside helping me not to do something like that?”
He smiled. He couldn’t help it. Willem, put his hands to his mouth to hide it but it was already there and begging to be born...it was Buffy, it was Buffy...he loved her, her mind, her saucy way and god she was a stunner--just look at her; the lass took no shite, no prisoners, no nada and finally his smile broke through and he turned away to hide it, but she saw and so stopped her ranting.
Once composed he turned to stand sideways to her, to look sideways at her, as if by staying half concealed he was safe, somehow safer. She was staring at him.
She had stood up somewhere, somehow during the adrenalin rush of comeback Sassy.
She was staring at him, blinking...and now she was leaning up against the chair to support herself.
Willem did not blink, why was she staring at him like that? What? What? No...no...his mind running over the impossible, certainly improbable.
Oh god, she sees me, she knows me, she sees something wrong--
And now Willem checked for the amulet under his shirt--just a small gesture, like he was rubbing his chest, but it was still there, he looked in the mirror with the huge gold gilt frame that hung adjacent to the counter... (and oddly she checked him in the mirror too)--no, it was Willem. Willem not Spike...it’s just...for a second there, he thought she had recognized him; that he had been seen. But no.
He smiled a small smile of sorry, the facial gesture, the universal prelude to verbal apology.
“Ah...sorry...don’t usually mock the customers for at least the first 90 seconds...uh...have a biscuit then?”
“Oh, I get it--rip em to shreds and then feed 'em...”
“Oh no, oh no, ....” (he couldn’t help it--had to play) “...that would make for a very unpleasant display of the workings of the intestinal track and besides, it would be a waste of fine Oreo and what with all the care that’s gone into the stuffing? Almost immoral.”
Buffy tried, really tried not to smile, tried not to warm to the banter, but it would be like holding oneself away from a cozy fire on a chilly day and god knows, when in England take the warmth that comes ones way...
As if in answer to her thought he moved to check on the small fire chugging away softly in the fireplace, just there next to the cozy chairs. He had to walk by her to get to the fireplace and when he did she said.
“Double stuffing, I see you’ve opted for double stuffing...”
He looked back at her his borws pulling together slightly.
"The oreo cookies--double stuffing..."
“Ah, yes...Always, always...double up the stuffing”
Was that a double entrandre? Was this guy now flirting with her?
She stared at him and he went pink. He blushed...well, that was just...sweet...
What an odd man. Odd contradictions. Suddenly she asked:
“Who are you?”
“Shop owner, own the place...” he dodged. And then slunk back to the safety of the counter where he dodged again by asking:
“You didn’t say how I could help you...”
“Well it’s not me...it’s my...friend Giles. Hey Giles! Maybe this guy can help you--claims he owns the place.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...BloodyHell to all fuck...
Facing down a sorcerer.
Willem absently touched his chest again, seemingly to check a button (yes, amulet still there...)
And turned to face.
“Giles.”
The name just slipped out. It was due to the shock of seeing him, him, the old man, (oh he looked so much older, why so aged? Is he unwell?) and the name had just slipped out in surprise before Willem could check it.
Giles looked puzzled “Have we met?”
“I called you...” Buffy supplied.
“Ah yes...well...informal are we? Well, why not? Rupert Giles and you are?”
“Willem, Willem’s fine.”
“Not William?” Buffy’s query sounded a bit sharp.
“Ah no, Willem, touch of the Germanic heritage, on my Mothers side--had to bring the old world with her; you know how some people are, then? Can’t let go.
Buffy nodded but said nothing.
“So? How may I help you?”
It could mean that Willem was a fine noble man with wisdom forged from pain...or it oculd mean that he was a man in the midst of the dark descent into vast desolate sea of bitterness. The pattern of power reminded him of Ethan Rayne on the precispe of choice.
He was reminded of what may happen to a powerful man, hurting from terrible sufferings from childhood coupled with an inability to find love in the world, the inability to reconcile his suffering with the world’s incongruities--remember all that and one might have someone: like Ethan.
