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A Proper Funeral
by Cyn
PG13 for language
Giles, Spike, Angel, Andrew
Post Not Fade Away
Written for Christine and the TatF Writercon auction
*****
You know how it goes, when you're biffing the spawn of hell on
regular basis and straddling the moral chasm as an alienated warrior
of shadow. Six nights a week you're dealing swift slaughter and
turning a blind eye to right and wrong as you cut a swath through
nightside London, leaving terror and hushed whispers in your wake.
It's taxing. Takes a lot out of a fellow. A man grows faint upon the
road, and toddles home more often than not in a reduced state,
desiring nothing livelier than a generous thimblefull and a long kip
on a soft bed. For a hard man living a hard life, distractions are
unwelcome.
Guests are even less welcome. I awoke at 3 a.m. to the sound of an
interloper hanging on my bell, and I don't lie when I say I seriously
considered not getting up. But the bleeder simply wouldn't stop. In
the end there was nothing for it; I blundered my way through the
cramped darkness, barking my shin twice before finding the unfamiliar
switch, and cracked open the door.
The sight that greeted me set me back on the old slipper-shod heels.
I was taken completely, if I may employ the oft-abused phrase, on the
hop. Words failed, and even shocked gurgling seemed scarcely to meet
the case.
Docked on my threshold were perhaps the last two creatures I could
have possibly expected to see, and certainly the last I wished to.
Angel, late the gloomy thundercloud of west Los Angeles, stood
shuffling his feet on my mat and looking characteristically pained.
This was a jar. Reports of Angel's messy termination of employment at
Wolfram&Hart had been filtering through the grapevine for weeks, and
none of it reflected well on his reputation. Dodgy business, very.
One likes to give old torturers the benefit of the doubt, but Angel's
recent manuevers seemed like final proof that he'd signed a free
agent contract with Satan, or had become dangerously stupid in his
golden years, or both. A lad to give a wide berth to in all events,
but there he stood.
Worse, at his elbow slouched the lost, lamented, most emphatically
and incontrovertably dusted Spike, martyred adorer of Buffy and
closer of Hellmouths. It would not be too much to say that I goggled,
and even gaped.
"Spike!" I finally managed to croak. "What? How? For God's sake, why?"
"Hi, Rupert."
"But you're dead. You brought down Sunnydale. You couldn't have
possibly survived that -- Buffy told me all. How come you hither,
man?"
"He's with me," Angel replied, rather unneccesarily.
"Gonna let us in?" asked Spike, peering past my shoulder.
I remembered myself. "Certainly not."
"We've come a long way," said Angel.
"Too bad."
"It's really late."
"Worse luck," I said, moving to close the door.
"Rupert," said Spike, sticking out a foot, "You can't just fob us off
to sleep in a rubbish tip, can you, old fellow soldiers that we are?
Where's the team spirit? Where's the hospitality of the English
gentleman? Where's the Giles of old?"
"Oh, very well," I sighed, turning way. "Come in."
"Bit of a walking tour," explained Spike as he sloped into my
sanctum. "We have to report to hell in a few days, so we're taking
the long way round."
"Why hurry?" said Angel. "Hell will keep. Here, we brought you a
plant."
"Thank you," I replied with a touch of frost, setting it down
immediately. "I'm sure I'll regret asking, but what are you two
gibbering about? Kindly expand. Nobody reports to hell -- one is
dragged there kicking and screaming, writhing in the grip of the
avenging furies."
Spike looked offended. "Not us. No kicking. We're good."
"If you're good you don't go to hell," I replied, pointing out the
flaw.
Angel shrugged. "You do if you enrage the Powers That Be. Which is
kind of what we did."
"Seemed a good idea at the time," grunted Spike, doffing his coat.
A light began to dawn and the razor sharp mind of R. Giles inserted
plug A into slot B, so to speak. "That dustup in Los Angeles," I
hazarded. "That business with the dead demon army."
"Yeah." Angel had the grace to look abashed. "That was us. We sort of
started an apocalypse. We routed the bad guys, but now the Senior
Partners are loose on earth."
"Good Lord."
"Not so you'd notice, really," said Spike. "We did for their minions,
so for now they're just hanging about. Fenderbenders, mosquito bites -
- small stuff."
"Still, it's going to mean more work for the Powers, and they're
taking it out of our skins. They're petty bastards," said
Angel, "once you get to know them."
"Well, and we resurrected our humans, too. That really hacked them
off."
