The Code of the Watchers Cynthia Martin ycymartin@aol.com PG13 for cussing and implied hanky panky Spike needs a summer job and Giles needs to make amends Thanks to the cherished betas Miriam and Diane, and to the Immortal Beloved, PG Wodehouse **** You've heard of Schopenhauer? Pouty tosser, very, or so I thought back in the heady days of vandalizing the East End. Poor Shopenhauer, clearly unable to get a leg over anything, forever on about how life was a cruel parody of death, or something in that line, and how the smart money was on anticipating the process and slapping an asp to the jugular. Once upon a time I had no use for the fellow at all -- too much like my old governor altogether. But it's funny how experience alters perspective and mellows the reactionary prejudice of youth. Didn't Schopenhauer boost for the modesty of lovers? Shame came into it somewhere, I'm not sure why, but any rate he was clearly supportive of couples getting a room, if you follow me, and didn't hold with public displays of affection. And as I lay panting under the axle of Jeffries' sedan and watched another gout of flame pierce the Iowan sky, I was obliged to admit the man had a point. Where was nature's sheltering veil when you really wanted it, I had to ask myself. Didn't somebody write a poem about the subject, something about all creation conspiring to conceal the Lovers' blushing pride from human envy and prying eyes? The rain to the wind said, "You something and I'll something, too" They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually, I forget, And lay lodged, I think, on something else. Perhaps that's the wrong one. At any rate, if you want conspiracy to conceal, strike nature from your list. Nature's sheltering veil was a bust that night in the cornfield. A reasonably blinding pillar of fire rose at intervals from amid the trembling rows, and one would have to be considerably dimmer than the dimmest brick not to infer what was going forward with Spike and Buffy. "What *is* that?" asked Zuptya, peering. "Agricultural burn," smirked Jeffries. "Give me a hand over here, Mr. Giles." We had high-centered between a ditch of sorts and a tussok of some description, and getting the sedan free was proving jolly Herculean. Much business having to do with crawling under chassis and wriggling among clods like the base worm was involved, and I began to think that love was all very well, but the assistance of a Slayer and a newly promoted demiurge would not be ill-applied in the circumstances. "Buffy!" I called, with perhaps a touch of sharpness. "Spike!" The secret night answered not, except that somewhere to the left a stand of corn shivered, bent, and combusted. "Spike!" I shouted. "Buffy! You've... you've said hello, and time passes. We have a disabled auto. Minions of darkness seek us even now. The fate of --" To my astonishment the stalks parted and Spike and Buffy appeared in the glow of the headlights, entwined like a pair of smitten boas on a pharaoh's miter. Little tongues of flame darted about their clingy persons in a manner quite embarrassing to behold. I indicated our marooned vehicle. "Stuck," I informed them succinctly. Buffy regarded me, the sedan, me, the sedan again, and then turned her dazed eyes upon Spike. "There's a problem with the car, Spike." "Before God I worship you," breathed Spike by way of answer. "Tell me this is real," sighed Buffy, abandoning the subject of cars. Spike chose to reassure her with his lips and another awkward interval followed as they sought to become mutually certain. The world lost a few more ears of corn. "About the car," I said, coughing. Spike broke the kiss. "I cherish and adore you. I live and die in you. I love you like the rain, Buffy, like the rain." "I love you like the rain too," testified Buffy moistly. "Oh, God! Say it again! No, stop, don't!" Spike's mental equilibrium seemed rather loose on the spindle, but his face was incandescent with devotion. "You don't have to say that, it doesn't matter. Oh, Buffy, my seraphim, my light, my all. Just let me serve you. Let me wait upon your word and tremble at your smile. Let me... let me... do errands, water your lawn, fix your telly..." "You can do errands if you want, but I'll still love you," smiled Buffy. "Buffy," vowed Spike, "I am your possession. I am in your hands. Tell me I am yours." Buffy kissed his nose. "You first." "Buffy!" This ghastly avalanche of romantic rot was capped by another sheaf of flame, which sprang from the earth and enfolded the lip-smacking pair like a glowing sail. "Wow!" squeaked Zuptya. "I guess we're on our own with the car," shrugged Jeffries. Buffy's voice floated out of the soft roar of their private inferno. "I have a car someplace..." "Blew away, sorry," came Spike's disembodied reply. "Rental..." "Forgive