Faith went down yesterday.
I kinda hope she died.
It's mean. It's callous. It's--
Well, see, if Faith's dead, it means she's not undead, right? And I don't have to worry about her coming in the middle of the night and ripping all my friends apart limb from limb. Because she'd do it, too.
And she'd start with my cock. I know she would. Payment for not being good enough in bed, or something, and I'd be left with no, no--
Hell.
Yeah, I hope the bitch is dead. Just like I hope that Angel ends up dead, for real, and I hope that I don't wind up dead, and I hope that Buffy tosses that soldier-boy who doesn't get it, and who she doesn't really love - why on EARTH would he tell me that?-- and I hope that we can find ourselves a little peace and quiet.
And just when I hope for it, of course, I end up sitting in Giles' cramped apartment, getting more and more frustrated with research that takes half the time it used to, and twice the patience.
Why didn't we dump these guys ages ago, again?
Oh, I'm sorry. Forgive me for worrying about having convicted felons living with someone who is supposed to be protecting Buffy Summers. It just kind of worries me, alright?
Faith was a lousy fuck, anyway. So there.
Yeah, I'm getting petty.
"So, is she dead-dead, or just missing, man?"
"You mean, have we seen the body?"
"Yeah."
Did I EVER imagine saying 'have we seen the body' to a man who's supposed to be in prison, in a wheelchair, rotting behind bars?
"Far as I know. Neck looked snapped. We had to get out of there pretty fast." I take a breath, add. "Cute skirt."
It's a little irreverent. But it's habit. It makes Hill crack a smile, anyway. He replies, "Get a glimpse?"
I raise my eyebrows. "Oh, I got more than a glimpse. I got an eyeful."
I don't add, 'Of dead girl'.
I don't add, 'I fucked her. So did Riley.'
I don't add, 'It scared me.'
I do add, "She's got a really nice rack."
He grins, almost leering, but I know this guy, know he's nothing but a sham. The leer isn't real. He's nothing, a no one. In prison, he just wheeled around and survived.
He says, after a moment, "What happened? I mean... how did you find her?"
"Buffy saw a gang of vampires leaving this building down in the good old bad part of town. Saw one of the apartments had its front windows smashed, checked it out. She was on the floor. Lots of blood. The vamps saw us. We--"
He nods, knowing the score. I still feel kind of guilty, that maybe we could have pulled her out, but we almost didn't get out alive ourselves. Only because there were four of us - and Said makes four, I think without humor - did we get back to the car. There just weren't enough of us to take on that many vamps at once. Not yet, anyway. And there couldn't have been anyone left alive inside from the looks of it, so...
He sees my face, knows what it means, and puts a hand on my shoulder for a brief minute. I close my eyes, and then take a breath. "It's okay. I'm okay."
He nods, not asking for anything else. We go back to the books, looking for what Giles needs. I'm only half seeing the words in Latin - I know Ipso Facto, and I Claudius, and demonus, and this phrase that Giles needs to find. I don't even know what it means. Something about curses.
Maybe he wants to try and tame the beasts.
"Bob, hand me that, would you?"
I start skimming through the index of Book Number Four. At least this one is from this century, and the writer has some semblance of intellect; the index is alphabetical, and it's there. Half of these volumes don't even have cover pages; open the book, and there's your first page of text in whatever dead language. I can't speak it, Hill can't speak it. The only people that use any of it are Giles, or the dead themselves.
Bob comes into the room, carrying a pot of tea for Giles. We're expecting him back any minute now, and he likes his tea. It's considerate of Rebadow, to think of him and how cold it is outside. What a nice guy--
I can't believe how easily we've adapted to this system of checks and balances and prison bars. Bob's got a pot of tea, therefore, he's safe. Like, I laugh as much as before. I sometimes forget that these people have done things that were wrong, totally wrong.
Faith's still dead. I'm still alive.
We've all killed things. Some of them just - deserved it.
Rebadow hands me the book I couldn't quite reach, and I sit down to flip through yet another Demon Manual. Ten thousand different kinds of demon, you'd think that they have a "My First Demon Book", or a better classification system. They have categories up the wazoo for normal creatures.
Let's say, all the green ones are Green Demons. All the blue ones are Blue Demons. All the yellow ones with horns, who spit acid - side note: that's REALLY gross - can be some weird ancient name that relates to all the other ancient names. Giles has too much time on his hands, he knows like eight languages that aren't spoken by anyone who's less than a thousand years old...
I roll my eyes, and snort. There probably is a classification system, already, I just don't know what the hell it is. Maybe we should just take a class on demon-classification and biology. I'm sure an A would help everyone around here.
Why, again, am I waiting for this meeting to start? I have a job to get up for in the morning. I have a girlfriend to go home to, sort of. She's got a nice, big, four poster bed. But no. I'm sitting here with the next prophet of God, and motor-mouth on wheels.
Yeah, the saying that you have to be crazy to live in California holds, here.
Faith's still dead. As far as I know.
~
We're still at the books at around one in the afternoon, when some guy burst in, after picking the lock on the front door. And man, when I sat up, Hill grabbed my arm hard.
"O'Reily, man. Whatcha want?"
Hill knows this guy, it's obvious, but he's not willing to explain. His grip doesn't change, so I sit back down, eye the new guy. Lots of tattoos, nasty gleam in his eye. Of course, he doesn't give me a second glance. I'm not important enough for anyone to think I'm dangerous.
The guy's looking on Giles' bookcase, and I start to get a little alarmed. Hill's hand is still keeping me down, and he looks nervous, but not too worried. I kinda trust him, so I sit down, and stare at the guy - Hill called him O'Reily. He's running his hands along the bookcase in the living room, muttering under his breath. I wonder what he's looking for.
