Helplessness - Ch. 5

On his way to the library, Giles stopped for a cup of the dreadful opaque coffee that constantly brewed in the Faculty Common Room--no, he reminded himself, Faculty Lounge--swallowing down one cup like a particularly nasty medicine and pouring a second "for the road." Despite the practically lethal dosage of caffeine, his eyes continued to display a disturbing volition toward rolling back in his head. He'd awakened that morning breathing overly fast, eyes glued shut and his pillow sticky with blood, and not even the coldest of showers seemed able to waken him fully. Even the pattern of the tweed in his suit made him dizzy if he glanced at it for more than a moment.

"Burning the midnight oil, Mr. Giles?" asked a deep voice behind him.

He started, slopping coffee over his hand. "Ah...ah... er, Ms. Foster."

The Games Mistress mopped him off in a rough but friendly manner, and not for the first time Giles wondered if, as Cordelia swore, the woman actually did possess chest hair. He'd certainly seen no evidence of it, and knew for a fact that Ms. Foster had both a husband and three or four children of perfectly normal appearance. And just now, she no doubt wondered why he stared at her in such a fixed manner.

"There, all tidy," she told him, and topped up his cup. "That stuff'll kill you, you know. Give it a rest--and get some sleep."

"I've no doubt. Thank you. I shall." He wandered on his way, knowing he must pull himself together, if even nearly comparative strangers had begun to notice. His nighttime encounter had distressed him, and he wished he could speak of it to Buffy in reality, really speak to her, not dance about their issues as they so often did--there was emotional danger in two people depending upon one another so closely as they did, and time had obviously come and gone for them to clear the air. At least he had been able to warn her.

When he reached the library, Buffy had set up a target against the railing of the upper level, and stood a short distance away, throwing knives--perhaps, Giles thought, taunting herself with a test of how far her powers had decayed. One of the knives missed entirely, and clattered to the floor, the sound going straight through him, as if he'd been suffering one of Ripper's more spectacular hangovers.

"Bit early in the day," he said, sipping the foul coffee, trying not to wince at both taste and sound.

"Giles, something's wrong."

"Wrong?" He glanced at the target, with its ragged circle of awkwardly-dangling knives. "Ah, perhaps you shouldn't..." He hoped she'd catch his double warning: both not to overplay this scene, and to give the woodwork a rest.

Buffy threw again, then made a joke about her abilities having gone to some other place--someplace in Mexico, perhaps? He responded with the semi-plausible excuse that she must have the flu, and that she should take off a few days, until she felt herself once more.

Buffy was a better actor than he--she concluded with a heartfelt-sounding little speech about some planned birthday outing with her father, that she couldn't be ill, couldn't cancel. Giles left her breaking one of the amber-shaded lamps with yet another wild throw.

In the quiet of his office, Giles again sipped his coffee, the last of his frustration from the past night slipping away. By God, she was a plucky girl. It wasn't Buffy he need worry about, but himself--she'd handled every cue like a professional, hadn't let slip a thing, and furthermore didn't seem to harbour the least bit of anger toward him. He wondered if, when all this had ended, he ought to plan some sort of special outing of their own, some sort of treat for her, as a token of appreciation. He would have to ask Willow what Buffy might like.

His Slayer returned that night exactly as scheduled. Again Giles laid out the crystals carefully, and Buffy sat at the table, wearing a mantle of weary unhappiness in place of her previous night's impatience. Apparently, from Buffy's later words, her father--stupid, insensitive man--had canceled their appointment to attend some sort of ice-skating exhibition, and this had, if not broken, at least bruised Buffy's sometimes tender heart. Giles knew she missed her absent father dreadfully, and it touched him that--even if she knew they could not go out the night of her birthday--she asked him to accompany her in Hank Summers's place. Perhaps she meant the request as a sort of peace offering, to make up for the unpleasantness in the previous nights' dreams.

