Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ Old Friends ❯ In the Kitchen Again ( Chapter 8 )

 

Chapter #7: In the Kitchen Again

 

After Spike had punched Angel and stormed out of the house the night before, the party pretty much died a quick and silent death. Along with the unspoken curiosity filling the room over the bad relationship between Angel and Spike, both Giles and Angel had gone quiet and were noticeably beginning to brood, creating an uncomfortable tension in the room as the others noticed these reactions but tried to pretend that they hadn't. And with this tension in the air the party barely lasted for another hour, everyone making strained and awkward conversation until dinner was finally finished, the table cleared, and they could make their escapes without seeming rude.

After they had made their own good-byes Buffy had asked Angel about Spike of course, worried about how Angel was acting, but Angel had just said that he didn't wanted to talk about it and so Buffy had relented for the moment, walking him home and staying the night to give what comfort she could. But sooner or later, she would be getting her answers, whether Angel liked it or not.

Now it was the next morning, Monday so neither of their classes would start until almost noon, and Buffy had woken up to find Angel no longer in bed. Wondering where he could have gotten to, she swung her naked legs over the side of the bed and grabbed a pair of Angel's boxers and one of her own small tank-tops from the floor, slipping them on and wandering into the small kitchen of Angel's modest one-bedroom apartment. Immediately finding Angel seated at the small kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee and staring into its dark brown depths with an absorbed frown, she greeted him with a peck on the check. “Morning.”

“Mmhmm,” was the sleepy reply, Angel being too focused on his coffee to give any better answer. Unable to sleep, he had stayed up late into the night, tossing and turning as memories played out in his head.

Rolling her eyes tolerantly, Buffy went to grab a box of cereal from one of the cupboards and set about making her own breakfast, pouring herself a glass of orange juice and plopping down in the seat across from Angel at the table. Spooning some cereal into her mouth, she examined her boyfriend's downward facing head, the dark hair free of all gel for once and laying straight. She could now see just how tired he looked and she worried. The bruising seemed to be going down though, so that was good.

“Are you going to drink that any time soon or do you just wanna stare at it all day?”

“Huh?” Angel asked, finally tearing his attention away from his drink to notice her existence, blinking at her in confusion.

“I said,” she swallowed a mouthful of cereal, looking back at him, “Are you going to drink that any time soon or do you just wanna stare at it all day?”

“Oh . . . I, uh,” he looked down at his cup, “I think I might have to just stare at it actually. It's gone cold.”

“How long have you been up?”

“Don't know,” he answered, sitting up straighter in his seat and closing his eyes as he rubbed his neck tiredly, “What time is it?”

Buffy swallowed another mouthful of cereal and glanced over at the microwave clock. “10: 27,” she read, frowning. That didn't seem right somehow. “We should probably start getting ready for class.”

“Oh. No. That's from the microwave, right?” Angel asked, looking over at the appliance in question. “That thing's been broken for awhile. We should still have some time.”

And this was her chance to ask what she'd wanted to since last night. “Enough time for you to tell me the deal between you and Spike?”

“Buffy . . .” the hint of a request to just drop it as Angel turned back to her.

“No, really,” she insisted stubbornly, “I mean it. What's the deal?”

“Buffy, I already told you,” Angel said, getting up from his seat to dump his cold coffee down the sink, “I don't want to talk about it.” He poured himself a new cup from the coffee machine.

“Yeah, but I do, okay?” she said, maybe a bit too forcefully, “You seem depressed, and I strangely have a bit of a problem with that. I'm not asking you to tell me what got Spike so upset, or why you were so depressed afterwards or anything like that if you don't want to tell me. Even if I am majorly curious about what you could've possibly done to him. I just wanna know how you knew him or whatever. I mean, you haven't exactly been Mr. Talky with your past and stuff, you know? Were you friends or something? Though why you would be friends with that bastard, I don't know.”

“No, I . . .” Angel returned to his seat and trailed off in indecision over what to say or if he even should say. Finally deciding that she deserved the truth if they were going continue seeing each other, he slowly began to speak, keeping his eyes locked on the table top, “You have to understand. I . . . I was different back then. I don't exactly like to talk about it because I'm really not proud of how I acted. I was horrible back then. Absolutely horrible. Quick-tempered and brash . . . incredibly immature . . . I was basically a complete bastard to everyone around me but the very select few I liked . . . and I . . .” He sighed, shaking his head in regret, and took a moment before he continued. “I got into a lot of fights . . . most of them started by me. And there really wasn't any reason for me to beat them so badly. I just did. It was fun.” His hands clenched into fists on the table as he remembered, “God, some of them had needed to go to the hospital and I hadn't even cared. I—” disgusted with himself, he cut himself off from saying anything else, ducking his head as he remembered Buffy's presence and readied himself for the disgust and hatred that he so rightly deserved from her.

Buffy only looked at him in sympathy, reaching out to touch one of his hands comfortingly. “Sounds like Spike.”

