Transitions - Chapter 56

There had been a vortex, Giles knew--a swirl of strobing lights that reflected themselves on the smooth grey surface of the opposite wall. He'd felt the cold of it clearly, moments of tearing pain, and then Buffy appeared, Moira's sword in hand.

For a moment, Giles had known such exquisite joy at the sight of her face that it wrung tears from his eyes. He hadn't so much as paused to consider that she might be another apparition, hell-born, as the false Jenny had been, or the Angelus who currently imprisoned him. With all that remained of his voice, he'd managed to call out her name. Her silly, beloved name. "Buffy."

Her sapphire eyes narrowed, and her features grew set and still. She'd raised the sword and, unhesitating, driven the blade through his body.

His breath choked off as the steel tore its way though skin, muscle, organs, pinning him at last to the hard wooden chair. The pain was unimaginable. Giles knew enough of anatomy to know what path the sword had taken, what injuries the intruding blade most likely caused. He felt his own blood gush hotly down along his spine, and over the skin of his abdomen, more noxious liquids releasing themselves into the hollow of his body.

"Buffy?" he managed once more, the words nearly soundless.

"I closed the vortex," she told him, folding her strong, smooth arms across her chest, her eyes arctic. "Isn't that what you wanted? Let's keep our priorities straight here, Giles. Sacred duty and all that."

Angelus returned then, laughing, and the two of them had kissed, hungrily, wantonly, with lips, teeth and tongues, leading Giles to pray, "Let me die now. Let me die."

But he didn't die, not straight away. To die would have been a kindness, a release.

Sometime before the end, Giles suffered a brief fantasy that his dear friend Em, and his own warm, tender Buffy, the Buffy who loved him, had come to deliver him from that terrible place--but even as he'd welcomed their presence, he'd known such events must only be wishful thinking.

He'd died in that dreadful room, in the hated mansion, and all his hopes, his loves, his fears, came to a meaningless string of noughts.

Death wasn't what he expected, a blank descent into nothing. It felt grey, and bitterly cold. Giles could hear the voices of his children: Willow, Xander, Sebastian, Celeste. He could not respond to them, or reach them. Sometimes he even thought he felt their touch upon his cold flesh, and their tenderness struck him as a kind of torture. He couldn't bear it, any of it. He needed to be with them, or he needed to leave entirely. An eternity of this would drive him mad.

He understood why the ghosts came to him, why they sought to clothe themselves in flesh, however insubstantial. This half-life of dim awareness was intolerable.

In time, the greyness ebbed a little. He gained a sense of motion, as of riding in a car over country roads. Curious that, really. Perhaps, Giles thought, he was being taken to his burial.

An inexpressible sense of panic seized him. "No," he prayed. "Please no." The thought of that deeper cold, that endless darkness, quite unmanned him. He began to struggle, to cry out, to scream, not one of his efforts detectable.

The ability to express one's terror, unfortunately, belonged only to the living.

At length, unable to maintain the fight, he subsided, trying to cast his mind elsewhere, but memory brought only an endless loop of despair: the desert, Jenny, the mansion, Angelus. Cold-eyed Buffy sliding the sword so unconcernedly through his body. What had he done to deserve this eternity?

But he knew, really. His own sins returned to him only too clearly--the latest of which being a kind of patricide, to be added to that which he'd committed, already, as a boy. Thievery, death, magic, violence--the darkest side of each lay on his conscience.

At school, the Master who taught religion had been fond of quoting the words, "He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword." Ironic, really.

Only Giles did not feel precisely ironic. He felt miserable, and terrified, and he'd have surrendered all hope of eternal bliss merely for the feel of warm arms round his body, to be able to hear the voice of comfort. To feel Buffy's arms, and to hear Buffy's voice once more was all he wanted.

Please, he thought, with no hope whatsoever, really. Oh, please.

Giles hadn't expected an answer--and then he felt the sunlight touch his face.

The warmth of it slid over his skin, such a blessing he wanted to weep, if dead men were allowed to do so. Apparently they were, for the stinging, salty tears streamed down his face. Slowly, sensation began to return to his limbs, first with pins and needles, then with the inescapable feeling that he'd been hit by a large, speeding lorry , then hurled over a cliff into an icy river.

It came to Giles that perhaps he hadn't been dead after all, that he'd been experiencing the aftermath of his living descent into the demon dimension. For that, he realized, had been what occurred. Willow had been trapped inside their binding spell with the Ripper demon, she'd panicked, he'd taken her place, and been sucked into hell, therein to suffer.

Buffy--his dearest, loving Buffy, hadn't hurt him. On the contrary, she and Moira, his staunch friend and defender always, had braved hell to rescue him.

Giles drew in a breath, the first good deep breath he taken in the longest time, the air like fire in his lungs. He breathed. He was alive. He felt the sun.