Apparently, it's not there. We sit in tense silence, while Hill tries to strike up a conversation with O'Reily. "So, man. Who you working with lately?"
He turns around, and winks. "No one, Hill. I got nothing brewing."
"Right, man."
"Anyway--" he moves to the last bookcase, "-- what are you doing with these guys, anyway, Hill? I thought you were a badass, or out of it, at least."
Hill starts to look a little more nervous. "You know me. I go where the path of least resistance takes me. And I don't even got a birth certificate here. Can't work."
"So you ain't a fighter?"
"Man, look at me! I'm in a fucking chair. What good am I?"
O'Reily turns to the two of us, still sitting at the table. He's got a nasty glare. "Okay, then. You won't mind if I keep looking around, then."
He strides over to the staircase, and goes upstairs. I look at Hill, and he's staring off into space, as if he doesn't want to admit to whatever is going on. I decide to take matters into my own hands, and say, "We can't just let him go up there."
Rebadow, on the couch, really isn't as weak as he looks. Between the two of us, we can carry Hill's chair up the stairs when we have to. And by the urgent hand signals Bob's giving me, I assume that's what he means. So we carry Hill, who's sweating more and more, up the stairs.
We find the weird, yet attractive, Irish guy in Giles' room, riffling through his dresser. Hill speaks for all of us when he says, "What the fuck are you doing here, O'Reily? Seriously?"
He keeps going, nonchalant as hell, as if he belonged in Giles' bedroom. I think I can take this guy down, so I take a swing.
Things go black. I only know what happens next from Hill's telling of it.
~
"Hey! O'Reily, what the fuck is going on?" I stare at the kid, stretched out on the floor, and back at O'Reily. "Come on, man!"
O'Reily hunkers down, sifting through the bottom drawer of the dresser. He answers, "Well, see, I got a job from a guy. And so, I'm doing it. Gonna stop me, Hill?"
That's the O'Reily threat at work. And not on anyone's life am I gonna stop him from doing what he plans. Not for the English prude. "Naw, man, whatever. If it's business."
He grins. "How hospitable." He turns to under the bed, actually sticks his head under, muttering, "It's gotta be here somewhere..."
"What are you looking for?"
"Some magic shit that someone wants me to steal."
Aha. Okay. Theft. I can handle that. Giles has tons of magic shit - it's not worth taking this up with O'Reily. In a strange way, it's good to see him... it means that everyone didn't necessarily die on impact with the real world.
The comet fell, but we scurried under the dirt and come up for air when it's safe to see each other. We're still who we always were. And he just came in the front door, straight from the sunshine, no knock or anything, so I know he's not undead. Probably. I say, for conversation, "So. You seen anyone else, O'Reily?"
"Yeah, sorta. You know." There's something dark, there, and he cuts himself off. He pulls a book out from the bookcase by Giles' bed, in triumph. After putting it in the pocket of his hoodie, he sticks his whole arm under the bed, on Giles' side. He pulls out a crossbow, raises an eyebrow, puts it back. He then lifts the mattress, finds a sword; the pillow, a stake.
The dude is armed to the teeth just to sleep.
I suddenly don't feel safe where I'm bunking.
O'Reily's holding out a piece of paper he apparently found with the stake. "What the fuck is this?" He unfolds it, scans it, then shakes his head and leaves the room, tossing it on my lap.
The front door closes with a hollow bang. I scan the paper, put it down suddenly.
I've forgotten all about O'Reily. On the floor, the kid groans.
Rebadow has been sitting in the corner not saying a word. It's a familiar position for him to be in. He now asks me, "What's going on, Hill?"
"Here, Bob. Just... here." I hand him the piece of paper - Giles' last will and testament. With an unbelievable sigh, I try and take in the gentle, calm, collected guy that's letting us stay with him, and compare it to that cramped writing style, telling the world where he wants his possessions to go after he's dead.
I just - I can't see the two connecting.
I add, "He updates it every other fucking WEEK."
I turn away from the room, sit in the doorway to wait for my trip back downstairs. Giles will be home soon; I want to be back at work, nothing wrong, when he gets here. This is something that he doesn't want us to know. Rebadow, I know, is putting the will back in its place of rest. He stands behind me, ready to leave.
Xander sits up, and looks at me. "You let him hit me!"
"I - yeah. Look, I'm sorry. You don't wanna mess with him."
He looks pissed off. "What did he want?"
"... Nothing. Just looking for something he never found."
It's easier, sometimes, to just let things lie.
"Who sent him?"
"Look, I don't know, awright! There are rules, and we're not in prison anymore, but I have to follow them, okay, or it's my ass."
"Giles needs to--"
I sigh, and inwardly cringe. That list of possessions, that list of all of Giles' life, it was so short. His books, to the Watcher's Council. The rest, to the sparse few people in his life he loves. I turn to Xander suddenly, and say fiercely, "Don't tell Giles about this, okay? It didn't mean anything, and he doesn't need to be worried."
Bob speaks up quietly, "He's right, Xander; let it go. Giles is a busy man. O'Reily is mostly harmless. His trade doesn't conflict with ours."
I'm grateful to Rebadow, because Xander looks thoughtful, then finally nods. That means that things will stay quiet around here, at least for now. And whatever O'Reily took is a worthy price, for that peace and quiet. And I know that Xander won't say anything, now; it's just something I can tell.
I'm still trying to absorb the shocks of the afternoon. It's been - a weird day.
I send Bob a thankful look, for all the silence he's giving me. I don't think either of us can handle the idea of that stuffy old guy sitting in his room, pen held carefully, updating the details of his death. I say to him, so Xander won't hear, "Every fucking week."
I mutter, "Like he expects to die."
Rebadow answers quietly, "He's a practical man."