Tribulations - Chapter 19

Buffy was gone from the sofa, the afghan crumpled in a heap on the floor, as if she'd felt a compulsion to rise rather suddenly. Giles picked it up, nearly losing his balance again, then steadied himself and folded the blanket neatly, before making his way down the hall.

"Buffy?" He rapped on the bathroom door. "Are you all right in there? Did you feel sick?"

The door opened and his beloved gazed muzzily up at him. "I thought I did, but I didn't. I needed to pee, though."

"It was rather a long journey." Giles laid the back of his hand against her forehead. She did feel feverish, but perhaps not dangerously so. "How do you feel now?"

"Headachy. Achy-achy. And the room's all swoopy."

"Well, that's not good." He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Let's get you to bed, shall we?"

"Mmn...let's." She leaned against him, her face burrowing against his chest. "Will you rub my back? That makes me feel better."

"Of course. Can you make it upstairs on your own?"

"Slayer strength," she said. "You carried me in though, didn't you?"

"Mmn," Giles answered, shrugging.

"You're so, so sweet." Her arms circled his chest. "I feel hot. Am I hot?"

"Go on up, love, and I'll bring you the thermometer and some lovely peppermint tea, how's that?"

"I think I'll keep you around." Buffy pulled back, smiling up at him a trifle weakly. "Hurry, okay?"

"I shall endeavor to do so." He watched her climb the stairs as he put the kettle on, her steps dragging and lethargic, as they'd been at her last birthday, when he'd taken her strength. The memory sent a pang through his chest, and a corresponding one through his head. How had she managed to forgive him that? How had she possibly?

When the kettle boiled, Giles set up a tray with the pot of peppermint tea, two cups, the thermometer and a bottle of Tylenol from the kitchen cabinet--but when he attempted to lift it, his hands trembled so that he found it necessary to set the tray down again. This was ridiculous, he told himself. He'd neither the time nor the patience for it--besides which, Buffy was waiting. By an act of will, he carried the tray upstairs.

"You had to grow the mint first, right?" Buffy asked with some humour, her eyes shining up at him a bit too brightly. She'd already changed into one of her more childish sets of pajamas--a pair made of some soft blue fabric with a pattern of smiling cartoon clouds--and snuggled down beneath the covers, her head propped up on both their pillows. Sitting beside her on the bed, Giles slipped the paper cover over the thermometer and slid it beneath her tongue, his other hand brushing the hair back from her face.

"Nothing but the best for my love," he answered, smiling slightly. After several moments he withdrew the instrument from her mouth and removed his glasses in an attempt to read the indicator, but still could not make out the small numbers. "Buffy, could you...?"

She gave him a sharpish look, but did as he asked. "Time for that eye exam, Giles?"

"I'm just tired." He handed her two Tylenols, and a glass of water with which to swallow them.

"And I'm keeping you up. Poor Giles. You're really, really too nice to me. And my fever's barely a hundred. I think I'll live." She set the thermometer on the nightstand.

"Drink your tea whilst I change, then I'll rub your back for you. After that we'll both see if we can't enjoy a good night's sleep, and feel better for it in the morning." With utmost care, he placed the teacup in her hands, found his own pajamas and started for the bathroom.

"What, you don't wanna change in front of me?"

"No, it's not..." It had been force of habit, really, a step back into familiar customs in these familiar surroundings. Giles caught her look and began to unbutton his shirt, struggling with the small plastic buttons.

"Your hands are really shaky, huh?"

"A bit." Giles had hoped she'd not notice, but Buffy could be observant when she chose. He finally managed to complete the task, and slipped the garment off his shoulders, replacing it with a plain blue T-shirt. His belt and trouser button gave him even greater difficulty, all the more so because he'd begun to concentrate so completely on not allowing the weakness to show.

"Don't you feel good either?"

"Buffy," he said, with some exasperation, pulling on a pair of cotton pajama trousers.

"Okay, okay, just color me concerned. Aren't you gonna drink your own tea?"

He tried, honestly, but could not seem to tolerate more than a mouthful, and so he set his own cup on the nightstand, taking Buffy's empty one away from her. "Did you want more?"

