Sunshine in London
Second in the Weary Peace Series
Follows Talk to Me
By Byrne
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: W/G
Notes:  Takes place about three and half years after Season 3 of AtS, Season 6 of BtVS.  
Disclaimers:  Joss owns all, I make no profit.  Just for fun.
Archived at The Crypt.
Dedicated to my husband who wanted me to write about naked dancing girls and got this instead.


Sunshine in London, and another translation completed.  Wesley closed his books and carefully re-shelved them, making sure that the spines were correctly lined up on the shelf.  Gathering the papers on his desk into a tidy pile, he looked at the neat lines of printing, a flawless piece of work he cared nothing about.  Placing the papers in a folder he picked up the phone and called his client, arranging for delivery and payment.  

He moved to stand before his window, looking out at the street with dispassionate eyes.  It was always the same.  People walking to and fro,  busy with their lives.  Children played in a small yard, watched by a doting mother; she fussed over a little girl with long brown curls, and Wesley was reminded of the black helicopters which had hovered incessantly in the LA sky.  The helicopters had done little to protect the masses, and Wesley doubted that this mother’s efforts would be much more successful in the long term.

He watched a young man lead a dog down the street.  The man paused while the dog relieved itself against a wall, looking left and right to make sure no one was witnessing his pet’s indiscretion.  He didn’t look up to Wesley’s window and Wesley found he had a strange desire to approach the man and explain to him that a pissing dog was the least of the world’s worries, and that, in fact, nobody cared what his dog did unless they stepped in the results.

Wesley drew the drapes closed and turned on a lamp in the living room.  He left his flat, making sure the door was locked, and emerged into the warmth of the sunny street, squinting into the light.  He turned left and walked to the intersection, where he raised a hand, hailing a passing cab. Once inside the less than pristine vehicle he gave an address in a rundown area and sat quietly as the car made its way through the busy streets, refusing the driver’s attempts to engage him in small talk.  

As they drove the streets became less busy, lined with fewer shops and bakeries, and they passed more buildings with boarded windows, and more still with broken panes of glass.  When they reached the given address the driver accepted payment and drove away quickly, abandoning his unfriendly fare to the equally unfriendly neighbourhood.

Wesley watched the car until it vanished around the nearest corner, then turned on his heel and strode in the opposite direction.  He walked for three blocks and then cut through a narrow lane, eventually emerging in the back garden of a dilapidated Victorian house.  The house had long since been turned into cheap flats for let on a monthly basis, but Wesley’s destination was not to be found among the dingy rooms and dirty halls.  He walked to the cellar door and knocked, waiting patiently while unseen but certainly there eyes studied him.  He was known here; they would let him in.

The door finally opened, just far enough for him to pass through into the darkness, the scent of too many kinds of incense hitting him like an oily cloud.  He waited until the door was closed tightly behind him before moving further into the room, knowing that the proprietor liked to stay close to his customers.

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.  What may I show you today?” said the man at his shoulder.  

Wesley turned his head to look at the man and said, “I would like to see the new stock.  I understand you may have something I’ve been looking for.”

The pale man gestured to a table in the middle of the room.  “Certainly.  Please, sit down and I will bring the books to you.  There is, I’m afraid, only six that you have not seen yet.”

Wesley sat at the ornate table and waited.  Soon, he was presented with the first item for his inspection, a leather bound tome with ornate gold gilding on the front cover.  He opened the book and read the title, Daemon Curses and Prayers.  He flipped to the middle of the book, not bothering to take his usual care with things as precious as books.  A glance told him all he needed to know of this piece of work.  He looked at the man who was waiting for his verdict.

“It’s in English.”

“You have purchased English translations before, I thought it would interest you.”

“In order for this book to be of any use one would have to retranslate it back into the original language.  It would also help if one had blind faith in the accuracy of this translation.  I do not.  What else do you have?”

Forty minutes later Wesley was looking at the fifth book.  There were two other volumes on the table, one a diary of a fifteenth century monk who may or may not have been a demon, and a slightly better copy of a book he already owned.  He spent some time with the fifth book and he could see the book dealer’s eyes getting that glint which only the promise of a great deal of cash could create.  Wesley ignored him.

He closed the book carefully and pushed it away from him, almost all of the way across the broad table.  “It is a fake.”

The man glared at him.  “I assure you, it is not.  I paid a great deal of—“

“Then you were cheated.  This book is supposed to be printed on cloth, woven from fibres of Gorthod saliva.  This is pulp.”  Wesley’s gaze was steady and cold.

The man withered a little and said, “Fine, how much less than asking will you give me?”

“I don’t want it.  I am merely telling you that if someone comes looking for this particular book of spells you had best not attempt to pass this off as genuine unless you have all your affairs in order.  The last book, please?”  The man looked at Wesley with something close to loathing and handed him a small leather bound volume.

The small manuscript was one that Wesley already had on his shelves so he pointed to the diary and said, “That one.  Not the other.  You’re sure this is everything you have?”

The broker’s eyes flicked to a shelf and he sighed.  “There is one other, but it is a special order.  I have called the client repeatedly to tell him it is here, but he hasn’t shown up.”  He walked to the shelf and took down a book bound in soft black cloth.  Wesley removed a slip of paper attached to it with an elastic band, and carefully examined the first few pages of the book.  He looked at the broker sharply and said, “This isn’t what I was looking for, but it is interesting.  How long have you had it here?”

“Why?  If it is something you want I’m sure that the client will negotiate with you for a better price.”  The broker smirked, seeming happy that his petty revenge for the fake spell book would get some money out of Mr. Wyndam- I know more than you ever will-bloody-Pryce.

“No, I just happen to have actually read the first page.  If you had done so you would have seen that this book is enchanted to return to it’s place of origin within six weeks if it hasn’t exchanged hands in the proper manner.”

The broker looked confused and Wesley said, “If this book is not purchased within six weeks of its being given up by the last owner it will vanish, reappearing in the hands of the author.  That’s all.  So, if you paid for it and the client doesn’t come to get it you will loose quite a bit when it disappears on you.”  Wesley smiled.

