THURSDAYS CHILD - PART ONE

Setting: Pre Season 1
Rating: Hmmm….A strong "FRM", I think.
Summary: After Ethan, Eyghon, and the death of Randall, young Rupert Giles is perched on the edge. Can he be saved, even if he doesn't want to be?
Disclaimer: Joss, Joss, Mutant Enemy, the usual suspects. Flame me if you wish, but don't sue!
Feedback: I need it! I want it! I gotta have it! I'll beg…I get SO depressed if I don't get fed! Pretty please? Kapantaleo@aol.com
Thank you: Antonia, for being my beta, even when you're sick! *Offers tea and chicken soup. * And Michamon, for being my test audience and feeding the ficcy beast. You ladies rock!




"Thursday's child has far to go."


London, England, November 1976.


Ripper stood in the narrow, stinking London alley, watching the comings and goings from the boarded up warehouse across the street. The cold, damp wind blew leaves, rubbish and stench about, and he shivered, huddling deeper into the worn black leather jacket that hung on his too-thin frame.

He took another pull from the bottle of cheap whiskey clutched in his hand, feeling it burn its way down his throat to ignite new daggers of pain in his stomach. The liquor and the drugs were killing him. He knew this. All one really had to do was look in the mirror.

Mirrors didn't lie…That was the realm of people.

If he didn't want to believe the evidence of he reflection, he could rely on the subtle messages his body was giving him. His whiskey-roughened voice, the stomach that could no longer hold solid food for long. The blood that laced the puke he'd been bringing up for the last few days. The wracking cough that felt as if it was tearing his lungs apart. The sensation that he was drowning each time he tried to lie down to rest.

Soon. It had to be over soon. The problem was, not soon enough.

Blearily, he shook the bottle again. It was nearly gone. He'd no money to get more. No strength to work for it. He was too far-gone for people to be unwary around him, and give him the opportunity to snatch a purse or pick a pocket. He was too stoned to try and steal more and get away. The booze was barely enough to take the edge off for him now. Barely enough to keep the horrors and the memories at bay.

Shit. He needed something. And soon…

Another coughing spasm took him, and when it was done he leaned weakly against the building, gasping for breath. He took another pull from the bottle, and felt it clear his throat. Then the burning started in his stomach again. A vicious, deadly cycle.

It didn't frighten him. The dreams, the memories. They were what he feared.

He looked at the warehouse again. He hadn't really believed that places like this existed. At the Watchers' Academy, there were rumors, whispers, of places where desperate vamps, too weak or cowardly to hunt, sold themselves for the chance to bite and feed.

He had known it wasn't a rumor for some time. He had come here once, with Ethan in the heady, early days of their friendship. He had balked, of course, but Ethan had goaded him on.

Ethan always seemed to have that power over him.

{"It's just a little bite, Ripper. I tell you, man, it's the best fucking head you'll ever get. The vamps, they don't need to breathe. They suck you in… They'll bloody let you do *anything * to them. Anything you want. As many times as you want. Just for a taste..."

"Sounds cool, Ethan, really…But vamps are strong. How do you…errr…How can you be sure they won't drain you? Or turn you?"

"They swear an oath to the house guardian. A blood oath. It binds them. I swear to you, Ripper…It's safe as houses." }

There were even whispers of some humans who would sell themselves to vamps for money or drugs. The Watcher trainees hadn't believed it. How could anyone with a soul, with any kind of spirit, do something like that? They would have to be the lowest of the low…

That was him. That's what he was about to become. The lowest of the low.

Or, perhaps he was that already…His father had seemed to think so.

He took as deep a breath as he was able, forcing his muddled brain to work. He had no choice. He needed a fix. Anything…*anything * to keep the terrors away. For a moment he was back in the run down squat in Whitechapel. The smells of incense, beer, pot and sex in the air and the power coursing through him. It was mind-blowing. Erotic and seductive beyond anything, magical, physical, or combination thereof, that he had tried.

Right up until Randall …

{The screams. The terrible screams as Eyghon tore through from within Randall's slim pale frame while he pleaded for help.

The terror in his eyes as the demon consumed his soul.}

"No! NO!" he muttered. Shaking his head, as if the simple act and motion would force the memories away from him.

His heart pounded. Sweat ran down his face, trailed its way down his back.

He needed something. A fix. And he needed it now. But the cost?

His body. His blood, his old, Watchers' blood with its power and dark magicks. It was the only currency that he had left to him that could buy him what he needed.

