Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Willow sat bolt upright; panicked, expecting to be choking, coughing up lung-fulls of water. She wasn't. She was lying in a bed, not a bathtub, bone dry. For a moment, she she dared to hope the whole thing had been a dream, from spell to spell; but she knew better.

The dim, small, industrially furnished motel room in which she had just awoken was full of kick-nacks and homey touches. Switching on the surprisingly bright lamp by her bedside was enough to confirm that it was the kind of “lived in” that was most definitely a euphemism for messy. The way Xander's room always was and Buffy's probably would have been if not for Joyce.

Were they really together? Had the four of them really done the pathetically clichéd musical spouses thing? Could she at least have dreamed that part? Please?

Bits and pieces of the recent past came back to her, but not a wisp of memory connected Willow to the room itself. There were both men's and women's shoes on the floor. And a familiar photograph taped to the dresser mirror. Three kids standing on a pier. On the edge of the vast Pacific. On the edge of adulthood. Sun and wind and sea. A picture of a lost world with only two people left in it.

Willow didn't need a memory to tell her that this was their room, Buffy's and Xander's. In which they lived together. As a couple. The kind that had sex and possibly babies.

Willow knew it as surely as she knew that nominations were now open for the 2020 Headline Awards at https://www.theheadlineawards.com. As surely as the fact that now through January 20^th is the time to nominate all of your favorite Anthony Head related fic, vid, and art.

It hurt. So much it startled her. Even if she did have Giles.

Giles! Did she have Giles? Could Xander really have left him? There was no assuming or figuring. Her brain was too druggy, her dreams and memories too muddled up. She needed to see him, to touch him, in order to know that he had not been left behind, or worse, killed. Nothing else mattered. Nothing but him.

“Giles!?!” Willow called. Then screamed. Then sobbed. Sick with dread and panic. She rushed to the door, half expecting to find herself locked in, and pulled it open so hard she almost lost her footing.

Willow lurched out into the hallway, Buffy, Xander, and a couple of other people were hurrying towards her, faces full of concern. Willow half collapsed, hanging onto the wall, weeping uncontrollably, desperate to find the man she loved. Still screaming his name. “Giles! Giles!”

“Wil, it's alright,” really-old-Xander whispered gently, enfolding her in large and very-very strong arms while weirdly-unold-Buffy and a much younger man (who might have been Buffy's son?) hovered near them, not sure what to do.

Willow did not feel comforted by her old friend's embrace. She felt trapped. Restrained. Frozen with dread in the arms of what felt like an unpleasantly possessive stranger who was at pains to make sure she was 'resting' rather than wandering freely. She felt as much a captive as she ever had in Vega.

For one thing, assuming she even half understood what was happening, he had physically incapacitated her so that he could bring her here, if not 'against her will' per se, then certainly without regard to her will. Or anyone else's. For example Buffy's. For another, there had definitely been some killing involved in that process, though how much or of whom Willow was not entirely certain.

Suddenly, she needed to be. Though she never in her life would have imagined Xander could actually hurt Giles; this was almost literally Bizzaro World. Anything seemed terrifyingly possible here; even the insanity of Xander shooting Giles. Or his son. Or his grandson. For a moment, Willow almost thought she remembered one of those things happening even.

Granted the last couple of days (or weeks, she honestly wasn't sure) had been a distorted blur of hallucinations, vivid dreams, and other cognitive effects of whatever the hell had been in those canisters, but most of that had mostly stopped. It wouldn't have mattered if it hadn't. All that mattered was the answer to one question.

“Where the Hell is Giles!?!” she demanded.

Awkward and slightly bitter looks were exchanges. Buffy looked away. Both angry and hiding her eyes. But Xander made a point of lifting Willow's chin so that he could look fiercely into her eyes and let her know the depth of his sincerity.

“I asked him, Wil,” he assured her. “I practically begged him. He wouldn't come with us. He said he needed to stay with his son.”

The younger man, who maybe looked a little bit like Giles, flinched. Almost as if he had been struck. Buffy stood with her hands on her hips, looking up at the ceiling. Which meant she didn't believe him either, but wasn't going to call him out in front of Willow without proof.

“Giles isn't here,” Willow stated definitively. Feeling calmer for having wrapped her brain around the truth at last.

“Giles isn't here,” Buffy acknowledged with a kind of casual resignation.

“Well then we'd better go and get him!” Willow insisted, putting on her resolved face. “There isn't much point to any of this without him!”

