The Code of the Watchers 5a
Cynthia Martin
ycymartin@cox.net
PG-13
Spike needs a summer job and Giles needs to make amends
Thanks to the cherished betas, Miriam and Diane, and a tardy thanks to
Klytaimnestra and Barb for the last-minute assist with the previous
chapter.  And to the Immortal Beloved, P.G. Wodehouse.

****

"Bloody h- heck!  F-f-feck me!  Sink me!  Hang me!  Wow!"

Spike was in a species of happy lather quite new to my experience.
He was over something of a verbal barrel in that he was attempting to
vocalize wild enthusiasm without recourse to blue language. Under
other circs I would have found the spectacle fascinating but as it
was -- what with the recent and keenly-felt loss of my auto, the
brush with gory doom on a golf course and the thumping wretchedness
of walking forty blocks in a monsoon -- I mostly wished he would quit
trying.

"Did you see it?  Did you mark that thing, Watcher?  Cor!  Whoo!
Yoicks!"

The downpour continued respectably torrential.  I squelched onward
doggedly, wiping my glasses from time to time to no very great effect.

"I saw it, Spike," I informed him.  "As near as I ever wish to.
Dangerous things, tornados, very.  Also known as twisters hereabouts,
by the way.  Formed by the collision of hot and cold air masses in an
area of low --"

"It was alive!   It was alive, I saw it!" whooped Spike.  "Frelling
farging heck!  Let's go find another.  I bet I could get real good at
chasing those bug- er, those bast- ... er, at chasing them off.  I
catch fire around them, did you see?"

"I noticed."

"They don't like that.  They tuck tail and scarper!  I'm gonna go
scare up another one.  Coming?"

By this time we were limping downtown -- or rather, I was limping and
Spike was cavorting through the rain like Gene Kelly.

"Some other day.  Spike!" I called sharply.  "Get back here!  We have
things to do."

Spike halted reluctantly and fell into step at my side.  "Oh, yeah,
errands.  Forgot.  Oh, well -- there's more where that came from.  I
can feel it," he added happily.

I was thinking hard.  "This tendency to combust, Spike..."

"Hm?"

"The conflagrations, man.  The bursting into flames.  To what do you
attribute it?"

Spike leapt over a rushing storm gutter.  "Oh, this and that.  Maybe
it's my thing now.  It certainly was before I got hauled back down
here, thanks very much."

I shot him a glance, startled by his tone.

Spike ducked his head.  "Sorry," he muttered, as though speaking to
someone else. "Look, Watcher, it's not that I got any objections to
the adorable fiat of Eternal Wisdom -- who am I to question that --
but I kinda been missing it, being consumed in a blazing nimbus of
light and charity and all.  I recommend it to everybody.  If you ever
get the chance, Watcher, don't miss out."

"I'm content to take your word for it," I replied, wiping the rain
from my eyes.

"And what do you know," continued Spike, "it puts demons to flight,
just like they said on that site about St. Eugenia the Astonishing. 
A sort of added bonus, maybe."

Once again I found Spike's train of thought opaque.  "Eugenia the
Astonishing?"

"This hermitess bird who lived in a wall.  In three pieces, in
response to the schism at Avignon."

"What was in three pieces?" I felt it best not to get lost at the
critical early stages of whatever the dickens it was we were
discussing.  "The schism? The demons? The wall?"

"The lass herself.  Her head was here, her torso there.  Her legs
would be off on their own.  Can't have been much fun, you know, but
she kept it up for yonks.  I call that guts, myself," said Spike
sincerely.  "Anyway, in betweentimes she'd catch fire -- just go foof
every time they lugged in a possessed guy for a checkup.  And the
demon would beat it in a hurry, because demons abhor immolated souls,
can't stick 'em at any price.  So there you are."