"They didn't like that at all," agreed Angel.
"No, they didn't," chuckled Spike.
"What humans?" I held up a finger just as Angel drew breath. "No.
Just a moment. Back up. Let us review. Spike, why aren't you dead?"
"I was."
"Then he came to work for me," put in Angel, who seemed to regard
every question directed at Spike as his rightful property.
"I was a freelancer," protested Spike. "I had my own thing going. I
hung out a shingle, once I got my body back, and rescued the stupid
in heaps."
"But how did you get your body back?"
"Dunno."
"Is Buffy aware of this?"
"Not sure."
"Not that it matters now," said Angel. "With both of us being damned
this way."
I realized my glasses needed cleaning. Making head or tail of a
vampire's mood is more art than science on the best of days, but I
couldn't help feeling something was a bit off. The unwelcome pair
before me seemed altogether too phlegmatic about the prospect of
eternal perdition and torment unending, and I said so.
"Well, we can't do anything about it, so why bust a gut crying?"
asked Spike rhetorically, flopping in my easy chair and hefting my
decanter.
"These things happen," agreed Angel absently, poking at my rare and
priceless books.
"It's only just that we suffer, bad as we were," Spike mused,
sloshing himself a tumbler of my best. "Angel explained that to me a
long ways back. Say, Rupert."
"What?"
"Rupert. Mate."
"What?"
"It's like this. We want a favor."
"No."
"Rupert, remember that time you conspired to murder me? Wasn't I meek
as a lamb about it? Didn't I go on carrying the heavy end for all of
you like nothing had happened? Don't you have a scrap of dencency?"
"My decency is not at issue, but no, I don't. I've changed. I am," I
informed them with grave and terrible mein, "Ripper again."
"You wouldn't have blood by any chance, would you?" asked Angel,
noticeably unrocked by my news.
"Look, you tosser, we want funerals. After we're gone. A lot of
people," -- and here Spike faltered, his expression leaving no doubt
in my mind exactly who he meant by People, "a lot of people might
have the wrong idea about us now. That we came back wicked, that we
sold out, that we didn't rescue babies. It's got to stop."
Angel had drifted into my kitchen. "I gave up my Shanshu for the good
of all," he said over his shoulder.
"Yeah, that too. Look, Rupert, we want eulogies. You've got to set
the facts straight. It'll be a smidgen of cheer to us, while we're
roasting on spits, to know that people don't think badly of us for
it."
"When you go to hell people always assume the worst," said Angel,
returning with my last bottle of Evian. "We need you to give them the
truth, Giles. Is that so much to ask?"
"I'm going to bed."
"We've got notes for you," said Spike, reaching for his duster. "And
I wrote a poem about our doomed struggle."
"It's not his best work," said Angel. "But who cares?"
I staggered off.
****
Any hope that morning would find them gone were dashed when I went to
shave. The shower was locked, and steam leaked through the jamb. I
gave the door a sour thump which predictably achieved nothing at all,
and retreated to the parlor, interrupting Spike in the midst of an
earnest conversation with my new plant.
"I thought you'd be asleep," I said, shuffling toward the electric
kettle.
"Can't sleep," yawned Spike. "Might miss something. Need to store up
memories for my endless term of burning torment, which is now a day
nearer, by the way."
"All right. Enough. You'll get your bloody funeral."
"Brilliant. Flowers?"
"Of course."
"Crepe?"
"By the boxcar," I replied nastily, for all my tea was gone. "Shall I
hire mourners, too?"
"Can you get mourners these days?"
Spike, as I had been given ample opportunity to observe in Sunnydale,
was a singularly unironic bloke when possessed of an Idea. Sarcasm
was utterly lost on the bugger. "I'm sure something can be arranged,"
I said listlessly.
The bell rang again and I leapt like a gazelle. What with taking in
undead strays under sentence of damnation and tossing into the wee
hours as they loudly discussed their obsequies over my port, I'd
completely forgotten the day's agenda. Resigned to yet more
complications and perhaps some swooning, I threw open the airlock.
"Good morning, Mr. Giles," said Andrew. "Hi, Spike."
"Hullo, Andrew. How're things?"
"Not so bad. You?"
"Damned, you know."
"Well, I've been --"
"Andrew!" I cried. I felt as if I'd taken a gravel-filled sock to the
mazzard. "Andrew. What is this? What does it mean? Don't tell me you
knew Spike was alive all this time, I implore you."
