Transitions - Ch. 54

Buffy didn't want to open her eyes. She felt badness everywhere around her, making her skin all creepy and goose-bumpy, and the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

"This is quite surprising," Moira said, sounding actually...surprised. "Not at all what I expected. Has Rupert a secret fear of Frank Lloyd Wright?"

At that point, Buffy had to look. She had no idea what Moira meant, but unlike the older woman, she wasn't surprised at all. In the back of her head, she'd always known what hell looked like to Giles. She just hadn't wanted to say so.

"It's the mansion," she told the older woman, in a little voice. "Where Angel lived."

"Ah." Moira's eyes got that certain look, that said she was trying really hard not to be judgmental. "And by extension, then..."

Buffy stared back at her, trying to figure out how much Moira knew.

"Rupert was nearly brought home, you know," the Watcher said softly. "Not by his enemies, but by his friends. He was hurt so badly, you see, we were concerned that he couldn't manage. Or that he shouldn't be left to manage--and if not for Willow and Xander, I don't believe he would have. I tried to talk him into coming back on holiday, but he wouldn't leave off looking. I wish that he could have located you, Buffy. He's never quite forgiven himself for that, for not managing to find you."

"I didn't make it easy for him," Buffy answered in the same small voice.

"No, you did not." Moira's tone made those words mean several things. She shifted the weapon in her hand. "Now, where's the room?" she said briskly. "I assume that's where we'll find him."

Buffy tried to lead the way, but either that particular room wasn't where it was supposed to be, or it was, and just kept moving itself, until she was ready to scream. "I know where it is, but I can't get there!" she exclaimed in frustration, and Moira put a hand on her shoulder.

"Think of Rupert. Nothing but Rupert. We'll soon reach him."

Buffy shut her eyes again, and started walking, knowing she was going to feel stupid if she tripped over a piece of furniture or something--but she didn't trip. She thought of his eyes, that always, if you looked, gave away what he was feeling. She thought of his voice, and the way he held her, those strong arms wrapped around her body, folding her in close to his chest. Then, all of a sudden, there they were, in the room with him.

It was awful. It was everything she hadn't seen, and hadn't ever, ever, wanted to see, all the stuff she'd left Xander to face instead.

"Moira!" she gasped.

"It's all right, love," the older woman assured her. "There won't be any new injuries. There's only blood because Rupert expects it."

That didn't really go a long way toward making Buffy feel better.

"But the sword--" She stared.

"I'll admit, that's new," Moira said.

The sword Buffy had accidentally thrown down the vortex was now stuck straight through Giles's body, at exactly the same place she'd stuck that other magic sword through Angel's--meaning . Giles wasn't tied to the chair, he was pinned. His skin looked gray, and his head had fallen backwards. If it wasn't that his chest rose and fell in painful spasms, she wouldn't have thought he was alive at all.

"Pull it out," Moira commanded. "Pull out the sword."

"But I-- It will hurt him."

"Pull it," Moira said again. "We've already been here too long. He's been here far too long."

Buffy didn't want to, but she put her hand on the hilt and gave a sharp tug. The weapon wouldn't budge.. She braced one foot against the of the seat and tried a good hard pull, it still wouldn't come out. Even pulling with every part of her strength got her nothing.

This is ridiculous, she thought. I'm the Slayer.

But maybe this wasn't a Slayer thing, or a Slaying thing. Giles was always telling her to trust her instincts, to hone in on what she felt. Right now she didn't feel like a Slayer, getting the job done, she felt like someone who desperately wanted to save the man she loved--and maybe Moira was wrong, maybe the solution wasn't just hauling out the sword, maybe there was something else she had to do first.

Buffy touched Giles's shoulder and he shuddered, making a little cry of protest. "It's all right," she told him softly, lifting his head, supporting the weight in her hands.

"Buffy?" She could tell from the way his eyes moved that he couldn't focus, probably couldn't make out more that the sound of her voice and the color of her hair.

"Giles," she said. "Rupert, sweetie, you're right, it is me. Buffy. We're gonna get you out of here."

