Giles: The Beginning
Small things: a postcard, a phone call. One received, one not. Small things, but still capable of derailing a life.
The Slayer was dead, long live the Slayer. A new Chosen One had been found, and had to be equipped to face a difficult and uncertain future - but with an experienced fighter at her side to even the odds. A Watcher.
And that was supposed to be him. It was what he'd trained, studied and sacrificed for, all these years. It was his calling, his burden, his duty. His right.
The phone call should have been from Quentin Travers, confirming that Giles had been assigned to the new Slayer. Confirming his cover story, plus his travel and new living arrangements. In a small, understated way, it was a call of congratulations.
It never came.
Instead, what Giles received that day was a postcard. A glossy, gloriously vivid photograph of a beach, with impossibly warm blue sky and honey-coloured sand. On the front it said 'Sunnydale, CA.' The word Sunnydale had been crossed through, and over it was written 'Boca del Infierno' in spiky, angular handwriting. A postcard from the edge, Ethan-style.
He slammed the card face down on the table as soon as he recognised the writing. If he'd had half the sense he pretended to, he would have thrown it away right there and then, and never thought of it again. But when it came to Ethan, sense was always too intimidated to hang around for long.
He came back to it fifteen minutes later, angry with himself but unable to resist; the theme tune of his association with Ethan. Flipped it over, took in the four words on the back. Wish you were here.
He laughed, and ripped the card into successively smaller and smaller pieces until he was left with something that looked like a handful of confetti. Then he drank the best part of a bottle of Glenfiddich and passed out on the floor.
In the morning, he booked himself a one-way ticket to Sunnydale.
*
It was surprisingly easy to get a job. The school principal was a mild, amiable sort of man, who talked a lot about sharing and connecting and seemed far more impressed than he should have been by Giles's suit and accent. They shook hands in his office, and Giles went back to his new apartment trying out the word librarian on his lips. It sat easier than Watcher, and that fact took another bottle of whisky to bleach away. So much time, so much waste.
He'd never imagined himself as just another wage slave with a nine to five job. Back in the Ethan days, he'd never imagined himself at this age at all. Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse; wasn't that supposed to be their credo? Maybe one out of three wasn't too bad. Or, to be truthful: half out of three. He hadn't lived much above a crawl for a long time. Too long. What had it all been for? To drink himself to death in this empty, sanitised apartment?
The Slayer was supposed to make it right; be his purpose, his validation. But she was in Cleveland, running rings around Wyndam-Pryce's son, by all accounts. Flimsy accounts, admittedly; no-one in the Council liked to talk to him any more. To walk away was a form of self-excommunication. He was unclean.
He still didn't understand why, at the last minute, he'd been passed over. Probably he never would, now. He told himself he didn't care, and one day he thought he might even believe it.
*
Wish you were here. A lie? Almost certainly.
Boca del Infierno? God's honest truth.
*
He'd read about the Master. Studied him, as all the dutiful little drones did. It had been assumed that he was long gone, perhaps even a myth.
One more thing the Council had been wrong about.
He wanted to leave - tried to leave - but years of conditioning ran deep. He couldn't walk away.
Sunnydale held evil; real, physical, tangible evil. The kind that he now realised the Council didn't truly understand. The fight wasn't about a bunch of old men sitting around playing war games. It was violent and dangerous and real - it was about blood, not strategy.
And he wasn't sure if he knew how to win it.
*
The adults wouldn't help him; too long sunk in denial, they simply stayed in after dark and held passionate meetings about gang warfare and drugs and the degeneration of youth culture.
The kids, though - the kids understood. The kids helped.
Some of them, anyway. Many were too scared, and that was okay. He did his best to train them in how to stay out of trouble, out of the way.
A few wanted to fight, and he trained them too. Trained them how to use stakes, and crossbows, and holy water. Trained them how to join a battle they should never even have known about, let alone needed to fight.