"Er, yeah. I sort of did. Saw him in LA -- where I was laying my
masterful snares to rescue Dana on your direct orders, Mr. Giles --
and then in Italy, and then --"
"And you said nothing?"
"Spike swore me to secrecy."
"But I am your teacher. Your mentor, your guide. I am above all
common oaths. Andrew, we really must hammer out where your loyalties
lie."
"Mr. Giles is very insecure since he became morally gray again," said
Andrew.
"Stick with him," advised Spike. "Shower him with devotion.
Unconditional love works wonders with these insecure types."
"Andrew, did you tell Buffy?" I demanded, wondering just how out of
the loop and peripheral I actually was.
"Don't," groaned Spike. "Don't, Andrew. I don't want to know. Either
way I couldn't bear it."
"Okay, Spike."
"Andrew, I really must insist that you speak."
"No can do, Mr. Giles. My lips are sealed. Spike couldn't bear it."
"I'll fire you, you twit!"
"Spike, what should I do?" whimpered Andrew.
Spike bolted, colliding in a brief tangle with a towel-clad and
tousled Angel, who had chosen that moment to heave his moist,
strapping bulk into our vicinity.
"Gah!" said Spike.
"Fah!" said Angel, and they parted.
"What now?" inquired Angel, rolling on and inserting a towel-tip into
one ear. "Is Spike in danger of finding out if Buffy Knows again?"
The lav door slammed like a choked cry of anguish. I had missed my
window of opportunity regarding ablutions, and this only added to my
general sense of being crowded out and ill used.
"That is the question at hand," I replied icily. "Who knew, and when.
Does Dawn know too? How about the potentials and the AP wire service?
Did everyone, in fact, know, except me?"
If Angel was conscious of the intolerable affront to the Gilesean
dignity offered by all this secret-keeping and cliquishness, or was
in any way sympathetic to my wounded feelings, he hid it well.
"I wasn't paying attention, Giles. I had a law firm to run and Spike
was busy being a massive pain in my ass." He picked up a pair of
trousers and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm going to spend
eternity shackled to that guy on a burning wheel of pain. Christ,
what a gyp."
"Good morning, Angel," piped Andrew.
Angel looked at Andrew for the first time, peering down at him like a
Siberian ox considering a vole. "Hm. Hello, Andrew. Work any good
stings lately?"
Andrew blushed like a maiden. "That was a good sting, wasn't it? But
I can't take all the credit -- Mr. Giles helped a little."
"What a surprise." Angel gave me the fishy eye. "Still, it's nothing
you can't atone for, Giles, if you give us a couple of good funerals.
I made a sketch of the program I want. Do you think you could do a
slideshow?"
Spike appeared in the doorway, having evidently mastered his panic
regarding the Buffy question. "Oh, right, forgot to mention. Yeah,
we'd really fancy a slideshow. One of those overhead projector jobs,
with music for the sad bits. If you do it right there won't be a dry
eye in the house."
"But can he do it right?" asked Angel. "Can he not screw it up? Giles
isn't exactly a technical wizard, is he?"
"I know Powerpoint," said Andrew.
It began to seem that my flat was entirely too full of people. I
reduced the number by one, grabbing my coat and sallying forth
unshaven, to wrangle a drop of morning tea at a public purveyor of
same.
****
The calming effect of the steeped Oriental leaf, and the state of
reflection it encourages in a man prone to deep thinking, has been
noted by many a philosopher through the ages. As I sipped at the
fragrant restorative and toyed with a flake or two of herring, I
found my mood softening considerably.
Spike and Angel occupied the bottom slots on my list of cherished
comrades, true, but it could hardly be denied that they were up
against it in a significant manner. Hell, whether you were chained to
a tiresome companion or not, couldn't possibly be any fun, and it was
jolly permanent by all accounts. There was something in their plight
that spoke to my better self, the one I had packed away in mothballs
after Sunnydale and my move to the Dark side -- in fact it had taken
my b. self by the elbow, backed it into a chair and started asking
all manner of hard questions.
It was a possibility painful to admit, but it seemed likely that
Spike and Angel were telling the truth, confused as it was, about
their do-gooding activities in Los Angeles. A sober tea-supported
analysis bolstered the view that they had been laboring unsung in the
cause of Right all along, and that shunning the West Coast
contingent, a position I had loudly supported, had been a
miscalculation, perhaps even a tragic one.