me..." "I forgive you..." "Oh, God, say it again..." "There simply must be a service station around here," I said, turning away. **** Our traipse through the stygian darkness of rural route 6 was assisted, at intervals, by the fitful sparking of Spike and Buffy, who mastered themselves sufficiently to try budging the car, and failing that, to toddle along. Following at a distance that failed to prevent a continuous stream of amorous flapdoodle from reaching our weary ears, Buffy and Spike sent long shadows jumping before our feet, illuminating the asphalt like a pair of besotted strobes. It was dashed hard on the eyes but my mood improved with every step. Certainly we all remained in mortal danger from foes unknown with no real plan except blind flight, but I couldn't quash the topping glow that comes of seeing the face of Duty when she is satisfied. My chief aim had been achieved. Buffy and Spike were stuck to one another like plasters and Love had bridged the inky void of Death. Spike and I were square, or near it. Moreover I felt certain that the Watcherly succession had been assured -- there's nothing like burning an acre or so of corn to render a lad amenable to guidance re: career options. All in all, the checklist was in fine shape. At length we encountered a crossroads and two buildings thereat: one, a roadhouse of dilapidated and uncertain appeal and across from it a simple home -- dark but for a string of Christmas lights illuminating the legend Mend Your Ways or Count Your Days painted large on the clapboards facing the tavern. Some tension with zoning laws, I surmised. For reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol I directed our steps to the roadhouse and ushered my flock inside. A paucity of seating obtained in the cafe section of the establishment, which consisted of two occupied booths and a table scarcely large enough to support a shot glass. Perforce we made for the bar. Zuptya and Jeffries slumped amid the coasters and waved for aid. Spike and Buffy exiled themselves to the far end, near the phone. I ordered a restorative and after rehydrating I proceeded to phase two, the summoning of Stan, of Stan's Towing -- the rescuer dubiously recommended by the bar attendant, with number on napkin complete. Buffy had hopped onto one of the stools. Spike leaned into her, having apparently found the next stool over an unendurable gap of separation. "You are my paradise," he told her. "Your hair is just the same," replied Buffy, combing it with her fingers. I dropped a coin into the slot, trying not to bring the receiver within contagion distance of my face. "Do you forgive me for the bot?" murmured Spike. "I forgive you." "Do you forgive me for the tower?" "All the time." "The eggs. How about the eggs?" "What eggs?" asked Buffy innocently. Spike pressed a fevered kiss to her hands. Distantly, I heard Stan's phone ringing. Spike raised his head. His voice was calm but I spied a glint of anxiety. "Buffy, I'm human now." Buffy's smile was radiant. "Yeah, I caught that." "You don't mind?" "Mind? Why would I --" Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Why would I mind, Spike?" She asked evenly. "Well, love, we both know you like a little mon--" "Don't you two have drinks yet?" I interjected hastily. "Innkeeper! I say, man, two of those frosty tap marvels on this end, sharpish. It's positively nectar, this beer," I told Spike and Buffy, who looked up as though I had dropped from the ceiling. "Beer?" repeated Buffy blankly. "Wonderful beer," I lied. "You must be parched, what with all the... burning." Their gazes slipped from me and met, kindling. I felt the shoal was safely passed. "You were beautiful when you were dying," whispered Buffy. "You were more beautiful when I was dying," replied Spike. "Did it hurt a lot?" "Don't be silly, precious, not a bit. It was fun." Buffy's eyes welled. "I left you there alone!" "I wasn't alone," said Spike solemnly. They fell to kissing again. The ringing ceased. The connection engaged with a bump and a muffled curse. "Do you know what goddamn time it is?" A harsh inquiry to be coming from an independent tradesman, I felt, but I was in no position to be instructive. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Stan?" "It's -- Christ, it's past one!" "Indeed it is. Frightfully sorry. But I am calling you as a professional, sir, in the towing line. A bit of a mishap. Car in a ditch, becalmed. We need your aid, Stan, and money is no object." Money was in fact a great, looming, dire-visaged object, but this was not intelligence I felt compelled to disclose. "Whadyousay?" "We need a tow," I clarified. "A hundred bucks," growled Stan. "Done," I said, and gave him our location. I hung up the phone and reflected deeply. "Spike." I tapped him. "Fancy a game of pool?" TBC