"And you have an immolated soul," I murmured, mentally round-filing
the pious argle-bargle about Eugenia and focusing on what I had seen
firsthand while cowering in my ditch. "Yes.  Of course.  The way you -
- ended, in the Hellmouth.  The remarkable circumstances of your
return.  Clearly you've received the gift of powers rich and strange
as a reward for your heroic --"

Spike threw up his hands and shied at the implied praise. "Oi!  Hold
on.  Don't go using the H word, Watcher, and trying to turn my head.
In another minute you'll be calling me a Champion and then I'll have
to puke on your shoes."

"But surely such a selfless --"

"Do they always have this kind of rain?" interrupted Spike. "This
place is wetter than the Malay coast.  Not that it's a bad thing,
but --"

I decided to let it go.  "Spike, all of this begs the question of why
a tornado, a simple if violent meteorological phenomenon, should
reveal itself to you as a demon.  Why hasn't anybody noticed this
before?"

"Beats me.  It's as plain as day.  Holy sh.. holy cats, Watcher, you
mean you really couldn't see it?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Takes all kinds to make a world, I guess," shrugged Spike.

When we turned the corner I saw that the plastic letters had been
blown slap off the club's marquee.  They littered the street,
inarticulate and forlorn.  Predictably, the downpour shut itself off
just as we reached shelter.

"Don fresh attire," I told Spike as I wrestled my keys out of the
warped and resisting stage door.  "I've got to fetch something
upstairs."

Spike turned.  "Watcher.  Do you think they'll let me chase tornado
demons when I'm a monk?"

"I very much doubt it."

"Not really the thing for monks, is it?"

"No."

Spike nodded sadly.  "Gotta renounce it, then.  Give it up, do
without, toe the line -- that's the program from here on." He looked
at me.  "But maybe we can flush a few before I leave?"

"Hopefully.  Go change your clothes, Spike."

"Mr. Giles!"  Jeffries emerged from the back room, giving Spike a
dark look as he passed.  "Mr. Giles, there's a problem with tonight's
show!"

"You don't say. You astound me, Jeffries."

"Please listen to me, sir," said Jeffries rapidly.  "A producer was
just here.  One of those sleazy jerks, all hat and no cattle, you
know the type. He walked in five minutes after the storm passed and
made a beeline for Zuptya.  The guy was totally on the make and she
fell for it.  They left to look at her glossies!  Her glossies!  You
know how she is about her glossies!  She'll never be back in time for
curtain!"

"Jeffries, the streets are deserted.  Perhaps we should cancel
tonight's performance," I sighed.

"The show must go on!  We need to find Zuptya! That man's a player,
sir, or I'm Drew Barrymore!"  Jeffries danced in panic.  "Mr. Giles,
please.  Help.  Hold the fort here, sir, and I'll go to her
apartment."

"Not so, Jeffries, not so.  I'll be needing your car for the airport."

"I'll walk!  I'll run!"

One could only feel compassion for a tosser so obviously unstrung by
love.  "Jeffries," I said kindly, "Fear not.  Zuptya is a
professional and perfectly capable of fending for herself.  Ring up
that understudy fellow with the enormous head and tell him to stand
by. Proceed with tonight's show as scheduled.  Be calm, Jeffries.  If
Zuptya misses the curtain I'll simply sack her."

"No!" cried Jeffries, aghast.  "Have mercy, Mr. Giles!"

What could I do?  Rupert Giles is a stern man, but he is not made of
ice.  He is not deaf to supplication, and when circumstances indicate
he droppeth like the gentle rain upon the place beneath as well as
the next fellow.  I relented and gave Jeffries leave to sort things
out as he saw fit.

And it felt good, I have say.  I had been trying to learn the knack
of sharing authority in a pinch -- delegating, I believe they call
it.  Training up the loyal aide.  Letting him walk the gangplank
without interference and develop the skills of command, with an eye
toward the glad day when he would have a staff of his own to
aggravate him to the point of aneurysm.  Mentorship.  The passing of
the jolly baton.  The circle of life.

"Carry on, Jeffries," I said, weighing anchor for the back stairs.

My flat was sweltering.  The tiny crawlspace above the hallway, into
which I inserted myself at the cost of considerable effort and
swearing, could have made a respectable showing as a smelting pit or
blast furnace.  I inched forward on my belly among the dusty
insulation, blind with sweat.