The broker stared at him.  “I think that you are going to be the end of my business, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.”  The man picked up a calendar and flipped through it, muttering to himself.  He said, “Six weeks since I got it, or six weeks since—“

“Six weeks since it left the hands of the last owner.  Or from when the owner died, if that is relevant.”

The broker swore.  “Counting shipping time and storage here for the last two weeks that bastard has to get it tomorrow.  I haven’t even been able to find him; the damn number he left isn’t any good, or he’s not answering.”  He paced a couple of steps.  “I don’t suppose I can interest you in it?”  He looked rather forlorn, and obviously was anticipating a huge loss on the book, even if he could convince Wesley to purchase it.

Wesley picked up the paper that had been bound to it, looking for the agreed upon price.  He looked at the broker with wide eyes.  “You are upset at the thought of losing forty-seven pounds?  The book trade must be tighter than I thought.  I’ll take the diary and this one, too.  But I caution you about that spell book—if someone comes looking for it they are not up to anything you want to be involved in. Take the loss on that one and destroy it.”  The broker nodded, looking like he had just lost a close relative, and accepted Wesley’s payment for the two books.

**

It wasn’t until after he closed the door on Wesley’s back that the broker noticed the slip of paper was gone as well.  Oh well.  If the client came looking for the vanishing book he would just send him to Wyndam-Pryce.  He wondered if Rupert Giles would teach that bloody snot a lesson in manners.


Part Two

It was late afternoon when Wesley returned to his flat, several hours before he had intended.  He had visited two more book dealers but his attention was not entirely focussed upon the inspection of their manuscripts; he found Rupert Giles’ black cloth book a distraction.  He had given up the thought of acquiring more books for his own studies and returned to his home, planning to read the diary and perhaps to take a look at Giles’ book as well.  Giles had special ordered the volume, and spelled books tended to have secrets that begged to be explored.

Wesley turned off the lamp which was to greet him after nightfall and opened the drapes, preferring to read in natural light if he could.  One of the reasons he had taken this flat was for the large window.  The estate agent had pitched the window for its view of the quiet and pleasant street; Wesley had only seen the southern exposure.

Settled into his reading chair he began to read the monk’s diary.  It was an absorbing work, full of wonderful detail of the man’s daily life.  After a time though, several month’s worth of weekly entries, Wesley began to see hints of something influencing the gentle man’s life.  His perceptions were changing, and where he had only seen the beauty in nature and in his strict routine he started writing of slugs and the bleakness of rot.  His entries about his religious experiences became rants about dogma and convoluted arguments about what faith really entailed.  

Wesley began taking brief notes, trying to correlate the angry, bitter entries to anything substantive: the cycle of the moon, the time of day, their relation to the religious calendar of his order.  After an hour of flipping pages and making cross notes Wesley put the book aside and made his supper, contemplating the negativity in the entries, searching for hints of an outside influence.  As he ate he let phrases come to him, both from the diary and from other books he had read.  He remembered passages he had read about demonic possession, and about the effects of certain spells; nothing seemed to fit just right.

He returned to reading his book in the diminishing light, finally giving in to the inevitable need for his lamp.  As he reached to turn it on he saw the other book sitting on the table, and picked it up, feeling the smooth cloth slide in his hand.  Wesley debated setting aside the diary in favour of reading this book of Giles’; he admitted to himself that the brief glance he’d had through it at the broker’s had peeked his curiosity. However, he was almost finished with the diary, so he set the black book down on the table and spent another hour with the monk.

By the time he closed the diary full dark had settled over the city and Wesley had reluctantly reached the conclusion that the monk had not been possessed, half-demon, or under any influence.  He had, sadly, simply gone mad.  Standing to stretch, Wesley pulled the drapes closed and went into his kitchen, preparing to make another pot of tea.  

As the kettle heated he picked up what he was thinking of as ‘Giles’ book’ and flipped it open in his hand. The slip of paper with Giles’ phone number on it fluttered out, landing on the floor.  He looked at the paper as it lay there, and thought how odd it was that this was the first time he had had the number in his possession.  It had been four months since Giles had arrived at his door for the first time, and about six weeks since the last.  In between the two there had only been one other visit; three meetings in four months, and no phone calls.  Well, it was hardly a relationship.

Slowly Wesley bent down and picked up the piece of paper.  He held it for a moment, then reached for his phone and dialled the number.  He let it ring over a dozen times before accepting that the broker had been right; Giles was certainly not there, or unable to answer.  He was unsure where that particular thought came from, other than his own belief that if he were expecting an enchanted book on special order he would have found a way to at least leave a message as to where he could be reached.

Wesley opened a drawer in his desk and got out the phone listings.  He turned to the page where ‘Giles’ would be listed and found R. Giles, with the same phone and a street listed, but no house number.  Wesley put the directory away and made his tea, thinking about his options.  He didn’t think the situation warranted driving off in the dark to check up on Giles; there really was no hint that the man was in trouble, and he was fairly sure that his unannounced arrival would be met with cool politeness and little else.  It was the sort of thing Wesley preferred to deal with in daylight.  For the time being, he would read the book and try not to think about the last three times he had seen Giles.

The reading went easily.  The book, oddly enough, appeared to be a household journal, full of lists, things to purchase or repair, and inventories of the household goods.  From some of the items mentioned, most notably the new blending machine for the kitchen, Wesley surmised that the entries had been made in the mid to late nineteen fifties.  The handwriting was gently curved and even, the loops almost drawn and the strokes were like painting.  It was a feminine hand, but that of an educated woman; he thought it possible the notebook belonged to the mistress of the house and was used by the housekeeper.

He was almost a third of the way through the small book, skimming the pages and idly wondering why on earth any house needed twelve sets of table linen, when the reason Giles wanted the book made itself apparent.  In the middle of a page, in the middle of a list of the silver that needed to be polished, the hand writing abruptly changed to a sharp and spidery script.

The darkness shall roll over the mind of the Harbinger, and it shall begin.
The darkness shall drive all, and the Mirror shall be Shattered.

The rest of the page was filled with the usual curving handwriting, as were the following ten pages.  In the midst of notes about a menu the angular writing once again appeared, just as suddenly.