It was all clear to me, now. Of course Spike and Angel had come to
grief, trying to fight the good fight unassisted. They were neither
of them cut out for the sort of brainy strategic evil-battling at
which a Watcher excelled. Alone and unguided by the hand of
experience they had made a sprightly hash of things, poor sods, and
were now facing the ultimate penalty.
I champed at a wedge of toast without a trace of my usual enthusiam.
Theirs was a predicament that tugged at the heartstrings, or at
whatever passed as heartstrings in the bosom of Ripper Reborn. My
duty seemed clear: to arrange whatever final rites I could contrive,
as per request, and show them a bit of kindness before seeing them
off at the gates of unending perdition.
The shop door burst open and two smoking figures rushed in, heads
covered by jackets. Andrew followed at a more sedate pace.
"We got some blood," announced Spike, dropping into a chair as if
this sort of talk were entirely appropriate for a public house. "And
stopped at a printer. Got some quotes."
"Here's the estimate," said Angel, handing it over.
The figure on the yellow sheet was steep enough to shake my
charitable resolution, but I rallied. "Seems reasonable," I coughed,
and reached for my cup.
"That doesn't include the graphic design, though."
"Graphic design?"
"I want you to hand out memorial cards to everyone who shows up,"
said Angel. "With my picture, and dates on the back, and some kind of
suitable quote. Something nice."
Andrew produced a digital camera and began to flutter about, checking
angles in the viewscreen.
"I wrote my own, you know," said Spike, plunking down a tiny notepad
and clearing his throat. "It's a poem."
"In the endless dark a battle rages
and for the fight there are no wages.
None save scorn,
and hope forlorn!
The lonely soldier falls alone
and sleeps beneath a slab of stone.
"But if one heart doth him remember
in the mournful mists of sere November --"
"I don't care what you put on mine," interrupted Angel. "Just make it
sad."
"Spike, look at me," said Andrew. Spike complied, placing one hand
over his heart and pulling a face that would have looked sappy on a
plaster statue of St. Agnes.
"Excellent!" exclaimed Andrew. "Angel, show me the brood."
"So, what are we doing today?" inquired Spike, perusing the tiny menu.
"Doing?"
"I'd like to see a matinee," said Angel. "On the West End. And then a
floor show, maybe with a tropical theme. Do they still have floor
shows?"
"Not if they can help it," I replied.
"And some real music," said Spike. "An after-hours joint or two. And
of course lots of booze."
"Of course," said Angel.
"I'm going to need more memory for this thing," said Andrew,
squinting into his camera.
****
In his day, Ripper was a wastrel of iron. If there was an upper limit
to his stamina in pursuit of low pleasure, he never found it. In the
sinister spring of youth my idea of relaxation included not only
endless club rounds at the lowest dives available but brawling,
clashes with uniformed authority, and a little arson, more often than
not, to round off a large night. But the cruel truth of it was that
the long years had reduced me to a shadow of my former self. My
episode of respectable retirement in Sunnydale had rendered me soft.
I found myself trailing after Spike, Andrew and Angel, as the shades
of evening dragged on, with a pronounced limp.
The merrymaking continued dashed interminable, and one stop bled into
the next in a beastly welter of smoke and electronic noise. Spike
danced with all comers, if you could call the head-slamming that made
up his choreographic routine dancing, while Angel ran up fearful tabs
and Andrew recorded the night's doings for posterity. One of the
photos, it shames me to say, shows Angel with his brawny arm draped
over my shoulder, his face shining with tears of transitory Irish
sentiment. Another shows a naked male posterior, but the owner of
same remains unidentified to this day, and the less said about it
here the better, I suppose.
My recollection of events gets downright hazy toward the end, but I
remember that at some point I prevailed on my companions to call it a
night, and as gray-mantled dawn stole over the glistening streets we
somehow found our way back to the flat. I made for my bed like a
homing torpedo, only to have Spike catch me by the arm and pull me
into a sloppy hug.
"I guess this is goodbye, mate," he said. "We've got to shove off.
Mind you water that plant."
"I will," I assured him, feeling suddenly tight in the thoracic
regions. It seemed hollow to wish either of them luck, circumstances
being what they were.
"Don't waste any time getting those funerals going," said
Angel. "Don't give people a chance to forget. The sooner the better,
okay?"
"Right ho."
Spike produce a wad of scribbled bar napkins. "More notes. Just for
accuracy. And don't edit the stuff about my undying capacity for
love."
