Title: Who Needs to Dream? (1/13)
Author: Sandra Pascoe
Pairing: None
Rating: R - some violent situations and swearing
Archive: Sure - just ask first
Disclaimer: Giles doesn't belong to me - I'm only borrowing him. Can I keep him, please?
Spoilers: I don't think there are any
Setting: Giles is still in England during S6-though its going a tad AU.hehe
Notes: Sequel to "The Summoning". It helps if you've read that first. A few odd references in this one - mainly Dr Who. The title comes from the Barry Manilow song of the same name - it's only available on his recent "Ultimate Manilow" album and is from his film "Copacabana". I'd advise you to listen - it's a superb and moving song. (The song actually has nothing to do with this fic - but the title fits!)
Dedication: To Jules and Julia - cracking betas - especially Julia who beta'd this whilst recovering from a hospital stay.there's dedication for you! Also thanks to Ruth for her valuable input.
< >indicates thoughts as I can't use italics and I've also replaced my precious three dot ellipses with hyphens. You can read the fic in its original format and in its entirety on my site of course.
The cellar was clean and brightly lit - yet still managed to convey that air of dank foreboding that is the purview of cellars everywhere. A hooded man sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against a wall as he picked through the various books and papers beside him. Occasionally, he glanced up; frowning first at a chalk circle that had been drawn with great precision in the centre of the room, his eyes then flicking towards the television that was mounted on the opposite wall. He sighed, opening a rather battered looking diary and running through a list of necessary items.
"Acacia leaf - check. Calamus Root - check. Liquorice Root - check. Mullein Leaves - check."
He broke off, his attention caught by the programme that had just started on the television. He chuckled softly, reaching for the remote control and turning up the sound.
"In 1888 a series of murders took place in the Whitechapel area of London. The reign of terror had begun: Jack the Ripper had arrived."
"Ahhh Jack," he murmured, turning back to the diary. "Such death - such Chaos - such precision. I'm impressed. I know you now. I know your true identity. Time for you to return for a while, my friend. Time for a little poetic justice. A bit of Chaos is needed to test Vulcan's Bane and its new host."
He stood up, stalked forward and turned off the television. <Damn you. You should have been a servant of Chaos. We were awaiting your return.> He sighed and picked up his herbs. <If only you knew the shockwave that went through us when you merged with THAT. A Watcher - you HAD to go and pick a Watcher - and if that weren't bad enough, you bloody picked HIM. >
The hooded man stepped into a chalk circle, placing his herbs carefully at various points around the circumference. He straightened up and moved to the centre of the circle, chuckling to himself.
"I'm looking forward to meeting you, 'Jack'."
**********
Rupert Giles sucked thoughtfully on a Mint Imperial as he stepped out of his car and gazed up at the Council's "Country Retreat". The large granite Mansion was impeccably maintained and set in over 100 acres of exquisite grounds. Two lakes, herb gardens, sweeping lawns and dense woodland all contributed to the atmosphere of peace and serenity for which the retreat was well known. <I love it here,> he smiled, <I always have.> He locked the car and walked slowly along the gravel drive towards the house. <Your affection for this place is the very reason Quentin Travers chose it for this meeting.> The "presence" as Giles called it, had developed a soft, almost lilting voice in his mind and Giles shrugged.
"I know," he murmured, having found it easier to speak aloud whilst conversing with Vulcan's Bane. "A part of me is very glad to see that Quentin is as astute as ever."
<And a part of you is prepared to fight.>
"Yes, well, I can't help that," replied Giles. "I'm sure Quentin won't need any explanation from me. He knows about you already, doesn't he?"
<The minds I examined certainly confirm your suspicions. Quentin Travers arranged your employment at the Museum and Gerald Montague's mind contained an in-depth knowledge of myself, together with a deep-rooted hatred of both you and Quentin Travers. Of course, as I did not examine the mind of Quentin Travers directly, his motives are somewhat unclear.>
"Oh great," Giles increased his pace. "NOW you tell me. I think you need to work on your communication skills."
A flash of amusement swept through his mind and the reply came: <If I had told you earlier, you would have talked yourself out of this meeting. I believe that would have been most unwise.>
"You think we need this meeting?" Giles tried to swallow his irritation.
<I think YOU need this meeting. Even here, in this place where your happiest memories are centred, you felt like an outsider - as though you didn't belong. You believe your brief flirtation with Chaos prejudiced their minds against you?>
"It did," muttered Giles, shuddering slightly as he recalled the looks, the whispers and the multitudinous accusations.
<And yet, you were assigned a Slayer.>
Giles paused; gazing across the lawns and watching two swans swim serenely on the lake.
"Only because she wasn't expected to survive for long - and they wanted me out of the way."
<Have you considered that you were simply the best man for the job? Maybe Quentin Travers and his associates saw in you then what I see in you now.>
"And what might that be?" Sighed Giles, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
<Potential. There is a great deal of untapped potential in you, of which I am certain the Council were aware. Maybe assigning you a Slayer was an attempt on their part to help you uncover that potential. In a way, it worked. You became much more than you had been.>
"But that's not enough, is it?" Remarked Giles. "You need me to be more than I am NOW."
<In order to face the coming darkness, we will BOTH need to be more. You cannot, however, move forward until you have vanquished your demons.>
"Starting with the Council." Giles turned and walked to the house, opening the door and stepping inside. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
Giles jumped slightly, blushing guiltily as he noticed the Receptionist staring at him, a question in her eyes and a fixed smile on her face.
"Oh, um - sorry - nothing," he stammered.
The Receptionist's smile faltered for a moment and Giles sighed inwardly. <How many times recently have I talked to "myself" in public? It's a bloody wonder I haven't been locked up yet.> The Receptionist took a deep breath and readjusted her smile.
"Welcome to Clunewic House, sir," she said with a touch of weary boredom. "How may I help you?"
"I have an appointment."