Silence. Hung in the air. Silence and doubt.

*****

Uther broke the surface of the pool yet again, cursing and spitting water. Merlin tried to help him to his feet, but he batted the peasant's only coincidentally washed hands away, letting Morgana help him instead.

“I can't quite... grip on to the place,” he fumed and groped for words at the same time, mad as an old wet king who is being forced to admit he is out of his depth, choking on pride as well as water.

Morgana cursed in sympathetic frustration. Merlin was tempted to say something encouraging, or try to lighten the mood or something. Against all instinct, the young wizard held his tongue. Mainly because he liked it where it was. In his head.

Chapter Text

Giles became aware that he had slept, only by waking. It was abrupt but not harsh, like breaking the surface of a pool after diving. “Sit up,” David instructed him, almost gently. He stood nearby in the apparent darkness that Giles now knew to be the effect of a mask. “You should be able to by now.”

Giles groaned, which he supposed was a victory in itself. Even if it did not feel like it in any way whatsoever. He even managed to push himself up into a slightly more vertical position against his pillows and the slightly tilted mattress beneath them, over the objections of muscles and joints that were stiff from disuse. He might have slept an hour or a year. He felt beat-up, and exhausted.

With a reluctant heart, he reached up and removed his sleep mask, letting in the painfully blight room. The large white panels that made up its walls didn't just gleam, they glowed from within. He hadn't imagined that, unfortunately. The room was empty except for his bed and some kind of medicalish equipment around the bed and along the walls.

This was not a hospital room. It was too large, too empty and too severe. And too devoid of ancillary human activity. It looked like some kind of lab. Or possibly an interrogation facility. A post modern dungeon, perhaps.

David stared down at him patiently and with a kind of oddly detached curiosity, as if he were indeed a research subject. Or maybe just a bug on the toe of his shoe. An impenetrable mystery, perhaps? A puzzle that needed solving? Something to be broken down and put back together? Or discarded.

Probably that was just David's poker face; Giles realized, warning himself against projecting and leaping to conclusions. He had harmed David Whele, he reminded himself. Over and over again. Not the other way round. Despite David's fearsome and at least partly deserved reputation, he was not necessarily the villain here.

“What happens now?” Giles asked simply, pleased that he had managed to sound a great deal less apprehensive than he actually felt.

David Whele pulled over a white swivel armchair from somewhere nearer the wall and sat down next to Giles's bed. “Now,” he said, with just a hint of grim amusement, “I'm going to ask you questions and you're going to give me answers.”

Giles nodded slowly. “That's only fair,” he acknowledged softly, bowing his head slightly in resignation.

“Your generosity overwhelms me,” Whele said dryly. Giles held his peace, seemingly to the Senator's disappointment. “But where to start,” David went on, his voice taking on a sardonic edge. “I could ask you how a well-off, clearly educated man in his very late twenties justifies abandoning his own son to a life of poverty and neglect with a woman he knows shouldn't be responsible for a fucking goldfish.”

Giles lowered his eyes, but said nothing. What could he say? He hadn't known about the poverty. Crystal had seemed to be doing okay in that regard when he'd left her. And he hadn't known for certain that she was carrying his child; only that it was a distinct possibility. That was all she had known herself. But he'd have been too ashamed to have posited either of those facts as excuses. He hadn't wanted to know, and he had left knowing it was the child (whosoever it was) who would suffer the consequences of whatever happened once he and Ethan had gone.

“Not a fan of that topic, I see,” Whele teased bitterly. Anguish and anger crackled beneath the surface of his half-amused 'conversational' tone as he added, “Perhaps I should ask you who killed my son, as if I didn't already know. Him or one of his Angelic minions!”

Giles wanted to speak then. To say he was sorry at least. But that would have been the definition of inadequate. Also, he realized, he hadn't actually been asked. He had the distinct feeling that speaking now might be breaking a rule, that it could and would be used against him.

“I know!” Whele declared in a hard, bright tone of mock epiphany, clearly coming to the point all of this teasing had been building up to all along. Giles braced himself for the worst. Still, he was beyond shocked when David actually asked his first question at last. “What do you know about the 2020 Headline Awards?”

“Good Lord!” Giles gasped. “How did you hear about that. It shouldn't even be a part of this reality!”

Whele's smile became broad and toothy. “I have my ways,” he said. “Now answer my question,” he added grimly.