“Yeah. So I've heard,” he said, noticeably drawing in on himself as he remembered the stories she had told him of her mentor's annoying nephew and only looked more depressed. Spike's true name had never been mentioned in any of these stories, and it had been a shock to Angel to finally realize that all of the mean and vulgar things she would complain about had been being done and said by William all along. “But Will was pretty different back then too. I definitely remember calling him prudish and soft more than once.”

And now that was weird. Buffy couldn't help but smile at the idea, despite Angel's complete seriousness. “Spike prudish?” she asked in amusement, “But he's a complete man-whore.”

“Not back then.” Angel shook his head, looking pained, and, seeing his still depressed expression, Buffy felt her amusement quickly disappear.

“So how'd you guys meet then?” she asked when her expression was once more sympathetic.

Angel shot her a quick glance. “Do you remember when I told you about the orphanage I grew up in?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, after I left there, I ended up in England. Met up with some street kids and decided to hang around for a while.” He shrugged uncomfortably, still looking down at the table, “One of the girls met him in an alley one day and dragged him over to . . .” and here he seemed to freeze, tongue caught on the next word as he blinked in stunned realization. Snapping his head up to look Buffy straight in the eyes, entire demeanor changing in an instant, he asked urgently, “Will hasn't mentioned anyone named Drusilla has he? He might have been calling her Dru?”

Surprised by the sudden transformation, Buffy tried to rapidly think back on previous conversations with Spike. There hadn't been many. “Not that I remember.”

“What about the name Darla?” Angel pressed, “Does that sound familiar?”

“No,” Buffy shook her head, looking at him in concern, “Why?”

Shit, Angel thought, ignoring her question. “And there was nobody with him the night he arrived?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

And Buffy shook her head again. “No. Just him.”

Shit, Angel thought again, this time more furiously than before. There was no way this could be a good thing.

He needed to talk to Will.

 

 

After a few more moments spent sitting on the bench in semi-uncomfortable silence, Xander had finally gotten bored and asked Spike over to his apartment. Bored out of his mind himself, and not wanting to go home to Giles' place, Spike had agreed and the two had wasted the rest of the day watching TV and movies, eating junk food and pizza, and trying to put that little scene on the bench far behind them through the age-old macho male technique of drinking beer (bought by Spike with Xander's money on the way back to the apartment) and mocking everything in sight.

Neither Spike nor Xander were very comfortable with acknowledging that they had emotions, even if only to themselves, and both had a tendency to over-react whenever they thought that they had accidentally let someone see even the smallest sign of weakness. Case in point: that one Halloween Buffy had defended him from his frequent high-school bully Larry, in public even, and he had immediately gone out to buy an Army-guy costume complete with gun and had then spent the entire night going around in macho over-drive, trying to act like an Army hard-ass. Not one of his best moments, but he had gotten to punch Larry, which had been cool.

Spike could even admit to himself that the day hadn't turned out so horrible in the end. Harris had provided a good distraction from reality.

Eventually though, Spike had needed to leave, which he did reluctantly, a bit wary of returning to the house only to find Giles hovering by the front door ready to continue the conversation from that morning. And walking through the door at nearly 9 o' clock, he gave the clock a disgusted look, finding a second reason to be grateful to Harris. Those few beers he'd managed to get out of the boy had gotten him much more relaxed, making it possible to stomach both the early hour and the revolting sense of responsibility making him come home in the first place. He had work tomorrow and needed sleep.

“You got a message,” Giles' voice suddenly coming out of nowhere and Spike almost jumped. Looking over at where the man stood in the entranceway to the sitting room, Spike eyed him suspiciously. How had he not noticed him there?

“Yeah?” Spike asked, careful to stay far out of reach, “Who from?”

“Angel,” Giles answered, thankfully not moving from where he stood. “He apparently wants to talk to you.”

Spike gave a derisive snort. “Right.” Like he would actually listen to anything that wanker had to say.

“It seemed important.”

“Don't care.”

“Right,” and the two lapsed into an incredibly uncomfortable silence, each staring at the other. Giles was watching him with what looked like hesitance warring with the need to talk, and Spike was trying to decide if he wanted to hear whatever the man had to say. Depending on what it was, Spike might have to just throw away his whole plan and leave Sunnydale altogether. Maybe he should just retreat into his room and leave dealing with whatever new crap his uncle was about to spout for later. Yeah, good idea, Spike thought, the decision made, and he turned to leave.

“Wait,” Giles called and Spike felt himself pause, grimacing.

“I just wanted to apologize for this morning,” said into the following silence to no answer. Giles had actually spent his whole day worrying on the subject and needed to get the words out into the air before he either lost his courage or drove himself insane.

At home and at the Magic Box, the memory of that short spat in the kitchen replaying in his head, Giles had wondered what he had said wrong, what had so upset Spike. This question answered as his memories of earlier days came to the fore, allowing him multiple wrongs to choose from, his thoughts had then moved to worrying about how to fix the situation and win back his nephew's trust.

He truly had felt horrible for essentially deserting the boy when he was younger.

