Cynthia Martin
PG
Spuffy/Ultimately
Spike needs a summer job and Giles needs to make amends
Disclaimer:  I can't really follow Monkybottom's act re:
disclaimers.  Just read this:

http://www.mrmonkeybottoms.com/odd_couple%20main.htm

She's much funnier than I can ever hope to be.  Anyway, this is for
fun.

*
*
*

Where's the new guy?  Where's Spike?"

It's always the way with these performers and artistes.  They can't
stick to the matter in hand.  They float like thistledown from one
enthusiasm to another, and Zuptya's latest hobby seemed to involve a
great deal of interest in Spike.

Jeffries shot a scowl across the club, toward the office door behind
which Spike was sequestered.  As usual, Zuptya took no notice of
Jeffries.

"Is he working tonight?" she persisted.

"He is working *now,* Zuptya, as you should be.  Look, Zuptya," I
said as to an errant child, "Here is Jeffries, to help with your
blocking."

"Hi, Zuptya," said Jeffries.

Zuptya registered his presence at last.  "Oh. I guess we better get
started, then," she sighed.

Poor Jeffries smiled and off they went.

I was possessed of a strange and lightsome zip, courtesy of my
newfound resolutions, and the day's business went forward swiftly.
Staff was coaxed back, let go, or hired off the street, gate receipts
were recorded with a careful hand, repairmen were called in to do
battle with our ruined oven.  I buzzed into my tiny office well
before the appointed hour, full of beans and buck and ready to make
the world a topping stopover for sundered lovers everywhere.

"Ah, Spike.  Hard at work, I see.  Stout lad.  What's the verdict?
What did you find?"

Spike looked up with his secondhand soul in his eyes.  "I found it,"
he breathed.  "I found the answer."

I nipped forward and peered over his shoulder at the screen of my
laptop.  Thereupon was a web page of curious design, full of scrolls
and illuminated letters, exuding a general air of overwrought and
earnest pomposity.  "Contemplation," declared the legend at the
top, "is a labor of devotion."  In one corner there was a species of
list or schedule in which the words "work" and "prayer" figured
heavily, and the whole was dotted by photos of tonsured fellows
puttering about in fields and choir stalls.

"Monks?" I frowned. "Did monks bring you back?"

"What?"

"Monks.  Bring you back.  Did they?"

Spike shrugged, baffled by the question.  "Beats me," he replied.  "I
sorta got off the track.  This is more important.  Watcher, this is
it -- I know why I'm here.  I know what I've got to do."

I was not following.  Fogged.  The drift was eluding me. "Oh, ah?"

Spike nodded somberly.  "I'm going to become a monk," he said.

It took me a moment to stop laughing, but I mastered myself and gave
him the stern Watcherly eye.  "Spike.  We're getting off on the wrong
foot entirely.  This is no way to commence your training, this bald
blowing off of a simple assignment and babbling out the side of your
neck.  Lesson One: a Watcher is sobriety itself.  Put jokes and
raillery aside and tell me if you managed to find anything of value."

"I'm not joking, you wanker," scowled Spike.  "Sorry.  Anyway, this's
what I'm supposed to do.  See, these monk blokes renounce the world
and do penance and whatnot.  They mop floors and pull weeds.  They
devote -- " Spike paged back and began to read directly from the
screen: "'They devote their lives to poverty and prayer, earning
their bread by
humble labor and perfecting themselves by the practice of
obedience.'  And there you have it.  That's the answer."

"Good lord."

Spike tapped the screen. "S'all clear now.  I was sent back for a
reason, Watcher.  This is the payout.  This is it."

He was perfectly serious.  I felt a stirring of alarm.  Clearly Spike
was still unsteady on his pins -- resurrection always did rather
harsh things to the mental poise of the resurrectee -- and I was
uncertain how to proceed.  The kid gloves seemed to be indicated yet
again.

"Spike," I said gently, "It's rot.  Blithering lunacy.  You rave,
man."

"Why? I'm human now, same as anybody else.  And I still got my soul."

"You may have a soul, but you are also a satyr of unconstrained
sexual appetite, a stranger to religious feeling of any sort, a
practitioner of petty larceny, a rouster, a layabout and an obstinate
mule.  You'd go mad in a day, you silly yob."

I could tell by Spike's crestfallen expression that I had mislaid the
velvet gloves and spoken perhaps a touch too frankly.  As it
happened, Spike demonstrated his native grit in the face of
resistance.  He dropped his eyes and muttered stubbornly: "I could
learn."

"Put it aside," I told him, my alarm rising by the second.  "Leave
off this daft blather and get a grip.  Life is to be lived, Spike,
and *that* is what you are here to do.  Besides, I'm training you to
be my successor," I added. "To be a Watcher."