The shards will cut the Mind and the blood will be Power.
Catch it, keep it, for it is the solution.

Wesley turned the pages rapidly, scanning the script, stopping only to read the intrusive handwriting.  After locating another four passages he picked up a pen and his notebook, quickly transcribing the messages.  The final result was only eighteen lines in length, and Wesley was fairly sure that what he had was only a small part of the whole.  There were several references to the blood of the Harbinger, and the coming Revolution, but no hint of what the revolution would be against or who the players would be.  

Wesley put his notes down and wandered through his flat, absently tidying things up before he got ready for bed.  He knew that Giles would not let a piece of a prophesy, if that was what this was, through his fingers if he had a choice.  Wesley did not dwell on what, exactly, would keep Giles from picking up the book, or why he was not answering his phone; he could do little about the situation late at night.  In the morning he would go to the street listed in the phone directory and try to locate Giles; in the meantime, he would attempt to sleep.  

Lying in his bed Wesley attempted to school his mind, but images kept assaulting him, snatches of conversation played over in his mind.  Ultimately he gave up, and suffered through the memories.  

The first night:  conversation, measuring each other, taking stock, and finding one another worthy.  There was strength, that night, and their coming together was a natural progression of the conversation, if not their previous lives in California.  They had not clung to each other, they had explored and shared.  Giles had left before morning’s light.

The second night:  Wesley had opened his door to see Giles, pale and stiff.  Wordlessly invited in, a drink in hand, he had only said, “I didn’t save her.”  Wesley thought immediately of Buffy, but knew, on some level, that if Buffy were gone Giles would not be here, would be in more anguish and torment.  The pain Giles was emanating came from self loathing.  Wesley had known that pain, could recognize it.  Giles had held out his hand and Wesley had reached out to him.  They had clashed that night, their joining like a storm flashing overhead, terrifying and inevitable.  Only when he was bent under Giles, containing him in the most intimate way possible, did Wesley feel the splash of hot tears on his back.  Hating himself for not being able to stem the pleasure flowing through this body, the silken feel of the hand on his erection, the body moving within him…Wesley rode out his own pleasure on Giles’ pain and was unable to make it up to the older man.  He had tried.  He had kissed the tears away, tried to stop their flow; when Giles left him it was without a word, and the tears still fell.  

The third night:  Giles, at his door once more, this time with an apology.  Wesley was furious, had spit the apology back.  Wesley had broken open on the second night, had felt.  Had offered himself up, had tried to help.  He had known it was no good, but having Giles apologize to him was too much.  

Now Giles was missing.  And Wesley could not sleep.


Part Three

Another day of bright sunlight and Wesley was wandering down a quiet street lined with cottage like houses, each with mature trees and small front gardens.  The air smelled of roses and thistle.  He was searching the front of each house for some sign that Giles lived within, and not getting anything in return.  As he walked down the street an elderly woman caught his attention as she carefully trimmed a shrub in front of what he presumed was her home.

“Excuse me,” he said politely.  When she looked up at him with questioning eyes he continued.  “I am hoping you may be able to assist me.  I am looking for the home of Rupert Giles, I believe he lives on this street.  Do you know him?”

The woman glanced up and down the street thoughtfully.  “I’m afraid I don’t know the name, and these days it is so hard to know one’s neighbours.  There was a time when I knew everyone on this street.”  She looked at Wesley expectantly and he made a passing remark about how the world was indeed going to hell, and she nodded approvingly.  “What does this friend of yours look like?  If he lives here I have most likely at least seen him.”

“Well, he’s a few years older than I am, and he wears glasses.  He probably lives alone—“

“Oh, that handsome man! Greying hair?  Bookish looking?”  She actually blushed a little and Wesley wondered if it would amuse Giles to know that women his mother’s age thought he was attractive.  Wesley smiled and nodded and the woman pointed to a house on the other side of the street and down a few homes.  “That one, with the green trim.  But I haven’t seen him in a while, he may be away.”

“Oh, I see.  Thank you for your help.  Do you mind my asking how long it has been since you saw him last?”

“Oh, about five days, I would think.  Last Thursday or Friday anyway.”

“Thank you, again,” Wesley said as he started toward what he hoped was Giles’ home.  From the front it looked neat and tidy, just like all the others on the street.  The hedges were clipped and the driveway was no more strewn with dropped leaves than the next door neighbours’.  Wesley walked up the short path to the front door and knocked loudly.  After a couple of minutes he knocked again, then peered in the front window.  He could see nothing other than a rather cozy living room with perhaps more books than one might expect to normally find in such a room.  

Walking back to the driveway he noticed that the woman was still watching him; she smiled cheerfully and waved at him with her clippers, and he waved back.  He walked around to the back of the house, hoping that there was another door; one easy to break into.  He could hear a radio playing softly through the open kitchen window as he moved toward the back door.  He rapped on the door loudly and waited again, knowing he would get no reply.  

To his surprise the door opened when he tried the knob.  “Rupert?” he called out, stepping into a tidy blue kitchen.  “Are you here?”

The radio was on the kitchen counter, playing the ten o’clock news broadcast.  He turned it off and listened to the silence.  The house had a feeling of being deserted, an empty air that made Wesley feel every inch the intruder he was.  He looked around the kitchen, noting the dishes, dry on the rack by the sink, and the electric kettle with its cord wrapped around its base.  The only thing in the room that indicated the owner may be about was the coffee maker, which was on, the coffee in the carafe scorched to the bottom.  Wesley turned it off and put hot tap water in the carafe, thinking that it may be saved from complete ruin.  

He moved through the kitchen into a short hall and started opening doors.  The bathroom and what appeared to be a spare bedroom were neat and clean, but Giles’ bed was unmade and there was a sweater and a pair of socks on the foot of the bed, as if waiting to be put on.  Finally Wesley went into the living room at the front of the house.

Giles was sitting in a chair between the front door and the window, holding a mug and reading a newspaper.   Wesley froze at the unexpected sight, then moved forward slowly, waiting for some—any—reaction from Giles.  “Rupert?”