"Mmn, not right now." She rolled over onto her stomach, half-burying her face in the pillow. With his thumb and fingertips, Giles made firm circles at those points at the base of her skull, just to either side of her spine, where Buffy always seemed to carry her tension, feeling the muscles relax beneath his touch. He continued the circles down the back of her neck to the point where it met her shoulders, then slipped his hand up beneath her pajama top, rubbing lightly over her shoulders and between her shoulderblades--not an erotic touch, but a warm, comforting one in any event. As he caressed her, watching Buffy give in to a peaceful sleep, Giles felt some of the tension release from his own body.

When her slumbers had deepened, Giles rose, slipping silently into the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and, looking up at his dripping reflection, could understand why Willow had commented on his appearance. His eyes were indeed as red as if they'd received some fairly serious injury. He reached inside the cabinet for the eye drops, then realizing he'd no hope of delivering them anywhere near the vicinity of his eyes, groped instead for the migraine tablets his doctor has prescribed, before abandoning those as well--they'd a child-proof cap, also bound to give him trouble. Most likely all he needed was to shut off the lights, and to lie quietly in the comfort of his own bed.

Drying his face, he went to do exactly that, moving Buffy's head to his shoulder so that he could reclaim one of the pillows. He expected, tired as he was, to fall straight into sleep, but sleep would not come, and if it had not been for Buffy's presence, he'd have spent the next hours tossing and turning. As it was, he lay still and rigid beside her, listening to her breathing, which seemed harsher than usual, feeling her fever overheat his own skin until he had to ease away and pull the T-shirt over his head, tossing it aside into the darkness.

His dreams, when at last he sank into an uneasy sleep, were filled with odd scenes and a sense of frustration co-mingled with foreboding. In one he was being lectured, rather sternly, by Buffy's father, and found himself quite unable to respond. In another he was a youth, once more running after Moira through the streets of London. In a third, he was fencing with Wesley Wyndham-Price, not in practice but in earnest, and finding himself entirely outmastered--he woke when Wesley's foil ran him through, his hand straying at once to the place where the blade had penetrated, half-expecting to find blood where, of course, none existed.

Giles turned to the bedside clock, hoping to see the time, not at all surprised to see the numbers blurred. Perhaps Buffy was right, and he needed to have his eyes examined--that might well have been the cause, along with tiredness, of his appalling headache. In any event, the sun had risen, and so might he. Carefully, he slipped from the bed, careful not disturb Buffy by sound or motion. He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, then collected the used teacups and took the tray from the bureau, pleased to find himself somewhat steadier. That earlier weakness, as least, could be blamed on exhaustion, something even the slight amount of sleep he'd been able to catch had helped to alleviate.

In the kitchen, he started the kettle, then washed up the cups and the teapot. A glance in the refrigerator revealed nothing fit to eat, merely a few covered items that resembled scientific experiments gone horribly wrong. He binned them all, dropping the now-empty containers into the soapy water to soak while he took the rubbish outside to the dustbins. On his way up the back stairs, another episode of dizziness and blurred vision struck him so severely that he was forced to sit upon the steps with his head resting on his denim-clad knees until the feeling departed. Even when it did he was left with the sensation of thumbs pressing out his eyeballs from behind, at the same time a rather large nail was being pounded into his skull--not a sensation he cared for particularly.

At length he rose again, returning fairly shakily to the flat, where the kettle whistled frantically. Giles switched it off, set the tea to steep, and returned to the washing up. One just needed to keep going, that was all. He poured himself a cup of tea, sniffed it, and set it down again--not what he wanted, perhaps, after all.

Buffy had begun to stir sleepily by the time he returned to the loft. Giles bent to kiss her temple, noticing that her skin felt somewhat cooler by light of day. She smiled up at him without opening her eyes.

"How do you feel, Buffy?" he asked. "Any better."

"Mmn. Kinda bleah."

"You sound a bit hoarse. Is your throat sore? And your head?" He stroked her brow with his thumb.

"Mmm-hmm," she responded, which Giles took as a yes.