Gandhi or Gacey? Which one of these?
Willem reminded Giles of someone--a vague sense of loss and disappointment and he guessed it must be this energetic similarity to Ethan.
Giles felt into his gut for the answer and much to his surprise, internal viscera said: yes.
All this in a ten count. In ten seconds Giles had made up his mind about Willem.
Buffy took longer.
She stood sentry over her Watcher, her old friend; she stood easy on the balls of her feet, easy, seeming at ease, but ready too, to pounce. Willem remembered the stance the look, arms crossed and slightly petulant and somewhere Spike was in heaven, in heaven as she watched him carefully.
Spike might have loved it, ready for battle (sex) but as Willem; he had to admit to being, well...just a bit hurt. It didn't matter that it wasn’t rational. He had provoked her from almost the first moment of being alone together...but still, he was hurt that she didn't trust him.
Ah well.
Willem was leaning in listening to Giles explain what he needed.
Giles had a reference book flat in front of him on the counter and Willem nodded at the picture in the book and then as if for emphasis, Giles brought his attention to it with a finger tap.
Willem decided to play to it cool, dumb and beautiful. (And maybe have some fun.)
Willem took a breath and gave Giles an assessing look and completely ignored Buffy as if ‘the girl’ was of no consequence. (that oughta get her) It did. She re-crossed her arms and almost growled so he would acknowledge her presence. He continued to ignore her, and addressed Giles. Willem chose to speak in carefree low Brit (boys club only).
“Oh aye, mate you don’t want that--you’ll be wanting a ‘come hither like prayer’ Something from the old shamans of North America. A general ‘come on over good luck’, thas' what’s wanted--soften the energy ‘round the situation with good intention, that’s what’s needed; much healthier at any rate--“
“--This is what I want, what I need...” Giles voice was soft but dipped in steel and so cut off the chatter.
Willem froze and Spike stepped up on automatic and said in a deadly even voice.
“I don’t sell whatall to whoever just cuz they say so, do I then?”
Buffy stiffened at the call to battle in his voice, and something else...that other feeling of familiar.
She did know this; there was much more to this guy than what meets the eye. Huh. Scholar with cute little glasses and the all HE warrior underneath and dang, she could fairly smell the big macho cooking and what was up with that?
He was dangerous...possibly deadly...
Inside Slayer said so. She heard the call to battle, knew that, felt that so many times before but she also felt the pulse point reach down to pound deep in her womb...something...something she had only felt once before...
Spike took in Buffy’s accelerated state; he didn’t have to be a vampire to pick up energetic patterns. Just eyes wide open all the time.
Huh. How ugly could this get?
Giles was not oblivious and made a quick decision. He addressed Buffy, “It’s all right,” he said to her and then sighed and looked at Willem and apologized.
“I’m terribly sorry, I’ve been very rude...of course you must be careful to whom you sell items, books, anything that would have this kind of impact on the world...you must take care, of course you must...if anything, that speaks to your intentions...”
“Well, watch me fall down in a girlish giggle with your bundle of flowers...” Willem snorted in reply and Buffy laughed.
She did. She laughed. Well...it was funny.
It was sudden and unexpected and she couldn’t help it.
She laughed and Giles gave her a sharp look and she shrugged and then looked at Willem...and it was done.
They were friends. Just like that.
It was done just like that and no time in between. They liked each other.
Willem’s face twitched and then he smiled at her.
Poor Spike sighed inside and oh god he would love this woman forever and ever and...and better still...he liked her too...even now, even after and ever after....
Whatever easement Giles might have offered stilled with the sudden shift in the mood. How very mercurial of these two people. One moment ready to go for each others throat, the next he would be pouring her a cup of tea.
He was not disappointed.
Willem took in a deep breath and asked: “All right, all right...have a seat then by the fire, let’s talk...cuppa?”
He stepped to the front door, flipped the sign over to ‘closed’, locked the door and shrugged at their looks.