Giles didn’t move.  He held his mug in his hand, halfway to his mouth and just…sat there.  As Wesley walked closer he watched as Giles’ eyes flickered, his gaze moving across the page, and then blink.  Other than that, he sat as if carved from stone.

Wesley kneeled down next to Giles’ chair and softly said, “Rupert?  Can you hear me?”

There was no reaction.  Wesley resisted the urge to wave his hand in front of Giles’ eyes, and instead he attempted to lower the arm holding the coffee cup.  The arm moved down easily enough, but Wesley couldn’t get the mug from Giles’ grasp.  He was able to find a strong pulse in Giles’ wrist, and was reassured by the concrete sign of life.

He stood and looked around the living room, taking in the haphazard piles of books and notes, trying to figure out which pile Giles had been working with most recently.  He scanned the titles of a few books and mentally sorted the piles into ‘research for spells’, ‘light reading’ – one of the stacks was a pile of novels—and ‘could be helpful’.  Of the last there were three piles, about a dozen books in total and a sheaf of handwritten papers.  He cleared a spot of the couch and started reading, being careful not to put things out of order.  He glanced at Giles and discovered that he had raised his arm again, holding the mug halfway to his mouth as if getting ready to drink.  Wesley avoided looking at the flickering eyes.

Wesley’s research brought him little of help.  From the notes he found that the woman whom Giles had failed to save had been a young demon, killed in a ritual sacrifice; Giles feared that her death was about to bring about the beginning of a war among two demon clans.  There were mentions of a book Giles was trying to track down, but he suspected it was in the States.  

The books were about the two demon sects Giles was researching; Wesley had heard of one group, the Sunla, and was surprised that they would be involved with sacrifices.  He had found that they preferred to live in unpopulated places and avoided contact with everyone.  The second clan, the Gnargoth, Wesley discovered as he read Giles’ books, was just as solitary, but seemed to spend their time searching for a way to bring a mythical hero to life.  It was to the fruition of this goal that they had stolen a young woman of the Sunla and sacrificed her.  Giles had attempted to save her, to stop the ceremony, but failed.  Then he had gone to Wesley.

Wesley was setting a book down and reaching for another when Giles dropped his mug and said, “Oh bloody hell, not again!”

Wesley and Giles looked at each other and froze.

“Wesley?”

“Rupert.  Are you all right?”

“I’m…I’m not sure.  How long have you been here?”

Wesley looked at his watch.  “About two hours.”  He stood up and walked to where Giles was still sitting and took his wrist, checking his pulse.  “Your heart is a little fast, but that’s to be expected, I would assume.  I’ll go make you some tea, and we can talk.”

Giles just nodded his head and Wesley escaped to the kitchen.  Tea was a simple affair, and when he returned to the living room he found Giles sitting the sofa, restacking a few of the books that Wesley had been looking at.  Handing him a cup of tea Wesley asked, “Do you know what happened?”

Giles accepted the cup with an absent minded smile and nodded, saying, “I, uh, I seem to be losing time.  I have been…phasing for a while now, though it seems to be getting more serious.”

Wesley sat down on the couch, next to Giles and pointed to the books.  “It has something to do with that?  The ritual you tried to stop?”

“Yes.”  Giles paused and looked at the stack of books.  He sighed and leaned back into the couch before continuing.  “The Gnargoth had kidnapped the daughter of another clan; they wanted to use her to bring one of their heroes back.  I thought that they were going to raise the dead, but apparently they were planning to use her as a vessel to bring him back through time.”

“And you got caught up in it,” Wesley surmised.  “Drink your tea.”

Giles drank some of his tea.  “I was supposed to bring her back to her family, but I got there too late to stop the ritual.  She was tied to a pillar, surrounded by the Gnargoth.  They were chanting and one of them held fire in his hands; it was very…intense.  I knocked the fire off his hands by the simple means of pushing him over.  

“They stopped their chanting and seemed rather shocked for a brief moment—long enough for me to break their circle and cut the young woman’s binds.  I pushed her toward the door and she ran.  They chased her, running her down and slicing her open.  I couldn’t get out, they…they bound me in her place.”  Giles stared at nothing, his voice low and dry, as if there was no emotion involved in the telling of the tale.  Wesley knew that sometimes the only way to cope was to pretend not to feel.

“The ones who were not busy killing her started to chant again, and the fire appeared in the hand of anther.  I was screaming out random words in their language, trying to confuse them into mixing up their litany.  Suddenly they just…stopped.”  Giles closed his eyes and leaned back even further, shrinking into himself.  Wesley hesitated a moment and then put his arm around Giles’s shoulder.  Giles allowed the comforting touch and without seeming to think about it twisted slightly to lean on Wesley before continuing, his voice constricted.  “Her family got there just after that, and they freed me from the bindings.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat.  “They thanked me for saving her from the torment she would have gone through if the ritual had been completed.  Then I went—“

“To me.” Wesley finished softly.  Giles nodded and they sat in silence for a time.

“Wesley?”

“Yes?”

“I believe…that is, I think—“

“Yes, Rupert?”

“I should have asked for this instead, that night.”  Giles was staring ahead, not turning to look at Wesley.

Wesley thought for a moment then said quietly, “Why did you not?”

Giles didn’t answer right away.  “I wasn’t sure what I wanted, what I needed.” He paused, then said softly,  “I was unsure of you.”

Wesley felt a flush of anger and pushed it away, trying to keep his voice calm.  Giles didn’t need a repeat of their last conversation while he was recovering from…whatever was happening to him.  “You knew that I would sleep with you but you didn’t know if I would just hold you?”

Giles turned to face him and put a hand on the side of Wesley’s face.  “That is why I apologized.  I used you and I was wrong.  I’m sorry.”

Wesley was exceedingly aware of how unprepared he was to have this conversation.  He blinked and realized that Giles was still watching his face; was, in fact, still in his arms.  “Could we—that is, perhaps we could have this discussion after we find out how to stop what’s happening to you.”

Giles nodded slowly, his expression closed; Wesley could read nothing in his eyes.  “Yes, perhaps we should try to figure this out.”  He stood and removed his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with the other hand.  He stiffened and looked hard at Wesley.  “Why are you here?”