"Don't want to be a Watcher."

"Well, no one does at the beginning, but that will pass.  Now get up
and make yourself presentable.  Straighten that collar.  Run a comb
through your hair.  We have an appointment and I want you looking
sharp."

Spike complied with ill grace and cast a glance of longing at the
laptop as he logged off. "Where?  What for?  With who?"

I checked my watch.  Buffy's plane was due in just under three
hours.  Despite Spike's dazed, mystical and generally loopy  post-
revenant affect, I had no confidence that he wouldn't put two and two
together if we spent excessive time hanging about the airport.  I
wouldn't have put it past him to take a runner.  Surprise was key: I
had to synchronize.  My plan was to shoot Spike up to the velvet
ropes just as the plane debarked, precipitating a face to face with
the woman he adored, and then retire to the wings as True Love cast
its mighty spell. I was confident that Buffy's presence alone would
turn the trick. I had my money on a few Buffily-generated romantic
tears, needless to say, and knew that Spike would melt like wax when
he laid eyes upon the damp and cherished visage.  All his moral
hesitations, fears and babble of monks would evaporate like mist in
the face of a little lachrymosity.  It was only a matter of getting
him into position.

"Clients," I told him.  "Persons of quality with an interest in the
mystic arts.  And then some errands.  And perhaps we will look in at
a pub..."

"No pubs," replied Spike firmly.  "That's over."

Blast the fellow.  I had been counting on an assist from John
Barleycorn, in aim of rendering Spike susceptible to love's sweet
song, but any Watcher worth his badge can improvise, I always say.

"Just as you wish, then," I agreed soothingly.  "Now look slippy,
there's a good Spike.  We have places to be."


***


A Watcher suffers many trials.  Life is no day at the beach for
Watchers under the best of circumstances.  A Watcher perforce
develops a high tolerance for stress and irritants and never loses
his composure no matter how sorely provoked, but that day I came
dashed close.

It was hot.  It was humid.  It was close.  The sun hammered the
landscape like an anvil and my company, to turn a phrase, was
uncongenial.  Despite my lack of endorsement Spike was undeterred in
his dreams of habits, hairshirts and breviaries, and eager as dammit
to share all he knew.  He wearied me mercilessly with tales
gleaned from the internet, about the singular beauty of the
cloistered life and his motives for seeking the steep path of
perfection.

"I need to atone, see," he informed me for the fiftieth time as my
miserable car chugged along the byways, belching fumes and sans
anything that could be remotely described as air conditioning.  "All
that penance and tillin' the fields, all that bowing and scraping,
that's just the ticket, Rupes.  Sort me out for all the evil stuff I
did.  Balance the scales, maybe; pay the debt.  I hear they sleep on
straw."

"Ah, straw.  That's good."

"And they get up in the middle of the night to chant psalms.  And
they're veggie, too -- no meat, not even a chicken's foot, unless
they're dying."

"Fine, Spike, very fine."

"There's all sorts of 'em," continued Spike. "A big variety to choose
from.  Gonna give those Zen blokes a closer look, and the Hindus.
And the Trappists in Kentucky... they wear wool year round and never
talk..."

I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and brought the car to a stop on a
leafy residential street.  All about us was the glory of high summer,
with bees dragging themselves listlessly from one wilted blossom to
next, cicadas wheezing and dogs splayed on porches as if they had
been shot.  I trudged across a wide lawn that sent up waves of heat
to rival the sands of the Mojave and Spike trotted at my side, fresh
and utterly unaffected, nattering without pause.  His silence of the
immediate post-oven-exiting era, which had so concerned me, had
passed into fond memory.

"They still scourge themselves, some of 'em.  Bet that's effective.
They make jam, and books, and cheese --"

I leaned tiredly on the bell and in due course a maid hove into view
to raise the portcullis.  We followed her into the elegant environs
of Dunnfair, frequent subject of the Notable Homes Tour and residence
of my chief investor, Alfred Dundee.  Persons of varied aspect
punctuated the layout, sipping at tall drinks and chatting in knots.

"Oh, Mr. Giles!"  Mrs. Dundee detached herself from one of the
aforementioned clusters and fluttered toward us, trailing
chiffon.  "I'm ecstatic that you came, Mr. Giles.  We haven't even
drawn the shades and ectoplasm is manifesting already.  I can feel
cold phantom fingers tracing their portents over my skin and filling
me with a numinous dread of the unseen.  It's going to be a perfectly
lovely afternoon!"

"Mrs. Dundee, may I present my new assistant, W --"

"Spike," said Spike, sticking out his hand.

"Spike," beamed Mrs. Dundee. "What a pleasure.  How did you find
yourself in the Midwest, dear?"