His breathing was ragged, and that tore at her heart. She could see him struggling with the pain, trying not to cry out. "Angelus--" he tried.

"Angelus isn't here, Giles. Only Moira and me."

He looked around wildly, confused, obviously not seeing anything. "He's here. Always. Always here. Never goes away."

"He isn't here. Believe me."

His eyes finally focused, that beautiful sea-green that broke her heart completely. "I'm tired, Buffy." She could barely hear his voice. "So terribly tired. It has been so long."

"I know, sweetie. I wish I could make it easier. You'll be better once we're home."

"They show me things I want..." His voice trailed off, and his head fell forward on his chest.

"We're losing him," Moira said in a tense voice, "And my connection to Seb is weakening. Pull the sword now, if you can."

"No pressure or anything," Buffy muttered, but she put her hand on the weapon and slowly, carefully, pulled it out again. There wasn't the least resistance, and Giles didn't even move. Blood flowed fast for a minute, but when she pressed her hand to the wound, it stopped.

She looked up to see Giles watching her.

"You came back for me," he told her, in a hoarse whisper. "That was all I ever wanted."

"I know," she answered. "I'm sorry I didn't. Before."

"Was this hell, Buffy?" he asked her. "It just went on and on."

"I know," she repeated, "But we're going home now."

Buffy looked at Moira pleadingly, and the older woman nodded. With her hands on both their shoulders, she said the spell. Going into hell had been easy. Coming out felt like being torn apart, or like getting stung by a thousand bees at once. She screamed and clung to Giles, and Moira never let go of either of them.

They went skidding across the carpet, and Buffy wound up in a patch of something horribly wet and sticky, her hip pressed firmly into what she sincerely hoped wasn't a hideous, headless corpse.

"What, no one could move it?" she complained--until she realized that "it" was an ottoman. Thank goodness for that. She'd just about reached her limit of what she could take.

"You were gone for, like, five seconds, Buff," Xander answered. "Sorry we didn't have time to...oh, dear God!"

Buffy started to glare up at her friend, then realized he had his hand clapped over his eyes as he tried, for once, to be a gentleman and not peek. She then realized that the two of them, and Celeste, were the only conscious people in the place, and that nobody came back from hell with clothes on.

Celeste, ever practical, stripped the leather tunic-thingy off one of the sleeping LeFayes, and helped Buffy pull it over her head. She felt all shaky and weak, as if she'd just been running and running and running, until she couldn't run anymore--or as if she'd been shot up again with a megadose of the Watchers' strength-stealing drug.

Celeste smoothed her hair, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "It was far longer than five seconds, wasn't it, love?"

Buffy nodded mutely, wanting to cry for no very good reason, except for her tiredness and shakiness--and the fact that, once more, she'd managed to kill a man. Ethan. She'd killed Ethan. She wanted to feel worse about it, but she didn't feel worse. Over and over, the sorcerer had tricked and humiliated and threatened them. He'd called up just about the worst demon ever, and whether he meant to or not, he'd threatened Celeste and her innocent little baby.

She touched the cut on Celeste's throat. The wound wasn't big, really, which was a good, but it looked messy. The redness, more of a rusty-brown now, had stained the collar of her white shirt, but other than that, Celeste wasn't nearly as grubby as you'd expect. Obviously, The Perfect Hostess had Wesley-like dirt-repelling powers. Unlike Buffy herself, who felt as dirty and slimy and exhausted as it was possible to feel. And sad. And worried sick.

The two of them hugged, close and tight, then Celeste whispered to her, "Maybe it's wrong, love, but I'm glad you did...what you did." She pulled back, her eyes serious, her voice low and fierce. "It's a war we've been waging, Buffy--one we never asked for. If our adversaries got themselves hurt or killed in the process, on their own heads be it. I forbid you to feel guilty."

Buffy looked back at her. Whatever Celeste said, she knew she ought to feel guilty, at least a little--or feel something. This wasn't an act she should just blow off lightly, but how could she feel really, really bad about a thing she'd have done a hundred times or more, without batting an eye? The same way she'd have gone into hell as many times as it took to rescue Giles. She just wished she felt better, that she could pull things together.