Wesley blinked again.  “I have a book for you.  Actually, you special ordered it—it was about to return to it’s author, so I paid for it and came to find you.”

“I special—but that book—a house diary, correct?”  Giles looked confused.

“Yes, black cloth.  Rather boring, except for the bits of a prophesy strewn through it.”

Giles looked more confused.  “But I have another week and a half before the enchantment is activated--”

Wesley stared at him.

“What day is it?” they asked at the same time.

Giles rubbed his eyes again.  “I sat down in that chair at about two pm on Saturday.  It is now—“ he looked at his watch, “just past noon.  So I lost just less than a day.  Sunday.”

Wesley shook his head and tried to look concerned and not panicked.  “Rupert, it’s Tuesday.”

Giles sat down, the blood draining from his face.  “Tuesday?” he asked faintly.

Wesley went to his side, kneeling once more beside his chair.  “Rupert.  Are you all right?  Physically, I mean.”

Giles blinked rapidly and then seemed to gather himself.  “Yes, I’m fine.  When I lose time it is just like I blink and then…I’m here.  I don’t feel any more hungry or tired than I did.  My back doesn’t hurt, I don’t feel dizzy or…three day?  Good Lord.”

Wesley returned to the couch and waited for a few minutes while Giles adjusted his thinking. “If you thought you had a week and a half, than you have lost more time than you had suspected.  Can you tell me what you remember?”

Giles looked thoughtful, then put his glasses back on and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.  “The first time I remember it happening was two or three days after the ritual.  I was checking the time on the kitchen clock and the hands jumped twenty minutes.  I thought I had blacked out, or needed sleep.  About a week or so later I got an angry phone call—I had missed an appointment that I thought was going to happen in four hours.”  His eyes focused on the middle distance and his brow furrowed.  “I think I may have phased at night, at least once.  I remember being surprised that the day on the newspaper was Wednesday.  That was two weeks ago.  I got the phone call about the book and put it off for two days…but I suspect it was longer, now.”

“The times are certainly getting longer…do you think that they are getting closer together?  I don’t suppose there is a pattern?”  Wesley asked.

Giles looked at him, pain and confusion shining in his eyes.  “I have no idea.  We could probably figure it out, with my day book and a calendar.  Wesley, I—I’m rather concerned.”

Wesley stood and picked up a pile of notes.  He crossed to Giles and held them out, asking, “It’s safe to assume that the ritual started this.  You may be in great danger, Rupert, you know that.  Is it possible that the young lady’s family would have any information?”

Giles’ head snapped up and he glared at Wesley.  “I will not bring those poor people into this.  I killed their daughter, they have suffered enough.”

“Then you are a fool.”  Wesley dropped the papers onto the floor beside the chair and went to the kitchen.  He started opening cupboards at random, taking down a box of crackers and getting cheese from the fridge.  He listened for Giles and relaxed slightly when he heard the rustle of paper.  At least he was looking through the notes.  Wesley put the kettle on and prepared more tea.

Finally, the tea made and the crackers topped with cheese, Wesley couldn’t put off his return to the living room any longer.  He set the tray on the coffee table and turned to Giles, who was sitting with his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry.  That was cruel of me.”

Giles looked up at him and nodded.  “It was.  But it was also correct.  I doubt if I would be able to get any information from the Gnargoth, considering the situation.”  He stood up, holding a sheet of paper.  “I can call my contact and see if he can reach the Sunla for me.  If I tell them that I appear to be—experiencing the effects that were intended for their daughter they may be willing to share some information.”  He looked utterly drained and despondent.  

Wesley handed him a cup of tea and glanced over the piles of paper, noting the calendar on the floor.  “Did you find a pattern to the time loss?”

Giles shook his head.  “No, I’m finding the whole thing rather confusing.  Perhaps…”

Wesley gave him a questioning look and Giles gestured to the calendar.  “Oh, yes certainly, I can help.”

It took three hours of questions and referencing Giles planner, plus two calls to Giles’ clients to get it sorted out.  Giles had, as they suspected, been losing time more frequently and for longer and longer periods.  They had to guess at a couple of instances, where it appeared that he had begun to phase while sleeping, but it was clear the situation was reaching the point where Giles could phase at any time; the length of the next phase could be as long as a week.  

They looked at each other in silence for a time, then Wesley said, “I want you to come stay at my place.  If we don’t get this figured out before long I want to be there when you slip.  Plus, there is the book—it is imperative that we see to that prophesy; it plays into this somehow.”  Wesley refrained from telling Giles about the passages dealing with the mirror that shatters and blood that is power.  If Giles was in fact the Harbinger, as Wesley was beginning to suspect, than he could learn of it after he had had a little time to deal with what they had just figured out.

“You could just go get the book,” Giles pointed out.  “I have a spare room.”

Wesley winced, then sighed.  “Rupert, if you are a part of what they were trying to do, they will figure it out.  They will come for you eventually.  If you aren’t here, then perhaps we will have more time to fix this.”

Giles nodded slowly and picked up the paper with his contact’s information.  “I had better make this phone call.  I’ll give him your number, shall I?”


Part Four

It was well past six in the evening when Wesley unlocked the door to his flat and ushered Giles in.  An impressive relay of phone calls had resulted in a promise from one member of the Sunla to discuss the situation with the rest of his family as soon as possible.  Giles had packed an overnight bag while Wesley had gathered all the notes and books he could find and the two men had left the little house, taking Giles’ car to Wesley’s flat.

Once inside the flat Giles had put his bag down and taken the books from Wesley. Wesley immediately crossed to the table where he had left the black book and handed it to Giles, along with the transcription of the prophetic writing, then went into the kitchen.  He stood in the kitchen looking around at the cupboards, trying to find something to do with his hands.  He really had no interest in more tea, but food would probably be a good idea. Wesley was acutely aware of Giles’ presence in the flat and found himself unsure of how he felt.  He was restless in his skin, wanting to move too much, to rearrange books on the shelves, do something, anything, with his hands.  Finally he reached into a cupboard for glasses and the bottle of scotch.