"I wouldn't dream of it, old man."
"Let's go," said Angel, stomping out.
Andrew plucked at Spike's sleeve. "I'll go with you guys, as far
they'll let me."
"Ta, Andrew. Glad to have you along. Sleep tight, Rupes."
The door closed behind them and I retired, but sleep was slow to
break out the long needles and knit up the raveled sleeve of care.
Day was bright beyond my window and lorries were rattling in the
streets below when I finally slipped off, only to wander in confused
and sorrowing dreams.
****
When I opened my eyes again the clock told me it was not yet ten. I
felt excessively gritty in the gears and considered snatching another
wink or two, but it seemed base to lie abed while my former
houseguests fried in hell. I rose with some delicacy and groped my
way to the shower. It was locked.
"Sorry, I'll be right out," called Angel. "Wait -- do you have any
gel?"
I peeled away into the kitchen, trying to force my sluggish thoughts
into a semblance of order. I robotically prepared a cup and utensils
before realizing that Spike and Angel had done for all my tea the day
before -- their last day on earth, according to press. Yet there was
unquestionably an Angel ensconced in my loo, well past deadline,
using all my hot water. I could make no sense of it.
The front door thumped and Spike waltzed in, billowing smoke. "Hullo,
Giles. Fine day. What a clingy prat that Angel is -- took me half the
morning to shake him. Wanna stand me a drink?"
The loo flushed and Angel appeared onstage, arrested in the act of
combing his hair. The two interlopers glared at each other, wearing
identical expressions of outraged disbelief.
"You coward," grated Angel.
"You bloody cheat!" exclaimed Spike.
"But what -- how -- why aren't you both in hell?" It wasn't the most
tactful question to ask, I know, but I found events moving too fast
to process efficiently with a morning head, and the direct approach
seemed best.
Spike shrugged. "I got to thinking. No offense, Rupert, but I'm not
sure I can trust you not to bollix this funeral thing. You want a
little steering from somebody who has a way with words, somebody who
can coach from the wings."
"You just want to hang around and watch Buffy cry, you creep," said
Angel wrathfully.
Spike lifted an eyebrow. "A fine accusation from the man who made her
cry for years, and liked it. What, afraid she won't throw herself on
your empty coffin? Sticking around to give her a shove?"
Angel started for Spike, and Spike raised his fists, and it was all I
could do to get between them before they upset any vases.
"Stop it, you berks," I hissed. "Try to use your heads. Funerals are
the least of our problems now. Think! What's going to happen when you
don't show up in hell on schedule?"
Angel considered. "I suppose they'll send somebody after us."
"Too fucking right they'll send somebody after you. Straight to my
bloody door. Why do you tarry? Get out!"
The bell rang and we froze.
"They're not getting me without a fight," snarled Spike. "I have a
funeral to attend."
"Guys?" called Andrew from the hallway. "Guys, you really need to let
me in."
****
At Andrew's urging we decamped in record time. I threw a few things
into a bag -- since resuming the Ripper mantle I was accustomed to
traveling light, a shadow of fear and a rumor of terror, haunting the
dark places where ordinary citizens feared to roam -- and Spike took
the notebooks. Angel carried my plant.
"I saw them down the block after I followed you back," said Andrew,
dancing in our train in a state of high anxiety. "They're big, and
they carry whips and chains. They're doing a sweep. Some poor old
lady had a heart attack."
Indeed, we could see the ambulance flashing at the corner. "Best we
go another way, then," I said.
We nipped down a flight of stairs into the tube, mostly so Angel and
Spike could avoid the discomfort of outright combustion. Beyond that,
we were woefully short on plan.
"Can we make it to France?" wondered Angel.
"No way," said Spike. "Not France."
"Spike, I read something about hell sentences in the Grimoire of
Maledictions, after you first called me," said Andrew, craning his
neck in the hopes of spotting the train. "There were several passages
about --"
"When did Spike call you?" I demanded.
"Last week -- no, wait. Yeah, last week."
It was really too much. "You knew they were coming? Why in God's name
didn't you warn me?"
"What did you find, Andrew?" prompted Angel.
"Oh God!" shrieked Andrew, as Hell Guardians of not-inconsiderable
heft ripped open the station ceiling and halted further conversation.
A certain amount of hell-for-leather flight down dank tunnels ensued.