"Oh, just got into town after a month or so spent being dead. I was a
vampire before, then I got killed in an apocalypse -- but no worries,
these things happen, all flesh is as grass, right? Except in my case
it was more like charcoal briquettes.  It was quick, anyway.  I'm
human now," concluded Spike.  "And a really big target, according to
some people."

"Oh, you poor thing," crooned Mrs. Dundee. "What a lot to go through!"

"It's not so bad.  Except Rupert here's bent on making me into his
sorcerer's apprentice and personal valet.  Thinks he can browbeat
me 'cause I used to be one of the evil undead.  But I'm not having
it," confided Spike. "Gonna be a monk.  Giles thinks I don't have the
stuff, but when I was burning to death on the lip of hell I was
steadfast as
billy-o, so it's just pettiness to suggest I couldn't hack it as a
mendicant friar, don't you think?"

"I think it's an admirable goal!  Too few are answering The Call
these days.  Would you like a mimosa, my dear?"

"Got anything without alcohol?"

It was horrible in its way, watching the two go at it without a
second's consideration for form or reticence.  I coughed.  "Spike.  A
word, if you please."

I took his elbow and steered him to an alcove, reaching for the
trusty old forbearance and calm.  "Spike, you seem to be taken by a
spirit of candor and while under many circumstances that's laudable,
perhaps here and now you could try shutting the deuce up."

"Just tryin' to be truthful, Rupes. My life isn't my own, is it?
Just here to fetch and carry and follow orders, and why not?  Clean
slate, like you said.  New leaf and all."

Spike's tone was guileless, but he couldn't hide the burblings of
grievance that simmered beneath the surface.  Perhaps Spike's fur was
up over my failure to embrace the monk scheme, or perhaps it went
back a bit farther than that, or perhaps it was just the heat of the
day affected him after all; in any case he was making his displeasure
felt.  I chose, however, to ignore the seething undercurrents
and adopt the serene avuncular mask.

"Place the leaf-turning at the bottom of the agenda, old man.  All
that is required is that you hover attentively and keep your honest
gob zipped.  Do you think you can handle that?"

"Sure," replied Spike indifferently,  but his manner still
seemed reminiscient of a member of the Bounty's crew tugging the
forelock for Cpt. Bligh, prior to slipping away and counting up
musketballs.  Resentful, I mean.  Evocative of the slow burn.

"We're ready!" announced Mrs. Dundee.  "Please, everyone, let's make
our way to the solar."


***

Those who know Rupert Giles may well describe him as a sort of keen-
eyed jungle cat, a veritable skein of instinct and poise and coiled
alertness.  R. Giles and vigilance are synonymous in the right
circles; Rupert Giles, they'll tell you, is one fellow who lets not
down his guard. A watcher's watcher, so to speak.  It takes, in
short, a threat of no common obscurity to nip up and prong the two
fingers into Giles unaware.

Therefore, if I tell you when I walked into the solar and came smack
up against the grinning and gnomishly repellent mug of Ethan Rayne
that my resulting consternation was extreme, you may take my word to
the automatic teller.

My head swam.  My mouth may have gaped.  A gurgle or two may have
escaped my stunned and bloodless lips.

"Hullo, Ripper," smirked the reptilian and repulsive bounder Rayne.

"What are you doing here?" I managed to whisper.  "You --!  They --!
It --!"

"Oh, you know how it is, Rip.  The just desserts ain't been invented
that can keep old Ethan -- why, hullo."  Ethan broke off to
acknowledge Spike, who had just parked himself to
starboard.  "Greetings.  Name's Rayne."

"Spike's mine.  Just got into town after a month or so spent being d -
- Oi!"

I elbowed Spike in the brisket and hauled him away without ceremony.
My mind was racing.  Where had Rayne been when Spike decanted his
life's tale to Mrs. Dundee?  Had Rayne overheard him? It was beyond
the reach of the chance's most freakish mutations that Ethan Rayne
would simply bob up here, of all places.  What new evil was on foot?
Was Spike already compromised?

"Quit pullin' at me," Spike growled.

"We have to get out of here, now," I panted, manhandling Spike, who
cooperated not at all, out through the parlor and toward the front
door.  "That man is known to me and when he shows up nothing good
follows.  Do you remember the Fyarl incident?  That was the very
blighter!  For God's sake, move!"

I cast a look back and caught a glimpse of Rayne standing amidst the
throng.  He gave me a nod and an ugly grin that sent chills coursing
from my collar to my toenails.

Then Mrs. Dundee was between us, chirping with dismay.  "Mr. Giles!
Mr. Giles, you're not leaving?"

"Sorry, something's come up.  Must dash," I grunted, shoving Spike
ahead of me.

"Oh, what a pity," clucked Mrs. Dundee.  "Do call when you are free."

