Insubordinance

Man, I was having such a good time with that story, I missed that. Saw it as "insubordination."

Which, entre nous, is what the fruitcake who taught one of my high school gym classes used to shriek whenever she was crossed. Her favourite word. I'm not sure I ever heard her say anything else.

eta punctuation because, though I'd like to keep her in the cellar with a computer, food and handy dandy shackles, so she writes Just For Me!, she's not really my Deb.

You should have a few words with my husband.....

Elena, heheheheh.

More:

"Don't let the bitch use her filthy sorcery," he said clearly. His eyes were somewhere between us, vague and fevered; I felt Rupert's indrawn breath at my side. "Watch her. I know she uses it. The Council wants it stopped - she's a corrupted excuse for a Slayer. You watch her."

We left without a word, and headed north up Broad Street. I was surprised to find myself shaking; it certainly wasn't due to fear.

The porter at Balliol passed us in with the obvious relief of a man in fear. The relief was merited. So was the fear; we found blood on the panelling, on two portraits of Tory politicians whose smug self-entitlement had no doubt once graced the college, and on the ceiling. Oddly, there wasn't a single body part to be seen, and no signs of struggle. Whatever it was, it was either very tidy or very hungry.

Something in me was struggling; I was feeling something new to me, something visceral and hot and very uncomfortable. Even as Rupert and I moved down the deserted hallways, even as my senses marked the sudden increase in the ambient temperature that told me something was near, I tried to put a name to what had so unexpectedly arisen in me.

"Amanda..."

"I know. I feel it - very warm. It's a demon, I think." Nothing, no sight of it yet. Rupert, slightly behind me, held a crossbow. I was unarmed. As I registered that fact, I also registered what it meant: I was going in to fight whatever this was in full defiance of Richard's prohibition. I had made up my mind, apparently; the only part of the Slayer training that was useful to me was that which honed my senses. After that, all the kicking and punching and nonsensical waste of time and energy could go to hell. I was going to use my "filthy sorcery" and if the Council didn't like it, well, to hell with them as well. The question was, would Rupert actually be stupid enough to obey his father, and try to -

"Amanda!"

It came out of the air, or, more accurately, out of the wall itself, materialising from the curve of a dark oak support. I knew at once why there was no carnage in the hall itself. This thing, about nine feet high and quite repulsively slimy, was pulling its prey into the wall, and eating it there. The power to dematerialise and reshape is a huge asset to a predator. At this rate, it would empty the college of students like a child with a tube of Smarties.

"Amanda!" Rupert had jumped clear, and was aiming the crossbow.

"Don't bother," I told him. The air was hot now, the demon steaming with unbearable temperatures, or perhaps the heat was partly from me, from my rage at how the Council had judged me, how my Watcher had presented me to them, at my own uncertainty about Rupert's loaylties. It was time to know. "Immobilite!"

The demon, half-formed between solid and gas, stopped in space. I could smell it, a rank hideous putrescence. Rupert slowly lowered the crossbow and looked at me.

Well," I said quietly. "Time to choose up sides. I'm naughty; I'm not willing to risk your life or mine by going through the necessary Slayer motions. I don't have to - I'm a witch. One word and this filthy creature is gone. Should I do that? Or would you rather fight it? Are you going to run home and tell Daddy that I used my - what did he call it? My 'filthy sorcery'? Whose side are you on - theirs, or mine? I need to know, Rupert."

The demon hung in the air. The college was absolutely quiet.

"Kill it." His voice was calm. "Kill it in whatever way seems best to you. What am I going to do? I'm going to cover your back. I'm not going to judge you or tell you not to use all the weapons you've got or tell my father anything at all. I'm a Watcher. You're a witch, yes, but you're also the Slayer. I'm here to support you. And I'm on your side, beloved, now and always. See you remember it."

In the air, the demon began to move. The immobility spell was wearing off. I met Rupert's eyes.

"Right," I said, conversationally. "L'eau devenues!"

Once I said it, twice I thought it. A split second, that's all it takes, for an uninterrupted spell to complete itself.

The demon melted. There was a rush of noise as solid became gas became liquid. The slime and reek became a waterfall, and then there was a puddle of clear water, seeping slowly into the carpet.

We walked back to the Carolan together in a sleety cold wind, stopping at a cafe along the way for a fast meal. As we sat together in a corner of the noisy room, I asked Rupert a question I had never thought to ask before.

"Rupert - why does your father always have to be in such complete control of everything? Why is he so rigid?"

"I don't know." He blew on his tea to cool it down; like me, he drank it strong and black. "I've always wondered if it had to do with my mother."

I had never heard her mentioned before, in all this time. Some instinct told me I would hear more if I asked nothing. I sipped my own tea, and kept my face calm.

"She was Irish - did you know that? She was a Westerner, from Killorglin. She was a musician, a harpist." He saw awareness come up in my face, and smiled faintly. "Yes, the shop was hers; she had it before she met him. Carolan, after Turlough O'Carolan, eighteenth centruy blind harpist."

"Oh, how lovely!" I was seeing her, looking like Rupert, all pale colour and long curves to her face, with warmth and humour and passion in her. "What was she called?"

"Moira. She died when I was very small, of cancer. I remember her very vividly, but only a few memories."

Outside, as winter made itself felt across Oxfordshire, we emptied our cups and ordered soup, and Rupert talked about his mother. Moira's sister Eileen had been a potential Slayer, one of those who might be called in the line of succession, had the Chosen One died. That was how Moira had met Richard Giles. Why she had married him had been known only to herself.

Dear Deb, you know him in and out, don't you. I could listen to his voice speak your words for a very long time.

And I envy, oh how I envy, the story that you spin.

I love Giles. My favourite character, with Buffy herself.

Elena, can available so I can run some ideas by you for my X/S story?

Yes. Do you want me on AIM?

Yes, if you can.

Gimme a mo'.

I got a rec over at Better Buffy Fic. A lovely rec

You have to love a Giles/Ethan story that contains two Potentials, a library, a set of lockpicks, an explosion, take-out curry, and lines like "There had been lies and prevarications between them since the day they'd met, but at times like this they'd allowed truth to show. It was no different now they were older, allegedly wiser, and much, much better at telling lies. "

Thank you, Debra Doyle