Helplessness - Ch. 3

Giles's flat had not seemed a haven since the night Jenny died--to this day he could not look at a red rose or hear even the briefest phrase of Puccini without experiencing a wave of grief so violent it amounted nearly to physical pain--and yet, unlocking his door, he became angry at the thought that he'd been violated, once again, by those he'd considered his allies. For he would, Giles realized, never forgive them. The process of disillusionment, begun with this father's death and given fuel by the manner of the Slayer Helena's demise, was now complete. He hated them, the Council, with a depth he'd believed belonged only to Ripper.

Standing in his own place, at the foot of his own stairs, Giles could feel the cameras, his fellow Watchers watching him. He dropped his briefcase, which still contained the poison, and climbed to his bedroom, half wondering if they'd placed a camera there.

Sod them, he thought, undressing, angrily tossing pieces of tweed suit across the chair. They could film him bare-arsed if they liked. He found, in regards to that at least, he no longer cared.

In what Giles assumed was the privacy of the shower, standing beneath water hot as he could bear in order to add an obscuring curtain of steam, he began to laugh soundlessly. By God, Buffy had nailed him--his balls would most likely ache for days. He could only hope that, in her guilt, she would not be driven to mention the encounter to her friends. Willow would be overcome with embarrassment, and Xander--from him, the jokes would never end.

Enough of that, time to begin. Giles centered himself, visualizing a stairway of stone, like the one that led to his rooms at Caius College in his early Oxford days. He descended step by step, slowing his heartbeat and respiration, until he stood with his hand on an imagined door, which he opened and passed through.

Here lay his place of magic, the stillness in which Giles cast his spells. He'd been good once--overly good, perhaps, and cocky with it--but now was too cautious to be truly brilliant anymore. With maturity came a knowledge of the costs, physical and emotional, and an abiding guilt. The price for his former, carefree use of power had been paid out, more than once, in bitter coins.

His mundane body spoke the words softly: in his mind, repeated by his arcane voice, they echoed and roared, and Giles could feel something tear loose inside him, the something he would send to Buffy in her dreams. This done, he made a careful retreat, making sure nothing untoward had been awakened, that only the intent of his spell had been achieved.

A longer time had passed during his trance than he'd thought, and the hot water had all but run out. Feeling deeply tired and a bit chilled, Giles shut off the taps, toweled dry and climbed into his bed. There he lay on his back with his arms crossed under his head, summoning something that appeared as normal sleep, but wasn't, really.

His experience with lucid dreaming was that one could influence the events but not one's surroundings--Giles had never previously attempted to slip inside another's dreams, and now tried not to find the concept daunting. The country he found himself traveling through would not be his own, and he knew well enough that any unfamiliar territory could be dangerous ground. This in mind, he let himself go.

At first there was nothing but warmth and darkness, so restful that it nearly relaxed him to the point of slipping out again, into the relative safety of his own mind. Giles forced himself to focus, moving carefully through the beta-stage sleep of this girl he loved more than anyone in the world, shepherding her before him deeper and deeper into the state of unconsciousness during which she'd experience REM.

Gradually, the darkness lifted, though did not entirely disperse. Giles became aware of her, running ahead of him through a series of grey-walled rooms linked in sequence, one after the next. He hurried after, calling her name, finding it, as usual, hard to keep up. Buffy did not slow, and it saddened him to think that such indications of frustration and fear filled her dreams. He forced himself to remember that, in sleep, he need not suffer the limitations of his physical body--that, in fact, he could catch her.

This time, when Giles called her name sharply, Buffy halted, the scene shifting around her to become the interior of that accursed mansion on Crawford Street. The frozen form of Acathla stood before her, larger than in life, a looming behemoth that cast shadows across Buffy's pale skin. With frantic urgency she began to tear at the demon, its exterior cracking away in shards until blood ran down her fingers.

"Buffy," Giles said to her softly, approaching her and setting his hand, gently, on her shoulder. "Stop this now. I must speak with you."

She knocked him away quite savagely, so that he stumbled and fell against the fireplace. Buffy did not spare him a look, only returned to her efforts until, within the demon's shell, she unearthed an arm, a bit of shoulder, a wedge of chest. "I'll get you out," she muttered. "Don't worry, I'll save you."

Giles climbed to his feet, trying to get back to her, but to approach was like walking uphill in a hurricane. "You must listen," he insisted.

She turned to him with fury. "What is it now?"

Taken aback, he hesitated, and Buffy returned to her work. "I have to rescue Angel. I don't have time for you."

Gazing over her shoulder, Giles saw something in the darkness that may have been his own bloodied body. He'd never spoken to her of that night except in the vaguest sense, and perhaps that was why she always seemed to dismiss his discomfort with Angel, why she'd appeared to take it as a bit of pissiness on his part: he'd given her no way to know the truth, the vague hints only disturbed her, and so she'd pushed the events into the back of her mind.