The lowest of the low…

{'Oh God! Ripper? Ethan? Help! Help me! Oh God! OhGodohGodohGod PLEASE!'}

He lurched into motion and crossed the street.

The warlock who ran the brothel was named Eddings. Ripper was admitted to his presence with hardly any delay. A brief conference and Eddings disappeared, to return with a tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired vampire. The vamp had burn scars and an eyepatch over the right eye and side of his face, and limped badly on that leg. His clothes were of a fine quality, but he had a lean, hungry look about him. Eddings called him Drake.

Drake circled Ripper slowly, looking him up and down as he stood, swaying slightly on his feet in the center of the room, wiping his running nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He reached out, cupped Ripper's chin, and lifted his head to gaze at his face.

"Pretty thing, this one is, Eddings," he murmured, turning Ripper's head from side to side. He could feel the young man shudder at his touch, but he held himself motionless. He looked more closely at the glazed green eyes. "He has the magicks, yes?"

Eddings nodded. "Watcher's blood, Drake. Very special, very rare."

"A Watcher? You're a Watcher?" the vamp asked, caution competing with hunger in his eyes.

"No more." Ripper rasped, ignoring the voice in his head that was screaming for him to look for a stake or start running.

The vamp stepped closer, sniffing him, then its' cold tongue ran up his neck to his jaw, and the voice in his head almost won.

He shoved the vamp away. "No free tastes."

Drake looked startled as he recovered his balance. Then he laughed. "Its' got fire, this one has." He looked Ripper up and down with a lingering, hungry gaze that made his flesh crawl. "You're filthy. You smell like an animal." He leered. "I like that." He reached into a pocket and produced a small plastic bag with a fine white powder in it, and held it up.

Heroin. Oh, God…every cell in his body screamed for the blissful release that packet contained.

"You're mine until the dawn, and this is yours."

"A taste for starters, plus that bag at dawn. And twenty pounds," he nodded at the braisier in the corner, "with assurances."

Drake leered, obviously pleased. "Done." He went to the braisier, produced a small knife from his clothing, and made a deep cut across his palm. The dark stagnate blood welled, and he turned his palm so that it dripped onto the hot coals. "I will take no more than agreed to. I will drink, but not drain unto death. I will taste, but not turn. I will cause no permanent harm." The coals hissed and spit as the blood hit them. "This I swear upon mine own blood." He produced a handkerchief, and wrapped it around his hand. "Satisfied?"

Slowly, Ripper nodded. He licked dry, cracked lips, terror and hunger at war inside him. "The stuff. You swore…A taste."

"So I did." He held out his cold, pallid hand. "In my room. This way."

Ripper stood, frozen, staring at the white hand with its' blood-stained bandage.

'Run! Run, you fool!' what was left of his soul shrieked. 'Don't let this *thing * touch you!'

{"Please, Clarice" he begged his stepmother in the doorway. "I need to talk to Father." The door jerked open, and Richard Giles stood there, looking at the dirty, strung-out mess that was his son. He was spattered in blood and smudged in ash, and his pupils were wide and black with the magicks.

"I have no son." Richard Giles growled, and slammed the door. }

The lowest of the low…

{"Oh God! Ohgodohgodohgod! Please! Ethan? Ripper? Oh, God, help me!"}

He took the cold hand, and was led into the darkness.



Lady Ruth Wickfield stood still, staring into the crackling fire set in the old fireplace of her ancient family estate. Even the cheery fire couldn't warm her tonight. Worry etched deep lines into a face already lined with age. Ruth was 74, and right now the normally spry woman felt the weight of her years.

She reached up and took a picture down from the mantle, gazing at it lovingly. It showed her daughter, Angela, standing next to a horse upon which her sons, David and Rupert were mounted. David was about 12 in the picture, a handsome, intelligent boy with his father Richard's dark hair and blue eyes. Rupert was more his mother's son, with her chestnut hair and green eyes. He was going to be tall. Taller than his brother and father, probably. He was looking back over his shoulder, clearly worshipping the older brother who held him so protectively. They had been happy then…

Angela Wickfield had met young Richard Giles on a summer holiday at Brighton. The two families, with their long ties to the Watchers, had known of each other but had never mingled. A chance meeting, two families with such similar backgrounds that had discovered so much in common. The usual thing had happened, and Angela and Richard had fallen in love. The young couple had been betrothed. The families rejoiced, and Watchers speculated. A marriage of ancient bloodlines, rich in physical prowess, intelligence, and magicks. Much was expected of such a union.