I lost my luggage at some point, while Spike and Angel were ripping
out girders to impede pursuit. The last I saw of Andrew he was
pelting down the dark byways like an Olympic sprinter, nimbly
avoiding both electrocution and capture. One may say what one wishes
about Andrew's intelligence, loyalty to employers and general worth
as a human being, but when danger looms the lad's a flier. He was
gone like a summer breeze almost before we got down to business.
"Which way, which way?" shouted Spike, knocking down a concrete wall
or two with Angel's able-bodied assistance.
"How would I know?" I panted, doubling over a nasty stitch in my
side.
"You live here, don't you?"
"I don't make a habit of pacing the underground on foot, you nit."
"Quit bitching," grunted Angel. "I think we lost them."
The rubble barricade burst asunder and two Hell Guardians advanced
through the breach, snarling. Unsightly buggers to a degree, it pains
me to relate. They had tusks and bristles and an abundance of oily
musculature, in addition to the whips and manacles mentioned in
Andrew's early report.
"Hold, dogs!" roared the foremost, brandishing a flail. "Surrender
and submit!"
"Hell awaits you, miscreants," added his companion, with the
theatrical relish to which avenging demons are so lamentably prone.
"Look, we only need a few days," said Angel. "Can't we get a waiver?
Why don't we discuss this like reasonable --"
The Hell Guardians roared and the vampires vamped, and the battle was
joined. It was brief, alas, and I was afforded small opportunity to
participate. In a blink the dust was settling and Angel and Spike
were being hoisted, trussed, over the shoulders of the Guardians. It
seemed only right to make a gesture of support and I launched myself
at them accordingly, but of course the H. G.s batted me aside like a
gnat. I hit the wall and slid into a relaxed sort of heap, watching
the dim tunnel spin and enjoying a moment of dreamy detachment from
the cares of the cruel world.
>From somewhere left of my narrow field of vision I heard Andrew
cry, "Stop!" -- and bugger me if the Guardians didn't do just that. I
experienced a fleeting surge of teacherly pride in Andrew's pluck.
Then Andrew said: "Take us with you," and my teacherly pride abruptly
gave place to an emotion less congenial. You might call it alarm, or
even abject terror. For some reason I find it difficult to express in
words what I felt in that instant, but you can rest assured that it
fell short of whole-hearted enthusiasm. The Guardians seemed to find
it a topping suggestion, though, and with a blast of fetid air and
burst of sulphur, off we went.
****
The worst part of hanging by your heels in the penal dock of a
courtroom in hell, apart from the considerable pain and humiliation,
is the way it compromises thought, especially if you've been unlucky
enough to sustain a concussion in the first act. It took several
moments of blinking and headshaking to draw abreast of events, and
puzzle out my position relative to Angel, Andrew and Spike. They were
strung up in identical postures to my right and left, a sight I might
in sunnier times have enjoyed thoroughly, but which left me feeling,
as things stood, that the soup was closing over our heads.
My headshaking caused me to sway on my creaking chain, drawing
snickers from the infernal gallery, which I summoned sufficient
strength to resent bitterly.
"Shut up or I'll clear this court," said a tiny sort-of-woman in dark
robes, scowling from the judicial bench. The tittering subsided.
"You were saying?" prompted the little creature impatiently.
"I was saying that yeah, we deserve hell," said Angel. "We've done a
lot of evil and there has to be justice, we know that."
Who's we? I wanted to ask, but speech was momentarily beyond me.
"We only wanted a last bash, you know, a respectable launch," added
Spike. "But I guess it doesn't matter now."
The judge lifted her gavel. "Fine, good. It's simple, then. Prisoners
are remanded to the sixth circle effective immed --"
"Wait," blurted Andrew. "Judge lady, hear me. Hearken to a tale of
bloody tragedy and terrible remorse, of love and atonement and
courageous suffering. Lend me your ears, good hellspawn, and learn
the sad history of these two poor sinners, redeemed by love and
fighting a lonely battle for an uncaring world."
"Andrew, this is hell," said Spike wearily. "You can't sell that
rubbish here. They don't care about the sodding world."
"This is a court of law," said the judge sternly, "and we'll listen
to what I say we'll listen to. Go on, son."
"It's like this, Your Honor. Spike and Angel are good now. Wow, are
they good. They rescue the stupid and help the helpless. They're like
Lone Wolf and Cub. Have you read Lone Wolf and Cub?"
"Oh, God," sighed Spike.
"They don't belong here, Your Judgeship. The Powers are just pissed
off because Spike and Angel threw away the script, and isn't that the
kind of thing hell likes? Pissed off Powers?"