Speaking of which...

"I-- Umn-- Is Giles--?" Buffy was half-afraid to ask, or to look, but when she twisted around, there he was.

He lay face down on the carpet, as naked as she had been, the skin of his back ragged.

"Oh, Lord," Celeste breathed. "Oh, dear Lord."

"It's just like--" Xander swallowed hard, something showing in his eyes that Buffy had never seen before.

"Like last summer?" she finished for him, meeting his eyes. Xander looked beyond uncomfortable.

"It's not your fault, Xand," she told him, the weighted-down feeling increasing.

Buffy used all her remaining energy to scoot over to Giles, and to kneel beside him on the rug. She drew her fingertip lightly along one of the worst places. Oh, God, she thought. Oh dear God.

Weirdly, though, the skin healed where she touched--in fact the healing spread out all across his back, until his body showed only the old scars, and the fresh scrapes, cuts and bruises of their more recent adventures. He was shivering and mostly out of it--he didn't answer when she spoke to him, not that she'd really expected him to.

"I'll see--that is, I'll get--" Xander stared.

"That would be nice," Buffy told him, glancing up at her friend blearily. She was so tired, and even though she'd gotten Giles back, the sadness deepened, until it felt like there was a hugest weight ever pressing down on her back. She just wanted all of this to be over. She couldn't take any more.

Xander came back with this long, gray robe-thing, and helped her to sit Giles up, and to pull the robe over his head. Xander did most of the work, since Giles couldn't seem to manage to stay sitting, once he was dressed, but just sagged back down again.

He's so cold, Buffy thought, So cold. And then she couldn't sit up anymore either.

She woke up in a strange bed, with the same feeling of sadness and badness. The room was dark, except for a little candle burning somewhere off in the distance, just enough to see that Giles lay beside her, sleeping deeply. When she reached out for him, he took her in his arms without waking, holding her gently, but with a kind of desperation. His skin was icy-cold, and even when she pulled the covers up tightly around their shoulders, he didn't warm much.

It made her cold too, and she shivered almost uncontrollably, for a long time, before sleep dragged her back down again.

There were people talking over her head, and Buffy knew she ought to recognize their voices right away, but it took her a long time before she could.

"Okay, I know--but it's so un-Buff. It's anti-Buff, even!" Was that Willow? Yes, definitely Willow.

"Well, they did kinda go to hell. Even Moira's still freaked about that one." Xander sounded as tired as she still felt. "God, I hate this place!"

"Maybe that's it," said a voice that sounded like Giles, except Giles was still in the bed with her, which meant the voice had to be Sebastian's instead. "It's been three days, and we've scarcely been able to wake Buffy or Dad. Moira's been shuffling about like--to put it bluntly--an absolute zombie. Maybe it's the place. Maybe if we took them elsewhere..."

He's right, Buffy thought. We need to go somewhere. Somewhere that's elsewhere. The place had a name, but for the longest time, she couldn't think of it.

"Bastian," Celeste answered sadly, "As Xander says, they've been, literally, through hell. However much one likes to think the aftermath of that could be cured by a Brighton Beach holiday, I hardly imagine..."

What was the place she was thinking of? Where was it? She'd felt happy there, at peace. Buffy wanted so badly for this sadness to go away, and to feel that peace again. There had been another bed, and when Giles touched her, the air had been full of the most beautiful colors, like fireworks. Fireworks everywhere.

Something about fruit, wasn't it? Bananas? No, that was just silly. They didn't have oranges in England, not good ones, anyway. Why wouldn't her brain work?

She made a noise of frustration. If she could tell the others, maybe they'd take her there. Her and Giles. And they could be all right again.

"No, not the beach," Willow said thoughtfully. "We should take them back to Appleyard, 'cause it was nice there."

Appleyard! That had been the word she wanted. Appleyard would make hell go away.

Will, she thought, I really do kinda love you.