Then the war had happened.

War is horror, devastation beyond the ability of most to comprehend. For Watchers, and those that know of the things that lurk in the darkness, there were extra levels of abomination. Battlefields with soldiers lying wounded, cities with entire neighborhoods devastated by bombings with people living rough in shelters or on the streets. Into this nightmare came the terror of vampires and other predators of darkness. Ruth and her beautiful daughter had been a part of a vastly different, yet vitally important war in the darkness, while Richard served on the front and saved all he could.

He had been captured in the Pacific Theater, and imprisoned in a camp in Singapore. He would never speak of the horrors he witnessed when he returned, an emaciated, shattered husk of the young man he had been. But his devotion to the Watchers and fighting the darkness had gone from a career in the family line to an all-consuming, driving passion.

Angela had nursed him back to health, and they had married. Ruth saw her daughter try to break through the walls that Richard had built around himself. At times, it seemed that she would. David was born in 1946. He was a bright, promising child, and they were happy. But duty called Richard away often, and a distance continued to grow between the couple.

It surprised everyone when, after eight years, Rupert was born. He was a cheery, red-cheeked boy who reveled in the attention heaped upon him by his mother, elder brother, and yes, doting Grandmother. His father remained an aloof, distant figure. One that Rupert was always desperate to please.

Rupert was eight years old when his father was given a Slayer and Rebecca joined their household. David was smitten. Richard worked Rebecca hard, training her for hours each day, monitoring her patrols nightly. There was little time for Rupert. Angela spoke to her mother often of the indifference Richard seemed to have for his sensitive young son. With David, it was different. David seemed to be the Watcher protegee that everyone had hoped for when Angela and Richard married. He was a natural leader of his mates at the Academy, and Richard spent many hours helping him learn ancient languages and even allowing him to train with Rebecca.

Rupert, on the other hand, seemed almost invisible to his father. The poor boy tried so hard for the slightest bit of approval. Rupert was ten when Angela spoke to Ruth of her concern over her husband's neglect of their young son. She had advised her daughter to speak on the boys' behalf to his father, and she had done so, encouraging, no, *demanding * that he spend some time with Rupert.

So, one night he had agreed to take young Rupert to his rugby game, and stayed to watch the match.

Rupert was excited beyond imagining that his father was there to see him play. He had been brilliant, scoring three goals. His father had praised him, there before all his mates, and taken him for tea and a sweet before starting the long drive home. The boy had been exhausted, and had fallen asleep on the ride with his head on his father's knee.

A nest of vampires had come for the Slayer that night. They never did learn just how they had gained admittance to the house.

Richard had arrived home, and thought it odd that the house was in darkness. He had picked up Rupert and carried him into the big old Victorian mansion.

He had never told her in detail of the carnage that they had found inside. She did know that one of the first things they had seen upon entering was Angela lying on the floor, drained of life. Rupert had awakened when his father had lowered him to the floor and grabbed for a weapon. He had screamed when anyone approached him for days, and it had been weeks before the boy spoke again.

They had found various servants in different parts of the house, all dead. Rebecca had been cornered in the kitchen. She and David had almost made it to freedom.

Almost. David was not in the house.

He returned a week later, in the darkest part of the night. His father had been waiting for him. He had invited him in. His hands on the crossbow had not shaken as he looked into the eyes of the thing that had killed his son. Then he pulled the trigger.

After that, Richard had burned the house to the ground.

He had blamed Rupert for his not being there. He had never said so much out loud, but it was true none the less. Ruth knew that young Rupert had blamed himself. Mummy, Davey, and Becca wouldn't have died if he and Father had been there, he said. He was certain, and nothing Ruth could say would help in the least. She had kept the boy with her for nearly six months, taking him to school each day, trying to keep some normalcy in his shattered life.

Then Richard had come for his son. Rupert would be a Watcher now. He would carry on the family name. The family responsibilities. Richard laid the whole future on the slim, guilt-ridden shoulders of a troubled ten-year-old boy.

Still, Rupert seemed determined to succeed. To prove himself worthy. He threw himself into his studies. The cheery, athletic young boy became pale and thin. He studied incessantly, often late into the night. He developed a squint, and soon was fitted for glasses. He worked hard at school. At night his father would quiz him on his lessons, assigning more work and material for him to read.