The truth was that William had never known the true extents to which his father had attempted to rid the boy of Giles' supposed evil influence. The man had hated him, had hated his reputation as the family oddity and rebel, had hated Giles' continued high stature in the family hierarchy despite it, and had most likely just hated Giles all the more when William continually made it clear that he preferred his “Uncle Rupert” over his own father.

And so when William had complained of his father's increasingly strict rules, and then subsequently boasted of how he planned to escape the rules he considered rubbish, Giles had had the thought that maybe his continued contact with his nephew was doing him more ill than good. While Giles was definitely more of the mind that William was acting out in a cry for help due to the death of his mother and then to the increasing rules put forth by his father, Giles also couldn't help but wonder if maybe he actually had been influencing William, if only indirectly. It was entirely possible that his letters were planting the misconception in William's mind that disobeying his father was both possible and okay, as shown by the continued correspondence with a man his father had labeled as forbidden. And it was entirely possible that without the letters, without William's continued fondness for his father's worst enemy, David would be more confident of his place in his son's life and would relax his stranglehold on the boy, making life at home much easier.

It had been a decision he made with only the best interests of William in mind, he would tell himself later. It was for William's own happiness that he pulled away.

Giles could never quite forget though, that it hadn't hurt that this decision would serve to make his own life much easier also.

Giles had been growing increasingly uncomfortable with following David's orders over the years and his guilt would only increase every time he heard of a new punishment, every time David's frustration and desperation made William's life just that much worse and Giles still continued to do nothing. Drawing away from the boy in his letters was made almost easy by his hatred of, and incredulity at, the fact that, if he wanted to contact his own nephew at all, Giles would have to keep the contact secret. David's rule over his household was strict at best, almost tyrannical at worst, and it had simply been ridiculous to be forced to find people in the house willing to smuggle (smuggle!) letters and packages into the house as though they were drugs to be sold on the black market.

It had simply been easier for everyone, the servants acting as smugglers included, if his correspondence with William stopped.

Now, though, staring at the bitter man William had become, watching as that man noticeably asked himself as to whether he even wanted to bother with the old man Giles himself had become, Giles had no doubt that while it may have been the easiest decision, made with the best of intentions, it had also been in no way the correct thing to do.

And it seemed like that one apology he had just uttered was not helping the situation because while it may have made Spike turn around, it had not prompted him to speak. A silent Spike, how ironic that the same sight he had many times wished so desperately for over the past weeks was now quickly turning into something he wished to never see again.

“It was foolish of me,” Giles continued bravely forward, looking straight into Spike's eyes, “to believe that after all of these years apart, you would not hold a slight resentment for me. And I . . .” he faltered slightly, “I suppose I had just assumed that because you had relented to come here at all that, well . . .” he shrugged helplessly, looking up at Spike again for some type of answer.

Nothing came.

Taking a deep breath, he continued, “And you probably won't want to hear this, but I truly had thought that cutting off all contact was for the best.”

And that definitely caught Spike's attention. “Wot?”

“I had thought that cutting off all contact with you was for the best,” Giles repeated patiently, just thankful for this sign that Spike was even listening to him.

“Bullocks,” Spike said, obviously not believing him, “Y' jus' didn' want t' answer me anymore.”

“No. Will - Spike, listen,” Giles took a step forward as he tried to explain. “I had thought that if you showed a dislike of me then your father would act less strict. And as I couldn't simply stop responding to your letters all together I had to make it so you would no longer want to receive any—”

Spike shook his head. “It weren't anything like that.”

“I'm telling you the truth,” Giles implored earnestly, “How can I get you to believe me?”

“Y' don't,” Spike said bluntly, “None o' this even bloody matters. It don't change nuthin', does it?”

Giles looked helpless. “I just want—

“Y' jus' want us t' be all hand-holdy an' shit,” Spike interrupted impatiently, looking at Giles in disgust. “Sittin' round th' bleedin' kitchen table braiding each other's hair, being all family-like. Maybe go frolickin' through th' fuckin' daisies singin' songs t' th' bloody birds when we're done. Didn't I tell you t' keep me out o' yer bloody disgustin' `lil fantasies?”

“No, I . . .” Giles struggled to find words, but what could he really say to something like that? Spike seemed determined to turn everything he said against him. So Giles just sighed, defeated for the moment, “Yes. Yes, you did. You've made your opinion on the subject very clear,” rubbing his brow tiredly, “That wasn't what I was trying to say though,” he said, looking back up at Spike, “Yes, I may greatly wish to get to know you again, but I honestly don't expect anything. I simply wished to apologize and now that I have, I suppose I should take my leave.” He nodded at Spike genially and moved toward the stairs. “Have a good night.”

Spike frowned at his uncles' departing back, slightly perplexed by his behavior. He had honestly expected Giles to put up a bigger fight than that.

“Wanker,” Spike finally muttered after a few minutes had passed with no Giles coming back downstairs. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he found himself uneasy with the lack of pressure Giles had left him with. It made him wonder what the old man was trying to pull.

Had he really meant it?