Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits
Don't own or claim rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Giles sat back against the seat cushions and considered his current position. He had fouled up, fucked up even. He had dropped out of Oxford, and had joined a gang of utter fools, messing about with sex and drugs and rock and roll, literally. Then, to out-do themselves, they had dabbled in magic. Then they had done more than dabble, they had involved themselves stupidly in demon summoning. They had called on Eyghon, almost literally the god of sex, drugs and rock and roll, and had had orgies. The group of them, with any hangers on they could drag into the situation, had called Eyghon down, allowed him to possess one of them, and had promptly done the kinkiest, worst, dirtiest things they could imagine. Anything, literally anything went. After all, once you had allowed yourself to be possessed by a demon, what else was taboo?
And then it had all fallen down on them. Things had gone horrendously out of hand, and Randall had died. They fell apart, and he had gone crawling home to Father, and to the Watchers. So, here he was. Back in London, listening to this band, and wondering just how he could have so royally fucked up his life, and wondering if he would ever be allowed to redeem himself. Would he ever be given any trust again? Would he ever be allowed to train a potential? He wasn’t sure.
The future was yet unwritten. Maybe something could be salvaged. Maybe he could hope.