But where the hell was he?

He couldn't see, and he reached out to explore his surroundings. His questing hands encountered the one he knew would be there, always, by his side, just as he would remain by hers. His sweet love. His Buffy.

Giles took her in his arms and drew her to him, holding her close, his face buried in her hair, until some of the sunlight warmth of her spread from her body to his. She was alive, and he was alive, and they were together. Anything else paled by comparison.

The enormity of his relief overcame him. Consciousness receded, and for the first time in days, Giles truly slept.

Buffy's momentary sun-blindness ebbed after a few seconds after Seb parked in the shady front driveway, though multicolored spots of light still drifted in front of her eyes. The house--that big, mismatched, fairy-tale house that she'd already come to love--threw long afternoon shadows over the Bentley, feeling like cool water on her face.

Her friends had piled out almost the moment Sebastian stopped the car. Xander picked Willow up and swung her around and around, while Willow screamed with happiness. Celeste and Sebastian kissed like they were the only people in the whole world. It was like that scene in the movie Witness, with Harrison Ford and the Amish lady, where he kissed her and kissed her, mouth and face and neck, as if they had to fit all the love in the world into that one kiss. Even in the movie, it had almost hurt to watch. In real life it was heartbreaking, but at the same time beautiful. Still kissing his wife, Sebastian lifted her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, holding so tight Celeste squeaked. Just holding her and holding her, in a way Buffy thought she'd remember forever.

We're alive, Buffy realized, and said aloud, her voice a little rusty. "We made it."

She watched Moira standing very still, a little apart from the others, with her arms at her sides and her face raised toward the sun.

"Em?" Buffy called to her quietly.

Moira glanced back. The Watcher's eyes looked sad, and her face seemed to be going through some very complicated changes. "You're safe now, you know, Buffy," Moira told her. "The threat from the Council's been dealt with."

"Dealt with?" Buffy wanted to ask, but kept quiet. If Moira said the problem had been taken care of, Buffy knew that was the case--Moira not really being a wishful-thinking or best-case-scenario kind of gal. She also knew Moira well enough by this time to realize that the older woman's methods might not be anything she'd want to hear about.

Buffy found she didn't care, that she was glad Moira had made the bad stuff go away, and that they didn't have to be afraid anymore. They'd been through enough. Giles had been through enough to last a lifetime.

"Um...thank you," Buffy said. "For all of us."

Moira gave a little nod, then shut her eyes again, turning her face back up to the sun.

Carefully, not wanting to disturb Giles, Buffy pulled herself out of his embrace and knelt on the seat, gazing down at him. Lightly, she traced the familiar lines of his face, glad to feel his skin warm again, but still concerned. She felt all right herself, pretty much ready to go, but he looked so tired. So terribly tired.

She leaned forward to kiss him, as gently as she could, then pulled back again to see him smiling faintly. "It's all right, sweetie," she told him. "We're here. We're safe now. It's all right for you to rest. Wouldn't you like to come inside, though?"

"Inside," he murmured.

"That's right. Can you make it, or do you want the guys to help you?"

He didn't answer, just leaned his cheek against the glass. Buffy slipped out past his knees--not difficult, given the size of the Bentley. She blinked in the bright afternoon light, smelling green grass, and flowers, and the faint, distant tang of horses.

Sebastian had finally set Celeste down, and stood with his arm around her. Willow and Xander tumbled like little kids on the front lawn. Moira hadn't moved.

Buffy steadied herself against the side of the car, waiting for some of the feeling to come back into her legs. She'd need some serious training to get back in shape for Sunnydale, but that was okay, she had time. Right now she was starving, and even that felt good. Normal and good. She was Buffy again. Her friends were okay. She felt fine--no, better than fine. She'd been into hell and come out again, and she felt as if she could do just about anything.

"Buffy, love?" Celeste finally stopped looking into her husband's eyes. She came over to give Buffy a huge hug, and a kiss on the cheek. It felt like having a sister, like having the coolest big sister in the world.

"Oh, my dear, I'm so glad to see you with us!" Celeste said. "We've been dreadfully worried. Are you famished? What can we get for you?"

"I--um--I guess a shower," Buffy said, standing on tiptoe to kiss Celeste's cheek in return. They stood holding hands tight, and Buffy felt as if some of Celeste's good sense and bravery flowed into her through the connection, giving her that extra little jolt of energy she needed to get going again.

"I'd imagine that could be accomplished," Celeste said, smiling down on her. "Is that all?"

"Well, maybe some clean clothes--and about a hundred pounds of food. I feel like I could totally out-eat Xander right now."