It was a sad, sorry excuse for an army, but it was all they had.
They weren't Slayers, but they were good kids. Larry was quick on his feet but less so in thought, Nancy was prone to hysteria, Owen was frequently reckless, and Marcie could be vicious, but in a strange way they were his, and he loved them all.
He tried not to have favourites, but. But. There was Xander, and then there was Oz. And if he loved them just that little bit more? Well, he'd never claimed to be perfect.
*
Xander had been his first soldier, recruited not long after Giles had arrived at the school. There had been a fight with another vampire the Council had discounted, thought past her prime: Darla. Giles had retreated, beaten, but not without noticing that he'd been watched. Xander had followed him back to the library and refused to leave.
"You know," he'd said. "These things, you know what they are. You know how to stop them. How to kill them."
Giles had calmed him down, listened to his story - the names Jesse and Willow meant nothing to him then - and tried to send him back home. But Xander would have none of it.
"They killed my friends," he said simply, and Giles's heart cracked just a little. Enough for this thin, haunted boy to get inside.
Loss brought them together and yet loss also kept them apart; Giles wasn't a stupid man, and he knew what it meant when Xander looked at him with those uneasily-familiar young/old eyes. He knew what Xander wanted from him. Knew what he needed. In the midst of so much death, it was the most basic desire of human nature to reach out towards life; towards comfort, warmth, another's body. He also knew that he couln't provide that comfort, that it couldn't be his bed that Xander sought solace in. No matter how bright the lights, how wide open he kept his eyes, Giles knew that if he fucked this boy, it would be Ethan's name that he called out.
It always was.
*
But then two became three, and Daniel Osbourne changed everything. Brought them help; more soldiers for the army. Xander could make the others believe they ought to fight, but only Oz could make them believe they could win.
Oz. Sunlight to Xander's shadow, serenity made flesh. A boy so beautiful it made the breach in Giles's heart ache.
If things were different - but no. He couldn't play that game. Too dangerous, too painful. He didn't dare. The best he could do was hope they might find each other.
*
Oz: The Now
Oz stands in the middle of the graveyard and tilts his head towards the sun. He likes it here, in the daytime; the cool silence is soothing to nerves that get stretched out like overplayed guitar strings.
He likes a lot of things about Sunnydale in the daytime. Likes the way the sun brings people onto the streets who are too scared to be there otherwise. Likes the way it makes them smile. With the sunlight stroking its cares away, this little town seems almost alive.
Still, no-one comes to the graveyards, not even at noon. Most of these graves don't have bodies in them anymore, and he thinks at some level even the most deeply denial-struck citizens know that. There's little left in this place that's worthy of grief.
He leans back, enjoying the feel of the earth under his body. It feels warm, solid. Real. Just like the arms that slowly circle his waist, the chest that his head rests on.
"Hey, you," he says.
"Hey yourself," says Xander. Warm breath tickles at Oz's ear. He smiles, and shifts down so that his head is lying in Xander's lap. Hands stroke his hair and time slows down, cushioning him like a warm, padded blanket.
"So where are we going to go?" he asks.
Xander's hands trail lightly down over the sides of Oz's neck, then begin to undo his shirt buttons. "What about England? We could go see what Giles raves about so much."
"Okay," says Oz, helping with the bottom part of the shirt that Xander can't reach. "Giles-land it is. We can go to Stonehenge. That'd be cool."
"Huh," says Xander, pulling the shirt off and rolling Oz off his lap and onto the grass. He shimmies down himself until they're facing each other, and traces the outline of Oz's lips with his fingers. "Bunch of big stones, where's the thrill?"
Oz pulls one of those questing fingers into his mouth and sucks gently. Xander lets out a tiny noise and moves closer, bumping his hips against Oz. "You want a thrill?" Oz says, and rubs the heel of his hand over the hardness of Xander's erection.
"Yeah," Xander says, his eyes closed. "Oh yeah."