"We haven't anything to eat in the house, love. I need to return the car, and then I thought I'd stop by the shops. Will you be all right on your own for a short while? Is there something you'd like in particular?"

"Fuss-budget," she murmured with affection. "Can we spend all day in bed?"

"You ought to, at the very least."

"Not the same without my sweetie." Buffy gave another of her sleepy, bewitching smiles. "Will you get me Popsicles?"

Giles kissed her again. "Yes, I most certainly shall. Go back to sleep, dearest, and I'll see you shortly."

He drove the hired car first to the local office of the rental agency, then walked home--a matter of no more than twenty minutes--in hopes that the exercise might help to clear his head to some extent. Instead, the walk seemed to intensify the ache, and make the daylight well nigh unbearable, the pain so great that he nearly sobbed with relief when he reached the safety of his flat, where the heavy curtains filtered out most of the blinding brightness.

Yet he still needed to venture forth for supplies. Buffy depended upon him, and he oughtn't shirk his duties. Somewhere, Giles knew, he'd tucked away a pair of prescription sunglasses. He would find them, and...

A starburst of pain went off inside his head and he sank down on the sofa, digging his fingertips into his closed eyelids, his breathing ragged. Muddled images spun through his mind's eye, and with them a sense of cold so intense it nearly burned. He'd a vision of Spike, and the loathsome Maria, a girl with long, fair hair and a man who looked strangely familiar, terribly familiar, his name just barely out of reach on what Giles had learned was called his "tip of the tongue memory"--an amusing name for a rather irritating phenomenon.

As quickly as it arrived, the starburst left him, restoring his headache to its normal shocking but bearable level. Shakily, Giles rose to his feet, climbing the stairs to check on Buffy, who continued to sleep deeply. He found the glasses in the nightstand drawer and put them on, grateful for the darkness even in the shadowy room. At least they made the brightness tolerable, blunting it enough that he could make his way out of doors. The Citroen, of course, refused to start after its period of idleness, and he spent long moments tinkering with wires and spanners, barking his knuckles rather thoroughly in the process, before the engine reluctantly agreed to sputter back to life.

He drove to the local Safeway at a snail's-pace, a speed that surely would have caused Buffy to mock him for his caution. At the moment, however, he trusted neither his vehicle nor himself. Even his brief time in England seemed to have made him unaccustomed, once more, to the vastness of an American supermarket; its aisles of brightly-colored merchandise nearly overwhelmed him. He'd selected their usual staple items and was standing, shivering, before the cold cases, attempting to determine which flavour of Popsicle Buffy might like best, when a familiar voice hailed him, startling Giles from his reverie. He looked quite a ways down, into a pair of large brown eyes contained in a rather cherubic face.

"Ah, Jonathan, hullo. How are you?"

"Good. I'm good." Buffy's classmate appeared surprisingly happy to see him, though his face, Giles noted, had lost a bit of its boyishness. The brown eyes contained shadows, and there was a different set to Jonathan's mouth, as if he'd grown up quite suddenly, gaining in an instant a man's determination. "Except..."

Giles had no difficultly reading what had happened. "I'm very sorry, Jonathan," he said quietly. "I can't claim to have known Larry well, but he shall be missed."

Jonathan nodded, then glanced away, swallowing. His eyes glistened for a moment before the shine departed again, and the determination reappeared. "He...was really mean to me, you know, when we were kids 'n' all? And then, after the tower and everything, it was like..."

"He looked after you?"

"Yeah, he looked out for me. It was--well, not like we, because we didn't--but it was nice. Having him for my friend. Finding out someone you'd hated and envied had all the same problems you did, and that you could care about each other. Like we should have been friends for the whole rest of our lives. Like we should have been old guys together. Old friends, meeting in the park every day, walking our dogs." A smile flickered over Jonathan's face. "Maybe complaining about our arthritis. Knowing what the other was gonna say before he even said it." He drew in a deep breath. "At the...at the end, he...well, it was, I guess, peaceful. We talked, and his mom and dad and grandma were there, and then he just slipped away. Like he breathed out and forgot to breathe in again."