“Almost 4:30, anybody who wants anything special always calls ahead....most times...so...cuppa?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“East India, or...”
“Oh that would be fine...” Giles said.
“Do you have decaffeinated?” Buffy asked
“Oi aye, t’wouldn’t do to have you pumped up on caffeine would it? Though I’d pay to see it.”
“Thousands wouldn’t” Giles quipped and Willem laughed.
It was the first time he had and Buffy liked the sound, and she was strangely pleased at having been the source to make Willem laugh. It didn’t look like he laughed nearly enough.
“Yeah, well...and, and...‘so’s your old man’...” was her weak reply, which just made Willem laugh again.
Huh. Wasn’t that funny.
They settled into the overstuffed chairs warm cups in hand. And waited for someone to begin. It was Willem
“All right. I won’t insult you by pretending I don’t know, and you don't know what you’re on about, just one look at you, tells me you know what you’re about. But what you’re after...well...tha's messing with the matrix, the hologram of the third dimension, that is. You might be thinking you’re just changing the color of...of a flower for god’s sake, but there is the potential for real substantial energy redirecting the world as we know it.”
He took a beat and stared into the fire as he said.
“You’re talking about playing God...”
And here he looked down for a moment and into himself and a flash of deep pain scored his face and then it was gone and it was back to stony mask, and his voice was even and sincere.
“There are always consequences with magic...and what is possible with this, this manipulation of matter...well...I...I would never do that for myself on my worst day, not for myself, my love...or even my own Mother...so, so tell me, convince me, why I should help you...”
Giles liked him. He did. He was honest and direct and sincere in a way that was rare, he deserved the same in an answer. Giles took in a deep breath and asked first.
“Have you anything to spike this with...”
Willem jumped a little and Giles held up his mug of tea in a question mark (?)
Willem smiled and stood went to the book shelf pulled away a book to reveal a bottle of Brandy, placed the book back and Giles saw it was an old copy of: ‘Alice in Wonderland’...he smiled.
As Willem poured Giles asked “First edition?’ And then nodded toward the book shelf.
Willem quoted in reply.
“One two! One Two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.”--
Giles interrupted with the poems reply:
“And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day!--“
And then together they rejoiced with: “Calloh! Callay!”
And then bonding interruptus by yonder blonde with an ‘ahem’ and cup extended.
“Oh, not to mention the lovely blonde alas, or rather Alice...” Willem mused as he poured her a shot.
“Thank god for the suffragette movement--women can vote in this bloody country can’t they?” Buffy sparked.as she thought (he called me 'lovely'...)
“Barely.” Willem said straight-faced as he sat.
They sipped their brew in quiet, in peace, the unmet friend found. This was good.
Bittersweet as it was for Spike/Willem, this would be the moment to remember.
The fire was crackling, the golden glow was looking out, coming out and into the room to find the best, the brightest thing to highlight and it was Buffy, always Buffy...
Willem and Buffy’s eyes met and her heart was greeted by a tremble as it tumbled...he was beautiful, really, the most beautiful eyes...they were almost liquid and flowed across the room to spill into her somehow.
She looked down. Shit. Not now. But it was always ‘never now.’ Timing. Timing, why was it always about timing?
Willem felt a ping as she looked away, like a plug pulled from him and something vital that had flowed from him to her and now maybe lost forever, maybe gone from him, but maybe safe in her. Maybe she would hold his glance in her heart and take that small moment with her when she left. His glance in her. Would that be good? Would that ever be enough?
Ah, God must be crazy to make feelings like this possible but have them go nowhere; to have no home, no welcome for his willing heart. God must be a raving loon and Willem couldn’t wait to have a word with barmy blighter and would have cursed ‘g’ forever and soundly too and wished himself back to the living hell of being a demon if ‘g’ hadn’t also created...her. And anybody who made her and people like Giles couldn’t be all wrong all the time.
Spike sighed; maybe he was the one who was crazy. Well, if he wasn’t he should be.
Giles began the story.
*
Continued
Chapters 2 through 16