“Drink?” he asked Giles, who was leafing quickly through the book.  Giles glanced up and nodded his head, reaching out for the proffered glass.  Wesley sat in his reading chair and watched as Giles completed his examination of the book, not minding that Giles was double checking the transcription.  He would have done the same.  

Giles stood and walked the length of the room with his drink in one hand and the transcription in the other.  As he paced his way back he caught Wesley’s eye and paused his movement, standing in the middle of the living room.

“Thank you, Wesley.  For—for buying the book, coming to find me…just—thank you.”

Wesley merely nodded and said, “You’re quite welcome, Rupert.”  

Giles paced the length of the room once more before tossing the rest of his drink back and putting the papers on the coffee table.  He removed his glasses and polished them, saying, “Well, that was nice and clear.  Wonderful how these damn things always make so much sense far enough in advance of catastrophe to prevent it.”  

Wesley chuckled.  “Yes, I’ve always found that prophesies are much more accurate after the events foretold.  Is there nothing there that helps?”

“Not much, no.”  Giles polished his glasses and put them back on.  “It would appear that the Harbinger, in this case, is a sign of something to come and not the fruition of the prophesy.  When the Harbinger’s mind goes black it has started.  Now, I think that it is safe to assume that my blackouts, or phasing, are what that refers to.  Meaning that I am the Harbinger, and thus whatever is going to happen has started.”  He moved to the couch and sat down, resting his head on the back.

Thoughtfully, Wesley said, “You do realize, if that is correct, than your failure to protect that young woman was out of your hands.  If you were meant to be the Harbinger than nothing could have stopped you breaking that circle.”

Giles looked at him with dark and angry eyes.  “Perhaps, but it doesn’t mean that she had to die, Wesley.  I could have brought someone with me, I could have managed in a multitude of ways to break that circle and still save her.  Your assumption that she was fated to die so this could happen is faulty.”

Wesley flinched inwardly at the tone and at the words.  Giles was right, and where he had meant to offer comfort he had offered a weak platitude and stirred the other man’s pain instead of assuaging it.

“I apologize.  You are correct, of course.  I should have thought it through before saying anything out loud.”  Wesley stood and moved to the window, watching the darkness of night gathering.  He heard Giles sigh and stand up, was unsurprised to find him standing next to him at the window, in a macabre re-enactment of their first night together.

“I’m sorry Wesley, that was harsh of me.  I’m frustrated at the lack of information and I chafe at waiting for the phone call.  I apologize for taking it out on you.”

Wesley nodded slowly, watching Giles’s reflection in the glass of the window.  

“Is there nothing there at all?” Wesley asked again, still watching Giles’ reflection.

“There is that rather disturbing mention of blood.  If I begin to bleed, God help me, you had best try to save it.”

Wesley nodded again.  “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Yes, let’s.  Wesley, I—I used to think I could see myself in you, that you were so much like me.  Aside from the obvious similarities in background and experience I mean.”  Giles was turning, his reflection turning to face Wesley.

Wesley continued to look at the glass, not wanting to see what was in Giles’ eyes.  “Am I not like you, then?”

“Yes, you are, but not the way I thought.  I thought I could predict your actions based on my own, I thought I could better understand you by knowing myself.  It was the most egotistical thing I have ever done.  You are not simply another Watcher who has been through the wars, or even another Watcher who has been fucked over.”

Wesley allowed himself to be startled by Giles’ language—it was more gutter than he had expected.  Giles didn’t talk like that, even if he felt it.

“That’s it, just like that, Wesley,” Giles said and Wesley turned to face him, the question in his eyes.

“That’s what I mean.  I didn’t think you could startle me, because I knew you  so well.  But I was wrong.  Just as I can startle you with coarse language you can startle me by…by drinking this brand of scotch and by letting me use your body when I didn’t know what I wanted.  And it stunned me that you were so angry when I tried to apologize.  You are not a reflection of me; you are you.  I understand that now.”

Wesley stared for a moment and then moved from the window, toward the couch.  Half way there he turned to face Giles.  “I was angry because I thought that if I accepted your apology I would lose something I had just regained.  Rupert, that night—I felt for you.  I wanted to help.  I didn’t know how, but it didn’t matter, because I felt.  I had been empty for so very long, completely shut off.  The first night we were together was…enjoyable and intense.  But it was just us, our bodies working together.  The second night, I knew you were hurting and I felt it in my blood.  I wanted to sooth you and when you took me I thought I was helping.  When I realized I was making it worse---I broke.”

Giles moved forward and Wesley held a hand out, stopping him.  “Then you turn up and tried to take away even the feeling…I was furious.  But now…”

“Now?”  Giles stepped closer, ignoring Wesley’s hand.  Wesley didn’t notice his own hand, still raised; captured in Giles’ eyes he could only see heat and questions.

“Now, I find I still feel.”

Giles moved forward again, even as Wesley did, and they held each other close, mouths seeking and finding each other, hands grasping and caressing in turn.  Hunger flared within Wesley, hunger for this man in his arms and hunger for the intensity of emotions coursing through him.  Giles wasn’t trying to take anything away, he was trying to give.

They moved together, making their way through notes and past books into Wesley’s bedroom, shedding clothes as they went.  This time, once naked, they did not immediately fall on one another with open mouths and grasping hands; they did not rush to prepare each other and thrust into one another with desperation born of loneliness and pain.  They caressed, they touched and memorized, shuddering beneath one another’s hands, drawing out the experience, letting passion build.

“Rupert, I want to be with you,” Wesley whispered into Giles’ ear. His reply was a searing kiss that left him breathless and wanting more.  As he finally, at long long last, entered the body beneath him Wesley felt a small part of his being reawaken and knew that at this moment he was doing the right thing.


Part Five

It was after eleven o’clock before the phone rang.  Wesley answered it in the kitchen,  listened for a moment then called out to Giles.

“Rupert.  It’s the father.  You may take the call in my bedroom, if you wish.”

Giles looked up from the couch, where he had been going over the prophesy yet again.  “No, that’s quite all right, I’ll take it here.”  He walked to the kitchen and took the receiver from Wesley, favouring the other man with a tight, humourless smile.  Wesley returned to preparing their sandwiches while he listened to Giles express his condolences for what must have been the third time; tried not to wince as Giles attempted to apologize.  Giles stopped speaking for a moment, his apology obviously cut off by the man on the other end of the line.