Giles put a hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"I was hoping I'd see you, you know--'cause he asked me to give all of you his love, you and Buffy and Xander. And to say thanks. And that--" The faint smile flickered again over Jonathan's mouth. "And that we rocked, didn't we?"

"Yes, that we did." Giles turned his eyes to the ceiling, struggling against his own flood of emotion. "We...rocked. And we could not have succeed nearly so well without either of you. I--we--wish that we might have attended the funeral."

"We weren't sure where you'd gone to. Everyone's been worried, that--well, maybe that something happened to Buffy."

"She and I have been in England. My mother passed on."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jonathan said, with genuine feeling. "I guess I figured it was something like that. See, everyone knew you wouldn't just leave us. Sometimes--" The soft brown eyes searched Giles's face. "Sometimes things just seem too scary, like I don't even want to get out of bed, and then...then I think, 'no, it's okay.' Buffy's out there. Mr. Giles is out there. So, anyway." The boy gave a brighter, steadier smile. "Everyone's glad you're home. Take care of yourselves, okay?"

"Thank you," Giles managed to respond, still touched and nearly overwhelmed by the deluge of feeling. One never expected. One truly never expected.

Jonathan reached inside the freezer and pulled out a box. "These are the best. They have real fruit!"

Giles laughed softly. "Thank you again, Jonathan."

"See you around, okay?"

"Yes, okay." He watched the boy hurry off, gradually becoming aware of the cold package in his hand, and that he really ought to be getting home to Buffy. He honestly hadn't thought anyone knew. Not that they were meant to know, after all--but still, Giles found himself strangely touched. As Buffy might have said, the feeling of being appreciated didn't suck. Still smiling faintly, he proceeded to the checkout, and from thence, homeward.

Buffy was half-awake by the time he arrived, and seemed very much the worse for his absence. She tossed feverishly in the bed, the sheets twisted round her legs, her pajamas sweat-soaked. She quieted a bit when he sat beside her, stroking back her damp hair, and gazed up at him with dull, heavy-lidded eyes. Giles took her temperature again, and found it close to 102. It seemed to require the better part of her strength to swallow two more of the Tylenols and a small glass of juice, and when she'd done so, she fell back gasping.

"I feel icky," she told him in a weak voice.

"I know, love." Giles fetched a basin of cool water and a face flannel from the bathroom, sponging her skin gently, until she began to shiver. He helped her to dress in fresh pajamas, then to navigate the stairs. He'd tucked in a fresh sheet over the sofa cushions, and he settled her there, covering her over with a light thermal blanket, setting a bottle of water close to hand.

"So cold, so cold," she breathed, teeth chattering.

Giles tucked the blanket more closely beneath her chin. "I'm so very sorry, love," he said. "I wish there was more that I might do for you. Would you like me to call your mum?"

"Mom..." Buffy echoed in a strengthless, desolate voice that tore at Giles's heart. Before he knew it he'd crossed to the telephone and punched in the number for La Tienda, Joyce's gallery, asking the young woman who answered to put him through immediately.

"I'm sorry, sir," she answered, "Ms. Summers isn't available at the moment--would you like to leave a message?"

"No, I bloody don't,"Giles wanted to snarl at her, but with an effort, kept his temper. "Will you tell her, please, that Rupert Giles called, and that I need to speak to her immediately? It's regarding her daughter Buffy." He recited his telephone number, hoping that the pleasant-sounding young woman might be relied upon. To be on the safe side, he also left a second message on Joyce's home machine, then returned to Buffy, an icepack in hand.

Buffy muttered in protest when he laid the pack on her forehead, but soon fell silent again. She looked dreadfully ill, her normally rosy skin ashen, dark circles beneath her eyes, her lips dry.

"Buffy," Giles said softly, "I've left messages for your mum. I'm certain she'll ring back just as soon as she may."

Joyce, however, did not call, and they passed a long afternoon, Buffy alternately sunken deep in a heavy sleep and thrashing restlessly on her makeshift bed. Giles tried calling her doctor, and was told that there was a nasty virus going around, that he should keep her quiet, get her to take in as many liquids as she could possibly manage, and to call back if her temperature got dangerously high. He couldn't induce her to eat, but Buffy did swallow large quantities of juice, water, and an alarming-coloured sport-drink, relieving his mind at least of the fear that she might become dehydrated. She only seemed to truly rest, though, on those occasions he held her in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her breath hot against his chest. His own headache peaked and withdrew, peaked and withdrew until he felt quite nauseated, the ceaseless pain wearing at his already taut nerves.