"The law's the law," said the judge neutrally.
"Yes, but you're The Man, aren't you? I mean, well, you know what I
mean. You're the one who actually does the sentencing." Andrew took a
deep breath. "If it please the court, have mercy on these two
wanderers in the darkness, who have such power to annoy the Powers. O
mighty judge lady, grant unto them probation."
The spectators dissolved into mirth, hooting.
"Shut up!" The judge slammed the benchtop with the flat of her hand.
When silence returned, she gazed upon Andrew with an expression of
regret. "It's a nice idea, young man, but the system can't support
it. I can't send officers of this court onto the earthly plane to
keep tabs on a pair of felons, however annoying. They'll just have to
rot in hell like everybody else."
"Angel," said Spike suddenly, "I'm sorry about your Shanshu. That was
pure brass, what you did, and I shouldn't have ragged you about it
after."
"I'm sorry about Geneva," said Angel grudgingly. "And for how I acted
about your ghost problem."
"Pipe down," said the judge.
"Your honor, you don't need to send officers into the world. You've
got a fine probation guy right here." Andrew jerked his head at
me. "Surely you realize that hanging before you is the infamous
warlock Ripper? A man feared on earth for his pitiless temperament
and utter lack of moral compass?"
Whispers ran through the court. I felt every eye on me.
"Is this true? Are you the Ripper?"
"The one and only, your ladyship," I replied.
"We've been expecting you, Mr. Ripper, but not as soon as this."
I hardly knew how to respond to that, so I contented myself with more
silent swaying in bonds.
"This court is recessed. Bailiff, get everyone out of here. I need to
think." The judge brought down her gavel, and the court cleared.
"Do you think I'll be able to remember her face?" Spike asked no one
in particular. "I think I might be able to suck it up without going
mad, if they'll let me remember her face."
"I don't think we get to remember," said Angel sadly.
"What's this about probation? Andrew, wake up. What were you saying
about probabtion?"
"Something I read, Mr. Giles. It's rare, but there's precedent. The
last recorded case was during the Horebeth Inundation, and the warden
had to go live in a tree. Essentially the same situation, though."
"But what would I have to do?"
"Oh, just take full custody of the criminals, accept a searing brand
of office that will never cease to burn, and sign a few papers," said
Andrew. "El soupo de ducko."
"Will you two shut up?" complained Angel. "She'll never go for it.
Quit yapping and let us think our last rational thoughts in peace."
"Her hair smelled like kiwi fruit, some days," murmured Spike.
"And some days like Herbal Essense shampoo," said Angel.
"She had twelve pairs of capri pants."
"And she never dropped a stake."
And on it went. It's hard to beguile the unforgiving hour when
you're dangling in painful suspense listening to rot like that, but
eventually the judge returned and the bailiffs let the gallery back
in.
"Okay," said the judge. "I've heard a lot of testimony against you
guys, but I take facts as facts. And it's actually in your favor,
that you have so few friends in hell."
"Yah," spat an onlooker.
"Throw him out," snapped the judge.
The bailiffs did so.
"Now," said the judge, "we come down to it. You there, Mr. Ripper.
Are you going to give your bond to watch these two characters, and
keep them in line, no matter by what harsh and savage means?"
"Certainly, Your Honor. I can confidently promise that."
"Will you punish all infractions, however slight, with stunning
brutality?"
"Oh, rather," I said, meaning it.
"Fine. The vampires are remanded to your keeping." She shook a
finger. "And don't let me see you in this court again, nimrods."
Spike looked too stunned to reply. Angel, however, managed a
chastened: "Yes, Ma'am."
The gavel fell and we were released from our chains with a painful
thump.
"Join me in chambers, Mr. Ripper," called the judge. "We'll get you
fixed up with your searing brand."
Andrew picked up my potted plant, which had been drooping to one side
during the length of the proceedings.
"Catch you in the lobby, Mr. Ripper," he said.
****
I'll say one thing for the hellish penal system: when the festivities
are over they stand not upon idle ceremony, but hasten to suck you up
into a diabolical portal and spit you out at the nearest stop. When
the whirling ceased and we scrambled to our feet, we found ourselves
in a moonlit glade, our garments liberally soaked with evening dew.
"Huh," said Spike. "Well, thanks for that, Rupert. See you around."