I got the door open and froze.  The sun was gone.  The grounds were
shrouded in darkness and the air was heavy and still.  The menacing
clouds seemed to boil overhead, turning the dome of the sky into
witch's cauldron of bubbling green.

Spike stared, slackjawed.  "What the hell --?  Sorry, I mean, what
the f --"

A low, dreadful sound reached us.  It rose in pitch and volume, rose
in urgency, rose in a terrible atonal scream to be joined by others
from every quarter of the city.  In an instant we were surrounded by
a howling cacophony of alarm, ringing through the treetops, raising
the hackles on my neck.

"There go the sirens," said Mrs. Dundee composedly, turning to
address her guests. "Tornado, everyone!  Grab your drinks and join me
in the basement, won't you?"



***


An evil wind was tossing the distant treetops.  Hail began to pelt
the earth, smoking where it lay.  A bolt of blue lightning split the
sky from pole to pole and the thunder that followed was like a blow
from Titan's fist -- in all, a thoroughly hearty display of Nature's
unbound fury that would send any creature with functional legs
hotfooting it for shelter.

Spike looked at me.  I looked at Spike.  We were two minds united by
a single thought, more or less.

"Don't like basements," said Spike.

"We're getting out of here," I replied.

We plunged out into the rising tempest and staggered across the lawn,
which felt, in that hour, like the widest and most dishearteningly
uncrossable lawn in the history of landscaping.  The hail assumed the
proportion of golfballs, then cricket balls, then watermelons.  Car
alarms began to whoop and we reached the street just in time to see a
massive tree limb crush my poor Saab like a Post-it note.

I pointed and tried to yell: "Down there!" but got a mouthful of
needle sharp rain for my trouble.  Spike seemed to understand
anyway.  We staggered for some low ground adjoining the residential
golf course, avoiding trees, blinded by the staccato flashes that
tore the sky.  Amid much slippage and undignified sliding we fetched
up in a ditch of sorts, lashed by whipping reeds.

It is hardly my purpose in this document to criticise The United
States of America.  Heaven knows the place has a much to recommend
it, if one is in a congenial mood and warmed by as much liquor as is
helpful.  I have enjoyed fond ties to many Americans, and their aw-
shucks informality can be endearing even to one who cannot
reciprocate.  But for the love of everything holy, must the place be
so damned excessive
in every way?  Can't even the weather show a bit of restraint?  The
biblical wrath that fell upon Spike and I as we floundered in a ditch
by the 18th hole surpasses my power to describe.  It would have put
Durer's silverplate engravings to shame.  Blind, choking, expecting
at any instant to fry as lances of pure electrical discharge smoked
the green and sent nearby transformers into explosive oblivion, I had
to ask myself why I was not at home where I belonged.

"Damned boring, this!" I shouted.

"Oh, I dunno!" Spike yelled.

"The Tunguska Blast knocked this sideways, you know!"

"That was better, yeah!"

Like someone flipping a switch on a soundstage, the wind dropped and
died.  I don't know how to say this without exposing myself to the
charge of narrative hyperbole, but in that moment of charged
stillness I heard the earth groan.

"God," whispered Spike.  "Here it comes."

The layer of cloudcover became luminous.  It collapsed upon itself
and began to descend like water swirling into a drain.  Then I
realized, to my considerable dismay, that for all intents and
purposes we were sitting at the bottom of the drain. The twisting
tongue of tormented precipitation that mocked water's natural descent
was descending right jolly well upon us, and I grabbed Spike and
emitted what might not be unfairly described as a yelp of terror.

"Time to go!" I hollered, though I hadn't the faintest idea where.

And do you know, he fought me.  He threw me off.  That barmy git
pushed me away and craned his neck to the horrible spectacle,
fighting me when I got an arm around him.

"It's alive," he groaned.  "It's alive!"

I enjoined him in the strongest language at my disposal not to be an
ass and come away.  His response was to twist under my grip and send
me sprawling and small thanks with it, frankly.  The ungrateful idiot
raised his arms and burst into flames rather, which made me happy in
balance that he had eschewed my assistance.

I won a scripture prize once, for recounting without error the tale
of Moses and the burning bush.  If you know the scenario you will
have a frame of reference for what I saw next.  Spike burned like fun
but was not consumed.  The flame I had seen about his hand on his
first nightover enveloped his whole frame smartly, but the lad
himself stood firm and took no hurt therefrom.  And above him was a
pillar of smoke, a tunnel to the stratosphere, lanced by lightning
and littered with tractors, mailboxes and cats.

And then it was gone, all of it.  Spike reeled and the mighty
column passed on.  The eldritch fires, as it were, vanished.  We 
were left simply a pair of dolts panting on a golf course and I
congratulated myself, fool that I was, that the worst was over.

It's funny how wrong you can be about things like that.

*****

TBC