"You must listen!" he insisted, taking her shoulders, turning her toward him. "When I've finished you may continue whatever you are doing--much as I wish that I could make you stop--but for now, you must listen."

"You always make me," she replied angrily, "And it's always something horrible. Just go away, Giles." She pushed him, with incredible strength, so hard that he flew out of her dream, with her last words echoing in his ears. "Go away!"

The alarm shrilled, but he could barely find the energy to still its voice. His mouth tasted odd, and his tongue burned: Giles realized that, sometime in the night, he must have bitten it nearly through, and that he'd failed utterly in his task--Mr. Palmieri's beloved must indeed have been far more willing to hear his "clear and immediate discourse" than Buffy was to listen to anything he himself had to say.

Giles heaved himself upright and sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over, with his head in his hands. God, he felt wretched, sore and anxious and depressed. Tonight, he knew, he must administer the first injection, and so the betrayal began, with no warning yet delivered. He would try again, of course, and again, until he reached her--she must at some point listen, mustn't she?"

Buffy would listen, Giles assured himself, as he showered and dressed himself listlessly. Real affection existed between them, however unvoiced. He'd caught her on a bad night, feeling guilty for having hurt him, stressed about one of her classes--or merely about the forced celibacy between her and the creature--man he corrected himself sternly--that she loved. He'd been seventeen once himself, and his actions on Band Candy night were proof enough that he ought to understand how that felt. Yes, he would try again, and the second time, succeed.

He reached the library to find Willow and Xander already there before him--Xander ostensibly studying for some exam at which he was nearly guaranteed to perform far below the level of his actual intelligence.

Willow blushed lightly at his "Good Morning," and Xander leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

"Morning, G-man," the boy said. "How's it hanging?"

"Very amusing." Giles retreated to his office and shut the door, knowing that within seconds he'd hear Willow's soft little knock as she came to make peace.

As scheduled, there it was, a tiny sound. He toyed with the idea of not responding, as if he hadn't heard--but this was Willow, after all, and he'd never the heart to deliberately worry or offend her.

"Come in," he said.

She entered, hesitantly, easing the door shut behind her, making her soundless way to his desk. Like Buffy the night before, she perched on the edge. He'd the sudden urge to lay his hand on her bare arm, stroke the velvety skin and see how she would respond--with terror no doubt, and perhaps disgust--though he knew he harboured no base feelings toward her whatsoever. Of all his "kids," Willow was the one he most regarded as a daughter.

"I just wanted to see how you were," she started. "And I don't mean that, or I do, 'cause like when I was eight my dad and my Uncle Reuben were trying to help me practice so I could try out for Butterfly League--that's girl's softball--and I swung back the bat really hard and dad was standing too close, and he pretty much screamed like a boy soprano--which Buffy said you didn't--and I was only little then and not a Slayer either, of course, so--" she paused for breath, concluding, "You look preoccupied, and don't pay any attention to Xander...he's just being..."

"Xander. I know."

"That's right." Willow nodded emphatically, giving a brief, bright smile that faded rapidly. "And Buffy shouldn't have told us, should she?"

"It doesn't matter," Giles said. "I've little enough dignity left by this time."

Willow's hand brushed his shoulder, then jerked away.

Why? he wondered. Do I frighten her? Frighten them? Why do they so constantly ask if I'm angry with them? Am I really such an ogre?

"I shan't bite you, Willow," he informed her gently.

"It's just-- See--" Willow shook her head. "We don't know, do we? I mean--" Her hand returned, resting on his tweed-clad arm as if she'd been forced to call on all her courage to leave it in place. "Here--in California, I mean--people touch each other, but maybe for you...back home...they don't. So maybe you don't like, or it's against the teacher rules. Or something. Because you don't. Except during rescue," she added. "Which is nice. And important. The rescuing."

"Yes, one could hardly have a hands-free rescue, could one?" Giles covered her hand, lightly, with his own, and smiled at her, wishing he could tell her his trouble, and ask for her help.

Willow meant comfort to Buffy, as she did to him--the Slayer would hardly shout at her, or refuse to listen. Perhaps there was an idea in that, somewhere--could he enter Buffy's dreams in some form other than his own? Tradition suggested that it could be done, but had he the skill?

"...did it again," Willow was saying.

"Umn...I'm sorry, Willow. You were saying?"

"That was a pretty major zone-out, Giles. You really should try getting more sleep--maybe cut back on the tea if it keeps you up?" She smiled at his look. "I know, I know--but remember, nagging shows I care." She cocked her head as the first bell rang. "Oops! Gotta go!"

He followed her out, raising a hand in farewell to both her and to Xander as they hurried on their way, the double doors swinging shut behind them.

Yes, that would be the ticket, he decided, watching his young friends' retreat through the round windows--that night he would go to Buffy again, but not in his own shape. He would come to her in the form of someone she loved.