"Oh, no you don't," I said. "You're staying right here. I have to
live in a bloody sodding tree now, thanks to you, and I'm damned if
I'm going to do it alone."
"It's the Tree, Spike," marveled Angel. "What do you know -- I guess
Giles is the new Keeper of the Well." His head drooped. "Maybe Drogyn
will be happy now, wherever he is. Poor Drogyn. Drogyn, I'm sorry.
Ah, God, what have I done?"
Spike registered alarm. "None of that, you tosser, none of that. You
gave your word."
"I promised not to talk about Drogyn in hell, Spike. We're not in
hell. We're free and safe, and Drogyn's still gone."
"Gone where?" I felt obliged to inquire. "Gone how? Who's Drogyn?
Angel, what did you do?"
"For God's sake Rupert, don't encourage him," warned Spike. "We'll be
patting his knee and handing him hankies into next week, if you let
him get started."
Andrew leaned over and addressed the plant. "All clear, Ma'am."
The plant shuddered and began to ripple, and in a moment a slender
woman in fantastic and scandalously tight garb was stepping out of
the pot. "I was a prisoner in this place," she said, swiveling her
head like an anxious iguana. "It disturbs me greatly to return."
Spike had moved to the tree directly behind us and was thumping the
bark. "Don't be so quick to rush off, Highness. We'll have a
housewarming. Hey, if we can figure out how to unshrink Percy and
Gunn it'll be a regular party."
The woman fixed me with a baleful eye. "Is the warlock sufficiently
skilled to the task? I should be forced to destroy him if anything
went wrong."
I adjusted my glasses. "Excuse me, have we met?"
"This is Illyria the god king," said Angel. "Illyria, Giles."
Spike returned from his tree-thumping mission, having failed to find
the entrance. I might have told him he couldn't, since the Tree and
all its mysteries were mine alone to unlock, but the knowledge had
only just surfaced, giving me a duece of a turn. It felt like someone
had sloshed me abaft the melon with all manner of hidden portents,
oracles and glimpses into the unseen. It was revelatory, if that's
the word I want.
"Where did Wes and Charlie fetch up, by the way?" asked Spike.
"They are suspended in the vital fluid of my ancillary duct," replied
Illyria. She cocked her head, as one hearkening to a still, small
voice. "They do not find the sensation unpleasant. And neither do I."
"Still, probably a little cramped in there," said Angel
uncomfortably. "Giles, we could use your help with this."
"Absolutely not."
"Giles, come on. Be a guy."
"I won't consider it. That sort of magic is the riskiest imaginable.
Ring up Willow."
"Please, Giles."
"Oh, very well."
Satisfied by my steely caving-in, Angel escorted Illyria to the tree
and stood waiting. I heaved a sigh and sketched an eldritch symbol.
The wretched trunk split open and they popped on in without a
backward glance, looking very much at home.
Andrew followed them, toting the empty pot for reasons best known to
himself. I heard him say, "Oh, wow!" from the interior, and then
Spike and I were alone.
"So, you want us to stay?"
"I demand that you stay, Spike. I'm not about to fail my charge and
fry in hell because you and Angel are too thick to keep out of
mischief."
Spike shrugged, as if, in balance, this was fair enough. "Right.
How's that burning brand, then?"
"Extremely hot, since you're asking."
"It'll probably feel better tomorrow." Spike shifted uneasily and
dropped his eyes. "You, uh, really came through for us, Rupert, back
in the court. And you were damned decent about the funeral, even
though it came to nothing in the end." Spike stuck his hands in his
pockets. "I guess that makes us square."
"No, it jolly well doesn't make us square. It puts you in my debt for
a hundred years, give or take, and don't you forget it." I leveled a
finger at him. "Welcome to the Ripper's army, Spike. You'll both look
sharp when I give an order, or formulate a plan, or assign extra
reading. And there will be no reckless fighting of evil without my
informed and express consent."
"Sure, Rupes," said Spike appeasingly. "Whatever you say. You're the
bloke in the Tree, after all."
We approached the entrance.
"Giles," said Spike. "About that funeral."
"Forget it."
"I never had a proper one, you know."
"As if I care."
"Look, how many times have I died? I'm sort of owed at least one
decent sendoff, don't you think? And we have all those notes."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"I wrote a poem."
"Fine," I sighed. "Just as you like."
"Welcome to your new and darkling realm, Rupes," said Spike, waving
grandly at the endless torchlit tunnels. "Step up and I'll show you
around."
END
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