Along with his concern for Buffy's discomfort, Giles couldn't help but worry about the cause--was this merely a common virus, as the consulting nurse assured him, or something far more sinister, a path that spiraled back to the Hellmouth and what they'd done there? On an impulse, he called his son's number in London. Celeste came on the line, not surprisingly--but what did take Giles aback was that she sounded tired, tense and irritable.

"Yes, what is it?" she answered without preamble.

"Celeste, it's Rupert."

"Oh!" Giles could nearly hear the release of steam as she composed herself. "Hullo, Rupert. Sorry to have sounded like such a cow."

"Not at all," he assured her. "Bad day, love?"

Celeste sighed. "I regret to inform you, Rupert, that your son is no stoic. He's run me ragged all day today--though in his defense I believe he actually is rather thoroughly ill. In fact, I doubt he's even aware of the fuss he's made. Still, I find the moans rather unnerving."

As if in sympathy, Buffy let out a long, pitiful cry.

"Rather like that, I'm afraid," Celeste said drily. "I take it you have a second sufferer on your hands?"

"Buffy's been ill since last night. Has Seb been to the doctor?"

"Oh." Celeste made a sound of exasperation. "They say it's nothing, a virus that must run its course. I'm to get him to drink, keep him quiet, and telephone if his fever climbs."

"So I've been told, as well." Giles hunched over the desktop, leaning his weight on his elbows, holding the receiver with one hand while he rubbed his forehead with the other.

"Rupert," Celeste said. "Are you all right? You sound knackered."

"Bit of a headache," he answered briefly.

"Only a bit of one? Are you sure?" Celeste asked. Giles could picture her expression, that smooth, lovely face with one black brow raised skeptically.

"Rather a bloody one, actually. My vision keeps going wonky."

"Rupert..."

"My hands aren't steady, and I've experienced the most alarming bouts of dizziness. It's nothing, though, I'm sure."

"Rupert," Celeste repeated. "I know you're likely very concerned about Buffy, and being quite the brave soldier, but have you thought of seeing anyone? Not to alarm you, but those symptoms sound as if they might prove rather serious."

"I believe I'm just tired, or..."

For a moment, he listened to Celeste's quiet breathing, and then she said, unexpectedly. "You're concerned that it's something to do with the Hellmouth, aren't you?"

"I..." Giles found himself taken aback. "I--that is..." His vision rippled again, and he pressed a hand over his eyes. "Yes," he told her at last, barely above a whisper. "I had the Council Archivist copy all the literature she should on the subject, but..."

Celeste's breath caught. After a moment she said, with a kindness that tore at his heart. "But you can't read the pages right now, can you? Rupert, my dear, may I offer a bit of advice?"

Giles didn't answer, only sat with the receiver pressed to his ear, his own breathing unsteady. He hadn't thought, but what she said was quite true. He was almost as he'd been shortly after the incident in The Factory, earlier that summer--unable to read, unable to make out even roadsigns, or the large red numbers on his bedside clock.

"Don't try to brazen it out alone," Celeste told him. "You have friends and you have family, Rupert. Let them help you. If you can't read the pages, have Willow do it for you. She has the brains and she has the interest. Promise me that you'll ring her."

"Celeste--I..."

"I know you're frightened," she told him. "And, believe it or not, that's all right--even for Rupert Giles. Promise me you'll call Willow."

"Yes," he said faintly. "I promise, Celeste."

"Good," she told him, and rang off.

For a long time, Giles stared at the telephone. He even went so far as to dial Willow's number, but then pushed the button to cut off the call. This was ridiculous. It was nothing. Why alarm his young friend when she'd already suffered so much? Chances were, he'd be right as rain in the morning.

Staggering a bit, he rose to fetch Buffy a fresh icepack from the freezer.