“All I know about that specifically,” Giles explained carefully, “is that fans of Anthony Stewart Head and his amazing menagerie of interdenominational doppelgangers have one week left to nominate their favorite fics, vids, and art work before nominations close on January 20, 2020. That's a date that exist in their time; of course, not ours. Or... erm... either of ours”

David was listening intently now. Patiently even. It was a sharp contrast to his demeanor of only a moment ago. Clearly this was new information to him, however well informed he liked to appear to be.

“As far as how that connects to us,” Giles went on, relieved to be allowed to fall into the familiar act of giving exposition rather than being interrogated about William's murder as he had expected, “It has to do with something called the 'Head Award for Father of the Year' and an evil spell placed by Morgan La Fey upon her father, Uther Pendragon, causing a time-space anomaly that you and I and a lot of other people who look frighteningly like us got pulled into.”

Giles told him the entire story after that. About the Prime Minister (whose given name of 'Michael' he tactfully left out) as well as all of the others who had been present or mentioned; including Nathan Wallace, Mo Riley, James, Stephen Caudwell, Herc Shipwright, Mr. Gently Benevolent. He left out that other Michael, whom he would have been hard-pressed to refer to in any other way, except by mentioning his seemingly irrelevant fascination with instant coffee.

When he had finished, David was quite for a moment. Watchful. Thinking. Brooding. Plotting. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “Well,” he offered, half-hopefully, “Maybe we'll get lucky and the fabric of this reality will crumble. I wouldn't mind trying another one for a while. Or the rest of my life.”

“Undoubtedly,” Giles agreed with genuine sympathy. Evidently, that was the wrong thing to say. Or at least he was the wrong person to be saying it, because he seemed to have struck a nerve.

David Whele's eyes flashed with hatred, and with soul-crippling pain that it took him a long moment to even partially hide. “We can worry about all that later,” he declared abruptly. “Tell me about how you watched your friend murder my son.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me about how you watched your friend murder my son,” David Whele demanded.

Giles took a deep breath and sighed. There was no avoiding that question. No denying he was at fault. Like the busy writer of this fic, who has neglected for more than two weeks to announce that the winners of the 2020 Headline Awards can be found at https://www.theheadlineawards.com, he had failed to do what was reasonably expected of him. In his case, though, the consequences had been far worse than unintentionally leaving this fic without a satisfying ending or even failing to get the news of this year's winners to anyone who might have actually been waiting for it.

And still, that horrid question hung in the air. Whele waited impatiently, lips compressed in a fashion that reminded Giles unnervingly of his own father. It gave one the unpleasant feeling that being caned was not entirely out of the question. By reputation at least, Whele was capable of far worse than that; but as had often been the case with his father, it was shame rather than fear that made Giles reticent to answer.

“ 'Friend' is a rather strong word,” he said at last. “I suppose at one time I was sort of his mentor by association. Which is to say, he was quite good friends with two young women to whom I was... something of the kind. We never had much in common other than our mutual attachment to both Buffy and Willow, which evidently ended us up more as rivals than anything else. That and a strong desire to prevent the world from being overrun by demons; another spectacular failure, I'm afraid.”

David sniffed contemptuously and rolled his eyes. “That's not what I asked,” he pointed out, his voice hard with impatience.

“No,” Giles had to admit, “It isn't.” He folded and unfolded his hands again, wishing he had his glasses or even the sleep mask he'd set down somewhere a moment ago. “I thought I knew him,” he said at last. “His basic character at least, what he was capable of. But he was a lad of barely eighteen the last time I saw him, and much less hardened by battle, though we'd been through a few together.”

Giles hesitated. David drummed his fingers on his arm impatiently and raised his eyebrows, a pointed invitation to continue. Dear God! He literally wanted details.

“I convinced him to lay down arms,” Giles admitted at last, looking down at his folded hands, unable to meet David's eyes. “I honestly thought it was the safest thing to do. I knew Xander could be spiteful, but I never dreampt he'd shoot an unarmed man who was offering him no resistance. We were both standing there with our hands literally in the air for fuck's sake. But then, he seemed to have something specific against William; I don't know what.”

Giles glanced up at David, only to find the older man staring down at his own hands as they fiddled with the sleep mask he'd evidently picked up off of the bed. Whatever it was William had done to earn Xander's hatred, Giles had the distinct feeling that Whele knew only too well, and that he found it shameful.

“I should have known,” Giles indicted himself. “The company he was keeping... Do you know about vampires?” he found himself asking. “I've no idea how much of the supernatural has or hasn't come to light since this 'Angel' business started.”