“That—that is most kind of you.  I am not sure if I would be so forgiving if it were my daughter.  Please, let me just say that she was a remarkable young woman and the world is diminished by her death……

“Yes, that is why I needed to speak to you—the ritual was interrupted and I am now caught up in events I don’t understand.  Any information you have, or are able to give me would be greatly appreciated.”

Giles moved toward the living room and Wesley, knowing that the phone cord was too short, went ahead of him, getting the pad of paper and a pen for Giles.  Wesley sat in the living room listening to Giles’ half of the conversation, trying to surmise from the questions and answers he could hear whether there was any useful information forthcoming.  He turned his gaze to the window once more as the conversation went on, listening with half of his attention.  The other half was fixed on the glass, reflecting the interior of his flat.  

He looked at his living room in reverse, studying the image as a thought tried to force it’s way to the surface of his mind.  Something…reflections…mirrors and glass.

“Rupert.”

Giles flashed him a quick look and held up a hand.  Wesley stared at the window pane, listening to Giles finish his conversation.  After a moment the phone was in its receiver and Giles was crossing to him.

“Wesley?”  Giles’ voice was full of concern and Wesley made an effort to gather himself.  Perhaps they had not done what he feared.

“Did the, ah—gentleman have much information for you?”  Wesley asked as he tore his gaze from the glass.

Giles looked tired.  He sat next to Wesley on the couch and sighed.  “Not really.  He said that if, in fact, my phasing meant that I am to be the vessel for this ancient hero then I am…well, going to be the vessel.  There is nothing that can stop it.  He was, however, quite sure that it is impossible for that to be the case—he said that it would be highly doubtful that the ritual was completed correctly, and that the other clan would have to be with me in order to complete the process when the demon tries to emerge.

“He said that from all the information he could gather in the last few hours he feels that the other clan is quite unaware of what is happening and most likely won’t come looking for me.”

Wesley looked at him, his expression clearly displaying his frustration and disbelief.  “So, to put it bluntly, he has no idea what is happening to you, how to stop it, or why it is even occurring.  Plus, by sending feelers out all day he has possibly alerted the others to your condition.”

Giles sank back into the couch and closed his eyes.  “Quite.”

They sat in silence for a long time, Giles with his eyes still closed and Wesley watching him.  Wesley looked again at the window and cleared his throat.  “Rupert, there is something which occurred to me while you were on the phone.”

Giles sat up a little and gave him a questioning look, then followed his gaze to the window.  “I don’t see what you do, Wesley.  What is it?”

Wesley turned to him, and after a moment’s careful consideration put an arm over Giles’ shoulder, drawing him into what Wesley hoped was a comforting embrace.

“Do you remember what you said to me earlier?  About how I’m not like you?”

“Of course.  Wesley, what—“

“What were your words, Rupert?  It’s important.”

Giles moved closer to Wesley and thought.  “I said that you were not a reflection of me, that you were you and---oh, hell.”

Wesley nodded and pressed a kiss to the top of Giles’ head.  “We shattered the mirror in your mind.”

Giles sighed and Wesley shifted so they were sitting again, close to each other but no longer in an embrace.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hold Giles, it was more a matter of the need to concentrate, to work the puzzle out.  He sorted through the sheaf of paper on the table until he found the first passage from the black book.

The darkness shall roll over the mind of the Harbinger, and it shall begin.
The darkness shall drive all, and the Mirror shall be Shattered.

The shards will cut the Mind and the blood will be Power.  
Catch it, keep it, for it is the solution

He handed the paper to Giles, neither of them really needing to read it; the words were as clear in Wesley’s mind as if they were a permanent part of his vision, inescapable, no matter where he chanced to look.

Giles carefully set the paper down, taking time to square the edges with the sides of the table.  “So.  How should we prepare for this?”

Wesley considered his answer, trying to decide if practicality or reassurance and comfort were needed here.  “We…we will find something suitable to hold your blood.  Then we will go to bed and try to sleep.  I think—that is, I feel that we will need to be rested.  I doubt if you will phase before tomorrow at the earliest, and—“ his voice broke and he cleared his throat through it’s constriction.  “And we may still discover what it is we need to do to stop this from happening to you.”

Giles merely nodded, then he sat a little straighter.  “Wesley, I—I’m…grateful.”

Together they cleared the papers and books into a tidy pile and moved toward the bedroom where they had so recently made love.  Wesley reached out and touched Giles’ arm, halting the other man’s progress.  “Get in bed, I’ll be there in a moment.  I just had a thought, and I need to make a phone call.”  He turned back to the living room and was surprised when Giles grasped his arm, forcing him to turn once again, pulling him into a tight embrace.  Giles’ mouth was on his, and he was drawn into a deep kiss that tasted of desperation and despair and not a little anger.

“Don’t take too long, I need to be—not alone.   Not now.”

“Of course.  You won’t be alone tonight.  Or tomorrow, or for however it long it takes to find the solution.”  Wesley heard his voice, strong and comforting, and wondered how such a sound could come from a body which felt so helpless.

After a searching look Giles moved into the darkness of the bedroom and Wesley reached for the phone.  Dialling a number he knew by heart he waited through six rings before there was silence.  From past experience Wesley knew that he would not receive a greeting, and said, “This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.  I need to speak to Jazkel, as soon as possible.  The service I require won’t take much time, but it is very urgent.”  There was further silence and Wesley paced for as many steps as the cord of his phone would allow.  He glanced around for the portable extension, cursing inwardly for not using that one to make the call.  

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce,” a soft voice said in his ear.  “A pleasure, sir.  How may I help you?”  

“Good evening,” Wesley said.  “I apologize for the lateness of the hour.  Would it be possible for you to send someone to check on a house for me?  The owner is here, I just need to know if the home has been disturbed in the past eight hours or so.”

“Certainly, sir.  And if there is anyone on the premises?”

“A detailed description would be appreciated.  What they look like and what they are doing.”

“Of course.  The usual rate, or the special services?”

