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A Day in the Life
by Halrloprillalar
Giles came home. With yet another headache and so he braced
himself as he walked in the door.
It was quiet. Sweet relief rolled over him. A cup of tea and a
soothing book would be just the thing, an evening without the
din of the stereo and the whine of Spike's voice.
He put on the kettle and swallowed some aspirin. In fact, this
would be a good chance to work on that monograph. His
interpretation of the sigils on the amulets of the Janite
Sages of Aquae Sulis was unusual, to be sure, daring even, and
it would certainly blow old Edmund's theory all to pieces. The
prose began to arrange itself in rank and shining file as
Giles poured out.
Raising the cup to his lips, he dimly wondered what Spike was
up to. It wasn't like him to be so unobtrusive. Almost like
he--
Oh, fuck.
Spike was so annoying that Giles had almost forgotten he was
evil too. Now he'd have to call Buffy and get everyone out
searching and it would all be Giles' fault, of course, not
that anyone else cared to take a turn playing Mike and Psmith
with a bloodsucking demon who smoked in the house and watched
Gilligan's Island every damned minute of the damned day.
There was a noise upstairs. Giles went up. It was Spike. In
Giles' bedroom. Sitting on Giles' bed. Smoking. Playing Giles'
guitar.
Spike looked up. "Cheers." He took a drag and went back to
strumming. "Do you remember how this bloody song goes?" He
played a few chords, then stumbled.
"Who gave you permission to rummage in my things?" Giles
fanned the air. "And put out that cigarette."
"Oh, is this yours? I didn't know." Spike tried the chord
progression again, with the same result. "I really shouldn't
have gone twenty-five years without practising."
"Should I get you 'Tiny Songs for Tiny Fingers'?" Giles winced
as Spike mucked up yet again. "Apparently you can still
inflict damage on *something*. What innocent piece of music
are you torturing?"
"Lucy in the Sky. I used to play it for Dru." Spike got a
faraway look. Not again, thought Giles. "She'd dance. With the
corpses, right?"
Giles could take no more. "Give me that." He pulled the guitar
from Spike and gave it a strum. Flat, of course. He shrugged
out of his jacket and sat down to tune.
"I had this project. To sire John Lennon, you know, as a
surprise for Dru. But you know how it is, you get distracted
by one thing and then another and then some bastard goes and
blows him away."
Giles only half-listened, turning pegs and plucking strings.
It didn't take long and soon he was carefully finger-picking
the intro. And realised he'd begun to sing as well. "Picture
yourself in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and
marmalade skies."
"Hey, *my* song, remember?" Spike grabbed at the guitar. "My
turn."
"Not with my good guitar, you don't. There's another one in
the back of the closet." He continued to play through the
melody. It was all coming back to him. It was only when Spike
sat back down that Giles realised what he'd said. Oh, what the
hell. "You stick with the chords and leave the tricky
fingering to me."
Spike made a face, but he got out a pick and ran it over the
strings. "Right, ready?"
Something was missing. Giles saw the smoke curl up into the
air and smiled. "Give us a fag." Spike lit one and passed it
over. Giles drew on it and felt a little burn, a little buzz.
They began to play.
F I N I S
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