Gazing down into her sweet, hopeful face, he could not trust his own face to show any emotion at all. He could barely trust himself to speak.

"If someone were free," Buffy said to him, "They'd take their daughter or their student...or their Slayer."

Giles wanted to weep, or to pull her against him, and gently, slowly stroke her golden hair, saying, "Anywhere you wish to go, my love, I would take you. Any smallest desire, given my choice, I would fill."

But they were watching, and so, instead, he answered in his old, stuffy Watcher's voice. "Hmn? Yes, but Buffy, I think we should concentrate now. Look for the flaw at its center."

Buffy looked, and was caught, just as before. With the same caution, he injected the second dose of poison, secure, at least, in his knowledge that this time she knew. His task complete, Giles again broke her trance. She gazed up at him, an unreadable expression in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Did I zone out on you? It's just...I'm nursing that flu bug."

God, she was good. How he wanted to hold her, comfort her--but he could not let himself move. "It's best to take care of that," he said softly. "Perhaps we should..."

"Call it a night," Buffy finished for him. Yeah, that's a good idea. Thanks."

Giles watched her as she lurched to her feet, groaning as she went on her way. He smiled a little to himself, at her bravery, at her skill, and softly said, "Goodnight."

That night, again, he did not sleep, but lingered all through the dark hours at the library, consulting random books, trying to find a spell similar to that which Em had used to give her Slayer strength. He half wished for another of her veiled calls, some hint of his fellow Watcher's source--but perhaps there had been no source. His friend came from a truly amazing heritage of ritual magic, and had no doubt begun to say spells whilst still in her nappies. Most likely the spell came out of her own head, and she'd nowhere to refer him without giving away the game.

Still, Giles wished that she would ring. For all his searching, he found not one useful word.

Buffy came running after him the next morning as he made his sleep-deprived way along the corridor with a stack of new magazines, for the library's periodicals collection, in his arms. In real agitation, she recited an extremely confused tale of being struck by some hooligan and rescued by--of all people--Cordelia. Even knowing the truth, evidently, was not enough to ease this for her, and he feared that, if she wasn't able to calm herself, she would give their secret away.

"I'm sure it'll sort itself out," he told her, meaning "not to worry, it will all be over soon."

"You're not getting the big picture here," she answered in desperation. "I have no strength. I have no coordination. I throw knives like..."

She had to regain her composure. She had to see the humour here--this was only a game, albeit one upon with both their futures depended. "Like a girl?" he asked, with a bit of a raised eyebrow, hoping to shake her out of this fear and back to her emotional strength again.

"Like I'm not the Slayer," she said, flatly, quietly.

The pain in her eyes wounded him. More than anything Giles wished to be able to reassure her--that this was, in fact, only temporary, that she would recover, in only a little time. He tried to find words that would not be taken amiss, and botched them badly, stammering, "Look, Buffy, I--I--I--assure you...um...given time...we--w--we'll get to the bottom of, of whatever's causing this, um...anomaly."

"Promise me?" she asked.

Giles could hardly breathe. "Yes," he promised. "I give you my word."

Something had to be done. She did not deserve this, should not be forced to suffer in this way, and so he called, made his inquiries, and drove to the place in a daze--an old boarding house, once called "The Sunnydale Arms" as if it had been some sort of pub, disused now for many years. Sunnydale never suffered a housing shortage, and given the cheapness of real estate, most preferred more pleasant, or private, surroundings. One of the younger Watchers--a fourth year Candidate, his formal training completed, now serving a sort of apprenticeship--showed him into the decayed lounge.

"Thank you--er--Hobson?"

"Blair, sir," the younger man said, and retreated to whatever task he'd been assigned in this dismal place.

Giles sat uncomfortably on the lumpy sofa, smelling old dust and rodent droppings, wishing that Travers would just have done with it and dispense with the niceties, but from the whistle of a kettle in another room, the Councilor seemed intent on making tea. He shut his eyes, trying to imagine Buffy in this place, trapped with Kralik, the vampire Em had so drily described--only, in truth, nothing about Kralik could be dry, his work, both as man and inhuman monster, had been bloody indeed.