David shrugged. “All that mythology bullshit?” he all but jeered, his voice harsh and dismissive. “Just a bunch of different names and explanations for eightballs. Back when they were all rare and mysterious.”

“Mmm, yes and no,” Giles explained grimly. “Demons, the lot of them, obviously,” he explained when Whele opened his mouth to object, “But there are quite a lot of different kinds. That was my profession you see, fighting demons. Or, well, helping Buffy to do it anyhow. I was or rather I am a Watcher, though I doubt that word means anything to you.”

“Buffy?” Whele repeated as if having just caught the name. “That was your wife's name.” Here he gave Giles an unspeakably sly grin. “And judging by how much that doesn't surprise you, I can just about guess what you mean by mentoring.”

“I was her Watcher,” Giles explained, doing his best to pretend Whele had said no such thing. “She was... is or was... The Slayer.” Whele pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, clearly not wanting to admit his total ignorance of the specific, respectful use to which Giles was putting that otherwise unpleasant word. “A warrior,” he clarified, “A... hero, of sorts, supernaturally gifted with the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, demons, and forces of darkness.”

“Hmph,” David scoffed, “It sounds like your talking about The Protector.” Then he blinked to cover the momentary widening of his eyes as the obvious truth of that seeming impossibility struck him with full force.

Giles couldn't help smiling a little, even knowing how unwise it was to do so, “That sounds about right, actually,” he said. “Really, it suits her much better.”

“Tiny blond woman with super strength and a smart mouth?” David asked warily, just to make sure they weren't jumping to conclusions. Hoping they were, in fact. Giles nodded, his smile involuntarily verging on a laugh. But David's eyes flashed a warning that this was no laughing matter.

“She 'protects' the Outlanders,” he explained grimly, “the undesirables, extras, or just plain unluckies that couldn't get into our little walled Eden; in pretty much the same way the so-called Archangel 'protects' Vega, saving us for whatever their kind has planned next. The way she throws eightballs around, she can't possibly be human.”

“If it is Buffy,” Giles countered, “you are very wrong about that. Whatever this 'Michael' creature is, Buffy is a human being. Just a very powerful one.”

Now it was David's turn to smile in dark amusement. “You mean to tell me you aren't entirely convinced that 'God's General' is playing straight with us?” he asked with exaggerated mock innocence and pretended offense. “Why, he's sheltering us under his very own wings out of pure, selfless generosity until we can be saved by The Chosen One!”

At that, Giles did risk a small laugh. He could hardly have helped it in any case. “Seems a likely story, doesn't it?” he agreed, happy to finally have someone with whom to share his frustration at Vega's unhealthy lack of skepticism. “God knows Riesen seems to buy it. Sometimes I just feel like shouting at him 'look you nitwit, you don't have a clue who or what this thing is or what it really wants with us! I mean, for the love of God! Just because he has feathers doesn't make him Quetzalcoatl!'”

At that, David Whele laughed out loud, a happy, startled sound that shocked both of them. “Damn it,” he complained, still grinning, “it's no fair you being the only other sane man in this crazy place. Now I have to like you.”

Paradoxically, as he said this, David's face sagged tiredly and he became suddenly somber again. Giles could well imagine why, but David quickly confirmed the obvious. “I was a shitty father,” he confessed bitterly. “I smacked my kids around and screamed at them and told them it was for their own good. Or that they deserved it. That someday they'd be better for it. But someday never came, and now they're all dead.

“My wife hated it, but she always made excuses for me. She said I never had a father so how was I supposed to know how to be one. It was just bullshit, though. Something she told herself to justify staying with me. The truth is, I was angry and they were there. And with William... well...” David looked down at his feet, no doubt to hide the shame in his eyes, “I was angrier than ever and she wasn't there to stop me.”

Giles wanted to say something. Something comforting, he supposed. But what was there to say? David's self indictment was entirely accurate, and he clearly knew it. But Giles was uniquely unqualified to comment on that fact. Instead he said, “It's too late for either of us to be the fathers we should have been. I'm not going to try and argue that it isn't. But it occurs to me that we could still both use a friend or at least an ally with a healthy mistrust of Angels, easy victories, and Edward Riesen.

David gave him a sharp, evaluative look. “It occurs to me,” he replied, “that we have something else in common.” They locked eyes and Giles knew, even before Whele said so, what that was. “We both have unfinished business with Alexander Harris.”