"Hey!" Xander responded. "I resemble that remark." He ambled over, still holding on to one of Willow's hands, and grinned down at her. Buffy had to hug him, then Will too, then both at the same time, all three of them going down together and rolling on the lawn, until they were gasping for air, and laughing, and crying at the same time.

"We didn't get killed again! We didn't get killed!" Willow kept saying over and over. Some people might think that was a funny motto, but Buffy understood exactly what her best bud meant. Life was short--they'd seen more than enough evidence of that.

In a little while the three of them separated, and stood up, grinning like loons, wiping their tear-streaked faces, the silence suddenly a little awkward between them--like there was so much they needed to say they didn't know where to start.

"What I did on my summer vacation," Xander said. "Giant snakes."

"Vampire armies," Willow put in. "Two of them!"

"Watchers' Council curses," Buffy said.

"Jack the Ripper!" Willow exclaimed. "That's a good one."

"Will," Xander told her, "Your definition of good's a little...uh, unique."

"I guess." Willow shrugged, smiling, then glanced back toward the Bentley. "Umn, is Giles...?"

"Sleeping."

Willow's face got sad again.

"No," Buffy told her. "Good sleeping. Real sleeping." She pulled in a big breath, finally feeling the last of the tension melt out of her. "I think he's gonna be okay. Really okay." She glanced over her shoulder. "Though I could use a little help, maybe?"

"Oh!" Sebastian shook himself, like he was just waking up himself, one of those startled-Giles looks on his face. "Well, of course. Naturally. Xander, would you like to help me, please?"

That was Xander's cue to look surprised. "Uh. Yeah. Sure. You bet."

The two men stared at each other for a minute, something passing between them that Buffy didn't exactly get, but Xander came over to Sebastian at last, and Sebastian put his hand on Xander's shoulder. Buffy followed them to the car.

Sebastian leaned inside, saying something Buffy couldn't quite follow. He backed out, bringing Giles with him, holding onto one of his father's arms, while Xander got the other. Giles started to go down, making Buffy give out a little involuntary whimper, but the two guys held him up.

"It's okay," Xander said, in a voice Buffy never heard him use before. "We'll get you inside. Just a little ways now. You can do it easy."

Willow, brushing grass from her clothes, hurried over to Buffy's side. "He's all right," she said, the troubled look back on her face. "I mean, he's Giles."

Buffy glanced over at her, and their eyes held. "Yes," she answered, believing it completely, and Willow's face brightened again.

"Okay!" she murmured.

Giles woke from a dreamless sleep to soft candlelight, and the sound of the wind hushing through distant trees. He lay for a moment luxuriating in warmth, soft sheets, fresh pyjamas, the golden flicker of the light over the whitewashed ceiling, the gentle scents of lavender and rainwater.

Somewhere in the room, a voice sang softly--a chirpy, feminine voice, cheerfully off-key. Buffy.

His beloved Buffy.

Giles sought her with his eyes and found her sitting cross-legged on the window-seat, brushing out her golden hair, the long tresses glimmering as the brush traveled through them. The sight of her struck through to his heart, and he called out to her, "My love," in a voice hoarse less with pain or disuse than it was with emotion.

The brush fell from her hand. She glanced up at him, wide-eyed--and then, in a moment, had crossed the room to bounce onto the bed beside him. She started to throw herself onto his chest, then apparently thought better of the act, touching his cheek with infinite gentleness instead.

"Hey,"Buffy said to him. Giles caught her hand in his own, kissing her delicate wrist, then her palm. He looked up into her sapphire eyes, and caught them brimming with tears. With a little effort, Giles sat, weaving his fingers into her hair, feeling the crackle of the electricity that yet lingered after its brushing.

Buffy's skin smelled marvelously sweet and clean, scented with the lavender he'd detected earlier, and her own natural fragrance. She wore soft flannel pajamas in pale pink, tiny sheep romping in profusion across the gentle curves of her body. The sight made him smile.

Buffy rubbed his jaw with the backs of her fingers, smiling a little in return. "Bearded Giles. That's a new look for you."

"One that will be short-lived, I assure you," he answered, feeling suddenly very grubby in comparison to her sweet cleanliness. "I think I simply must get cleaned up a bit."

Buffy's smile turned puckish. "You do kinda look like you've had a lost weekend. Or week." The humour faded abruptly from her eyes. "But then I guess you did, didn't you? I--" She glanced down, covering his unbandaged hand with both of her own. "I--um--did they show you something bad about me there...in that place."

"Buffy," he said, raising her face with his hand, his thumb caressing her trembling mouth, her small chin. "Whatever they showed me wasn't real. That girl wasn't you." His voice deepened. "You, my sweet love, braved hell for me--that's all I know, and all I need to know."

Buffy rose up on her knees and, taking his face between her hands, leaned in to kiss him so deeply, sweetly and completely it seemed to Giles he could feel her very soul.