Travers returned, setting the tea tray on a battered table. He was a solidly-built--though not overly tall--stolid man, with a more than passing resemblance, in both appearance and voice, to the late actor, James Mason. This resemblance, of course, reminded Rupert of one of James Mason's more famous roles, that of Humbert Humbert, in the film of Lolita. Almost humourous, really, for a man whose avowed purpose in life was to watch young girls.

Giles took the cup that was offered him--more from a desire not to offend, and to hold the warmth in his suddenly chilled hands, than from any real willingness to drink anything brewed in that musty place. He'd a sense of something evil quite close, that made the hair on his nape stand on end, and more than ever could not abide the thought of Buffy, his Buffy, being locked inside.

He must have lost control of his expression for a moment, for Travers said to him, "You're having doubts."

Doubts, you bastard? he wanted very much to say--Ripper surging forward in him--but with an effort held his tongue. This man, this dry, ironic, smiling wanker killed poor Helena, and had nearly destroyed Em. He could picture the two women in his flat, clinging one to the other, sharing tears in the grey January light.

"Cruciamentum is not easy," the smug bastard was saying. "For Slayer or Watcher. But it's been done this way for a dozen centuries. Whenever a Slayer turns eighteen. It's a time-honoured rite of passage."

Giles could no longer feel any warmth from his cup, though he watched, blankly, as steam rose from the tea. Why should Buffy need a rite of passage? Hadn't she done enough to prove herself? He found he could not control his tongue after all.

"It's an archaic exercise in cruelty," he said. "To lock her in this tomb--weakened, defenseless." Suddenly, he knew where the evil lay, directly behind him, in a large, bolted crate. He had to turn and look, couldn't stop himself. "And to unleash that upon her." His throat tightened, closed--he couldn't glance away. In his mind lay a picture of the vampire's horrible, ridged face, his snaggled yellow teeth. Not his Buffy. Not defenseless against that monster.

"If any one of the Council still had actual contact with a Slayer, they would see--" He mustn't mention Em, mustn't bring her name into it at all: with Travers, that would be like a red flag to a bull. Of course she'd seen, had no doubt argued against this exercise with all the fire of her passionate soul. Might even have used other means, if within the walls of the Watchers' Compound she wasn't subject to a Binding that prevented the use of her magical skills.

"But I'm the one in the thick of it," Giles concluded, sounding, to his own ears, powerless, even petulant.

"Which is why you're not qualified to make this decision," Travers told him, like an indulgent uncle--with his own nephew, rumour said, he was anything but indulgent, he'd heard that Travers had broken the poor lad's spirit and turned him into some sort of sad, punctilious lapdog. "You're too close."

Giles half expected to be patted on the head, and to be told, "Run along and play now, my boy."

"That's not true," he answered, with somewhat better control.

"A Slayer is not just physical prowess. She must have cunning, imagination, a confidence derived from self-reliance."

And how long did your Slayer last? Giles wondered. Six months, wasn't it? You let her be self-reliant straight into the grave. Only barely concealing his eagerness to be gone beneath the cover of his righteous anger, he followed Travers from the dismal room.

"And believe me," Travers went on, "Once this is all over, your Buffy will be stronger for it."

"Or she'll be dead for it." There, he'd done it. No mistaking the bitterness in his voice--and to reveal it to Travers, of all men. They passed by one of the younger Watchers--Hobson, he was fairly sure. Hadn't he known Hobson's father? Perhaps--he'd been a Handler, Giles recalled, a contemporary of Merrick's, a sad-eyed man who drank a bit.

"Rupert, if this girl is everything you say, then you've nothing to worry about." Travers told him, still smug, still the kindly uncle.

Bristling at the use of his given name, not daring to so much as look at the man, Giles put on his glasses and departed in haste.