Oz unzips Xander's jeans and frees his cock, eliciting another soft moan. He pumps it hard and fast a couple of times, rubbing his thumb in small circles over the slippery head. The moan is much louder this time, and sounds like Oz's name. He smiles, then swiftly moves to his knees, straddling Xander and taking that beautiful cock as fully into his mouth has he can.
"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Oz, yeah."
He swirls his tongue as he moves up and down, and Xander's hips buck helplessly. Oz moves with him, matching his increasingly erratic rhythm. He fumbles his own cock out of his pants with one hand while stroking Xander's balls with the other, and pumps into his own fist as Xander comes, screaming.
He pulls his head back to watch Xander come down from the peak, and the sight is enough to send him over the edge himself, spilling warm liquid over his hand and onto the grass.
He flops backwards, his head resting back on Xander's lap, feeling the sated twitches of Xander's cock against his cheek.
"Okay," says Xander eventually. "You sold me on the thrill."
"So we're going to Stonehenge."
"We're going anywhere you want to."
The sun is warm on Oz's face, and he closes his eyes against its brightness. Maybe one day, they really will.
For the moment, though, he'll take this. He's learned not to demand much of this life - if he asks no questions, it will tell him no lies. No past, no future, just this - the sun, and the touch of Xander's body. This time is his, it's good, and it's now.
He just wishes he wasn't so scared that it was running out.
*
Xander: The End
If he somehow managed to live through this, Giles was going to kill him.
It was the first thing they learned, the rule that was supposed to burned on their minds: don't go out alone after sunset.
The thing was, he'd thought he had time. He'd only closed his eyes for a second - hadn't meant to fall asleep. And then he'd jerked awake, three hours later, with the skyline a burnt orange - but he still thought he had time. He didn't live that far from Giles's apartment, and he was fast on his feet. He'd thought he could still make it. Could still get to the meeting. Could still see Oz.
So he'd run, and yes, he was fast. But the sun was faster.
And so was Willow.
"This is nice," she called out, laughing. "Isn't it? Isn't this nice, Xander? Just you and me, like the old days. Having fun."
He didn't answer - couldn't have, if he'd wanted to; the air had turned to lead in his lungs.
"What's the matter, Xander? Don't you want to play with me anymore? Come on, don't be mean now. Be nice to Willow."
He ignored her, carried on running - until another figure stepped out from behind one of the burnt-out cars that littered the side of the road, directly in front of him. He tried to dodge, but hands reached out to grab his shoulder and slam him against the wall.
"Yes," said Darla. "Be nice to my baby."
*
He came to in a haze of pain, the back of his head throbbing with a sick, dull ache. He forced his swollen eyes open, and saw Willow and - oh God - the Master looking back at him. Darla reached down and hauled him to his feet, holding his behind his hands behind his back in an immovable grip. As she pulled him upright her tongue flicked out and licked along his jaw. He shuddered, and the realisation began to crystallise in his mind.
Not getting out of this one. Not this time.
"So nice of you to stop by," said the Master, examining a fingernail. "You've really been giving us all sorts of trouble, you and your tiresome little friends. I'm glad we're going to have the chance to chat about it."
Xander closed his eyes. Oz, he thought. Giles.
Help me.
The Master stepped forward and slid Xander's eyelids up with smooth, cool thumbs.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy."
"Fuck you," Xander spat, then sagged in Darla's arms as she kicked his legs out from under him.
The Master held up a hand, and she stilled. "I like this one," he said. "He has spirit. That usually makes them tasty."
He looked Xander up and down. "You love them, don't you?" he said. "Your friends."
Oz. Giles. Oh god, let them be okay.
"Yes."
The Master smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It'll pass."
"Yes," said Darla into his ear. "We think it's time you remembered your old friends."
The Master nodded to Willow, who swayed towards Xander, smiling as her fangs descended.
"Welcome home," she said.
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