A moment's groping enabled me to retrieve my locked box of arcana.
Cursory spells opened it, cursory spells closed it again, and in a
trice I was climbing back down the little folding ladder with the
Cylinder of Japhut in my hand.

Then I nipped into the shower for a quick sluice.  A Watcher must be
prepared, but a Watcher must be tidy, too.

****

Dash all Spikes.  I entered the office to find him back at the rotten
computer, still clad in his sodden togs, tapping industriously away.

I checked my watch with ill-concealed irritation.  We were already
late.  "Spike, for God's sake, can't you follow the simplest
instructions?"

"In a minute," muttered Spike.  "This is important.  I'm making a
list."

"A list of what?"

"Pros and cons.  Wait, stop, it's private --"

I pulled the laptop away and squinted at the screen.

PRO:

Hard life.
Self-denial.
Fair shot at saving soul.
Salutary humiliations 24/7.
PENANCE!
No access to tobacco.
Already up on Latin.
Ringing bells good for biceps.

CON:

No tornado chasing.

I gave Spike a cool eye.  "It seems to me, Spike, that you left the
vow of obedience out of the CON column."

"Oh, that'll be a skate.  The Abbot guy says: Oi, Brother Spike, make
a few wheels of cheese.  So I make a few wheels of cheese.  How hard
can it be?"

"What about chastity, eh?"

Spike looked offended.  "You may not have been paying attention,
Watcher, but I ground base nature under my heel those last few months
in Sunnydale.  Rose above it.  Translated the shagging impulse into
something stronger, purer, more effulg--"

Spike stopped and went white as an egg.  He was staring past me at
the office door, jaw hanging.  I turned in alarm.

Buffy dropped her carry-on bag in the doorway and shrieked to split
the ceiling plaster.  "Spike!  Spike!"

Spike gaped at her.

"Spike!"

"B-b-b-" he stammered.

Buffy charged him, tears coursing down her cheeks.  At the last
instant Spike stumbled to his feet, opening his arms in a stunned
manner, and they collided in a fierce embrace.

"Oh, I'll kill you for not calling me sooner!" sobbed Buffy
rapturously, covering his face with frantic little kisses.  "I can't
believe you're alive!  How did it happen?  God, I missed you so
much!

Spike!  Oh, Spike!"

Spike suffered this tender assault like a man paralyzed.  He seemed
slow to wrap his mind around the march of events.  He gazed at Buffy
as if she were some sort of phantasm or figment from an ecstatic
dream, his throat working without sound.

Buffy buried herself against his chest and sobbed.  Her hands kneaded
the motionless arms that held her.  "Oh, God," she groaned.  "Spike.
You're here, it's you.  I missed you so much.  Oh, Spike."

Spike raised shaking fingers to her cheek.  Buffy lifted her
streaming eyes to his.

"Buffy," said Spike faintly.  "Buffy."

****

In due course they desired to be alone -- and not before I was ready,
for the air in the room was positively clotted with fevered
declarations and treacly endearments.  I endorsed the suggestion (not
that I was heard) and waved a benign good evening (not that they
noticed).  The besotted turtledoves linked arms and toddled off for
the
riverfront, billing and cooing the while.  I closed the door and sat
down to work.

I was suffused, as they say, with a whackingly broad sense of well-
being.  May have whistled a note or two.  Certainly shuffled papers
for a moment with a decided jauntiness.  I remember distinctly
leaning back in my chair and grinning at the ceiling, for that was my
position when the phone rang.

"This is Rupert Giles," I sang merrily, for my cup was more or less
running over.

"Giles, it's Buffy."

I froze.

"We had to land in Iowa because of the storm.  I'm gonna rent a car
and drive in.  Giles?  Giles?"

The phone clattered off the desk and onto the floor as I surged to my
feet.  I raced through the club knocking chairs, tables and cook's
assistants aside, but when I reached the street they were already
gone.

TBC