Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ Old Friends ❯ Interlude: The Early Days ( Chapter 7 )

AN: This is technically in honor of Christmas even if Christmas is already over and it's not exactly in the Christmas spirit.

 

Interlude: The Early Days

 

December 19, 1990—two years later

 

Bundled up against the cold weather in gloves, his old winter coat, and a scarf, William hurried down the busy streets of central London in search of the correct metro station, rudely pushing his way through the crowds of people rushing to get their Christmas shopping done.

He'd finished his shopping weeks ago—a new winter coat for Mrs. Preston, one of the family maids, a book on gardening for Prof. Buton, his English teacher, and a relatively nice paperweight for Father that he had grabbed from a thrift store bin in passing. Some would say he had stolen that last present, but he firmly believed that anyone who paid for an item meant to hold down paper was a moronic twat and that no one would miss the measly two pounds the store was trying to steal from the general public.

Besides, he may have been going out of his way to give his father a present out of some sort of utterly stupid sense of family obligation, but that didn't mean he necessarily had to go so far as to spend his own money on the wanker. Call him selfish and ungrateful, William had stopped caring for the opinion of his piss-poor excuse for a family unit long ago. And at his age, 13 whole years, he figured that he was old enough to do and think whatever he wanted. It was less than three years until he finished secondary school after all. He was practically an adult.

Finally catching sight of a sign marking an entrance to the Underground, he hurried down the steps and pushed his way past the electronic ticket-taker. Having snuck out of the house alone, William had needed to be home nearly an hour ago and he was just thanking the gods that Father was on a business trip to France for most of the week. Father gone, only a good number of the servants he gave the duty of spy remained, and as it was the holiday season even these spies had gone home to their families. There was still the chance of running into one of the three remaining though, and it was just good sense to try to get through the Underground ahead of the crowds, hence his current hurried flight home after looking down at his watch to find that he was far past curfew.

And a half-hour later, William walked through the front doors of his father's small estate just outside the city, with seemingly no one around but the butler to comment and apparently right on time for the mail.

“Letter for you, Master William,” said Mr. Orland, the butler, swooping down on him before the door had even closed. Not a spy as far as William knew, and he tended to stay out of everyone's business so everything was okay.

“Really?” he asked, tugging off his gloves and only grudgingly allowing Mr. Orland to help him out of his coat when the man came forward. He'd learned not to fight when it came to the unwritten tasks of a butler. He would always lose, and it was just slightly ridiculous to imagine getting into a tussle with a butler. “Who from?” He didn't get many letters.

“Master Rupert, sir.”

“Oh . . .” Hearing this, any excitement vanished and he frowned in displeasure, though it really should have been expected. It was the holidays after all, and Mr. Orland always seemed to be the one to find Uncle Rupert's letters and packages, despite any attempts that William may have made when he was younger, still excited about the prospect of a word from Uncle Rupert, and he had gone through the mail repeatedly in search for that one magical letter. “Well . . . I suppose I could take a look at it, then.”

“Excellent,” and William was suddenly holding an envelope. Then, after needlessly informing him that supper would begin at promptly 6 o'clock as usual, Mr. Orland went on his way, leaving William alone in the entranceway to stare at the neat handwriting of a long absent uncle.

Ever since he had been 11yrs old and Father had first forced Uncle Rupert to leave forever, William had been receiving these letters. First they had come almost every week, making sure that he was still alright in the wake of his mother's death, but then they had begun to arrive less and less. After they had fallen to arriving only every two weeks, he had told himself that this was perfectly fine and completely expected. Then the letters had fallen to arriving only one every month and he had told himself that this was simply a mistake; that the post office had lost a letter or two, or that Uncle Rupert had simply been too busy with work and that the number of letters would surely return to the normal amount when everything had settled down. But then the letters had fallen to once every other month, and then had settled into a pattern of only arriving with every major holiday and birthday, always carrying along with it a present of some sort. And of course as time passed even those presents had fallen to the level of individual checks shoved into a card.

Needless to say, William had not been very impressed with any of this.

He had aunts and uncles he had never even met who would send him letters with checks shoved in them every major holiday and birthday. Impersonal letters and money were the obligatory gift for every family member that you knew existed, sent only as a polite gesture. That Uncle Rupert had fallen to that low when William was still sending page-long letters and thoughtful gifts when expected was practically insulting.

This year William had barely even bothered to try to write. There simply was no point in making the effort when it was becoming clearer with each letter that Uncle Rupert no longer truly cared.

Shaking his head, he came out of his bitter musings and began to make his way to his room to read the letter in privacy. Walking down the hallway, turning the first corner, and slipping into his room, he casually kicked the door shut as he tore at the envelope and plopped down on his bed. Taking the card out, he opened it to find a check for 100 pounds, which wasn't a bad amount of money really, so William decided to give the actual letter a chance.

Dear William—he read

I fear that this letter will be no different than any other of my most recent letters to you, and I am truly sorry for both my brevity and my simply horrid

writing ability. I am obviously far too much of an academic to be good with the creative and personal word, and this is made no easier by the years

that have passed since we have last seen each other. From your letters it is only far too clear that you have grown so much and changed in so many ways. I

simply have no clue as to how address this new distance between us. It is entirely my own fault of course. Had I a better mind for letters or, dare I say, had I

never left you at all, this situation would have never come about in the first place.

But there is no time for what ifs or what could have beens, and you most likely do not wish to read the apologetic ramblings of an aging man. It is Christmas after all

and things should be happy.

I hope that you are well, that your father has been treating you kindly, and that your school days have been pleasant ones. How is your friend Robert? And that

young girl Cecily?

I am sure you are doing splendidly in your classes. Have you written anything lately? I do remember that one beautiful poem you wrote last Christmas—the

one published in the class bulletin—but I have unfortunately not read any of your more recent works. It would be lovely to see what you are doing.

I regret to say that I have unfortunately drawn yet another blank as to what you could possibly want for Christmas and so have enclosed a check for 100 pounds.

Buy yourself whatever you wish and have a happy Christmas.

Sincerely,

Uncle Rupert

-

The wording sounding familiar, it took a moment for him to recognize it as almost an exact copy of his last letter, for his birthday. William's face twisted in disgust at this realization, but he actually wasn't all that surprised.

Always asking the generic questions, always sending the generic presents, continuing year by year to obey the moronic commands of the oh-so-mighty David Mathers without a second thought even when knowing exactly how much of a cold bastard Father was, and then not even bothering to put a single drop of thought into even the most impersonal letter full of the same old excuses for his own behavior . . . His friend Robert no longer even attended the same school as him. Who was his uncle trying to kid here?

William had held on for so long, but this was really the last straw. Obviously, this was the end of his “Beloved Uncle Rupert.” Angrily, he crunched the letter into a ball and tossed it at his waste basket, missing entirely.

Fine. If the man wanted to act like one of them, so be it. Uncle Rupert was just another Giles to him now.