“That would depend on if anyone is there.  I will say that if the house is occupied it will most likely be best if your agents are not seen.”

“Fine then, sir.  The usual rate, special if there is anyone there.  The address?”

Wesley gave Giles’ address and directions to get there.

“I will call within the hour, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.  Thank you, and good evening.”

Wesley hung up the phone and went into the bedroom, moving to the side of the bed where his alarm clock was.  He swore quietly and returned to the living room for the portable phone and took it back with him, then set the alarm clock.

Giles, lying still on the other side of the bed, said, “What time?”

“Four.  I just…I just want to make sure.  That you aren’t phasing when we sleep.”

Giles said nothing, simply rested his hand on Wesley’s back.

Wesley let Giles maintain the contact for as long as he wanted.  When Giles moved his hand away Wesley stood an stripped to his boxer shorts then lay on the bed, reaching for Giles.  They lay there, back to chest for long minutes, listening to nothing but each other’s breath.

“Who did you call?” Giles asked softly.

“A man named Jazkel.  He has many people working for him, some of whom are at your house right now.  I thought that if the demons are now searching for you they would start there.  It would be best to know.”

“Thank you.”

Wesley said nothing, but when Giles turned in his arms, seeking his mouth, he said, “Rupert, I don’t want to—“

“Make the same mistake?  I understand.” Then Giles was kissing him and Wesley was letting him.  

**

The phone rang at the appointed time and Wesley reached for the portable receiver, leaning over Giles.  “Hello?”

“Sir, I regret to inform you that the residence has indeed been searched.  There was no one in the home, so the standard rate applies.  The only thing I can tell you for certain is that whomever was there was concentrating on personal papers and what my people assumed to be research materials.”

“Thank you.”

“Sir, if I may…there was a paper, a piece of a date book.  Your address was on it, circled in red.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Your welcome, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.  I hope you have the opportunity to use our services again.  Good night.”

“Good night.”

Wesley pushed the disconnect button and placed the phone back on the nightstand.  He settled back on the bed, one arm cradling his head, the other snaking over Giles’ waist.

“They were there?” Giles asked.

“There and gone.  Rupert, when you got my address, did you do anything to make it stand out in your date book?”

“No.”

Wesley nodded to himself.  “Sleep.”

**

When the alarm clock sounded Wesley rolled over to shut it off.  Giles whispered, “I’m here.”  

They held each other and slept until morning.

**

A fruitless morning was spent leafing through papers and books; frustration permeated the air of the flat and they both started at every sound in the hallway.  Wesley found himself drawn to the window with increased frequency as the day wore on.

“They know where I live, they know that you may have come here.  Why are they not here?” Wesley asked, looking out at the street.

“I don’t know.”

Another hour and Wesley was once again at the window.  “Would you like some tea?” he asked.  “Or perhaps a drink?  It isn’t quite the correct time of day for alcohol but I expect we could bend the rules.”

There was no reply.

Wesley turned slowly, as if the world would stop if he spun to fast to see what he knew was happening.

Giles was sitting on the couch, looking quite relaxed.  Wesley’s mind sent out the unbearable thought—at least he isn’t holding a mug—before he could cross the room.

“Oh, Rupert.  I’m so sorry,” he murmured, touching Giles’ face gently.

Wesley went to the kitchen and pulled a chair to the cupboards, needing the added height to reach the top shelf.  He got the crystal bowl that had belonged to his grandmother down and carefully washed it in hot water, keeping his mind blank.  When it was dry and polished he carried it into the living room and sat next to Giles, waiting.

When Giles began to bleed it was a slow trickle from his nose.  With unshed tears in his eyes Wesley carefully angled the bowl to catch the meagre offering.  Within minutes, however, the trickle was a steady stream.  When blood began to seep from Giles’ ears Wesley wept openly, catching as much of the blood as possible.

He didn’t move when his door opened and two demons entered.  They were tall, taller than Wesley or Giles, and looked quite human.  Their skin was ruddy, and they had green eyes.  One was chanting in a language Wesley didn’t know, his arms making his robes billow and tangle as he gestured to the words.  The other was walking steadily forward, his hands held out in front of him.

“No,” Wesley said, hating the sound of the word.  He was pleading.  He was not being strong, he was not protecting Giles.  What did he thing would happen?  He would suggest to these creatures that it wouldn’t be nice to do this and they would stop?  “No,” he said again.

Giles stirred next to him and Wesley looked at him, stunned.

“Rupert?”

Giles looked at him, his eyes clear for a brief moment.  “Wes.  I could have—“

Then his eyes were filmed with red and blood spilled down his cheeks into the bowl.

Wesley tore his gaze from the horror and saw that the second demon now held fire in his hands, a beautiful yellow light that sat on his palms, iridescent and hot.

“NO!” Wesley screamed and threw the bowl at him.  He willed the action back, willed that he hadn’t been so utterly out of control.  Knew that he had just thrown Giles’ last chance away, knew that he had killed his lover, knew that it was all over.  He watched as the bowl, full of Giles’ life, spun and twisted in the air, hurtled toward the demons who were now shrieking in exaltation and fervour.

Watched as the bowl tipped, spilling Giles’ blood on the flames, heard the fire sizzle and spit, watched the blood flash and the fire go out.

Watched as the demons screamed and roared and exploded in spark and energy and blood red light.

Watched as they disappeared and his grandmother’s crystal bowl shattered on the floor, clean, sharp shards of glass spraying everywhere.

Wesley noted clinically that the blood had disappeared.

Giles had collapsed against him and Wesley cradled the man in his arms; there was still blood on him.  He was so still, so cold; Wesley saw the streaks his own tears were making in the blood.  He knew that he had to stop, had to pull himself in and try to clean up the body.  He owed it to Giles to at least clean the blood from his face.

He wept.

He brushed a fallen tear off Giles cheekbone, swiping at the blood which had coagulated near his temple.  And he felt a pulse.  Faint, but there.

He wept.

**

Giles was unconscious or asleep for nearly eighteen hours.  When he awoke it was to find Wesley asleep in an armchair next to the bed.  Wesley’s chair, Wesley’s bed.  

Wesley.

And Giles smiled.

~end