Three years later, Richard met and married Clarice Abnerathy. Ruth disliked the woman from the moment she set eyes on her. Richard had met her at one of those social functions that helped provide a legitimate, semi-governmental face to the Watchers Council for the public to see. Clarice came from a very old family, now more rich in titles than in cash. She was beautiful, sophisticated, witty… And grasping, avaricious, and wanting nothing whatsoever to do with children, particularity one born of another woman.

Rupert's life had become grimmer. It wasn't long before he was sent away. It wasn't long after that when he was forgotten. He had continued for a time, certain that if he were good enough…If his grades were high enough, if he excelled at sports, if his teachers' gave glowing reports. The poor boy had tried so hard.

The long slide into darkness had begun, she thought, one Christmas holiday. She had kept up a regular correspondence with her grandson, and a weekly phone call. He had been so excited about coming home for the holiday.

He had received a terse letter from his father stating that he would be best served by remaining at school and putting extra time into study. His latest scores in 12th dimension translations and interpretations had been less than stellar.

Richard and Clarice had gone to Greece that year for their holiday.

Ruth had to place at least some of the blame on herself. She shouldn't have allowed Richard to treat the boy so. She shouldn't have accepted "no" for an answer when she had asked to be allowed to take him. She should have fought more. For Rupert. For Angela's son. She should have been stronger…

"Madame." Arthur, her butler.

"Yes?":

"Martin Robson is here."

Oh, thank God! And please, Gods and powers…Please, let it be good news, or at least word…Please, by all the light…

"Very good, Arthur. Please show him in."

Martin Robson was a short, chunky young man with thin black hair and clear, gray eyes. He had been a close friend to Rupert for years, almost from the beginning of his time as a Watcher trainee. A heavy-set boy, Robson had often been the butt of harassment that ran the gamut from teasing, to pranks to actual physical harm from older boys who found him different, and therefore an easy target. Rupert hadn't befriended the boy at first. He hadn't given a toss about the fate of one chubby boy. But then, he had noticed that, no matter what was done to the boy. No matter the teasing, the embarrassment, or the actual physical abuse he took, young Robson never backed down, never complained, and never snitched. He had respected that, and had taken the other boy under his wing.

It had earned him a loyal friend for life.

"Martin," she greeted him warmly as he came into the room. She moved forward to take his hand and kiss his cheek. They were old friends too. Rupert had often brought the boy for visits.

"Lady Wickfield. I've found him."

A long pause. If he noticed her hands tremble, he was too polite to mention it.

"He's alive?"

"Yes."

Oh, thank you, God! "Where is he?"

Robson hesitated. "Martin, you must tell me. If you've found him, you can count on it that the Council is only a few steps behind you. If we're to have a chance to save him…"

"I must warn you, Ma'am. It's…It's very, very bad."

"Tell me."

"It really might be better if you let..."

"Martin, I already know about the drugs and the demon and magicks. Rupert was drawn to the dark. That Rayne boy…He knew just what buttons to push. But you must be honest with me, if we're to have a chance to save him from the darkness."

"There's a place…Well…He's…"

"Just spit it out, Martin. I'm not as fragile as all that."

Robson took a deep breath. "There's a brothel. In Docklands. In an old warehouse. It's…Well…There are vampires there…"

Ruth paled. "He's gone there?"

Robson nodded, miserable. "My informant saw him. Tailed him. She saw him enter. Lady Wickfield, I must warn you. It's a place with a very ugly reputation. My informant says…He…She thinks he's very ill."

"He would have to be, wouldn't he? He's been living rough for more than three months. Since the affair in Whitechapel." *Damn * Richard for not taking the poor boy in!

Ruth turned and walked over to the fire. She reached behind the mantle and pushed a hidden release. A section of bookcase swung open to show a number of weapons mounted on the wall. She took down a small, hand-held crossbow, checking the tension in a most professional manner.

"My Lady?'

"I'm going to get my grandson, Martin," she said evenly. "I'm not daft. I'm not senile, and I assure you I'm quite capable. I'm going to get him out of there, and try to save him from this darkness that's consuming him. I should have done so long ago."

She had taken a cloak off a peg next to the weapons rack, and began loading quarrels and a tranquilizer gun into it. "I won't ask you to come with me. Doing so might jeopardize your future with the Council. I'll not ask you to do that."

"I'm coming."

"You don't…"

"I've taken a leave of absence. I'm on sabbatical until further notice."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Lady Ruth Wickfield swung the cloak around and settled it on her shoulders.

"Then let's go."